16.

My brother's stance was that of a jungle cat; muscles coiled and brimming with potential energy. He stood with his left shoulder/stump toward me, his right hand holding the gun parallel to his chest but pointed in my general direction. He held a turn of the century Sig; before gene-coding became the standard. Popular with militias and criminals, alike.

"You died," I said, flatly.

"Yeah, that's what they say," he replied. "Now, I want you to lift up your shirt and turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

"Phil, it's me. I --"

"Shut up and do it. I will put you down," he said. His voice was frosted alloy. His eyes flicked over my probably dumbfounded and hurt face.

"Look, I'll say it out loud so we're both on the same page: I don't know who or what you are, you don't know who or what I am. But I have a gun that you have to assume is real, so we're going to do what I say for now." He said, slowly.

His logic was sound, and although I had a million questions, they were going to have to wait.

17.

We sat across from each other in a dimly lit basement. The air between us was thick, and it smelled of perspiration and sawdust. His weapon lay on the table between us -- his scarred and calloused hand rested heavily on it. Progress, I suppose.

"I see you use a 226," I said, awkwardly trying to find some way to break the ice. I was bluffing; without The Mesh, the only reason I knew the model of gun was the fact that it said it on the barrel.

"Yeah. What'chu know about that?" He asked. His drawl was an affectation. I knew he could pick it up or drop it whenever.

"I know it's got some nice custom work," I said. It was a safe bet, I could see several mods to let him chamber a round with one arm.

"Yup." He said, simply. Time stretched on wordlessly. Suddenly, something Phil said struck me.

"Wait, you didn't get upgraded, did you?" I asked.

"Nope. I didn't trust some corporation putting a computer in my head. Good fuckin' call, turns out," he replied.

"Then what did you mean you don't know ‘who or what I am?’" I said. I could feel pieces falling into place, and my blood ran cold.

18.

He got up, crossed the room, and picked up a bottle of Jack's, and two mugs; carrying all three with one hand. My eyes flicked to the Sig against my will, and he caught me looking. He stopped halfway back to the table and sighed, before crossing the rest of the way and dexterously poured us each a drink.

"You're pretty good at that," I said. I hadn't seen him in person since he lost the arm.

"Shut up, drink your fucking drink, and listen." He said. His voice was low and lethal, but I thought I may have detected a trace of his old deadpan sense of humor. Needless to say, I did so.

"When shit went down, me and some of the boys took it on ourselves to arm up and guard Darrington. Wasn't much to do, really. Not that I was complaining. Besides turning back a few drifters, we didn't have to do jack shit," he took a long dreg of his booze before continuing.

"Obviously, only the Naturals were allowed to be on guard duty. Didn't need guys seein’ dragons or whatever the fuck. But, that's what started happening. About two weeks ago Gus Miller saw someone lurking around the back of the gas station. He took Ben Nations and Eric White to go put the fear of God in `em, but..." he clicked his tongue. "Went t'other way. Yasee, they came around and flanked him. Lanky dude in a suit."

He paused here for either dramatic effect or genuine trauma. Philip was always a hard guy to read.

Finally, he said: "Turns out the guy didn't have a face. So they lit him up."