Chapter 3
The Kane Family Legacy is twenty acres of shitty scrubland and a trailer that's more rust than metal.
Home sweet fucking home.
And when I crest the hill and it comes in to view, it doesn’t welcome me back, just reminds me of why I left.
The aluminum siding's peelin’ off in strips, like it’s a snake instead of a trailer.
Shedding its own skin. The front steps sag worse than before, wooden boards warped from decades of weather.
Weeds as tall as my knees crowd the walkway, and a tumbleweed has wedged itself between the propane tank and what’s left of the skirting.
The mailbox tilts sideways, mouth hanging open like it gave up years ago. Nothing but spiders living there now.
Three years, and it's aged twenty.
Proof that time doesn’t heal all wounds.
Sometimes it just makes them uglier.
I stop ten feet from the steps, listening as the wind pushes through the tall grass. Metal creaks somewhere—roof or siding, hard to tell.
No human sounds.
"Mercy?"
Nothing. And in a place like this, silence is its own kind of scream.
The windows are intact, which surprises me. Expected them to be broken, or at least cracked. Destiny must have kept things together for longer than I thought.
I take a step toward the porch, and that's when I hear it—the soft metallic click of a BB gun being cocked.
I freeze. Not because I'm afraid of getting shot by a BB. But because I know exactly who's holding it.
"That you, Mercy?" I keep my voice easy, hands visible at my sides.
There’s a rustle from the overgrown juniper bush to my left and then, she emerges like some wild thing with tangled hair and a dirty face with eyes that burn with something between fury and fear.
My baby sister. Nine years old and pointing a Red Ryder at my chest like she means business.
Children shouldn't have to be their own army, but where we come from, we don’t get a choice.
She's thinner than she should be. Jeans torn at both knees, t-shirt faded to nothing. Her dark hair's a rat's nest, hanging past her shoulders. No one's been brushing it. No one's been taking care of anything.
But it's her blue, feral eyes that gut me. They are old, and watchful, and don’t belong on a nine-year-old. Some kids lose their childhood. Others have it stolen. Mercy had hers murdered.
"You plannin’ on shootin’ me, or you just sayin’ hello?"
She doesn't answer. Doesn't lower the gun either. Just stares at me with those eyes that mirror mine—Kane eyes, our mother called them. Too sharp for their own good.
"Where's Destiny?" I ask.
Nothing. Not even a blink. Which is fair, I guess. Trust isn't given freely when survival depends on keeping strangers at gunpoint.
"You been here alone?"
The BB gun wavers slightly. Her knuckles are white around the grip. I crouch down slow, getting to her eye level without coming closer. "I'm back now, Mercy. For good. You can put down the gun."
She shifts her weight, bare feet in the dirt. She thinks I’m a liar and there’s not much I can do about that thirty seconds in.
So I tell her, "You don't have to talk. But I'm stayin’."
The gun lowers an inch. Her expression gives nothin’ away. A perfect poker face.
It’s clear now, what three years inside cost. Not just me. Her. The price she paid for my loyalty to Badlands. That’s life, though. One way or the other, every choice we make writes itself on someone else's skin.
Mercy takes a step back toward the trailer, gun still raised. Testing if I'll follow. Testing if I'm real, maybe. I don't move. Let her set the pace. Let her decide if I'm worth trusting again.
"I'm stayin’," I say again. “Ya can’t get rid of me that easy.”
Her eyes never leave mine. No words. No welcome. Just a child who's forgotten how to be a child, standing guard over a kingdom of dust and broken promises.
I head towards the steps, feelin’ the need to get this shit over with. To see what I’m comin’ back to. To see what’s left of this piece-of-shit broken place.
Inside, the trailer smells like… something I can't place at first. Not rot or mold. Not exactly clean either. Just... lived in.
Different than I remember.
Mercy comes in behind me, edging past the kitchen counter, keeping her back to the wall, eyes never leaving mine. Smart girl. Never turn your back on what you don't trust.
I glance around, cataloging what's changed and what hasn't. The couch still sags in the middle, threadbare arms worn to the foam. Coffee table's got new scratches. Kitchen sink has dishes in it—not many, but enough to show someone's been eating here.
But there are fresh groceries on the counter. Not much. A loaf of bread that isn't moldy, milk that's still cold, peanut butter, and some apples.
I look over at the corner that acts like a dining room and spot some clean clothes. Folded neatly in stacks of t-shirts and pants. Mercy-sized. Too neat for this nine-year-old to have done herself.
"Where's Destiny?" I ask, turning back to Mercy.
Mercy shakes her head once, quick and definite.
"She here?" I press.
Mercy just stares, her face a blank wall.
I move past her toward the hallway. "I'm gonna check the rooms."
Every door you open in your childhood home shows you who you used to be, and these doors are no different.
The trailer has three bedrooms—if you can call them that. More like closets with doors. I check Destiny's room first. Door's unlocked. I push it open to find... nothing much. Bed's still there, dresser too. But the walls are bare. No clothes in the closet. No sign anyone's slept here in months.
"When did she leave?" I ask over my shoulder.
No answer from Mercy, who's hovering in the hallway, watching me.
I push open the door to my room. It's exactly as I left it three years ago—bed still made with military corners, empty walls, nothing personal here. Not one damn thing because this old trailer was never ‘home’.
And in the center of the linoleum floor, a dead mouse, dried to leather.
It stares back at me, those blank, black, beady eyes, as if to say, welcome home, Legion.
Some homecomings are celebrations.
Others are funerals for the life you thought you'd return to.
I back out of my room, leaving the dead mouse as a memorial to what happens when you disappear for three years. Some things just shrivel up and die when you're not there to keep them breathing.
Not that I had any responsibility to the local rodents, but an omen is an omen.
Back out in the hallway the walls press in and the whole place just feels small and completely insignificant. Mercy trails behind me, her bare feet silent on the linoleum. That BB gun's still in her hands, but pointed down now.
Progress, I guess.
“Who’s been feeding you?” I ask.
Mercy just stares at me.
“Who brought the groceries, Mercy?”
She’s not gonna answer.
She doesn’t need to answer. I already know who it was.
"I need some air," I mutter, and go back outside where the afternoon sun beats down like judgment. I cross the yard to the old oak tree that holds the remnants of a tire swing, then run my fingers over the bark, finding what I'm looking for about chest height. The carving I made when I was fifteen.
S + L
Only it no longer says that. Cause it’s been crossed out with deep gashes. Not weathered cuts, either. Recent ones.
"She was mad at you."
Mercy's voice startles me. She's standing a few feet away, BB gun held loose at her side.
I turn to face her. "Savannah did this?"
Mercy nods, then looks away. "You make her sad."
I made Savannah promise not to write me because it was over. Like, moved-on kind of over.
She moved, I moved on.
Except, we got this love that doesn’t quite know how to move on.
So fine. She was mad. I make her sad.
Now she’s engaged. Or will be as soon as that party happens. So… yeah.
Over.
"How often does she come?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
Mercy shifts her weight, looking less feral now that she's talking. "Twice a month, mostly." She picks at a scab on her elbow. "More after Destiny left."
"When did Destiny leave?"
"Two months ago." Mercy looks up at me, her eyes suddenly older than nine. "She's pregnant."
“Uh huh.” The Kane family curse: we break everything we touch, including ourselves.
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling three days of stubble and a lifetime of failure. I'm supposed to be the one who protects them. Some fucking job I've done.
I go back inside, head straight for the landline mounted on the kitchen wall, and punch in the number I've had memorized since I was eighteen.
It rings twice before a gruff voice answers. "Yeah?"
"It's Legion."
A pause, then: "Holy shit! Kane! Where the fuck are you, brother?"
Brotherhood. It’s the family you choose when blood fails you. And this man right here—Diesel, he’s never failed me. All of a sudden, clarity hits and it comes in the form of background noise. Pool balls clacking, men laughing, music playing.
“I’m at home,” I say. For the first time today, I feel something like relief. “Got out a day early.”
I feel somethin’ like… belonging. These men—whatever else they are—they're my brothers. They'd kill for me. Die for me.
“Bring me my bike," I tell Diesel. And now, it’s time to feel the freedom. To really feel what it means to walk out of that cage I put myself in. "And hey,” I add, before Diesel ends the call. “Bring an extra helmet for my sister.”
I hang up and turn to find Mercy watching me, something like hope in her eyes. Which is a really dangerous emotion because it makes you believe in second chances.
"Pack a bag. We're not staying here tonight."
Her eyes widen. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe."
Mercy disappears down the hall as I step outside and light a smoke.
I breathe in failure. Breathe out reality.
Because fuck this place.
And fuck Savannah too.
Maybe she did come here. Maybe she did take care of Mercy.
But she's wearing another man's ring and I'm not fourteen anymore.
I deserve better. Love doesn't wait. Never waits. But I think I deserve more than some jacked-up posturing from Cash as her only goodbye.
Some chapters end with periods.
Others end with matches.
And I have a very strong urge to light this love up and watch it burn.