We head toward one of the outpost stations distributing supplies. Oliver is limping beside me, favoring his right leg with every step. The left one moves, but it moves wrong—stiff, mechanical, like his body is still negotiating with the new tissue.
"You good?" I ask. Not sentimental. I ask because a liability in a warzone gets people killed.
"Fine," Oliver grunts, flexing his calf experimentally. "Tingling. It's like someone swapped my leg for a new one while I was screaming. Everything works. Just feels... borrowed."
Good enough.
"Provisions," I say. "What's our inventory?"
Oliver runs the numbers without hesitating. "Enough rations for a couple days. Some Scales. Nothing that wins a siege."
"Then we're getting in line." I nod toward the supply outpost. "Any help is welcome, especially when we don't know the local threats."
The queue is long but moves fast. Practiced. Everyone in it already knows the routine—step up, receive, move on. No haggling, no conversation.
