Indeed, everything felt better. His chest, though still aching faintly, felt far more pliable than it should. The lingering stiffness in his joints had lessened considerably.
His gaze fell to his left leg. There, still clamped tightly to his ankle, was the severed hand of the mutant. Its claws, long and jagged, were wrapped around it.
You little...
He reached out with his right hand, trying to pry it loose, but it was surprisingly difficult. The hand seemed fused in place, its grip like iron. With his left hand still out of commission, the task was proving to be a real struggle.
Vlad gritted his teeth digging his fingers between the mutant hand's rigid digits and the protective rad suit. The hand's grip was an unyielding knot, frozen in death but clamped down with maddening strength. Vlad tugged hard. But the claws stayed locked around his ankle, unmoving. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple—quickly lost in the cold downpour that continued to hammer the canopy, drumming around them like war drums in the trees.
Let go, you damned corpse!
He hooked his fingers under the claws again and pulled—hard. For a second, he thought it might give.
Instead, his grip slipped.
His hand shot back with a jerk, fingers snapping free, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, more annoyed than winded.
Just let go, you bastard.
He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the firelit interior of their shelter. Lana was crouched by the dead mutant, her sword now a butcher's knife. With practiced efficiency, she was slicing strips of meat from the Vulturov's carcass, carefully arranging them on a large, broad leaf beside her. The flickering firelight cast an orange glow on her focused expression, highlighting the dark streaks of grime on her cheek. For a moment, she looked like something both fierce and delicate—like a wildflower blooming in a storm. Her movements were graceful, precise, her attention wholly absorbed in her task, and yet there was an undeniable strength in the way she worked, as if nothing could break her focus.
Vlad's eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, before he shook his head, snapping himself back.
He glanced down at the mutant's hand still wrapped tight around his ankle and sighed. The damn thing wasn't budging, and his earlier efforts had only left his fingers sore and his patience fraying.
He cleared his throat.
"Uh… Lana?"
She didn't look up, still focused on arranging the meat.
"Yes?"
There was a pause. He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Mind giving me a hand with this thing? It's latched on like it died holding a grudge."
He pointed down at the grotesque claw still clamped onto his leg.
"It won't let go."
Lana finally looked over.
Her eyes dropped to the claw still wrapped around his ankle, then back up to him. She blinked, scoffing faintly.
"Wait… you've really had that on you this whole time?"
Vlad raised his hands slightly in a half-hearted defense.
"My mind was on not dying. Forgive me if I missed the part where a corpse decided to hitch a ride."
She shook her head with a faint, incredulous laugh and stood, sword in hand. The blade was still slick with blood, a deep red glinting in the crackling fire as she walked over.
"Unbelievable," she muttered. "Hold still."
She crouched and yanked his leg.
Before Vlad could brace himself, she swung the sword down sharply.
The flash of the blade cutting through the air sent a jolt of fear straight to his gut.
No way she's aiming for our leg, right?
His heart raced for a moment as the sword came dangerously close, slicing through the air with a hiss, but it struck the claw with a clean, precise swipe.
Vlad exhaled sharply, his muscles still tense from the near-miss. The hand was severed, falling limp to the ground with a sickening thud.
Lana stood up slowly, wiping the blood from the sword with a casual flick. Her eyes didn't even meet his as she spoke:
"Done."
Vlad exhaled sharply, his heart still racing, and looked at the severed hand now lying on the ground. His muscles slowly relaxed as the tension left his body.
"Next time," he muttered, still shaken, "Maybe warn me before you start swinging."
Lana gave him a sidelong glance, the barest smirk playing at her lips.
"Why?" She shrugged. "You seem fine. You didn't even scream."
Vlad shot her an incredulous look.
"Well, I was too busy thinking I was about to lose a leg." He rubbed his forehead, trying to calm his nerves.
Lana's eyes softened for a second, but the smirk never left her face. She went back to cutting up the vulturov.
Vlad watched her, noting how easily she fell back into her task. There was something about her calm, unhurried focus that struck him—how it contrasted with the chaos they'd just escaped.
She reminds me of that blonde flamingo.
Vlad's thoughts shifted, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips.
Adele's long, blonde hair, flowing like a river of sunlight when the wind caught it, flashed in his mind. He could almost see her now—her quick, confident stride, always so sure of herself. She was a force in her own right, never letting the world knock her down.
I wonder if she and Kel are alright.
They definitely are.
You're right.
The fire flickered sharply, a sudden crackle snapping through the quiet. Light danced across the walls for a heartbeat, and the sound jolted Vlad from his thoughts like a tug on a frayed thread.
He blinked, focus returning—along with the cold, wet reality of the forest around him. His eyes dropped to the severed claw lying near his leg. Rigid, curled, and streaked with drying blood, it looked almost defiant in death—like it still refused to let go.
With a grimace, Vlad reached down, grabbed the two pieces, and flung them into the fire.
The flames hissed as they landed with a dull thud, smoke curling up instantly. It popped once as the heat took hold, then started to blacken.
Stubborn bastard.
***
Vlad took off the gauntlet on his left hand and the part of the rad suit covering it. Both were placed next to him on some leaves along with the remaining pistol.
He moved his left arm, testing the damage, his eyes fixed on the unsettling bulge near his elbow. He prodded it a few times; the pain still bit, but it was distant.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he firmly grasped his forearm with his right hand. It was time to put things back where they belonged.