The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the helicopter blades was the heartbeat of our new reality. As the Mojave floor fell away, turning the jagged peaks of the Dead Zone into a miniature set of cardboard cutouts, the cabin of the civilian chopper felt like a pressurized vacuum. For the first time in months, no one was shooting. No one was hacking. No one was chasing.
The silence was deafening.
I sat in the bucket seat, my body finally surrendering to the crushing weight of the trauma. My muscles felt like they were liquefying. Beside me, Ethan—the "New" Ethan, the one carrying the soul of the man who had burned—sat perfectly still.
His charcoal suit was out of place in the sterile, utilitarian interior of the rescue craft, but his expression was more alien still. He was staring at his
