A couple of months had slipped by since my last visit to the desert, but the Fireblade hadn’t left my mind. It was like the damn thing had gotten under my skin, and every time I had a quiet moment, my thoughts drifted back to it. Not the bike as it was, exactly, but what it could be. What it could mean.

I wasn’t patient by nature. So, one too many restless nights later, I threw together a bag, hopped into the truck, and set off toward Bones’ fortress of rust and regrets.

The desert felt sharper today—hotter, drier, the kind of air that claws at the back of your throat. When I rolled up, nothing looked different: same piles of scrap, same chaos masquerading as order. But as I climbed out, I caught sight of a familiar shape.

The Fireblade was no longer a shadow of itself. Its skeleton had taken form again, the engine mounted, the tank gleaming faintly under the canopy’s light. My heart jumped a little, but I kept my cool, leaning against the truck like I wasn’t impressed.

“Bones!” I called, raising my voice over the clang of metal and the hum of some ancient generator.

“Back here,” came his gruff reply.

I found him crouched behind the bike, a wrench in one hand, a cigarette smoldering between his lips. He glanced up, frowning like I was interrupting something important. Which, knowing Bones, probably meant tinkering with bolts that hadn’t needed tinkering at all.

“Well?” I asked, gesturing toward the Fireblade. “Is she ready yet?”

Bones snorted, setting the wrench aside as he straightened. “Ready? Are you kidding me? You think I just snap my fingers and make miracles happen?”

“I thought you were a miracle worker.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath. “No. It’s not done. But it’s coming together. Slowly. You’re welcome, by the way.”

I grinned, stepping closer. “So, what’s the holdup? Don’t tell me the great Bones is losing his touch.”

That got a look. The kind of look that said he’d throw a wrench at me if he thought it’d shut me up. “The holdup, Reb, is that I had to scrape half the goddamn wasteland to find the right parts. Do you have any idea how hard it is to source components for a bike this old? Hell, half the bolts on this thing aren’t even made anymore.”

“Isn’t that your specialty, though? Making the impossible happen?”

He rolled his eyes and went back to fiddling with something on the bike’s handlebars. “Yeah, yeah. You can save the flattery. It’s gonna take more time.”

I crouched next to him, watching his hands work. The way he handled the Fireblade was almost reverent, like he wasn’t just fixing it—he was restoring its soul.

“So,” I said after a moment, “you’re saying you’re just slow?”

Bones set the cigarette aside, leveling me with a flat stare. “You want to finish it yourself?”

I smirked. “I’m more of a big-picture kind of gal. Leave the boring stuff to you.”

He huffed, but there was a flicker of a smile before he turned back to the bike. “Big-picture, huh? How about you hand me that torque wrench, Big Picture.”

I grabbed the tool, handing it over with exaggerated flourish. “Anything for you, boss.”

We settled into a rhythm after that. Him barking gruff instructions, me handing him parts and making just enough jokes to get under his skin. Hours melted into each other, the sounds of clinking metal and faint desert wind filling the spaces between us.

Eventually, Bones wiped his hands on a rag, grabbed a couple of beers from the cooler, and handed one to me. “Take a break,” he said, collapsing onto an old workbench stool.

I twisted the cap off, leaning against the workbench. “So,” I said, nodding toward the Fireblade, “where’d you learn to do all this? You know, bring the dead back to life?”

Bones leaned back, taking a long pull from his beer. “There was a time,” he said slowly, “when this bike wasn’t just a bike. It was a legend. Belonged to a guy who could ride like the devil himself. They said he didn’t need wings—he had the Fireblade.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What happened to him?”

“Raced too hard. Crashed harder. Didn’t even make it to the hospital.”

His words hung in the air, heavy.

“These bikes,” he said, running a hand over the Fireblade’s unfinished frame, “they don’t forgive mistakes, Reb. You make one, and it’s game over. No second chances.”

For once, I didn’t have a snappy comeback. I sipped my beer, staring at the Fireblade. It felt like it was watching me back, waiting to see what I’d do with the warning.

Bones broke the silence first, a rare thing. “You remember Benny’s Bar?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “Benny’s? You mean the place with the guy who tried to brain you with a pool cue?”

He chuckled, a low, rusty sound. “Yeah. And the chair I threw through the window on our way out. Good times.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed the chair and went for it. I remember thinking, ‘This guy’s insane.’”

“And yet, you followed me.”

“Someone had to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed.”

Bones raised his bottle slightly in a mock toast. “To survival. Barely.”

“To you being an idiot,” I shot back, clinking my bottle against his.

For a moment, it felt easy. Like the past hadn’t left scars, and the Fireblade wasn’t a reminder of how much we’d both lost.

But then the moment passed. Bones stood, setting his beer down. “Back to work,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness.

“Whatever you say, boss,” I replied, grabbing a rag. But as I turned back to the Fireblade, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the bike wasn’t the only thing being rebuilt here.