Aetherland

Chapter 3 : July Nights (part2)

The wind, tasting of grit and ghosts, claws at the cracked earth, whipping Alexi’s knee-high white duster around him like a tattered flag of surrender. The triangular emblem, bold and black against the stark white fabric, feels heavy against his chest – the Fusion Federation insignia, a brand he wears in the heart of the very nation it seeks to crush.

Fusion Federation, he thinks, spitting a curse onto the dust. A lifetime ago, that symbol means something to him, ordered ranks, a clear purpose. Now? Now it is just good tailoring and convenient camouflage. He runs a hand over his thinning, sand-blasted hair, the spit-shine gesture feeling absurdly formal in this godforsaken wasteland. He is Alexi, senior smuggler now, respected, ironically, more than Officer Alexi ever was. And his business, fueled by desperation and the Federation’s own iron fist, is indeed thriving, right here, in Anna’s nation. His sleek rifle glints ominously in the hunting moonlight, reflecting the steely determination in his green eyes.

Anna moves with a weary grace, her boots whispering secrets into the dust as she navigates the skeletal remains of streets. He straightens, a phantom muscle memory from his officer days surfacing unbidden. She spots Alexi waiting for her in the distance. His tall figure is silhouetted against the moonlit sky, his arms crossed over his chest.

Anna quickens her pace, her boots crunching softly on the dirt path. As she draws closer, Alexi's face comes into focus, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, sharpening the lines of her young face, etching worry into her brow. He initially smiles at Anna's approach, but she doesn't return his smile. Her eyes, though, hold a flicker of the old defiance, the stubborn spark he both admires and exploits. He has learned long ago to read the subtle language of survival in these lands, and he knows, even before she speaks, the battery hunt has not been fruitful. Disappointment, a familiar ache, settles behind his ribs. For the delay, for the complications.

Alexi lights a cigarette, the flare momentarily painting his face in harsh relief. Anna doesn't bother with pleasantries, just shoves the heavy bag of scavenged goods towards his boots with a grunt. He sighs, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Come on, girl. You know Ash isn't a patient man. He's expecting results. Focus, and let the money pour over our heads."

The mention of Ash's name only fuels Anna's anger. She glares at Alexi, snapping back in response. "Results?" she echoes, her voice tight. "In this black and white ash bowl? I'm scavenging scraps, Alexi, not conjuring batteries out of thin air! Maybe your precious Ash thinks they're growing on soot-covered trees now? He's the one who sent you on this fool's errand. I'm just trying to survive, trying not to starve while I do your dirty work. Ash wants results. The world wants clean air. I want a damn shower that doesn't leave me feeling dirtier than before. We all have our wants, don't we? Doesn't mean we're going to get them." She kicks at the bag, a small cloud of dust puffing into the stagnant air. "Especially not in this cursed place."

Alexi takes a drag from his cigarette, considering her words. He knows Anna is right—finding resources in this desolate land is no easy task. He blows out a plume of smoke, his gaze fixed on her. "And the requests?" he asks, cutting through the tension. "What did they ask for?"

Anna’s anger seems to deflate slightly, replaced by a weariness that is far too old for her years. "Same as always. Food. Medicine. Bandages are running dangerously low. And…” she hesitates, her voice dropping even further, “Three newborns this week, in the camp."

Alexi raises a cynical eyebrow. “Resistance or neutral mistakes or more beggers?” He already knows the answer, but the question is a ritual.

“Resistance,” Anna confirms, her voice flat. “Hopeful fools.” The term is devoid of warmth, a statement of bleak fact rather than sentiment.