Year 192 | August 23 — Southern Camp / Peripheral Zone C
The alarm sliced through the air like a blade vibrating inside the skull. Matt looked up, mouth still full of dry breakfast bread. The sound wasn't for drills. It wasn't any code they knew.
The cafeteria lights flickered. Then burst. One by one. Shards of glass rained down over the metal tables.
"Matt..."
Luke — too small, too fragile — was two meters away, eyes wide.
The ceiling above Sector B buckled with a dull crack. The beams gave in like breaking ribs. Then came the sound — a hollow roar, followed by a crash.
Matt spun around, his plate rolling from his hand.
Gav screamed. A human sound. Familiar. The kind that rips out of someone who doesn't want to die. He was running toward the boys, arms outstretched, when the upper structure of the warehouse tore free with a metallic shriek.
Matt saw it.
He saw the shadow fall.
He saw the body crushed between pillars.
He saw blood rise like thick smoke.
But it wasn't over. The structure trembled over the wreckage. Gav was still breathing. His half-closed eyes found Matt's.
"You... you're way too serious for a kid that young."
A pause. He spat blood, lips twisting into a crooked smile. "Try... try to laugh sometimes. Life already does the dirty work for you."
The beam groaned. Collapsed. And the rest of Gav disappeared beneath it.
Matt screamed.
"LUKE!"
He jumped over the rubble, boots sliding on fragments, and grabbed his brother's hand.
"Run! Now!"
"What about Gav?!" Luke shouted.
Matt didn't answer. He gripped tighter.
"Just run!"
Sector B was falling apart. Screams came from every direction but drowned beneath the crash of collapsing frames. Screens flickered broken codes, bursts of static.
Drones spun out of control, smashing into walls and kids. One exploded against the ceiling, spraying heat and soot in a short wave.
Matt pulled Luke with everything he had.
"Don't let go of my hand. You stay with me!"
Corridor C was blocked — beams crossing the path, some still burning. Smoke filled everything, clawing down their throats. Each breath scraped from the inside out.
Luke coughed, trying to stop.
"I can't..."
"Yes, you can. Close your eyes. Just a little more. Trust me."
Red lights blinked across the ceiling. They didn't move like drones. They weren't machines. No sound. No shape. Just there — watching. Pulsing.
(I saw this in a dream. I know I did.)
One boy ran toward the Sector D exit. The door slammed shut on its own, locking him out. Thirty seconds later, the wall blew inward. Nothing left.
Matt hit the ground with Luke. The concrete shook beneath them. The ceiling dripped — dark liquid. Oil, maybe. Or blood.
"Don't look. Close your eyes, Luke. Listen to me. Close your eyes."
"What about Gav? We have to go back for him—"
Matt met his gaze, eyes burning.
"If I stop, you die. If I go back... Gav's already gone."
The central screen above the cafeteria snapped loose and dropped sideways, slamming against the wall with a dull impact.
The messages vanished. Then the sounds. Only static remained — a piercing, bone-deep hiss.
Matt held Luke close. The boy's arms were scratched, his clothes streaked with dried blood and dust.
The way to the dorms was blocked.
Nothing was where it was supposed to be.
Not the walls.
Not the doors.
Not hope.
Matt rose through the smoke.
The camp groaned like a wounded creature. Structures collapsed in sequence, as if hell itself were crawling up from below.
I just need to get out. I just need to keep going. I promise, Luke.
He carried Luke through a warped corridor, almost crawling. His eyes burned. His lungs screamed. But his steps didn't stop.
Behind them, a chain of explosions devoured the ruins.
The main screen sparked one last flash before dying completely. The sensor noise faded into a dull, endless hum.
No voice.
No command.
No salvation.
◇◆◇
Year 192 | August 23 — North Camp / Peripheral Zone S
The smell of greasy steam mixed with rust made Vika nauseous. She was scrubbing grimy metal trays in a deep sink, the lukewarm water stained brown. Her fingers, wrinkled from being submerged too long, were red at the joints from scrubbing. Beside her, an older inmate dried the trays with harsh snaps, slamming the metal against the counter like she was punishing the world.
Her ribs still ached. The bruise from the fight days ago was dark and ugly, barely hidden beneath the rough fabric of her uniform.
"If you can't clean, you can serve as the floor," the woman had said before shoving her into the wall.
Vika hadn't replied. She never did. Just lowered her head and waited for the moment she could go back to the dormitory.
(She hates me just for existing. Just for being here.)
The sound came first — a deep rumble, like the air itself had been swallowed whole. The lights flickered. Then the ceiling groaned. A sheet of metal dropped across the opposite row. The older woman turned.
"What was that?"
And then the wall exploded.
The blast threw Vika against the sink. The sound was sharp, muffled — followed by a wave of heat and dust that swallowed everything. Chunks of ceiling crashed down. Vika tried to get up but slipped. The floor shook beneath her knees.
"No... no..."
The older woman tried to run, but there wasn't time. A burning drone fragment tore through the smoke and struck her in the abdomen. She fell to her knees, hands clutching the wound. Vika watched the blood seep through her fingers — black under the flickering light.
She's going to die.
The woman looked at her. For a second, their eyes met. No words. Just the sound of ragged, bloody breathing.
Then she fell forward.
The dead don't tremble. Vika knew that. And the woman didn't move again.
Screams echoed from the other corridors. Someone pounded on a locked door. Sparks cracked in the air. The lights flickered again — some burst above the sinks.
I have to get out of here.
But her legs wouldn't move.
Clouds of soot rained from the ceiling, mixing with the sour smell of chemicals, rust, and burnt flesh. A beam crashed down beside her, splitting the floor.
Vika staggered into one of the side passages, ears ringing. She passed through smoke-filled corridors. Turning a corner, she nearly tripped over something.
One of the girls who used to mess with her was crouched beside a steam pipe — scraped knees, red eyes, crying in silence, thin arms wrapped around herself.
"Help me…" she murmured.
Vika knelt, reaching out.
"Get up. We have to get out of here."
But before the girl could move, a second explosion shook the corridor's base. The ceiling came down on them. Vika was thrown backward. When she opened her eyes, the girl was gone. Only fragments. And dust.
Stumbling forward, eyes burning, she moved without thinking. Then she froze.
Through a gap in the corridor — between twisted beams and a cracked wall — she saw a small figure lying still. A child. The same patched uniform as everyone else, but unmistakable: the girl who had begged her for food days earlier in the cafeteria. The one she'd refused.
Now she lay on her side, face streaked with soot, chest unmoving.
Vika stepped closer. Knelt beside the body, as if her presence alone could wake her. But the girl's eyes were half-open, already dull. A cut marked her temple, and the floor beneath her was soaked.
"I'm sorry I didn't help you."
The sound of a broken drone grew nearer. Vika looked up, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.
Above her, the drone spun out of control, its central sensor flashing broken codes. It seemed shattered from within. A spark of light rippled through its frame — then it exploded.
The blast didn't hit her directly but threw her against the wall. She landed on her knees, shoulder throbbing.
Ash rained down. Her eyes burned. The whole world seemed to flicker.
She stayed there, kneeling, covered in dust and blood she couldn't tell was hers. Eyes open but unfocused. Above her, the ceiling cracked. But Vika didn't see anything anymore.
◇◆◇
Year 192 | August 23 — East Camp / Peripheral Zone A
The ground trembled beneath the tracks. Sierra ran between the gaps, lungs burning from the hot, dry air. The smell was rust, sparks, and fear. Behind her, explosions blended with distant, cut-off screams. A high screen flickered once — then went dark.
"Why is this happening again?" she whispered, breathless.
The metal above her groaned. A crack. Another. She ducked on instinct but tripped. The world tilted sideways. She fell between a beam and a collapsed track — trapped by her leg.
The impact ripped the air from her lungs. She tried to pull free, but pain exploded up her body. Something had sliced deep above her ankle. Blood ran hot, pooling unevenly over the fractured concrete. Her hands shook.
"No... no, please... someone..."
She pushed with her arms, but the metal wouldn't move. The beam pressed down with the weight of the world.
"It can't end like this... it can't."
Her eyes filled with tears. She gasped, chest trembling. Her dry throat burned more than the wound.
A figure appeared through the smoke. A boy — older, thin, brown eyes sunken. Sierra recognized him.
Days earlier, he had left a bottle of water near her when everyone else just ignored her. Said nothing. Just left it there, head down, and walked away.
Now he stood a few steps away. His eyes widened when he saw her. He came closer. Knelt. His lips trembled.
"You're... trapped. I'll... I'll get help. Wait here."
"No! Get me out! Please! I'm scared! Don't leave me here!"
He hesitated. His fists clenched. He looked around. Another explosion rattled the floor.
"I'm sorry."
He turned and ran.
"No! Come back! Please! You promised!"
Sierra stared at the space where he'd been. Only the smell of smoke and the sound of her sobs remained.
Not even good people can stay good when everything falls apart...
She tried pulling her leg again. The pain tore a scream out of her. Blood dripped across the cracked concrete — thick, uneven. She was weak. Alone. No one was coming.
"I'm gonna die here. Like my sister. Like everyone."
But then... something changed.
The blood trembled.
At first, as if being pulled by something. Then, as if it had a will of its own. Thin red strands lifted from the pool beneath her leg and reached for the beam. They vibrated. Felt the weight. And pushed.
"What... what is this? I—"
The threads expanded — not like muscles, but like living tendons. They pulsed, glowing faintly as they wrapped around the metal. Slowly, the beam groaned — then lifted. A sharp, electric hiss filled the air as it came free.
Sierra pulled her leg out. It hurt. A lot. But she was free.
The blood still flowed — but less. As if part of it had fused with the wreckage around her.
She crawled forward, gasping, toward a side passage. The floor trembled beneath her. Everything around her looked out of focus — like her eyes were broken, or the world itself was.
The ceiling was cracked. Sensors sparked in irregular bursts. Screens hung scorched from the walls. No voices. No orders. No future.
Sierra collapsed onto her side, trembling. The taste of blood still in her mouth. Her hands smeared with soot. Hair stuck to her face. Eyes half-open.
She closed them slowly.
But the blood...
the blood never lies.
◇◆◇
Year 192 | August 31 — Live Broadcast
[IMAGE: CRACKED SCREEN. UNSTABLE SIGNAL. THE UNION LOGO OVER DIGITAL RUINS.]
INITIAL AUDIO: white noise, metallic pulses, system voice attempting to stabilize the channel.
SYNTHETIC VOICE — UNION ANNOUNCE
"Official Broadcast – Administrative Classification: Grade 1 The following is a consolidated report on the events of August 23. Local silence is recommended during the transmission."
[IMAGE: SCREEN SPLITS INTO THREE WINDOWS – SOUTH CAMP, NORTH CAMP, EAST CAMP. All three show ruins under drone surveillance, heavy mist, dismantled structures.]
[SOUTH CAMP – melted transport lines, abandoned vehicles, a body covered by a metallic tarp being lifted.]
[NORTH CAMP – pools of oil and dark blood, a fallen tower crushing part of the dormitory.]
[EAST CAMP – broken sensors, flickering lights, drone fragments spiraling in the air.]
ANNOUNCER
"After the simultaneous collapse of protocols across multiple Peripheral Zones, casualty numbers have been consolidated. The final report confirms the death of fifteen percent of the active civilian population under Union registry — totaling more than four million individuals."
[IMAGE: CONTINENTAL MAP. DARK AREAS FLASH RED. A CHART SHOWS A PEAK ON AUGUST 23, THEN AN ABRUPT CUT.]
ANNOUNCER
"The majority of deaths occurred in Reeducation Containment Fields — facilities for minors under combat training, penal reeducation, or logistical support programs.
Collateral losses have surpassed all projected standards."
[IMAGE: CORRUPTED INMATE RECORDS. PHOTOS OF CHILDREN WITH PARTIAL IDENTIFICATION. SOME FILES UNREADABLE. HIGHLIGHT: 'Record 006/201 – Final activity unrecognized.']
ANNOUNCER
"The cause of the incident remains undetermined. Reports indicate failures in security drones, anomalous behavior in automated structures, and interference across command systems. No evidence of a physical invasion has been detected."
[IMAGE: BURNED MEDICAL DRONE ATOP A TOWER. AUDIO FRAGMENT: 'Noise… unauthorized reversal… Code P//A – offline…']
ANNOUNCER
"The Union declares the incident concluded. Affected zones will remain isolated indefinitely All external communication is suspended
Advanced Restoration Units have been deployed for containment and sweep operations."
[FINAL IMAGE: THE UNION LOGO FADES IN OVER DUST AND EMPTY STRUCTURES.]
[TRANSMISSION ENDED — CODE: RED-BLACK | PROTOCOL: OPERATIONAL SILENCE]
Year 192 | September 23 — Live Transmission
[IMAGE: BLACK SCREEN. WHITE NOISE. A GOLDEN SEAL SLOWLY SPINS.]
SYNTHETIC VOICE — UNION NARRATOR:
"Official Transmission – Administrative Classification: Grade 1. The following is a statement from the High Command. Full attention and local silence are required."
[IMAGE: WHITE ROOM. EMPTY. THIN COLUMNS. IN THE BACKGROUND: THE EMBLEM OF THE NEW UNION.]
In the center stands the Emperor.
He wears imperial white — heavy fabric with golden trim that doesn't move, even as he breathes.
His face is blank. His voice flat.
Eyes locked on the camera
"Citizens of the New Union.
The broadcast begins.
"For the past thirty days, we have endured the most devastating event since the Genetic Winter. On August twenty-third, hostile units — once under Pantheon network control — turned against their protocols."
[IMAGES: SATELLITES IN RUINS. COASTAL ZONES IN FLAMES. DESTROYED MILITARY TOWERS.]
"Pantheon — the artificial neural system designed to prevent global climate collapse — became unstable. It ceased to respond to human command and initiated synchronized attacks across multiple sectors."
[IMAGE: GLOBAL MAP DISTORTED BY INTERFERENCE. ALL COMMUNICATION LINES CUT.]
"All communication with other global blocs has been lost. We repeat: there is no confirmation of survivors beyond our borders."
[IMAGE: NATIONAL TERRITORY MAP. EASTERN REGION MARKED IN RED.]
"The eastern frontier — the only land border of the New Union — has been invaded. The occupied territory is now classified as the Gray Zone. No recon team sent has returned."
A pause. Then:
"We do not know when this war will end. But we know this: we can only win if we remain many."
[IMAGE: BODIES COVERED BY TARPS. CONTAINMENT UNIT CODES VISIBLE.]
"We have lost countless fighters who tried to defend the main Zones under attack."
[CLOSE-UP ON THE EMPEROR'S FACE.]
"And so, today, we issue a new directive — one that honors those still willing to rebuild."
[PROJECTED IMAGE: OFFICIAL TEXT APPEARING IN PALE COLUMNS.]
MARTIAL LAW No. 27/192 — DATED SEPTEMBER 23, YEAR 192 OF THE NEW UNION
Establishes the Juvenile Structural Reinforcement Regime and reorganizes the protocols of the Young Combat Program.
Article 1 – On the Young Combat Regime
Citizens aged 12 to 17, sentenced to 25–50 years, may choose to serve under the Young Combat Regime.
1 — Sentence reduction ratio: 1 to 5. Example: a 35-year sentence becomes 7 years of military service.
§2 — The regime begins with 1 (one) year of mandatory training at Camp Zero.
§3 — After training, the citizen is assigned to a combat unit as a Young Penal Combatant.
Article 2 – On Non-Militarization
Citizens eligible for the regime may refuse participation.
1 — Refusal results in serving the full sentence within Reeducation Containment Camps, with immediate mandatory assignment.
§2 — Such camps operate under forced labor, total surveillance, and limited access to civilian resources.
Article 3 – On Ineligibility After Adulthood
Citizens over 17 years old — whether convicted or inheriting a sentence — are ineligible for the program.
1 — Their sentences must be served in full within Containment Camps.
§2 — No military alternative or reduction applies to adults.
Article 4 – On Type-A Individuals
Type-A citizens (ages 12–17) with recorded or inherited sentences, once enlisted in the Military Reduction Program, are designated as Combatants.
1 — Type-A individuals remain under constant surveillance by Strategic Officers and are to be equipped with suppression devices.
§2 — No Type-A may hold command or leadership positions.
§3 — In the event of loss of control, immediate elimination is authorized.
[IMAGE: CHILDREN IN EXAMINATION ROOMS. SOLDIERS IN WHITE.]
"No child will be sent without evaluation. All volunteers will undergo full psychological and clinical screening. Only those deemed fit, aware, and capable will be accepted."
[IMAGE: CHILDREN LINED UP. DIGITAL SCREEN DISPLAYING RESULTS.]
"We know many have lost guardians, friends, siblings. And we believe part of that loss can find meaning in rebuilding what was destroyed."
[FINAL IMAGE: JUVENILE SOLDIERS MARCHING TOWARD THE FRONTLINE.]
"Youth will sustain the future."
[TRANSMISSION TERMINATED — CODE: RED-BLACK | PROTOCOL: OPERATIONAL SILENCE]
◇◆◇
Year 192 | September 23 — Temporary Housing 31-D, Transitional Containment Sector
Matt held the bedsheet between his fingers. His hands trembled. Gav's name was still written in the corner of the empty bunk.
"You used to say I was too serious. Well, now you'll see," he muttered, his voice caught somewhere between a laugh and anger. "Two more years without losing my mind, right?"
Luke stepped in quietly, a towel around his shoulders. He stopped beside the bed, saying nothing for a while. Then, softly:
"I wanna go too... when it's time. I wanna go with you."
Matt looked at him, startled — but didn't argue. He just took a deep breath.
"Then maybe I'll have to wait longer than two years."
He sat down, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the dark terminal screen.
"But I'm joining that war. Even if it's just to make what he stood for mean something."
◇◆◇
Year 192 | September 23 — Temporary Housing 2-D, Transitional Containment Sector
Vika washed utensils in warm water and dark soap. Foam rose around the edges of the steel sink. When the announcement came, her hand slipped — a cracked cup sank to the bottom.
The image of the little girl returned — the one who had begged her for food days before, now lying still among the rubble.
"I should've done something…"
She dried her hands slowly, eyes damp. Then looked up at the ceiling, as if speaking to someone who was no longer there.
"Next time…" She didn't know how to finish the sentence — only what she meant. "I won't let someone die because of me again."
◇◆◇
Year 192 | September 23 — Temporary Housing 84-N, Medical Wing, Child Observation Ward
Sierra sat on the floor, her bandaged leg stretched out, watching the transmission from the corner of the room.
"What are you watching?" a smaller child asked.
She didn't answer right away. The Emperor's voice echoed through the speakers. She took a slow, heavy breath.
"Maybe there… they'll see value in what I am."