The water cascaded over Jenny’s body, warm and steady, a rare luxury in a world that had grown so hostile. She closed her eyes, letting the water pound against her shoulder and run down her back, rinsing away five days’ worth of grit, blood, and exhaustion. The faint scent of synthetic soap—clean but clinical—filled the small shower room, its presence a sharp contrast to the wasteland’s ever-present stench of decay and sweat.
The stump, carefully wrapped in transparent plastic by the doctor earlier, caught the warm spray, beads of water running harmlessly off its surface. It felt alien and exposed, an ever-present reminder of what she had lost in those brutal moments with the cannibals—and what Reed’s desperate, improvised amputation had saved. Almost two weeks had passed since that night, and though the wound was healing slower than it might have with proper rest, there was no infection. That much was a relief—perhaps more luck than skill, despite the doctor’s attentive, almost delicate examination earlier.
Her thoughts drifted to the doctor who had examined her earlier. A cute man, she admitted grudgingly, with warm brown eyes that softened the harsh edges of his otherwise military demeanor. He’d avoided directly referencing her missing arm, referring to it only as “her condition,” which had irritated her at first but later felt like an attempt at tact. He’d even cracked a joke, light and awkward, about how she must have been the terror of the wasteland—and how her current smell might still scare off a raider or two. It wasn’t much, but it had been enough to nudge her toward the shower.
Jenny sighed, leaning her head against the cool, tiled wall. Her short blonde hair clung to her scalp, damp and heavy with water. It wasn’t until now, under the stark fluorescent lights and relentless scrutiny of the mirrors, that she truly saw herself.
The mirror across the room was fogged with steam, but the faint outline of her figure was still visible. Her left hand rose instinctively, brushing away some of the condensation, and she stared at the reflection that emerged. For a moment, her missing arm was obscured by the haze, and she could almost pretend that she was whole again. Almost.
Her gaze lingered on her body, tracing the contours shaped by years of rigorous drills and bunker life. She wasn’t a soldier in the traditional sense, but the discipline and constant training had made her lean and strong, her movements quick and deliberate. Her skin bore faint scars from accidents in the shooting range or during sparring sessions, but none from the wasteland—at least, not yet. Her tan was uneven, marking the areas exposed during her time outside: her neck, face, and remaining arm. The rest of her remained pale, untouched by the harsh sun, a lingering mark of the bunker’s sheltering walls.
The water running down her body caught on the fine blonde fluff that covered her skin, nearly invisible unless the light hit it just so. It wasn’t coarse or heavy, more like the delicate down of a peach, highlighted now by the water’s gentle sheen. She’d never thought much about it before, but now, standing alone in the sterile shower room, it seemed oddly comforting—another part of her that was still untouched, still hers.
Her breasts were modest but firm, a size that had always felt practical rather than ostentatious. She wasn’t the type to draw attention like the body-painted women she’d seen in Burgh, their tribal patterns gleaming faintly under the sun as they lounged near the market’s edges, all sharp smiles and practiced allure. No, her beauty was simpler, softer—a kind that hinted at the girl she’d been before her world fell apart. Cute, she thought, not sexy. The kind of beauty that felt out of place in a world of monsters and raiders.
Jenny’s breath hitched as her eyes drifted back to her shoulder. The plastic wrap glistened under the water’s flow, hiding the rawness of her wound but not its presence. The stark, empty space where her arm had been was a cruel interruption in the harmony of her reflection. No amount of steam could obscure that reality.
For a moment, she reached up with her left hand, brushing her fingertips lightly against the edge of the wrap. The sensation was strange, almost phantom-like, as if her body still expected her missing arm to respond. Her lips tightened into a thin line. It was healing—slowly, painfully—but it was healing. And she was still alive.
That was something, wasn’t it?
The water beat down against her, the sound filling the sterile room and drowning out the silence of her thoughts. But Jenny couldn’t escape them entirely.
There hadn’t been much of a choice, had there? Silas might have presented his offer as if she had options, but Jenny knew better. She didn’t believe for a second that Silas—or Elliot, for that matter—had any intention of letting Vigdis go. That boy… Jenny shuddered at the memory of Elliot’s piercing gaze, his twisted smile. He had left a mark in her mind, dark and insidious, a constant reminder that she could never trust this place. Leaving Vigdis to him? Hell no.
But then, why did she care? She braced a hand against the wall, her fingers slipping slightly against the damp tiles. If not for Silas stepping in when he had, she and Reed might have been forced to fight Vigdis. A fight they likely wouldn’t have survived. And yet, instead of turning away from the towering, axe-wielding stranger, she had felt an instinct—something raw and unspoken—that she couldn’t ignore. The thought gnawed at her. Why?
She let out a sharp breath, the steam mingling with the frustration rising in her chest. Regardless of the propaganda she’d been fed in the bunker—those carefully curated histories of order and superiority—Jenny couldn’t turn away from someone in need. That was why she’d accepted Silas’s deal. Not because she believed in his vision or trusted him, but because it was the only way to keep Vigdis alive. To keep herself alive.
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Her hand moved to the plastic covering her shoulder. The stump beneath felt foreign, even now, but the ache of loss was something she’d grown used to. Accepting the deal had been a means to an end. She’d recover, gather supplies, keep a close watch on everything Silas was hiding, and then… Jenny frowned. Then what? She hadn’t thought that far ahead. All she knew was that she needed to buy time. For both of them.
And yet, despite herself, Silas’s words clung to her like the dampness of the shower. The memory of Reed’s betrayal, the cannibals, the raiders, the chaos of the wasteland—all of it surfaced with an almost accusatory force. Maybe Silas wasn’t entirely wrong. What if people did need someone to nudge them in the right direction? To rebuild, to rise from the ashes as something stronger, something better?
She shook her head sharply, water spraying against the tiles. No. She wasn’t ready to answer that question, and she certainly wasn’t going to let Silas or his twisted son dictate her role in it. For now, she’d play along. But the path ahead? That would be hers to decide.
----------------------------------------
Jenny returned to her room, the towel secured awkwardly with one hand, water still dripping from her damp hair. The room felt sterile and cold, not at all like something she’d call her own. She still wasn’t used to the idea that this space belonged to her, even temporarily. Her eyes fell on the locker—the makeshift wardrobe provided by the Bunker. Inside were two options: a crisp new uniform and a casual outfit, a floral dress that looked comically out of place in the context of her recent life.
The stark contrast between the two sets of clothes made her pause. Her old uniform, now gone, had been her shield—a battered second skin marked by days of grit and survival. The right sleeve had been cut off to match her missing arm, and its fabric had carried the stains of every fight, every step through the wasteland. This new uniform was pristine, untarnished by struggle, and somehow that felt wrong. She sighed, pulling out the casual dress instead.
Letting the towel fall to the floor, she stood fully naked in the middle of the room, turning to set the dress on the bed. The fabric felt light in her hand, foreign after so long in heavier gear. As she adjusted the dress on the bedspread, something in her peripheral vision made her freeze.
Standing in the doorway, the doctor—her doctor—was frozen too, his face a deep shade of red as his eyes darted anywhere but directly at her. Well, almost anywhere. Every so often, his gaze betrayed him and flickered back to her, before guiltily shifting to the floor or the wall.
“I—I thought I told you,” he stammered, voice high-pitched with panic. “I’d be waiting—for your, uh, condition. An update. I—I thought—”
Jenny blinked, realizing the situation in slow motion. “You thought what?” she interrupted, her voice sharp but with a tinge of incredulity. “You’d just let yourself in?!”
“I’m a doctor!” he blurted, throwing his hands up defensively. “This is normal! It’s part of my job!” His voice cracked slightly, his eyes locking onto the ceiling as though it might rescue him from the awkwardness. “I wasn’t—look, I wasn’t trying to… this wasn’t intentional!”
Jenny narrowed her eyes, crossing her arm over her chest—well, her chest and the side of her stump—and glaring at him. “Normal? For who?!”
He winced, his face somehow growing redder. “For doctors! For medical professionals! I—I wasn’t thinking! I just…” He gestured vaguely toward her arm, clearly floundering. “I needed to check on your condition! That’s it! Nothing… nothing else!”
Jenny stared at him for a beat, her lips twitching as the absurdity of the situation sank in. “My condition?” she repeated, deadpan. “Well, Doc, congratulations. I’m still missing an arm.”
He opened his mouth to respond, realized there was no good way to explain himself, and immediately shut it again, now studying the doorframe with great intensity. “I—I’ll just… come back. Later. To tell you about the, uh—the arm. When you’re—uh—dressed.”
Jenny couldn’t hold back anymore. A snort escaped her, and then she burst into laughter. “Oh, you’re coming back later, are you? Great. Should I pencil you in for the next time I’m naked too?”
“Not what I meant!” he exclaimed, looking more like a panicked teenager than the composed professional he’d been earlier. “I just—okay. I’m leaving now. I’ll explain later! Leaving!” He turned on his heel, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bolted from the room, the door hissing shut behind him.
Jenny stood there for a moment, still laughing softly, shaking her head. “Doctors,” she muttered to herself, pulling the dress on. The floral fabric felt strange but… nice, she admitted reluctantly. She glanced at the closed door and smirked. “At least he didn’t make it creepier. That’s a win, I guess.”
Jenny stood there for a moment, still laughing softly, shaking her head. “Doctors,” she muttered to herself, pulling the dress on. The floral fabric felt strange but… nice, she admitted reluctantly. She glanced at the closed door and smirked. “At least he didn’t make it creepier. That’s a win, I guess.”
Her smirk faded slightly as she walked over to the door, double-checking the lock. A small click reassured her, and she sighed in relief, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool surface. “One arm down, still smarter than this place,” she muttered dryly.
Turning back to the bed, she picked up the rest of the clothes—standard-issue Bunker underwear, plain and practical, but leagues better than the worn, grimy set she’d been stuck with for the past five days. It was clean, well-fitted, and felt like a small luxury after so long without a proper shower. She slipped them on, appreciating their simplicity, then smoothed the dress down over her body.
Her fingers lingered on the fabric for a moment, still unused to the feel of it. The dress clung in some places, flowing in others, and for a brief moment, she wondered if it made her look… nice. Normal, even. The thought was absurd, given everything that had happened. Yet, here she was, in a dress, of all things.
As she adjusted the hem, her mind wandered back to the doctor. She frowned, trying to will the image away, but it was persistent—the flush on his face, the way he’d stammered and scrambled for words. She caught herself smirking again. Cute when he’s embarrassed, she thought involuntarily, then immediately scolded herself for it. “Focus, Jenny. Priorities.”
But the thought lingered, unwelcome and insistent. He had been trying to tell her something. And he was kind of charming in that completely flustered, absolutely-not-smooth way. “Doctor Flustered,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head again as she reached for her boots.