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2026-02-05
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2026-02-13
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2/?
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Desperate measures

Summary:

Dike turned to Eugene, eyes blown wide with terror. Eugene smiled and held out his hand.

“You got some mighty fine ideas rattlin’ around in that head of yours. I like what you’re offerin’,” the young man said, noticing the distrust in Dike’s gaze as he stared at the outstretched hand. So he knew. Good. Gene needed him to know—needed him to understand what it meant to make a deal with him, what he was risking if he tried to break it.

“Come on now, sha… ain’t you gonna make a deal with me? Ain’t you gonna shake the hand of a sinner?”

Eugene’s smile glimmered in the shadows of the trees as Norman Dike clasped his hand—and a sword drove itself into his heart.

Fate had spoken.

Eugene Roe was going to war.

Chapter 1: No one can defy fate

Chapter Text

On December 7, 1941, at 7:40 in the morning, elements of the Japanese navy launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, causing more than two thousand deaths, the sinking of the USS Arizona, and severe damage to eighteen other vessels. The response was immediate. On December 8, Congress declared war on the Empire of Japan, ending years of isolation and mobilizing the nation to join the global war effort. Hundreds of men and women rushed to recruitment offices to enlist in the army, the navy, and the air corps, driven by patriotism and a thirst for blood. There were so many volunteers that dozens of new units had to be created, many of them specialized. The government, determined to secure a victory that could position the United States as the world’s foremost power, decided to draw upon every available resource— even the most unlikely ones.

Thus was born the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, a codename for an elite unit trained not only to eliminate the enemy, but also to control a very particular kind of enlisted soldier. The United States was a diverse, ancient land, overflowing with families who hid latent powers that had moved in the shadows for generations. Since the nineteenth century, American society had opened itself to the possibility of welcoming certain groups with very special characteristics: metahumans. Families who carried in their blood the heritage of supernatural creatures ceased to live on the margins of society and gradually became first-class citizens, with access to the same rights as pure humans. Of course, they were required to make certain concessions, such as registering the births of children with powers or special conditions, but throughout most of the country they were treated as equals—American citizens by right. They, descendants of vampires, lycanthropes, wendigos, and other legendary creatures, would be forced to enlist to secure victory for the United States.

And the 506th would be tasked with keeping those powers under control.

Though metahumans were generally accepted and respected within American society—many of them even headed wealthy, influential families involved in business and politics—this was not the case everywhere. In the Deep South, metahumans were seen as a plague to be avoided and were forced to remain confined within closed communities deep in the swamps, without access to healthcare, education, or the right to vote. The Cajun Acadians, descendants of French immigrants expelled from the continent out of fear of their growing powers, lived, grew, and died in the bayou, cut off from the world by fear and prejudice. To them, the rest of the world was a mystery, and they took no part in politics or current events. The Cajuns lived in a world of their own, governed by different rules, separated from reality by a veil of magic and mystery that made them equally feared and despised. Yet no matter how isolated they were, the war would leave no one behind.

The humidity wrapped around him like a blanket, and Eugene fanned himself with one hand, pressing the cold lemonade against his cheek in a futile attempt to fight off the swamp heat. The woven hammock rocked him gently, and before long sleep claimed him, dragging him beneath the sands of consciousness and casting him into the middle of a white, white, white forest, surrounded by white, white, white corpses stained with blood blooming from their chests like roses on snow. Gene was sunk knee-deep in the white, white, white snow, and beneath its surface hundreds of hands reached for him, tugging at his legs and clothes, pulling him down under the weight of his own pain. Panic flooded him, and his first instinct was to flee—to run back to the swamp where his power lived, where his soul would be safe from disgrace and horror. But his limbs were pure iron, lead in his lungs, red, red, red blood before his eyes, and hands, hands, hands trying to drown him, trying to drag him into that white, white, white hell.

Then a heavy, warm hand settled on his shoulder, and Eugene turned to face a beautiful, almost childlike smile that melted the snow around him and yanked him from the cold, plunging him headfirst into the warm waters of the swamp.

When he surfaced, a tiny, tiny figure waited for him on the shore. Her button eyes gazed at him with something like affection, like a mother’s soft concern, and her faded red cloth hand beckoned urgently, offering him a leather pouch that rattled with the sound of old little bones clacking inside. Walking the thin line between sleep and waking, Gene swam to shore and sat by the river, still panting with the dream clinging beneath his eyelids, shaking the pouch until a whisper from the doll at his feet—sharp and dreadful to those unaccustomed to hearing it—stilled his hand, and the old animal bones spilled onto the sand.

To an untrained eye, the arrangement of the bones might have seemed random, but to him they were messages from beyond. The bones spoke of pain, of fear, of death. Death falling from the sky, tearing limbs from men—young men, good men, beautiful men. He saw men dying from bullets hungry for vengeance for their fallen owners, and others blinded by fear. He saw men weeping their loneliness under hot shower water, and others firing their rage into the flesh of unarmed, trusting enemies. He saw men holding one another beneath blankets far too thin in the snow, and others turning into flames in midair. It was war, and it was coming for him.

“Doc?” A small, timid voice snapped him out of his trance, and Eugene opened one eye to find the diminutive, almost pitiful figure of the girl silhouetted in his doorway.

“Ça va, Oddie?” he greeted, rising slowly. With a gentle flick of his hand, the bones gathered themselves and slipped back into their pouch as the doll, hidden in the shadows of the old cabin, watched the child with button eyes full of grief and mourning. One look at his doll told Eugene everything he needed to know.

“Mama’s sick. She got the shakes again,” Oddie said, and Eugene nodded, grabbing a satchel from the table and bracing himself to prepare a funeral.

“Come on now, p’tite. Take me to your mama,” he offered, taking the little girl’s nearly skeletal hand in his.

Bayou Chene was a small piece of the world hidden among ancient cypress trees that looked as though they were made from the bones of the earth, draped in long, fragrant Spanish moss that crawled along the ground as far as the eye could see, curtain after curtain lit by fireflies and the endless song of cicadas. Here and there stood small cabins built of light materials, tin roofs rusted through and bleary windows crusted with grime. Oddie led him through the moss and rotting wood, and together they passed beneath the termite-eaten threshold of the little house where she lived with her mother.

In a back room, barely lit by a small kerosene lamp, the woman lay in bed, trembling beneath a mountain of handwoven blankets. Her pale skin glistened with sweat, and her eyes darted back and forth, wild, like those of a frightened horse.

“Bonjour, madame,” Eugene said, stopping at the threshold. “Mind if I come in?”

“Come on in, sha. Ain’t nothin’ here you ain’t seen be-fo’,” the woman stammered, shaken by another spasm.

“That don’t mean I won’t ask, Magnolia. You still a lady,” Eugene smiled, sitting beside her on the cot far too small for her.

“You r-really think so, sha? Me? A lady?” Magnolia was sadly well-known in the bayou for her trade. Everyone knew Oddie was the fruit of that labor, a living reminder of the desperation that had driven Magnolia to earn her keep along the roadside in the arms of truck drivers. Her once-beautiful face now bore the marks of the syphilis eating her alive, and little remained of the white, perfect smile that had once been her pride.

“Course I do. A mighty beautiful one, too,” he replied, opening his satchel. His eyes flicked briefly toward Oddie, and Magnolia understood the silent request.

“Oddie, go wait outside f-for me, sweetheart,” she asked, and the girl nodded at once, stepping outside to play in the yard. “Tell me true, sha. You came to help me pass on in p-peace, didn’t you?”

“Ouais, madame. Ain’t much more I can do for you now. No more pain, I promise,” he murmured, taking her hand in his.

“What’s gonna happen to my Oddie, Gene? Ain’t nobody in my f-family gonna take her in.” Gene sighed, thinking of the fragile little thing playing by the water outside. “Would you take her? Would you do that for me, sha?” she pleaded, gripping his hand tightly. Eugene’s guard was down, and he gasped as something pierced his heart like a pin.

“That ain’t fair, Magnolia…” he murmured, looking at her through heavy lashes. To hold hands with someone like Eugene while making a plea or an offer was to seal a pact—a double-edged blade binding both parties to whatever was agreed upon, tying them together at the heart. If either broke their word, they would be damned forever.

“I’m a mama, Eugene. A d-desperate mama… please… please take care of her… I ain’t got nobody else. Make me forget. Let her grow up without the stain of bein’ a whore’s daughter.” Eugene closed his eyes, shoulders slumping with a sigh. What choice did he have? Even without the pact burning in his chest, Eugene was the protector of Bayou Chene. He had a duty to these people—one he could not turn his back on.

“You sure you want her to forget you?” he asked softly, listening to the distant song of cicadas.

“Yes… I don’t want her rememberin’ me like this. My last g-gift to her is a happy past and a better future,” she whispered, and another pin drove itself into Eugene’s chest.

“I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep her safe,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around the woman’s hand. “I’ll raise her like she’s my own.”

“Thank you…” Magnolia whispered, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. “I got a little money tucked under the mattress for her. Her clothes are in the trunk. And she don’t like okra.”

“Anything else I oughta know about her,” he asked, drawing out a small blue glass vial to catch her tears, “before you forget?”

“Don’t let Bijou eat her,” Magnolia said, half joking, half dead serious.

“My Bijou’s a lady, Magnolia,” Eugene replied in the same tone.

“A-alright then. Now, sha… send me on to my mama. I miss her.” Gene nodded and bent over her, laying a slow, slow kiss on her cracked lips.

When he pulled away, a small cloud of thick, foul-smelling black smoke slipped from Magnolia’s mouth. Eugene hurried to trap it between his hands and let it fall into a bottle. After all, a pain that deep couldn’t just be wasted. It could always be put to use later. Magnolia’s soul perfumed the room with a heavy scent of roses and slipped through the gaps in the wooden walls, rising without resistance. Eugene sighed. It was done.

After gathering the girl’s belongings and the money hidden beneath the mattress, he stood and left the room, searching for Oddie. The child was playing at the riverbank, paying no mind to the alligators slowly drawing closer, their bright eyes fixed on her, the little cabin at her back.

“Oddie, sha, come on over here,” Gene called, holding out a hand. She obeyed at once, standing and following him without protest. Eugene helped her come into the world in the same bed where her mother had just died; he was a familiar figure, someone who felt as though he had always been part of her life. “Drink this, p’tite,” he said softly, offering her the vial filled with her mother’s tears.

Oddie swallowed it without a word, and her thin legs gave out at once. Eugene caught her quickly and held her tight against his chest, glancing over her shoulder as the alligators hauled themselves from the water and into the cabin to finish what Gene had begun with that final kiss. When they were done and slipped back outside to sink beneath the surface once more, Eugene traced a sign in the air. The cabin groaned and complained as it sank into the sand, vanishing forever—not only from the swamp, but from the memories of everyone in Bayou Chene.

Gene would honor Magnolia Jones’s final wish and make sure her daughter grew up without stain or pointing fingers.

When Oddie woke three days later and saw Eugene sitting by her bed, she smiled sleepily and pushed herself upright, rubbing her eyes.

“Good mornin’, pa.”

“Good mornin’, sha.”

And so, Odile Jones became Odile Roe.

News of the war kept spreading like wildfire, and Eugene’s dreams grew more chaotic by the night. He knew they would come for him soon, and he began to set his affairs in order. His dolls watched over Oddie during the day and would likely keep doing so while he was gone. All he had to do was leave enough of himself behind to keep her safe—and if anything happened to him, Renée could take care of her.

Renée was a poor Belgian girl who had the misfortune of marrying a foolish American who tore her from her homeland and dragged her through the streets of New Orleans, where she withered like a wildflower. When the bastard tired of her, he decided to dispose of his wife in the swamp, trusting the alligators to erase her from the world. Two weeks later, her body floated up beside Eugene’s cabin, and the agony of her trapped soul stirred his pity. Now Renée lived in his house like a quiet shadow, a deep scar crossing her throat that reduced her voice to whispers, and a pair of beautiful hands—despite the missing flesh—that helped prepare his remedies and potions. Renée had a gift for healing, a divine talent that would have been lost forever if Eugene hadn’t pulled her back from death.

Oddie adored her, and together they spent their days embroidering cushions and tending the large garden behind the house. If Eugene went to war, just as the bones had foretold, Oddie would be safe with Renée.

Still, unease clung to him. Any day now could be the day they came. Rumors said government agents had already taken more than half of the rougarou from New Orleans, and their fractured packs suffered without their leaders. Many died of grief, and no one seemed to care. That wasn’t new. In Louisiana, no one cared what happened to them. They were the forgotten ones. The more that died, the better.

Gene sat on a thick cypress branch overlooking the entrance to his land, sewing a new doll with restless hands. A bad feeling weighed on his soul that day, and when Oddie came running down the path with a stricken look on her face, he knew the moment had arrived.

“Pa! There’s someone in a car by the gate askin’ for you. I told him he could come in,” she cried, stopping by the cypress, breathless.

“Alright, p’tite. Go on to the house now, yeah? Tell Renée to get you a glass of lemonade with honey,” he said. Oddie nodded with a smile and ran off. In the months she’d lived with him, she’d put some meat on her bones and grown a few inches taller. Eugene was certain she’d be a beautiful woman someday.

In the distance, a man in a suit and polished shoes—clearly not dressed for the climate or the place—walked slowly forward, briefcase dangling from his hand as he cursed the mud and the mosquitoes. Eugene decided to wait where he was. After all, no one could outrun their destiny.

The stranger stopped before him and lifted his gaze, shielding his eyes from the harsh afternoon sun.

“Well now, look who we got here,” Eugene smiled, setting his sewing aside. The spirit inside the doll whined, but Gene didn’t take his eyes off the newcomer. “That’s a mighty fine suit you got on. What’s a fragile little thing like you doin’ out here? You lost?”

“Eugene Roe? My name is Norman Dike. I’m a government official. I’m here to deliver your draft papers,” he said curtly, holding out a folder.

“Oh yeah? Last I checked, my people ain’t at war with nobody, sha. Why’d I leave my home to fight somebody else’s battles?” Eugene replied, hopping down from the branch and walking toward him, hands in his pockets.

“You are an American citizen, Mr. Roe. It’s your civic duty. Your government needs you,” Dike answered, never breaking eye contact, clearly used to repeating the same speech.

Your government needs you.

And where had that government been when they needed it? Where was it when the bayou flooded again and again and they had no choice but to rebuild their homes over and over because no one would take them in anywhere else? Where was it when children died by the dozens during the dysentery outbreak years back, because there were no vaccines for them? Where was it when his grandmother died of exhaustion trying to save them all? Where was it when his mother was hanged by a pack of religious fanatics who caught her gathering herbs beyond her property line? Where was it when Magnolia Jones had to sell her body on the roadside just to keep from starving?

“Sha, my people been livin’ in this bayou for generations, and the government ain’t never done a damn thing for us. This ain’t New Orleans with its plantation owners and blushin’ debutantes,” he shot back coldly. “You know how many hospitals there are in Bayou Chene? None. How many schools? One—and no high school. The only university’s way off in New Orleans, and they don’t take Cajuns. My people couldn’t even vote for the president who now wants to drag us into a war. And you expect me to fight for him? Why would I fight for someone who thinks we’re white trash?”

“You are a registered witch doctor. As such, you will report for duty—whether you wish to or not.” At the threat in his voice, Eugene smiled.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he said slowly.

The official suddenly found himself surrounded by a group of alligators that had slipped from the water unnoticed. They hissed and crept closer, jaws ready.

“R-Roe! Do something! Tell your animals to back off!” Dike demanded, retreating until his back nearly brushed Eugene, briefcase clutched to his chest.

Gene leaned against the tree trunk, idly playing with a length of string between his fingers. The threads of fate were shifting—he could feel them. If he played this right, he wouldn’t just change his own destiny, but that of his people.

“And why would I do that?” he asked, watching as Bijou—the biggest of the gators—pushed her way toward Dike, boxing him in, ready to obey.

“I-if you do… if you do, I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll make sure they build a high school for your people. And a hospital. I’m a very powerful man, Mr. Roe. I c-can do a lot of good for your folks.”

It was a desperate offer—but an offer all the same, and Eugene could work with that.

“Well ain’t that somethin’,” he replied cheerfully, stepping closer. “I am too.” Bijou snapped at Dike, and the man yelped, jumping back. He stumbled in panic, his back slamming into Eugene’s chest.

“Now, now, Bijou. Don’t be rude. The gentleman’s offerin’ a deal.”

Dike turned to Eugene, eyes blown wide with terror. Eugene smiled and held out his hand.

“You got some mighty fine ideas rattlin’ around in that head of yours. I like what you’re offerin’,” the young man said, noticing the distrust in Dike’s gaze as he stared at the outstretched hand. So he knew. Good. Gene needed him to know—needed him to understand what it meant to make a deal with him, what he was risking if he tried to break it.
“Come on now, sha… ain’t you gonna make a deal with me? Ain’t you gonna shake the hand of a sinner?”

Eugene’s smile glimmered in the shadows of the trees as Norman Dike clasped his hand—and a sword drove itself into his heart.

Fate had spoken.

Eugene Roe was going to war.

Chapter 2: See you later, alligator

Summary:

“Who’s that?” Eugene asked, gesturing with his chin. Rosette peeked out curiously as well.

“Heffron? Oh… you don’t wanna get in his way,” Ralph warned, quickening his pace.

Gene huffed softly. “Ain’t exactly his way I’d be lookin’ to get into.” Ralph burst out laughing. “Why not?”

“He’s one of the MG,” Ralph replied, as if that explained everything. Seeing Gene’s confusion, he clarified. “Monster guardians. Officially military guards. They’re the soldiers assigned to ‘watch over’ us. Meaning keep us in line.”

The MGs were professional soldiers who had enlisted even before the war began. Most of them came from military academies and had been selected to form elite units tasked with ensuring that the metahumans carried out their duties and did not rebel or harm their commanding officers. They were trained, essentially, to kill them if they chose to act against the Army’s prerogatives.

“Keep us in line,” Eugene echoed under his breath. “That’s a pretty word for it.”

Chapter Text

“Why you gotta go?” Oddie asked, crying in her father’s arms.

“Don’t you cry now, p’tite,” Eugene murmured into her hair, trying to soothe her. “I’m only leavin’ for a little while, that’s all. Then I’ll be comin’ right back home to you an’ Renée. She’s gon’ take good care of you. An’ Bijou, an’ the dolls too, yeah? Y’all ain’t gonna be wantin’ for nothin’, I promise you that.”

Oddie didn’t want to hear reasons. She clung to her father’s shirt and sobbed against his neck, terrified at the thought of losing him. Gene was all she knew. His presence was an antidote to fear; he kept the shadows at bay, drove away the monsters of the night, and turned her nightmares into smiles with his steady presence, his calm eyes, and his sweet little brews that helped her sleep without dreams, cradled by his voice and the gentle caress of Tante Renée’s hands.

There was something missing inside her, memories like scraps of a dream, pieces of a puzzle unfinished in her heart that only Gene seemed able to fill. Being separated from him was terrifying, and the little girl refused to let him go.

“Gran Jim said men die in war,” she sobbed harder, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. “Said maybe you ain’t ever comin’ back.”

I oughta sew that fool’s mouth shut, Eugene thought, holding her closer to his chest.

“You don’t you ever listen to Gran Jim, sha bébé,” he said gently. “You know when he was little he fell clean outta a cypress an’ cracked his head on a rock? Grandma tried fixin’ him, but the poor man’s been a little slow ever since…” He pinched Oddie’s nose to coax a smile out of her.

She let out a small giggle and curled against him again.

“I don’t want you to go, Papa,” she murmured, and Eugene felt his heart squeeze tight.

“I promise I’ll come back, p’tite,” he said at last, stroking her hair. “I’ll be comin’ home to you, no matter what it costs.”

A week later, just before dawn, Eugene kissed his daughter’s black curls without waking her and picked up his bags with a sigh. Rosette, the little red doll, watched him from a corner with her button eyes full of uncertainty. Gene smiled at her and held out his hand, inviting her up. Rosette wobbled toward him and climbed into his palm before slipping into the pocket of his shirt. Eugene felt the soft brush of her tiny hand against his chest and smiled, closing the door gently behind him.

The living room, furnished with pieces from different eras and materials, welcomed him with the faint light of dawn filtering through yellow curtains. The scent of jasmine and gardenias that Renée grew by the window filled the air with a soft sweetness, mingling with the herbs drying in the adjoining sunroom and the coffee she strained in the kitchen.

In the kitchen—a vast space lit by two skylights brushed by Spanish moss hanging from the cypress—Renée prepared breakfast with her hands carefully wrapped in delicate silk gloves, as she did whenever she touched her own food or Oddie’s. Eugene had insisted many times it wasn’t necessary, that the rot had stopped the day he brought her back, that her scars didn’t bother him none. But Renée refused to touch anything without her gloves, and he’d ended up buying her an enormous supply. It was worth it. She had turned his house into a home and cared for Oddie as if she were her own, with a tenderness that often caught him by surprise. Sometimes he would watch her in the late afternoon sun and wonder if, in another life, he might’ve fallen in love with her, made her his wife, built a life together. But he knew that wasn’t possible. Not in this one, at least. There was someone else waiting for him out there, and Eugene still had to find them. Or at least that’s what the bones had said—and they never lied.

Renée set a bowl of oatmeal with honey and a cup of coffee in front of him, urging him to eat with a look that allowed no argument. Gene shook his head with a sigh.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered softly. “I’m eatin’.”

He began his breakfast while she packed a couple of sandwiches and a generous supply of dried fruit and cheese into a paper bag for his journey.

Birdsong and the croaking of frogs were the only sounds breaking the silence in the kitchen. Eugene knew he would miss them—the music of the swamp, the ordinariness of mornings with his family. The bones had shown him the silence that awaited him: empty forests, empty eyes, empty men. War spared no one, and Gene was afraid. Afraid of forgetting the warmth of his home, the dampness of the swamp, the strength of his land and the magic in the water. Afraid of losing himself in distant lands, of not being able to ease others’ pain, of not being enough. But he had made a commitment, and he meant to honor it. He had to do his duty, do right by his daughter and his people.

He finished his meal in silence and carried the dishes to the sink. When Renée reached for them, he gently nudged her hands aside.

“Let me, Ren,” he said quietly. “I can handle it.”

He washed them with slow, measured movements. He was saying goodbye—to his house, to the water slipping through his fingers, to the earth beneath his feet, to the scents in the air, to his daughter sleeping in the next room.

It was the most painful farewell he had ever imagined.

With a heavy heart, he stepped out and paused on the porch, its ceiling painted blue to ward off spirits and critters, its dreamcatchers made of tiny bird bones, Oddie’s chalk drawings scattered across the wooden floorboards. He wished he could stay beneath its shade forever. But it was time. He lifted his bags and walked the long dirt road toward the edge of his property. On either side, his little army of dolls hid among trees and bougainvillea, shaking their tiny hands in farewell, whispering blessings. Bijou emerged from the water, followed by the alligators, and nudged his leg with sad eyes. Gene crouched beside her and stroked the scales along her back, letting her strength seep under his skin. He was going to need it.

At the gate by the road, he turned to Renée, who had followed silent as a shadow, and leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“You take good care o’ her, Renée,” he said softly. “I’ll write soon as I’m able. Make sure Oddie keeps up with her lessons...I don’t want her growin’ up wild as a swamp thing.”

She nodded and scribbled something in the little notebook she always carried in her apron, then handed it to him.

“Take care of yourself too. We’ll be waiting for you. And don’t be afraid: remember, the swamp will never let you die. And if you happen to visit Bastogne, look for my parents. Tell them I’m all right, that they don’t need to worry about me,” the note read, and Eugene tore it off and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

“Goodbye, Ren,” he murmured. “I’ll be seein’ you soon.”

She gave a small curtsey before turning back toward the house.

Eugene watched her walk away slowly, feeling as though a piece of his soul stayed behind with them. Perhaps it did. Leaving the swamp meant leaving the only home he had ever known—the source of his strength and all his memories, good and bad alike.

He lifted his gaze to the trees lining the road and met the eyes of an owl perched high in a cypress, camouflaged among Spanish moss and dry branches. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before the bird finally took flight. Gene sighed. He pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew crosses and sigils along the brick gate, hiding his home and family from strange eyes and possible dangers.

“Ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on what’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “Not ever.”

He walked for a long while along the dirt road until he reached the highway. The sun had fully risen, the heat sticking his shirt to his skin, but he didn’t stop. From time to time, neighbors stepped out to wave farewell with sad eyes and fluttering handkerchiefs. Eugene did not look back. Nearly an hour later, a truck pulled over and offered him a ride to Baton Rouge. The driver chattered the entire way while Eugene let his mind drift far away as the old truck rattled over pothole-ridden roads. The farther he moved from the swamp, the weaker and more exhausted he felt. He hadn’t left Bayou Chene in nearly ten years, and being away from his land felt like a blade in his chest. Rosette shifted in his pocket from time to time, reminding him he wasn’t alone. He clung to that small comfort, absently stroking her through the fabric of his shirt.

From Baton Rouge, he caught a Greyhound to New Orleans—the first stop in a long, long journey.

His papers said he was to report to Camp Toccoa, Georgia. The trip should have taken eighteen hours. It took twenty-two. One bus broke down along the way, and in Columbus a child vomited so badly they had to stop and clean and air out the damn bus. Eugene dozed most of the ride, but when he finally arrived, he was exhausted, hungry, and certain his clothes reeked of vomit.

An MP greeted him at the entrance with a polite smile that died the instant he saw the stamp indicating his condition. The young man curtly pointed him in the direction he needed to report and then ignored him altogether. Too tired to care about the looks, Gene ignored him back and let instinct guide him through the rows of wooden buildings.

Camp Toccoa stretched wide and green, ending in a massive tree-covered hill beneath a deep blue sky scattered with white clouds. The heat was oppressive, the mosquitoes relentless, and absurdly, Gene felt a little closer to home.

“Hey!” someone called. A round-faced young recruit hurried toward him. “You’re the new one, right?”

“The new what?” Gene asked, tilting his head. A warm, luminous aura seemed to surround the young man, something serene and comforting.

“The new medic. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Gene replied, adjusting his bags. “That’d be me.”

“What’ve you got in there? Lemme help,” the stranger offered, grabbing part of his luggage and grunting at the weight. “God, did you pack your whole house?”

“Not hardly,” Eugene answered. “Just the essentials. I need my materials to work proper.”

The scent of dried herbs and the clink of glass jars answered the question on the boy’s face.

“Oh… I see. I don’t need those,” he said quickly, hurrying to keep up.

Gene nodded, studying him more closely. Clearly, the boy was like him—a metahuman, gifted with healing. The light he seemed to emit radiated warmth and calm in gentle pulses that brushed against Gene’s skin and soothed his soul.

“I can see that,” Gene said softly, tapping the boy’s chest. “You’re carryin’ what you need right in there.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Gene. Eugene Roe. An’ this here’s Rosette.”

Rosette peeked from his pocket and gave Ralph a shy little wave. Ralph made a small sound of surprise but carefully shook the doll’s cloth hand.

“Ralph Spina, South Philly,” he said. “Where you from? That’s a nice accent.”

“Bayou Chene, Louisiana.”

“Oh.”

So he knew. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the southern states did not spare much effort in making life miserable for people like them. At least Ralph was from the North, and with his gift, his life had likely been kinder. That was good. Someone that luminous deserved the right to shine without prejudice. After the introductions, an awkward silence settled between them. A group of soldiers in dress uniform passed by, armbands visible. A redheaded soldier stood out among them, laughter ringing across the field. His cap was tilted slightly, brown eyes bright in a freckled, angular face. Something about his boyish grin caught Gene’s attention. He was certain he had seen that smile before.

“Who’s that?” Eugene asked, gesturing with his chin. Rosette peeked out curiously as well.

“Heffron? Oh… you don’t wanna get in his way,” Ralph warned, quickening his pace.

Gene huffed softly. “Ain’t exactly his way I’d be lookin’ to get into.” Ralph burst out laughing. “Why not?”

“He’s one of the MG,” Ralph replied, as if that explained everything. Seeing Gene’s confusion, he clarified. “Monster guardians. Officially military guards. They’re the soldiers assigned to ‘watch over’ us. Meaning keep us in line.”

The MGs were professional soldiers who had enlisted even before the war began. Most of them came from military academies and had been selected to form elite units tasked with ensuring that the metahumans carried out their duties and did not rebel or harm their commanding officers. They were trained, essentially, to kill them if they chose to act against the Army’s prerogatives.

“Keep us in line,” Eugene echoed under his breath. “That’s a pretty word for it.”

He looked toward Heffron again. The weight of his gaze must have been obvious, because the redhead turned and cast them a cold look before returning to his friends.

“It’s not that bad,” Spina replied with a shrug, guiding him toward a larger, sturdier building than the rest, a sign out front identifying it as headquarters. “They’re usually decent. Just doing their job. They don’t bother us much.”

“And Heffron?” he pressed, recalling the glacial cold in the man’s eyes when their gazes had met.

“He’s… a special case. Rumor says his family’s been hunting creatures for generations. So he’s… well, stricter than most. Not cruel or anything. Just clear he doesn’t like us much,” Ralph explained.

A faint smile curved Eugene’s lips. A hunter, huh?

“I see. Shame.”

“Well, this is headquarters. Ask for Lieutenant Winters. He’s in charge of receiving new arrivals—thankfully. The other option is Sobel and he… well, what matters is you got Winters. See you later, Gene.” Ralph waved, and Eugene mirrored the gesture before stepping inside to find the lieutenant’s office.

The officer was young, bright red hair neatly combed, kind blue eyes greeting him with a small smile as he invited him to sit. His face was an open book. Gene read righteousness, strength, courage, leadership, warmth. That was what he let the world see. Beneath it, though, lay a fierce need to prove himself, boundless passion, and a recklessness that knew no limits. Richard Winters was meant for great things. A man worth following, Eugene decided, dropping into the chair with studied ease.

Without Ralph’s calming presence, exhaustion settled heavy in his bones. All he wanted was a shower, a hot meal, and a bed. In that order.

“I see you brought quite a bit of luggage,” Winters remarked, eyeing the bags at his feet. “I’m afraid many of those things will have to be sent back home.”

"I’m gonna need my tools if I’m fixin’ to do my work proper, Richard” Eugene drawled softly, brushing a stubborn lock of hair from his forehead. “Can’t mend a body empty-handed, no?”

“E-Excuse me? How do you—how do you know my name?”

“I know a fair few things. Ain’t nothin’ you need worry about,” he replied with a lazy shrug.

“I see… but for you, I am Lieutenant Winters. Understood?” His tone sharpened.

Eugene ignored it. “Yes, yes, Richard, I know” he said mildly, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. “Now tell me what a tired man’s gotta do to get himself a shower, somethin’ warm in his belly, and a damn bed to fall into.”

“I am Lieutenant Winters,” he repeated, one brow arching.

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Winters, sir,” Eugene conceded, touching two fingers to his brow in a crooked salute. “Forgive my manners. Been travelin’ near all day. I’m filthy, hungry, and dead on my feet. Let’s wrap this up, if you please.”

Winters’ expression softened slightly at the sight of the man before him—rumpled hair, sweat-stained shirt, dust-caked shoes, dark shadows beneath weary eyes. Roe’s role would be essential. Patience might secure his loyalty.

“I understand it’s a long journey from Louisiana,” Winters said, scanning his transfer papers. “But there are matters to clarify before you join the unit. Do you know why you’re here?”

“’Cause some fancy government fella figured after the Japanese dropped planes on your ships, he oughta drag my sorry hide outta my swamp and ship me clear across the ocean to fight somebody else’s war in Europe,” Eugene answered coolly, folding his arms. “Or more precise, to patch up your boys so they don’t bleed out cryin’ for their mamas. I’ll be one of your medics. That’s what I was told.”

“How do you know we’re going to Europe?” another voice asked.

Eugene lifted a brow. A second man emerged from the office shadows, taking his papers from Winters’ hands.

“Was told,” Eugene replied simply, meeting a pair of sharp black eyes without flinching.

“Should we be concerned you’re a spy, Roe?” the newcomer asked, leaning across the desk.

“I don’t aim to tell a soul,” Eugene said lightly, head tilting, innocence dancing in his tone though not in his eyes.

They weighed each other with their eyes for what felt like an eternity, until the dark-haired man finally stepped back with a smile. It was not a kind smile; it was a silent warning, a promise of a conversation yet to be had. Winters, who had watched the exchange with a puzzled expression, straightened when he saw Nixon retreat and turned his attention back to the newcomer.

“What do you mean by materials?” Winters asked, returning to the matter at hand.

“Well now,” Eugene began, settling back. “I ain’t like Ralphie. Sweet boy, bless him. But I need certain things. You need your men breathin’. To keep ’em that way, I need my supplies. Herbs, roots, soil, water, tears of a corpse, dried gators… a few things the Army don’t stock in crates. And her, ’course. Name’s Rosette.”

Rosette peeked out from his shirt, and Winters startled, leaning back in his chair when the small doll greeted him with her tiny hand. Of course he had heard of the existence of that kind of… magic, but seeing it in the flesh was not something he had expected. Dick had been raised Christian, under the norms and precepts of a religion that neither admitted nor condoned the existence of magic. He had grown up believing that people like Eugene Roe were only the stuff of legend, tales grandmothers told to frighten children into behaving. But he was very real. The damn living doll peeking out from his shirt pocket was very real. Nixon leaned toward the doll, greeting her with a fascinated smile. “Look how pretty she is, Dick,” he murmured, and Winters forced himself to maintain a neutral expression.

“I’m not sure we can allow you to bring… her. Or your… your materials. The Army will provide all the medical supplies you’ll need in combat. There’s no need for you to carry all this,” he explained.

Eugene leaned back in his chair, resting an elbow on the back while his free hand fell onto his thigh, tapping lightly.

Dick felt a shiver run down his spine, and Nixon straightened behind him, suddenly very serious. The tired, dusty young man who had dropped into his office with his careless attitude seemed to transform before his eyes into something dangerous. His head tilted slightly back, his eyes—shadowed by heavy lids and thick lashes—turning cold as ice. The air grew heavy around them, and Winters felt a powerful urge to reach for the drawer where he kept his service revolver.

“I need you to listen real close now, Lieutenant,” Eugene said softly, his voice slow. “You’re a good man. The kind a man don’t mind followin’. One day, sooner than you think, you’re gonna stand right where you’re meant to in this Army, holdin’ the lives of hundreds in your hands. Mine too. I’ll follow you, sir. I’ll do as you say and I’ll keep your boys breathin’, long as there’s breath left in me. There’s more’n just this war ridin’ on my back, I swear it. But soldier or no soldier, I ain’t lettin’ nobody strip me of what’s mine. If Rosette don’t go, then I don’t go. Simple as that. I’m just a man, Lieutenant, my power comes from the swamp. From water and earth, from blood and rain. This here—” he nodded toward the bags at his feet, “—this is what holds that power. Without it, there ain’t but so much I can do for your men. You can hand me bandages, morphine, plasma, sulfa… pin that red cross on my arm and set the weight of their lives on my shoulders. But without this? All that Army issue won’t do no more good than a paper parasol in the teeth of a hurricane. So if you want ’em livin’, if you want ’em walkin’ back home to their mamas and their wives, you let me do my work the way I know how. You stand with me, sir, and I’ll stand with you. Now… we got ourselves a deal?”

He stood and extended a hand toward him.

Winters studied him for a few moments. A deal. A pact. A contract sealed in blood that would bind itself to his soul and condemn him for eternity if he failed in his part. Was that what he wanted? Was he willing to condemn his soul for the safety and lives of a group of men who had fallen under his command by chance and circumstance?

“Dick…” Nixon’s voice sounded like a warning, and for the first time since they had met, Winters did not allow himself to be swayed by the persuasive quality hidden beneath that baritone.

“You have a deal, Roe,” he nodded, taking the hand extended toward him.

A sharp pain born in his chest spread like poison through his body, and a thin thread of blood slid down from his nose to his chin, staining his immaculate regulation shirt. Nixon hurried to hand him a handkerchief, and the flicker in his eyes did not go unnoticed by Eugene.

Oh.

“Can I speak with you, Roe?” Nixon asked, serious.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Eugene replied with a curious smile.