### Ash ###

The boy’s ruined sandals slapped against his cracked heel, each step a hollow echo of a life he had fled. Behind him, the broken cart groaned, its three working wheels carving scars into the dust as he dragged its heavy burden into the endless desert.

Flip-flop. Flip-flop.

The sound echoed across the desolate wastes, where not even the wind stirred or insects crawled. The ragged rhythm of his steps and the creaking weight behind him were the only signs that time itself still moved.

He sucked a stuttering breath through blistered lips, the scorching air blazing into his lungs until his throat tightened in a dry, heat-choked swallow. His mouth fell open again, and he pushed his swollen tongue into his cheek — a cracked, leathery thing he no longer wanted.

Fresh blood tickled down over caked crimson streaks where the rope chewed at his shoulder. His torn shirt — worn thin and far too large for him — was the only protection against the rope’s bite and the twin suns’ scalding gaze.

Beside him, Ole-Pappa shuffled through the ashes, a skeleton wrapped in sun-cracked parchment skin. His flesh seemed thinner with each sunrise, his back blistered and crimson, and his trousers, now too large for him, clinging on by a fraying string. He spoke little nowadays; his gaze always fixed on the empty horizon.

To the boy, that line in the distance where sky met ash seemed unreachable. Nothing more than a promise of heat and death. He no longer looked up. There was nothing worth seeing. Every horizon only revealed more rocks, dirt, and heat. An endless blackened desert repeating forever on itself.

Flip-flop. Flip-flop.

Each step carried him — carried them — farther from the village, and farther from everything that had once been their home.

Flip-flop. Flip-scrrch.

The boy’s foot slipped, and the rope jerked taut, biting deep into his raw flesh, carving new pain into his sun-blistered skin. The cart shuddered, its hidden burden shifted. A hollow clank rang out as an armoured hand slid into view, dangling lifelessly like a dead branch over the side.

‘Keep step, Boy!’ the old man scowled, his hand raised, ready to strike.

Boy shrank away, squeezing his eyes tight, his hands held defensively in front of him. ‘Sorry, Ole-Pappa,’ he anxiously whispered, frozen with fear.

The old man grunted.

A long silence passed, then a drawn-out sigh. No beating came.

The sounds of feet dragged across sand, and Boy dared open his eyes, wary yet hopeful.

Ole-Pappa was standing at the cart, peeling back a corner of the heavy tarp to inspect their cargo. The old man heaved the limp metal arm back into place, careful and slow, as if it might break. Boy squinted, trying to glimpse a better look, but the suns flared too brightly, and the shadows were too deep. He saw nothing new.

The old man turned, and Boy cast his eyes down, swallowing. Still, no punishment came, just another sigh. Boy dared glance up. Ole-Pappa’s shoulders were slumped, his head low, eyes downcast.

‘It’s all right, Boy. Come on, pull. In step now,’ he said quietly.

Boy sucked another dry breath before straightening up and taking the rope. With a nod, the rope tightened, and the quiet rhythm of flip-flop returned to the wasteland.

Boy dared not ask what their cargo was or where they needed to take it. He knew what was behind them was death, a place they could never return to, and that the cart carried something precious towards the horizon. But neither the desert ahead nor the old man beside offered answers to what it was, or where the path would end — only silence, heat… anger.

So, he cast his eyes down and stared at his feet as they trudged forward.

Ole-Pappa knows best.

### Dreams ###

The heat rose steadily as the hours dragged forward. The twin suns glared down on him, as if he offended them, setting the sky ablaze and turning it into a white furnace that thrust him into the earth. Shimmers writhed across the blackened soil, twisting the air into shapes of things not real — ghosts of water, of trees, of a village consumed by fire. Boy’s stomach clenched and growled, reminding him of the ache, his hunger.

‘I’m hungry,’ he whispered — then froze. His shoulders curled in, bracing for the blow he knew would follow his begging. Nothing came.

Slowly, he looked at the old man.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered, the words small and brittle.

Ole-Pappa stood over him, his shadow stretched long, his fist half-raised. His eyes, lately so cold and angry, drooped. Watered. He closed them for a moment, his head turned away into the distance.

‘Forgive me…’ the old man whispered. His hand fell to his side, and his shoulders slumped. His head tipped backwards into a silent howl — barely more than a puff of dust, before looking back to Boy, his hardness erased.

‘We are all that’s left, Boy,’ the old man said, his voice near breaking. ‘We must find the Dragoons. We must get to their fortress. It’s your only chance. Do you understand?’

Boy nodded, though he did not understand. He had heard the stories of Dragoons. He loved listening to the tales of the mythical monster slayers and daemon hunters that lived in their lofty castles in the clouds. Stories of legends with great names— Draago, Hurnoot, Armedes — names, half-remembered and worn thin with retelling. Stories of knightly men of great prowess who strode across the seas as though they were fields and rose so tall their heads brushed the stars. Mighty men who lived in castles that floated on clouds.

Boy clung to those scraps of stories as if they were all that meant anything any longer, and as if prompted, he looked back to the cart. For an instant, he saw it — the corner of an armoured limb, heavy as stone, gleaming dully beneath the dust. The thing in the cart was one of them. One of the giants from his stories — fallen, broken. A thing he now dragged behind him through the desolation.

Ole-Pappa turned away from him. He wiped his face, then gasped and hung his head, standing there staring away into the distance, his body shaking.

Is he crying? Boy was not sure, could not imagine it. He could see the old man’s skin drawn tight over his bones, his once-strong body fit from ploughing fields withered away into a living skeleton.

‘Ole-Pappa?’ Boy asked, his voice barely more than a murmur.

Ole-Pappa wiped his face again and turned, a smile on his ash-cracked lips, ‘Suns are high,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s rest a bit.’

Boy nodded, and together they knelt, taking a handful of ash each and throwing it over their shoulders. Ole-Pappa muttered a prayer, and Boy listened. He did not know the gods it was to. It was not the same gods the rest of the village prayed to, but he performed the ritual regardless, mixing his blood with the ash of the world.

They crawled beneath the cart, clutching at the strip of shade it offered from the burning suns. Barely a heartbeat later, the old man was snoring softly. In the days since they had begun their journey, they had rested when the suns were at their peaks, but Boy could never sleep in the heat. He lay daydreaming instead, staring through the splintered gaps in the cart above, at the black-clad shape it carried.

The giant.

His gaze lingered too long. The memories of that night, broken and dark, curled their tendrils into his mind and pulled him in.

He woke to the screams, sounds like thunder clapping rapidly in rhythmic pulses. He leapt up, gazed through the small window in his room and saw shadows stalking in the glow, people fleeing, dying, cut down by hulking shadows.

Fear gripped him anew, and the memory pulled him further in.

He stood paralysed, staring at the chaos. An armoured fist crashed through the wall of their home, turning solid stone to dust, and timber into splinters, hurtling him backwards. It lingered for a few moments, then withdrew, vanishing back into the dark. Through the hole, Boy had seen the night itself come alive. The shadows took form, became a tide of monsters — terrible, scaled shapes with burning eyes and jagged teeth.

One of them found him. A lizard face glared through the hole, eyes burning with hate, breath sour with rot. It reached for Boy, its knife-lined maw gaped wide, ichor dipped thick and foul from it.

The memory was vivid and clear this time, his mind slowly unlocking what it had buried beneath the pain. His breath caught, and his chest tightened. He could feel the claws again, smell the rot. A scream welled up inside, but he strangled it, pressing his hands to his mouth. Some part of him feared that if he let the sound loose, those beasts would rise from the ashes and find them once more. He looked up, looking for escape from his own mind. He saw the figure on the cart.

The monster was seized — its tail crushed in an iron grip of the Giant and flung from the building like a discarded toy.

Boy looked through the hole, watching as the Giant fought. It stood alone amidst the carnage, a storm-ravaged rock in a sea of blood. But the fires of the village consumed all, drowning the struggle in red light and smoke. That’s when Ole-Pappa’s hands seized him, rough and desperate.

‘We must go, Boy. Hurry! We must go.’

They fled into the shacks at the edge of the village, crouching in the dark until the noises ceased.

‘We need to hide until they leave. If we run, they will hunt us.’

His breath slowed, his body calmed. The memory slowly uncurled from his thoughts as reality pushed it out, his eyes fixed on the figure in the cart.

‘Dragoon,’ he whispered, dry lips cracking on the word. His heart slowed, his mind calmed, and merely invoking the word was enough to ease him.

He remembered walking back into the village. He remembered feeling numb, unable to reconcile with what he saw. Of their village, only smoke and ruin remained. Homes were reduced to rubble, streets strewn with bodies, both human and reptile. None was left alive. In the centre, half-buried in shattered timber and fire-blackened stone, they found the Giant. They dug it out, found a cart with a broken wheel, and hoisted the Giant into it. They left their village and the calming waves of the ocean behind, walking into a world Boy did not recognise.

A world of smoke and ash.

‘You can’t be a Dragoon,’ he muttered to the shadow above. ‘You died. Dragoons don’t die.’

It did not matter. Death did not lessen what he had seen, what he longed for. His voice rasped into a broken wish: ‘I want to be like you.’

He rolled his eyes, as if acknowledging someone making a valid point, ‘Not dead, of course. I mean, strong. Brave enough to fight monsters. I want to be a giant like you.’ But he wasn’t a giant, and he did not feel brave.

‘What are you made of?’ he wondered, changing the subject as if embarrassed by his own wants, his hand already edging upwards.

Do not touch it, Boy, Ole-Pappa warning echoed in his thoughts. It’s dangerous. But he was curious, Ole-Pappa was sleeping, and the Giant was dead. Pensively, Boy reached up and touched the Giant’s iron hand. It felt cool to the touch, and unimaginably smooth, almost like ice.

He enjoyed how it felt, his fingers tracing a line to its wrist. On it, he saw a scratch, a tiny gash in the paint. White metal gleamed like an open wound in it, a bloodless cut in the cold flesh. Curiously, he scratched at it, picking, peeling from small flecks of paint away. It felt impossibly strong, not like the metal they had in the village. Harder in some way he could not describe.

He picked. A flake here, another there. He imagined wings unfurling from the scar, a bird rising into the night, rising from the ash.

A spark jumped, sharp as a bite, stinging his fingertips.

He gasped and yanked his hand back. The Giant’s hand twitched in answer, as though it too had flinched from pain. Another spark flared, brighter this time, arcing between Boy and the Giant before vanishing into the heat-hazed air.

Frightened, Boy pulled away, his eyes wide. For a moment, he lay deathly still, his mind desperately looking for rationality, an explanation. He curled up against Ole-Pappa’s bony chest, frantic for safety, refuge. The old man’s chest rose and fell, a rhythmic and calm motion. He wanted to wake him, beg for his arms around him, his stern voice to drive away the memories. All of them. Instead, he pressed himself closer, swallowed the fear, and shut his eyes.

He tried to sleep, though the day still burned around them, preventing him from resting. Instead, he lay still, shivering in the boiling heat, waiting for Ole-Pappa to wake and staring at the Giant’s hand, praying to gods he could not name, that it would not move again.

*** Promises ***

The suns were low on the horizon, and the ropes dug fresh wounds into raw flesh as the wheels of the cart dragged through the ash. The weight was growing heavier with each step — it felt like the desert itself was now refusing their passage.

He sucked a dry breath, looking up for just a moment. He saw something — a long shadow at the end of a shaggy lump. At first, he thought it was a mirage, just another trick of the shimmering heat. But it stayed and grew larger with every step. Excitement surged through him, and his stomach growled.

Food.

The promise of a day without ache.

‘There, Ole-Pappa, a thing!’ Boy said, pointing to a dark shape, a wave of joy washing over him, cooling him.

The old man stopped and looked, then grinned. ‘Good Boy! Good!’ he laughed, adjusting his pull to change their direction toward the shape.

They found a small animal collapsed beside a shallow pool. The water was black and stagnant. The creature — its long ears wilted, wiry body stiff — was riddled with sores. The tail, bony and thin, curled beside it like a broken whip.

Ole-Pappa’s grin faded, and he shook his head, ‘Poisoned, Boy. No good.’

Boy’s stomach growled as he looked at the carcass. It had some flesh yet — they could eat a little. Then he looked to the water, the blackened pool inviting and cool. He imagined plunging his face into it, drinking until the ache in his belly and throat were gone. But he knew better. It was deadly.

‘What happened, Ole-Pappa? Why is everything poisoned?’

The old man did not answer immediately, staring back at Boy, as if lost in a painful memory. ‘They couldn’t defeat us, so they poisoned us. Poison everything. Let hunger defeat us instead. Let thirst finish what their blades couldn’t. His voice cracked. ‘They know it will come back. Life always does… but we would be gone. Cowards.’

The stories Boy had once loved flickered in his mind — tales of giants and monsters told around fires, when the world was safer and whole. He remembered one such story of a beast that spat venom, fouling streams and turning fields black, slain by a gallant knight after a bitter battle. Back then, it was only a story…

But they weren’t stories anymore. In one awful night, the monsters and giants had become real, too real, and the pang of fear crept back into his chest.

‘Maybe if I was stronger… braver…’

‘No Boy,’ the old man interrupted, ‘you would have died. Don’t confuse bravery for arrogance.’

‘The Dragoons… they will save us, won’t they? In the village, they always said the Dragoons protect us?’ But even as he asked, he remembered the night — the shadows tearing through homes and the streets, the screams, the flames… the Giant dying.

Ole-Pappa regarded him for some time, then looked up into the sky, ‘Not even gods can be everywhere all the time.’ For a moment, he stood there, staring into the featureless heavens, turning to Boy, ‘We will talk when we find the Dragoons.’

‘Promise?’

For a while, the old man said nothing.

He smiled slightly, ‘I promise.’

### Sacrifice ###

Ole-Pappa’s snoring grew shallower each day. His chest barely moved most nights, and sometimes he seemed to forget to breathe. Boy tried to ignore it, burying the weight in his chest each time he looked at the old man. Instead, he lay staring at the Giant’s scar.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the silver disk of the moon drift over the horizon. He liked watching the moon. He dreamt of going to it, walking on it. In the village, he heard stories of men doing the same thing. Not just Dragoons. Men, people like him. They spoke of great ships that could cross the stars and sail to distant worlds.

Ole-Pappa said they came with such a ship. Settlers to a world where no one would come looking for them. He didn’t say much else about their past.

Boy sighed. He was tired, his body weary, but he could not sleep. His thoughts drifted again, his eyes trying to peer into the shadows between the planks of the broken cart.

He nodded to himself, persuaded by a thought he did not want, and slipped from under the cart, tiptoeing to the back where he stood staring at the mountain of metal under the dirty tarp. For a moment, he reconsidered, glancing to where Ole-Pappa still lay, only his feet visible. He waited, expecting a scolding, a warning not to touch the Giant.

It did not come. Only Ole-Pappa’s soft snoring broke the silence.

Boy looked back to the cart, pensively extending a hand, remembering the last time he touched the Giant. He swallowed, undoing a knot that held a corner down and lifting it away to reveal a metal forearm as long as his legs and as thick as his chest.

His heart pounded.

He remembered seeing the giant fight in the firelight, remembered how it tore monsters apart, crushing their skulls as if they were nothing more than over-ripe fruit, as if they were nothing at all. The strongest men in the village had fallen in moments, but the Giant laid the creatures asunder with effortless fury.

There were just too many.

‘Are you a Dragoon?’ he whispered, voice thin and shaking. ‘Did you try to save us?’ He waited, and deep in his mind, he prayed the Giant would answer.

‘I wish you hadn’t died. I wish you could teach me not to be afraid. To be like you.’

For a moment longer, he waited, hoping the Giant would hear him and would somehow decide to be alive again.

He cast his eyes down, ‘Maybe if I were stronger, I could’ve helped you, and then maybe you wouldn’t have died. And maybe Ole-Pappa wouldn’t be…’ He could not commit to the words. Could not voice what he knew was happening, clinging to the belief that if he ignored it, it wouldn’t come about.

He heard a rustling. Something scurried across the ash, shifting across the dirt in hurried beats, the dim moonlight shimmering over its dull fur in pulses of movement. Boy shifted his weight slowly. Carefully. He knew what it was — a long-eared rat, like the one from before, but not poisoned — so he took care not to startle it. The rodents were scared things, and their ears were good. They fled at the slightest sound. But they were hungry too, and they sometimes came looking for food… and sometimes, they took pieces of people if they could not find anything else.

No good to anyone without all your pieces, Ole-Pappa often said.

The animal came into view. It was wary and slow, but had meat to it, not like the one at the poisoned pool. Boy moved his left hand, slowly, edging it to the knife in the pocket of his shirt — nothing more than a sharp stone. But it could cut. Kill.

He waited.

The animal sniffed at Ole-Pappa’s feet. It wanted to take a piece of the old man.

Boy jumped.

The animal scampered and ran, but Boy caught its tail.

It squealed. It did not want to die. Boy felt sorry for it, but its time was over, and it had a new purpose. He held the knife to its throat…

He swallowed. He could not kill it.

‘Good job Boy! Good job!’ Ole-Pappa laughed, woken by the noise.

Boy held the small creature to the old man.

The old man’s grin turned to a slight smile, ‘You must not feel sorry for it, Boy. Learn to understand that survival is cruel.’

Boy nodded and held the knife to the animal’s throat. He felt his tears well up, felt his heart break as the tiny creature scurried to break free, scurried to survive, its slight warmth burning Boy’s hand with guilt.

‘You have your mother’s blood in you, Boy. You can do this.’

‘I can’t, Ole-Pappa,’ he whispered, lowering his head.

He felt the creature taken from him. Heard its final squeal.

‘There is no shame in it, Boy. Eat.’

Pensively, Boy looked up into the eyes of the old man, and for a moment, he thought he saw the man who died in the village.

He took the animal and ate.

 Ole-Pappa smiled, ‘A time will come when you must be willing to take a life, Boy. The world is no longer a place for kindness.’

Boy nodded, unwilling to look at the old man.

### Resurrection ###

Days stretched without food or water. Boy’s lips were cracked, his tongue heavy, every swallow a rasping agony in his throat. Ole-Pappa’s voice was weak now, barely a whisper anymore — his fight against exhaustion taking its toll.

As they rested that evening, he watched as clouds thickened, blackening the sky as wind rose with a sharp howl. The air cooled rapidly. It felt sudden and strange after so many blistering days.

A drop fell. Then another.

Boy’s eyes shot open wide. He sat up, his head knocking against the floor of the cart.

‘Owe!’ he burbled, but pushed it aside, staring in awe as the rain gathered force, pattering into dust and ash.

‘Water,’ he whispered, glancing over to Ole-Pappa, looking at the grey skin of the starving man. ‘I’ll get some for you as well, Ole-Pappa. You sleep,’ he whispered before crawling out from under the cart and throwing back his head to the sky, his mouth wide open, trying to catch water. Each bead that hit his face sent another running down his cheek as he wept with relief. Each drop that found his parched tongue soothed the fire that had lived in him for too long.

‘I-I need a bucket,’ he declared, spinning around, finding only emptiness. Defeated, he looked around, his eyes settling on the cart.

‘Maybe… there’s one?’

He stood and walked to the back, hands fumbling at the knots of the tarp. The wind ripped the rope out of his hands, tearing the canvas free, slicing new pain into his palm.

He froze, suddenly confronted with the upper half of the metal giant now exposed.

There were many more gashes in its metallic flesh, many more silvery-white wounds of sliced metal. On some, dried blood caked, dull, faded red streaks over black paint. There were letters and numbers on its chest.

‘Sha… Shatter… wing. Shatterwing,’ he read.

With a mixture of awe and curiosity, his eyes drank in the shapes, the contours, the strange, alien familiarity, recognising elements he had seen before. It seemed made, yet somehow it was as if it had once been alive. A living thing.

He investigated the face, the visor shaped like an angry glare. He reached to touch it, tracing over the black eyes where droplets formed into pools.

An idea struck him, and for a moment he smiled, wondering if Ole-Pappa would be proud or angry. He nodded, convinced and determined, and reached up to the Giant’s head. His small fingers slipped uselessly against the rain-slicked metal, fumbling at the seams. He grunted, frustrated, and stepped back, brow furrowed.

He tried again, more forcefully this time.

‘Come on!’ he hissed, now yanking at the helmet.

The Giant’s eyes flared alive under the visor. Red, sudden, and blazing.

Boy shrieked, falling backwards into the wet ash. Cold mud clung to his hands and knees as he stared wide-eyed at the cart. A shiver ran down his spine as the cold wind blew icy droplets onto him.

He glanced down to where Ole-Pappa lay, still snoring, then back up to the Giant. Its head turned, two glowing red eyes fixed right at him.

He froze.

‘Help me,’ the Giant growled. Its voice — deep and thunderous — but weak. ‘Please.’

Boy’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. He swallowed, his breath caught.

‘Please.’

He nodded and forced himself upright. ‘…How?’ he asked, inching towards the Giant.

The Giant’s face hissed, then moved, lifting upwards and away. Boy staggered back as the armoured plate rose with a grinding sigh, revealing not a god, but a regular face.

A human face.

A girl’s face.

One, not much older than he was.

Dumbstruck, Boy stared, his reality breaking apart. The mighty Dragoons who fought monsters and demons, who never died, were not gods. They were people. Normal people in metal suits. It had never once occurred to him that, beneath all that black steel, behind that fire-red gaze, was someone like him. Someone small. Fragile.

‘Please… I need water,’ she whispered, her voice now like any other girl he ever knew. She licked her lips, feebly trying to catch a few drops of the rain.

‘BOY! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!’ Ole-Pappa shouted, crawling out from under the cart, struggling to his feet. The old man staggered toward him, face twisted, fists balled.

‘I’m sorry, Ole-Pa— UGH!’ Boy’s protests were met with sudden force as the old man shoved him out of the way and into the ground. It was not like the slaps of discipline he had known before, sharp and stinging, but measured. This was different — raw, impassioned. For a moment, Boy stared back in shock, not by the pain, but by how strong Ole-Pappa felt, how much potency yet lingered in his withered frame.

The old man glared at him, then turned to look at the girl before shaking his head, ‘Stupid Boy! You have condemned her! The suit was keeping her in stasis. Opening the seal will bleed away heat and power we can’t spare.’

Bewildered, he glanced between the girl and the old man, ‘Stasis?’

‘Asleep! Resting so she can heal.’

‘I didn’t… I was just…’

‘Just what?’ Ole-Pappa hissed, his face snapping to Boy.

Boy retreated further, his shirt now soaked through, his body shivering with cold and fear. ‘I just wanted a bucket, Ole-Pappa. I swear!’

‘Nghh… Please, help me,’ the girl begged again.

Ole-Pappa’s head snapped to the girl, and without hesitation, he moved to her, cupping his hands, collecting droplets of water to run into her mouth.

‘Your suit’s badly damaged. By my estimate, you had just about enough power to keep you alive to return to the fortress, but now… I’m not sure.’ He glanced over his shoulder to where Boy sat.

The rain hid his tears but did not wash away the hollow feeling of guilt and shame in his chest.

‘Boy, take the helmet and collect water.’

Boy nodded and got up. He reached for the helmet, slowly, his eyes darting between the old man and the girl.

Ole-Pappa shook his head and removed the item, handing it to Boy. ‘Tip it over, Boy. WATER!’

The words snapped him back. He fumbled with the object, almost dropping it before turning it to collect water.

‘R — reactor?’ the girl whispered, her voice soft, but firm. The single word she spoke was out of place, senseless.

‘Breached. Batteries are down to minimum capacity. Transponder is fried,’ Ole-Pappa replied without hesitation.

Boy stared at the old man, his heart pounding, his mind struggling to decide if he was in a dream or a nightmare. None of it made sense. Nothing about Ole-Pappa was familiar. Not his tone, not the way he moved, not the certainty in his voice, or the words he used.

‘Solar? Kinetic recovery?’ the girl pressed.

‘Solar cells are compromised. Barely functional,’ Ole-Pappa answered, ‘Kinetic and heat recovery systems are still online. Heat recovery is…’ he paused, glancing to Boy, ‘was all that was keeping you alive. But kinetics — no. You’re too badly wounded. Don’t push it.’

Boy watched the interaction. He heard words he did not know, mixed with recognisable things, spoken between them as if it was common knowledge. Familiar syllables but strung into nonsense, into information he could not decipher.

‘Ole-Pappa?’ he hesitated, his voice barely audible, his lips struggling to form the words. Boy gave him the helmet, and the old man supported the girl’s head as she sipped.

‘Careful. Not too much. We will have to balance heat loss carefully,’ Ole-Pappa said, handing the helmet back to Boy. ‘Drink your fill, Boy, then gather more.’

‘Weapons?’ the girl asked.

‘Phaseblade only. But you won’t need it. Forget weapons. Survival is your enemy now, not the Caiven.’

Boy watched as the picture of the man he thought he knew was erased by a man who worked with hands that didn’t shake, moved like he’d done this before, spoke words he had never even heard with certainty and confidence.

‘WHO ARE YOU?’ Boy finally blurted, unable to keep the frustration back, his voice shaking. His outburst shocked his companions almost as much as it did him, and both stopped talking to look at him. ‘What is this? How do you know all these words?’ Boy pressed, the fear in his chest driven out by something primal, deeper.

The old man stiffened, his mouth tightening. He said nothing.

The girl stirred, her eyes heavy, her voice weak but certain. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she whispered, her lips curling faintly. ‘He’s a Tech…’

Boy stared, the response spoken so matter-of-factly, meaningless, making him even angrier. ‘A… Tech?’ He shook his head. ‘What does that mean? What are you not telling me? Ole-Pappa, please — please tell me.’ He took a hesitant step forward, pleading now, desperation and anguish mixed with hope and anger, bleeding into every word. ‘You knew about her. You knew about the suit. You knew all those words. How?’

Ole-Pappa’s face hardened, turning away from Boy, his gaze lingering on the girl.

‘Ole-Pappa…’

‘Enough, Boy!’ The old man shot a look at Boy, his voice crackling like a whip. ‘We can’t waste time.’ He paused for a moment, then turned back to the girl, ‘Were you able to cycle the surge-control system before shutdown? If there is an energy spike, you’ll risk total shutdown,’ he asked.

The girl’s head tilted, her eyes half-lidded. Her cold stare fixed on Ole-Pappa for a time before her gaze slid to Boy. She let the silence draw out before she spoke, ‘I won’t answer,’ she said flatly. ‘Not until you give him answers.’

Boy, blinked, his breath catching in his throat. His heart pounded. For the first time, someone else stood up for him.

Ole-Pappa’s jaw clenched. His hands, scarred and raw from the rope, curled tighter. He looked from the girl to Boy, then away, out toward the barren horizon as if it could shield him. ‘…I used to be a Tech. My daughter was a Dragoon.’

Boy, watched as the girl rolled her head slightly to the left. He could see the pain twisting her brow, the exhaustion darkening her eyes. She blinked a few times, glancing at him once, then exhaled deeply and closed her eyes.

‘It’s cycled,’ she whispered, before softly drifting back to sleep.

For the first time since the girl woke up, Boy noticed his surroundings. The winds blew softer, and only the occasional drop of rain still fell. He glanced down into the helm, half-full, then back at the old man.

He looked weak again, his movement slow, his head hung.

All his rage and fury, looking at the man so close to breaking, turned on him, became something else. Something painful.

‘Ole-Pappa,’ Boy whispered, holding the helmet out to the old man, fighting the tears back, and for a few moments, the old man just looked at him.

Then his eyes softened, his shoulders dropped slightly, and his fury evaporated. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, taking the helmet and drinking.

His face pulled in pain. His throat fought every sip. He finally set the helmet aside and leaned back against the cart, looking at Boy. ‘I guess I owe you a… larger explanation,’ the old man mumbled.

‘Dragoons are people?’ Boy asked, glancing back at the girl at rest on the cart, her features soft and frail in the pale moonlight.

‘They begin as normal people, yes.’

‘Will she be okay?’ Boy asked, his eyes now glued on the girl’s face.

‘She’s dying. If we can’t get her back to her fortress, she will perish. And now that she’s out of stasis, our time’s running out a lot faster. Do you understand?’

He felt the sting of the words. Understood the consequences of his actions. Instinctively, he wanted to nod. Wanted to agree. Obey. He shook his head instead, slowly, unsure, but not afraid.

‘No.’

The old man sighed deeply, ‘You will, in time. Come, we need to hurry,’ he said before placing the helm back on the girl’s head and locking it in place. It hissed as it sealed, the eyes momentarily glowing bright red, before turning black again. ‘Not enough power to reactivate stasis, but this will prevent further temperature loss.’

Boy nodded, following the old man. They lifted the ropes and pulled. The cart groaned heavier than ever, and the wasteland stretching out before them was somehow emptier than before. But for the first time since they had set off, he felt something stir inside him. Ole-Pappa had given him a piece of the truth — not enough, but something. And the girl had seen to it, had demanded it on his behalf.

The old man’s wall of silence was not unbreakable.

For the first time in his life, Boy had stood up to Ole-Pappa. His legs still shook, but he had not bent. He felt — only a little — like the giants in his stories. Not mighty. Not yet. But a tiny bit bigger.

### Loss ###

 The air was thick as they drudged onward over the damp earth. The rain brought water, but with it, unbearable heat as the twin suns rose. At least the land began to slope ever so gently downwards towards the foothills of mountains looming on the horizon. Boy hardly noticed, a single thought consuming him, gnawing at the corners of his mind: My daughter was a Dragoon.

He had turned them over again and again through the day, unable to let it go. Daughter. Was. A Dragoon. Each word carried a weight he couldn’t lift, knowledge he could not comprehend. Ole-Pappa, who had always been a farmer, a mender of tools and machines, a simple man of rope and cloth and soil… now speaking like a journeyman, a man who knew of complex machines, and… reactors, and weapons to fight things called Caiven. A stranger walking in his grandfather’s skin.

Boy glanced sideways at him. The old man’s eyes were fixed forward as always, unblinking, but his shoulders stooped under more than just the cart’s pull. Who had he been before the monsters came? Before the village fell? What else had he buried in silence?

Boy’s lips parted. Questions trembled there, but he swallowed them back, the words thick in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he wanted the answers, not all at once. Answers were dangerous. Answers made the stories real.

But the desire burned in him. Awakened by courage he did not know he had, and the taste of a heritage he did not know he was born into.

‘So, is it… armour?’ Boy asked, glancing over his shoulder to the bulk under the tarp.

Ole-Pappa’s jaw locked, but then he nodded, his expression softening. ‘It’s more than that.’

Boy frowned, ‘Can she come out of it?’

‘No,’ Ole-Pappa said firmly. ‘She’s too young for separation. Besides, it’s keeping her alive right now. She’ll die if she leaves it.’

‘Separation?’ Boy asked, confused, glancing at Ole-Pappa.

For a few steps, the old man did not answer.

‘The suits are biomechanical.’ He said at last. ‘It’s a sort of… living armour. It grows with the pilot, dies with the pilot. The younger the pilot, the faster it grows, the more powerful it becomes. Only when the pilot stops growing can separation be initiated for short periods at a time. A few days at most.’

Boy thought about it and tried to make sense of what he heard. ‘Like metal skin?’

Ole-Pappa nodded, ‘Yeah, like metal skin.’

‘You’re Master Sergeant, Special Ordinance…’ the girl cut in, her voice thundering through her helm hard.

‘No!’ Ole-Pappa shouted, swinging around to face the girl. ‘No,’ he repeated, softer, head hung, ‘Not anymore. Please. Forget what those records say. It’s not important.’

Boy looked at the old man, then back to the girl.

‘It says you’re a deserter,’ her voice sounded softer, almost a whisper. ‘So is your daughter…?’

Ole-Pappa nodded, ‘I’m. She is.’

‘Ole-Pappa?’ Boy asked, confused. Unsure.

‘You never told him, did you?’ the girl asked.

‘I promised her that I would keep him away from the corps. Spare him her fate.’

She regarded Ole-Pappa for a few moments, then turned to Boy, her glowing red eyes pulsing. ‘Why? What’s he to her?’

Boy felt the unease in the old man, the uncertainty. Why would it be a difficult question to answer? Why would he hesitate?

‘Her son.’

‘Impossible!’ the girl spat, her voice thundering to the horizon.

‘Ole-Pappa?’ Boy asked, confused but not frightened.

For a long pause, nothing but the oppressive heat simmered the passing of time.

‘Your mother was a Dragoon, Boy. Just like our passenger here… Like…’

‘Shatterwing!’ she hissed, her voice hoarse but certain.

‘Just like Shatterwing,’ Ole-Pappa echoed. ‘Just older. I was a senior Tech. When she fell pregnant…’

‘Impossible!’ Shatterwing repeated even firmer. ‘We can’t…’

‘It should’ve been impossible, true,’ Ole-Pappa interrupted. ‘But here we are.’

Boy looked from Shatterwing to Ole-Pappa. The old man smiled kindly.

‘Only I knew, but it was just a matter of time until the corps found out. The gods only knew what they would have done with her had they found out. Imagine the potential.’

‘I don’t understand, Ole-Pappa.’

‘She was my child, Boy, the only family I had in this angry universe. What was I to do?’ he laughed softly.

‘It’s impossible,’ Shatterwing echoed, her voice edged with a scoff. ‘Or did you bribe the gods themselves?’

Ole-Pappa nodded but did not turn to Shatterwing. ‘I thought so too, Cadet. But here he is, her son, my grandchild.’

Boy glanced at Shatterwing, her visor’s glow softening somewhat.

‘So, I helped her desert, and we came here, to the furthest away dustbowl on the outer rim, to a backwater village that had one communal newscaster and barely enough solid-fuel generators to keep the lights on at night. She died giving birth to you, Boy. She had wanted more for her child. But when she died, there was no safety, no future, not even a name that could honour her.’

‘You have no name?’ the girl asked. Her tone wasn’t cruel, just baffled — like she was trying to decide whether she was dragged through a wasteland by saviours… or simpletons.

Boy shook his head, ashamed.

Boy.

That’s all he had ever been. Not a name, really. Just a word to call across the fields. Shouted when he wandered too far or talked to the wrong person. Sometimes he wondered if Ole-Pappa had been waiting for something — for the right moment, the right word, a name that would matter. Something worthy of the mother he had never known. But the years kept going by, the suns kept rising and falling, and still the moment never came.

‘What name could I give that would not feel hollow beside what she might have chosen?’ Ole-Pappa admitted with his gaze turned to the desert.

Boy did not know what to feel. How to feel. The words swam around in his head, a recording on repeat, scratched, off tune, and unclear.

‘You told me a monster killed her?’

‘I… It was the easiest lie. This is a rim-world, and attacks are frequent. I did not think it was important.’

Boy felt the anger boiling up in him, ‘I killed her… I’m the monster… I killed her and you hated me for it!’

‘No Boy! No! She shouldn’t have been able to fall pregnant. Her body was just no longer… capable of giving birth. It wasn’t your fault, and I was… I was wrong!’

‘Why would you keep that from him?’ Shatterwing demanded, her voice sharp, filled with venom.

‘I promised her!’ Ole-Pappa spat back. ‘She made me swear on her deathbed,’ he whispered, his head lowering.

‘You claim he’s your grandchild, but you denied him this truth? He deserved to know what blood runs in his veins.’

‘BAH! What do you know!’ Ole-Pappa hissed.

‘Nghh! I know enough to see through your duster lies. You think dragging me across this wasteland makes you some kind of saviour? I came to your backwater’s village, and I killed the Caiven. You’re alive because of me.’

Boy’s head was swimming. Anger was reaching a boiling point in his chest.

‘Gratitude!’ Ole-Pappa snapped, his face flush with fury. ‘That’s what you should be feeling, Girl. You’d be dead in that stasis coffin if it weren’t for us. We pulled you out, we’ve been keeping you alive, hauling you like dead weight across this gods-forsaken dirt!’

Shatterwing let out a short, rasping laugh, ‘Keeping me alive? You’re two half-starved villagers dragging me in circles while Caiven sniffs the air after us. Alive! Ha! You’re a fool! You don’t stay alive out here, not for long. You know it. I know it!’

Ole-Pappa flinched at the words. He did not reply immediately, staring at the girl as if he did not know what to say.

‘We can handle ourselves. Long enough to get to the Dragoons.’

‘Hurgh! You don’t get it,’ she strained. ‘The Dragoons will be real interested in you,’ she went on, her tone mockingly sing-song. ‘A deserter Tech and a child who shouldn’t even exist. Oh, they’ll love picking him apart piece by piece.’ She tilted her head toward Boy, the glare of her helmet burning into him.

Boy looked away from her to the old man next to him. Ole-Pappa’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw popped.

Then, he closed his eyes for a moment. His demeanour softened, and his rage evaporated. He cast his eyes down and his shoulders slumped, ‘Look, I’m not asking much, and I very much doubt I will get to the end of this journey, but he is all I have. Please… I will do everything in my power to save you… just… Keep this secret. Please.’

Boy stared in shock. He had never seen the old man so vulnerable, so honest. His chest heaved sporadically, his mind raced to follow words he half-understood but felt down to his bones.

Shatterwing’s visor glowed hot into the old man’s face for a few moments still, then their fury faded, and the glow softened. She looked away, muttering under her breath.

‘…Fine.’ The word was small, grudging. ‘Look, I’m sorry… I’m just…’

‘I know!’ Ole-Pappa hissed, then quieter, almost mournfully. ‘I know…’

His head spun with anger, guilt, and lies, a single devastating thought echoing over and over in his head, and a single tear ran down his cheek.

‘I killed her… I’m the monster!’ he howled, before running into the wastelands.

‘Boy!’ he heard Ole-Pappa call after him. ‘Boy!’

He ignored it. He ran until he was spent — a pitiful distance — falling into a ball of misery, anger, and pain.

‘Boy!’ He heard as the old man came towards him.

Listened as the old man fell.

Listened as what was left of his world crashed into the ash.

Boy spun back to the cart, his eyes fixed on where the fragile man lay clutching his chest, a crushing wave of despair and guilt smashing into him.

‘No!’ he shouted, running to where the old man lay, dropping to his knees next to him.

‘Get her to safety, Boy. They’ll protect you. Promise me.’

‘Ole-Pappa…’

‘Promise me, Boy!’

‘I can’t. I need you. I’m scared.’

The old man smiled through his pain, ‘You’re stronger than you think, Boy. You’re my grandchild, the son of a Dragoon. You can do this. I know you can. I…’

‘Ole-Pappa,’ Boy whispered, gently touching the old man.

He did not move.

‘Ole-Pappa!’ he shouted, now anxiously shaking the old man.

Nothing.

Frustrated, he slammed his fists into the old man’s chest.

Nothing.

‘Ole-Pappa,’ he whimpered, his eyes tearing. ‘Ole-Pappa, come back,’ he whimpered, feeling the tear roll over his cheek. Definitely, he allowed it, hoping that if it fell onto the old man’s bare chest, it would wake him and cause him to be angry at the waste.

Ole-Pappa did not stir.

Another tear fell, and angrily, Boy slammed his fists into the ashes of the world. He screamed, raging at the sky, the ash, the monsters in his dreams, and cried, kicking dirt, shaking the old man’s body. Finally spent, exhausted by his grief, he just lay with his head on the old man’s chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ he finally whispered, sitting up, looking into the man’s dirty face. He hardly recognised him. There was almost no meat, no colour in his flesh. His eyes were sunken, his lips pale and stretched.

‘I killed you too, just like I killed Mamma,’ he whispered, falling onto the old man’s chest, weeping, hoping he could cry the pain away. Instead, when he had no tears left to spend, all he felt was numb. Empty.

Night came, and a storm blew in, turning humidity to icy rain. Boy walked to the cart, looking into the unyielding gaze of Shatterwing’s visor.

‘Do you need water?’ he asked.

She gave the slightest nod, and Boy lifted the helm that had gathered rainwater. He steadied it for her to drink, then — at her faint gesture — slid it carefully back over her head, watching as it sealed over her face, before drawing the tarp over her once more.

Silently, he went to the front of the cart and gripped the rope. This time, he pulled alone. It did not feel different, not truly, though the weight seemed heavier now.

After a few dragging steps, he glanced back to where Ole-Pappa’s body still lay.

‘I’m sorry. I can see he meant a lot to you.’

He glanced at her, nodded, then looked ahead and walked.

‘I think he did care for you. In his own way.’

He did not want to talk to her. He wished she would shut up. ‘I will get you home.’

Flip-flop. Flip-flop.

### Regret ###

Somewhere along the way, he lost a sandal, and one of the cart’s good wheels had begun to screech with every turn. He noticed his bare foot — one pale, the other dark with mud — and wondered vaguely where the missing sandal had gone. He pushed the thought aside. Better not to dwell, better not to feel. So, he fixed on the simple things: walking, finding water, and snaring food.

Screech, screech, screech.

Most of the time, it was just him and his thoughts, his regret, his anger, his hate, and no escape from it. But occasionally, without prompting, Shatterwing would ask him a question.

He did not want to talk to her, but at least it gave him relief from the emptiness he felt.

‘What do you know about your mother?’

He did not turn to her, ‘Ole-Pappa said she was strong and courageous. And she was pretty.’

For a few steps, only the soft thuds of his feet and the screech of the cart disturbed the silence.

‘I can’t connect, so I only have superficial intel, but from what I can see, she was a hero. She could have been a commander by now if she had not… If what your grandfather said is true.’

‘He lied about everything.’

Silence fell between them, and he was grateful for it. For a while, only the cart groaned its woeful tune.

‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just thought he should tell you. The truth, you know?’

He wanted to hate her. Hate the way she had crashed into his life, dragging stories out of his imagination and making them real. Hate how she peeled away Ole-Pappa’s lies and left him raw with truths he hadn’t asked for. Hate her for being part of a world of giants and monsters and shining armour, when he was only a boy — thin, bare-footed, and breakable.

He wanted to lash out, shout at her. Tell her he hates her.

‘Hush,’ he whispered instead, coming to a halt.

‘What is it?’

‘I said shut up,’ he insisted in a low voice, pulling his knife from his pocket.

A sand-snake glided over the wet earth, its tongue flicking in and out. It should have been chasing rats, but hunger had made it bold. Boy wiggled his toes, baiting it closer. Closer. His heart thudded against his ribs. Then he leapt, crashing down on it, pinning its body beneath him. The snake writhed, but his knife found the base of its skull. A sharp twist, a cut, and it stilled.

His heart hurt, but he made a promise and walked to the cart before lifting the snake to Shatterwing’s helmet.

‘It’s not a poison snake. I had them before. They taste like fish.’

Shatterwing’s helmet hissed open, and the visor lifted from her face. Boy stepped up onto the cart and steadied her head, and for the first time, he saw her face from only inches away.

A girl. Just a girl. Not a machine. Not a legend or a god. Flesh and bone, close enough to feel her breath against his fingers.

‘Here,’ he muttered, pushing the meat toward her lips.

Her eyes met his — steady, unflinching, chewing slowly.

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Like fish,’ he repeated.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly after eating her fill, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, feeling the heat on his cheeks. He pulled the visor back down and turned quickly, hopping down from the cart, taking the rope and pulling, eating what was left of the snake as he walked.

Hating that he could not hate her…

Screech, screech, screech.

### Fire ###

Days blurred into distant memories as he walked, each step a threat, one footfall closer to the end of all he had. His toes ached, split open so many times, blood no longer even flowed from the cracks in them. At some point, he tore strips from his shirt to tie around his feet, but the damp always found a way in, and the cold was relentless. The nights grew icier, his shirt no longer able to keep the chill out. Clouds of fog huffed in front of him with every breath. Food grew scarcer, water harder to trap. Every morning, he woke shivering, his stomach hollow, his limbs stiff as wood. Still, he pulled. Still, the cart screeched behind him.

The wind shifted. Something was different.

He lifted his head, eyes narrowing at the horizon. A storm was gathering — black coils crawling under the twin suns. But it was more than the darkening sky, more than the sudden gusts tugging the tarp. The air smelled different, sharp and metallic, as though the earth itself had been split open.

Then came the sound — shrill, violent, mechanical. Alarms. Shatterwing’s suit erupted in a chorus of warning tones, beeps stuttering like frantic heartbeats.

‘We’ve got incoming!’ she boomed, her voice exploding through the wind. ‘Several hostiles. Caiven!’

Boy shot a look at her, ‘The Monsters?’ he asked, before looking to the horizon and the dust cloud on it.

‘Help me get up!’ Shatterwing bellowed.

‘You can’t! Ole-Pappa said you will die if you move too much.’

‘We’ll both die if I can’t get up!’

He swallowed, staring at her, remembering the effort it was that first night, all those days back, when he and Ole-Pappa struggled half a day together to lift her into the cart. ‘What can I do? You’re too heavy for me to lift.’

‘I just need a nudge, the armour will do the work. The kinetic recovery system will kick in as soon as I move. Just get me moving,’ she said, notably softer.

‘The wha…’ he shook his head, undid the ropes that held her secure and pulled her arm. To his surprise, that was all she needed. Awed, he watched as she moved. Stiffly and awkwardly at first, slowly building momentum and speed, her glowing red eyes becoming increasingly intense.

‘Get on the cart and stay out of the way. I can’t win this if I have to worry about you.’

He nodded and crawled under the tarp, his eyes fixed on the girl in the gigantic metal skin. She reached for a rod-like object on her hip. It looked like a knife’s grip, metallic and ornate, but without a blade. She flicked her wrist, and the hilt leapt to life, unfolding itself like a nightmarish metallic creature, its segments unfurling with a low hum. The blade extended in a fluid snap of shifting alloys, stretching nearly the length of his leg, and hummed softly in a cobalt blue glow.

‘Phaseblade,’ he whispered, recalling what Ole-Pappa called the weapon, staring at it now fully assembled. The edge shimmered with a faint blue current, vibrating like it hungered for something to cut, the mere sight sending chills down his spine.

But his awe made way for dread as shapes took form in the swirling dust on the horizon. That night, he had only seen teeth and claws — glimpses of scales and white gnashing in the dark, a nightmare with no body. But now, in the harsh light of day, he saw what carried those jaws: feral, hunched things, their bodies draped in patchwork leather and jagged plates of armour. Their scaled hides glistened like wet stone, bristling with spikes where flesh met crude iron, and they carried hooked and barbed blades.

Boy’s stomach turned. They were not just monsters in the night. They were an army of nightmares made flesh.

Abruptly, Shatterwing charged them, her strides getting longer with each step. Within moments, she closed the distance and, in a blur of steel and motion, met the first monster head-on. The knife cut with a metallic growl, surging with power as she swung in a single, vicious arc — two Caiven shredded apart as though they were made of cloth, their bodies tossed aside like broken dolls.

The main pack slammed into her a heartbeat later.

Her blade flashed, her strikes too fast for Boy to follow, every cut a line of fire, every strike sending another monster into the ash. She twisted low, swept the knife in a broad crescent, and three more fell, their armour split clean through. The horde parted around her like surf smashing against a cliff, but still they pressed.

One feigned high, another lunged low. Shatterwing pivoted, planting her heel into the dirt, then launched herself backwards into a corkscrew spin — her Phaseblade whipping in a tight spiral. The blade carved through one beast’s throat as she slammed an elbow into another’s jaw, the crunch echoing like thunder. She landed in a crouch, the knife carving a glowing line in the dirt, then kicked upward with her entire frame, impaling a Caiven through the chest and hurling its writhing body across the field.

But even she couldn’t cut them all down. They circled now, teeth and steel snapping closer, their numbers overwhelming. A jagged blade raked across her back, sparks flaring off her armour as she stumbled forward. Another lunged, and though she caught it with a slash across the ribs, it only shrieked and fell back into the pack, baying for blood.

‘There’s too many!’ Boy shouted, fear turning to determination as his eyes narrowed and his jaw locked. From his pocket, he pulled his stone knife, then leapt off the cart and ran towards Shatterwing.

‘I told you to stay out of my way!’

He knew — explicitly knew — that he stood no chance. His knees wanted to buckle, his lungs refused to breathe, and his feet wanted to turn and flee, as they had always done before. For most of his life, fear had ruled him. Fear of the dark. Fear of Ole-Pappa’s wrath. Fear of the lies that had shaped his world… his own shadow.

But not now.

He didn’t need to win. He didn’t even need to fight. He only needed to give Shatterwing room to kill.

He stepped forward. Arms stretched wide, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking, he called to them — screamed at them — like a boy drunk on defiance. ‘Come on! Here I’m! I won’t run! You don’t scare me anymore!’

The Caiven hissed and snarled, their armour scraping as they turned their jagged faces toward him, their tongues tasting the air, their nostrils flaring and sniffing. He felt like prey. They lunged as one, shadows and steel and snapping teeth converging on him.

He did not move. He did not bow his head. For the first time, he forced himself to stand tall, to face death with his eyes open. His whole body trembled, but he felt something burn inside him. Rage, grief, and freedom all tangled together.

If I die, let it be on my feet.

The Caiven came within inches, so close he could taste their rot in the air, feel the heat of their breath. His heart screamed against his ribs. His whole being begged him to run.

He stood.

And that was enough.

Shatterwing fell on them like the storm itself, her knife singing as it carved arcs of fire through the dust. She carved a tunnel through them, and when she turned around to face what was left, she slammed a fist into a Caiven that lunged for Boy so hard he felt the blow smash like thunder in his chest.

Her precision and fury cracked in the air with every movement she made, her strikes so fast they blurred, blue bolts of ferocity followed by trails of red mist. Where they had converged on him, she cut them down in swathes, blood and armour scattering across the ash.

Boy laughed. A strange sound — half terror, half exhilaration. A nervous, bubbling giggle as his defiance mixed with awe. He laughed as the last monster collapsed in a spray of crimson, and Shatterwing stood over it, knife raised high, her armour dripping with their blood.

And then he watched as she fell over. Watched as she crumpled down onto the ash.

‘No no no!’ he shouted, falling to his knees beside her. He lifted her visor and held his cheek to her face.

Still breathing, he thought, invigorated and hopeful.

‘The suit, the suit will keep you alive,’ he mumbled, remembering what Ole-Pappa said. Quickly, he glanced around, his eyes landing on the cart. ‘Just need a nudge,’ he said, running to it and pulling it next to her.

Even with Shatterwing unconscious, the suit responded, as if it knew it was the only way she could be saved. It was still a great effort, and Boy sat panting in the slaughter for a while.

Determined, he worked, gathering what supplies he could from the monsters before taking the rope.

He pulled.

### Death ###

That day faded into night, and night blazed back into day. Time became little more than the repeating sound of his feet and the screeching of the cart.

Flip-flop. Thud. Screech. Flip-flop. Thud. Screech.

On the horizon, dark shapes began to rise, sparkling lights glistening tantalisingly on them.

Closer and closer he came, until looming shapes resolved into what he had feared and dreamed of in equal measure. Two sentries. Giants plated head to toe in burnished metal, motionless but impossibly alive, their frames humming faintly as if a swarm of bees was trapped inside their suits.

Their eyes followed him, twin furnaces of glowing red-heat in the gathering dusk. They did not shift, did not flinch, pinned him as surely as spears through flesh, and yet he felt only apathy from them; their burning glares were nothing but cold indifference to his existence.

He felt nothing for them either. He had promised to fulfil, and they no longer scared him. He knew they were children. Perhaps not like him, but children still, in metal skin.

He dragged until he stood two paces from the Dragoons, finally sinking to his knees, his body simply no longer obeying his will, too weak even to stand.

‘She needs help,’ he breathed, with empty lungs. He wanted to sleep. His eyes were heavy. Numbness shielded him until that moment. The cold suddenly struck, and he began to shake.

The hiss of engines in their armour broke the silence as one Dragoon walked to the cart, metal fingers grasping the helm with a gentleness at odds with their terrible size. A twist, a hiss of pressure released, and the helmet came free.

‘It’s Shatterwing!’ the Giant by the cart shouted. ‘She’s alive! Barely!’

Boy glanced behind him. He could just make her out from where he sat, her face, pale as ash, lips cracked, her breath shallow and ragged, shining like the moon itself.

He smiled. Relieved.

Her eyes fluttered beneath the weight of exhaustion, but she managed to focus through the confusion, her gaze locking with his.

‘Who is he?’ the Dragoon’s voice thundered, low but edged like steel, as they gestured toward him.

Shatterwing coughed, her voice a rasp, yet clear enough to be heard through the storm of pain. ‘I don’t know, but he dragged me here across the desert. When I couldn’t stand, he carried me in his way, and when the Caiven came, he stood with me.’

The Dragoons exchanged a glance, and a faint glow in their visors flared momentarily. ‘Then he is not ordinary,’ one said at last. ‘To drag one of us across half the rim world? That is strength. And to face Caiven with nothing but his bare hands, that is courage.’

Boy looked away from Shatterwing. Commotion sounded from inside the gates. People were running, coming towards them. He looked up, into the eyes of the sentries. They were looking at him now. Staring through him, into him, with those furnace eyes. It felt like the weight of their judgment was stripping him bare.

Terror gripped him. What if Shatterwing told them? What if she spoke of Ole-Pappa, of the truth hidden in bloodlines and broken promises? What if they decided he was no miracle, but an aberration — something to be studied, taken apart as she said, erased before the secret spread?

His chest tightened. He was too tired to escape. This was his fate.

‘What is he?’ the Dragoon pressed again, voice deep enough to shake the cart.

For a heartbeat, the world hung in the air. Shatterwing’s eyes shifted toward him, heavy-lidded but still alive with some spark of defiance. He braced himself, dread flooding his veins, waiting for the moment of betrayal.

Her lips cracked into the faintest of smiles, ‘Villager. Farmhand I think,’ she rasped. ‘Just a Boy,’ she finally said before laying her head down.

The weight lifted all at once, and he nearly collapsed from relief.

Nobody. Just a boy. He could be nothing again. Nothing was safe.

Boy looked at her, his heart pounding in a way he could not name. Then he became forgotten. He watched as more giants poured through the gates and to the cart. He watched as they unfastened Shatterwing. Watched other people appear. Men and women without armour, clad in uniforms and garments from another world, their faces urgent, their movements precise. He watched as Shatterwing was carried away, and he was left behind, abandoned in the dust.

One Dragoon remained, looming above him, visor burning into his soul. Behind the titan, he saw the newcomers carrying a cot. For a time, the Dragoon said nothing, only staring down at him as though weighing his heart. Then the cot was lowered beside Boy, and careful hands laid him down in it.

His body sagged. His eyes were too heavy. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.

The last thing he saw was the Dragoon’s gaze dimming from view. Then the world went dark.

He slept.

### Limbo ###

The world was different when Boy opened his eyes. Kinder, in a way he could not put into words. There was a softness to it, a hazy coolness he felt on his skin, warmth that hugged him. He heard voices echoing through his thoughts — unfamiliar and fuzzy. Something made a noise. Sharp and rhythmic.

Beep, beep, beep.

Something else made a sound. A voice.

‘Frostbite on his feet was bad. He lost a few toes. But with the right boots, he should be alright.’

Slowly, the dreams of giants and gods, and men who fought monsters, retreated, and the world came into focus. It was bright, and everything was sterile. The voices spoke again. He could hear them better, understand their words. A man and a woman.

‘He’s too old for fusion. The suit will reject him.’

‘Then what do I do with him? I can’t have children running around on my base.’

‘Half the Dragoons are Children, Colonel.’

‘That’s different.’

‘In what way exactly?’

Boy blinked. The fog thinned. He saw a light above him. Something to his side caught his eye. Wires going to a machine with green lines crawling across it, and a tube into his arm. Above him burned a light too steady, too white, nothing like the dim glow of a candle or the yellowish electric globes in the richer people’s houses. He blinked again, focusing on the ceiling, the patterns of repeating squares broken with lights and other small, round objects soaring high above him. Much higher than any ceiling he had ever seen.

He felt warmth on his face and turned to look, staring out windows so clear they seemed not there at all.

More of his senses woke. He took a deep breath of cool air. Nothing smelled of earth or straw or fire or ash. No hearth smoke, no manure, no dust. Only the sharp sting of something clean, too clean, as if the place itself refused dirt.

His fingers curled into the bedding, expecting the scratch of coarse wool, the prickle of hessian. Instead, it felt smooth beneath his touch, softer than lamb’s fleece and cool against his skin. He rubbed it between his fingers, enjoying the sensation, wondering why it felt so nice – so unnatural – like holding polished wood that had been made into soft fabric.

He heard the voices again, discerning the difference in who spoke now.

‘We can always test his aptitude for the Marines?’ the woman said.

‘Too young for that.’ The man answered.

‘Ironic,’ the woman said. ‘Too young to be a soldier, too old to become a super-soldier.’

Boy blinked again, turning his head to the voices. The woman was tall, wearing a white jacket, and had a sharp face with high cheekbones. The man, who wore a deep blue uniform, had a stern, clean-shaven face and angry eyes, and stood across from her.

‘Oh, look who’s awake.’ The woman stepped closer to him, her smile softening the sharpness of her features. 

The man adjusted a hat tucked under his arm. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Doc. Debrief at fifteen hundred.’ He placed the hat on his head and left, doors sliding quietly shut behind him. Boy looked after him for a few moments, at the strange sounding doors without handles that moved on their own, then turned back to the woman.

‘You must be hungry? Here, let me help you sit,’ she said, picking up a box at Boy’s side. The bed shifted suddenly under him. He flinched, then stilled as it came to a slow halt.

‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘The bed is just adjusting to a seated position. You can control it yourself if you like?’ She handed him the box. It was a thin object with shapes on it, buttons, like those on the village-hall generators, but tiny. Each had little pictures, raised bumps, and coloured shapes, but the symbols meant nothing to Boy.

‘Here, press this one to lift the bed,’ she said, pushing a button that looked like the roof of his village hut. He felt the bed move under up, coming into a seated position. He looked at the box again, the shapes on the buttons.

‘This one for down?’ he asked, pointing to a button, starting to make sense of the object.

The woman smiled, ‘Yes, indeed. Very good.’ She picked up something. A thin object about the size of a book, and she tapped on it with her fingers, before setting it aside and looking at him again. ‘I am Doctor Zabrine Eagner, Chief Medical Attaché to the Starburst Grenadiers. What’s your name?’

He thought about the question for a moment, then shrugged, ‘I’m just Boy.’ It felt wrong to say it. He had never before had to do it.

Her smile pinched, but she nodded and tugged a table close. Food waited on it, its aroma waking a savage hunger in him.

‘Hungry?’ She asked.

His stomach answered for him.

She laughed. ‘Go on, then, it’s all yours.’

He did. He ate like the world might end mid-bite, trying everything, scraping even the crumbs, leaving only one bowl untouched – one he kept glancing at with a hungry, guarded stare.

Cream.

‘So, just Boy? No other names? Last name?’ Doctor Eagner pressed, picking up her slim book-shaped object again. 

‘What is that?’

‘This?’ Eagner asked, holding it up for him to see. ‘This is a tablet. I can record information on it,’ she said, showing him the screen with a photo of him on it next to many words he did not understand. ‘This is your file. Now that you are awake, we can take a new photo of you with your eyes open,’ she smiled. ‘All your medical information is stored on it.’

He glanced at her, then back at the tablet, wondering what all the words meant. What they already knew of him. 

What they knew about his mother.

‘So, just Boy?’ Eagner repeated.

He nodded, the ache in his stomach reminding him of his food. ‘Just Boy,’ he answered, between chewing and shovelling more food.

‘I see. And your parents?’ she asked, looking down at the tablet again.

He paused, the memory of the old man lying in the ash filling him with guilt. He swallowed, not with joy or want, but with ache, his hands lying down in his lap, his head lowering. 

‘Just Ole-Pappa. He died.’

The woman set the tablet aside and put her hand on Boy’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, ‘What is important is that you are alive.’

He exhaled, the guilt weighing heavily in his chest.

‘Go on, eat. It will make you feel better. Doctor’s orders.’

His stomach growled as if prompted, the dull ache less, replaced by ferocious hunger. He looked down and ate again — the incredible tastes now laced with remorse.

The woman examined the tablet again, and Boy watched her as she scanned over what she read, her smile turning into a look of concentration. 

A crackle split the silence, and a voice poured down from nowhere as if the walls themselves had learned to speak. Boy flinched, eyes snapping upward, searching for the hidden mouth. In his world, voices belonged to men, women, or gods, not the walls.

‘Are you all right?’

Boy swallowed, not willing to show his start. ‘I’m… just cold.’

She regarded him for a few moments, then tapped on her tablet before looking up at him, smiling, ‘Let me adjust the climate control,’ she said, turning toward a panel on the wall next to the door.

He stared as if she had spoken a riddle, watched as she tapped on the panel on the wall before turning to him.

‘Should warm up soon. I will come check up on you later. You get some rest, all right?’

He nodded, and she left. The doors hissed closed behind her, and he finally turned his attention to the last item on his tray. A tiny bowl of cream. Ole-Pappa sometimes made cream. Not much — milk was hard to come by, but it was like tasting heaven to him.

He smiled, lifting the spoon to his mouth, remembering the old man’s laughter when days were still good. But what he tasted was not cream. It was frozen and soft, sweet as the sweetest fruit, a taste that he could not even dream of. He devoured the bowl far too quickly, sitting staring at the empty container longingly afterwards.

‘So, you like ice cream?’

Boy almost yelped, stiffening with fright. It wasn’t the wall this time, and he looked up to see Shatterwing standing imposing and large in the doorway.

‘You’re alive!’

Shatterwing winked, striding towards him. The armour encasing her had mended, and while some gashes remained, they looked smaller — shrinking. The swaths of stripped paint were the only reminder of how deep and wide some were. She moved with surprising ease, her steps unnaturally soft, the soft hissing of engines in her suit barely audible.

‘I am,’ she said, standing next to him. ‘Thanks to you.’

He shook his head. She was not there just because of him. She was there because of a stubborn old man who died in the wastelands. 

‘Ole-Pappa saved you. I did not even know you were in that thing.’ The thought of the old man reminded him of the emptiness in his chest, and he swallowed, pushing the tears and the memories down.

She smiled, nodding, ‘Ole-Pappa could not do it alone.’

A few quiet moments passed between them. He eventually sighed, looking at her. He would not convince her, and he did not want to try. ‘How are you even up? You could barely walk,’ he asked.

She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, lips curling into a smile, ‘Reactor was swapped, suit’s regenerating.’ She flexed her left hand, ‘My arm was broken, apparently,’ she laughed.

He smiled, unsure how to interpret what she said, but he enjoyed her laughter. She seemed different to him, filled with life, and for the first time since they met, he could study her face unobscured by dust, gloom or famine. She seemed ordinary in every way, perhaps only a few years older than him, yet mighty. Her icy eyes gleamed, and her hair was woven into a tight braid. Her scalp was clean-shaven around her left ear, and in the room’s light, he noticed the markings on her skin.

‘And you? How are they treating you?’ She asked, catching him in the stare.

He blinked, thinking quickly, the empty bowl in his hands his only prompt. ‘The ice cream is nice,’ he answered.

She laughed again, ‘Chocolate mousse is better. Wait until you try apple pie. It’s divine! Oh, and they have these buns that are filled with chocolate once a month. They just melt in your face!’

He laughed, and for a few moments, quiet passed between them again, but her smile lingered. He felt something stir in his chest, a sensation he did not know, filling the gnawing emptiness. Beside him, the pulse of the machine beeped a little more frequently, a little more urgently. He swallowed, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable.

‘Would you like more?’ she asked, glancing at his empty bowl and interrupting the moment that lingered too long.

Boy lowered his voice, as if the walls themselves might be listening, seeing they could speak.

‘Everything here is different, Shatterwing. The lights, the walls, the way the air tastes. I don’t know this world.’ He glanced toward the door where Doctor Eagner had gone, remembering the way he had studied his file and tapped on the tablet. ‘They have a… file… of me,’ he murmured. ‘The words… they say things, I hear them, but they mean nothing to me.’ He fell back into his pillow, the softness of it surprising him again. ‘I heard them speaking. Doctor Eagner and… a man. They said I am too young and too old at the same time. How can you be both too young and too old?’

Shatterwing smiled and leaned her back against the wall opposite the windows, staring up at the lights before giving him a slow, deliberate nod, ‘You’re right. They don’t know what to do with you.’

‘This world…’ he began, looking around. There were so many things that looked worn and well-used all around him, and yet, he had never seen them before. Everyday things to her, wonders to him. It was bright, soft, and cleaner than he could imagine possible. Nothing of wood or iron, nothing unpainted or crafted by hand, not even the blankets over him felt normal. It was strange, but also terrifying, and he was not sure he could fit into that world, nor was he sure he could even learn to understand it.

It was an alien world. The realms of the gods.

‘…I only know how to farm anyway.’

She snorted, ‘Farm? Not anymore. Caiven bio-bombs scorched this planet raw. You’d be lucky to grow weeds in a century.’

His shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t know what you just said,’ he sighed in concession. ‘What’s left for me?’

Shatterwing tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling again, ‘You lived out there in the wilderness, didn’t you? Not many ships come in and out this way, so you must have kept things running by yourselves, right? You had some machines, didn’t you?’

He nodded.

‘Well, that’s more useful than half the pampered cadets here. You could train as a marine. You’ve certainly got the guts for it. Or you could build things like…’ she stopped.

‘…Like Ole-Pappa,’ Boy answered, feeling that hollow emptiness opening deep in his chest. Silence fell — heavy and oppressive — the truth, and the fear that came with it, gnawing at him. 

‘They’ll find out. About me. About my mother. She lived here. Wasn’t supposed to have me… If they connect us…’ His voice cracked. ‘They’ll pull me apart like you said. Cut me open to see what’s inside me.’

‘No, they won’t.’

The severity in her voice startled him. He looked to her, watching as her face hardened, sharp as the plating on her mech.

‘They won’t find out.’

He blinked. ‘Why?’

She stepped closer, crouching so her eyes levelled with his. ‘Listen. The inner-colonies brats already think I’m a savage… call me as much every chance they get. They don’t talk to me, and they don’t care what I do. All they want is that I fail.’ There was a hint of pain in her words. She stood away, flashing a mischievous grin. ‘That makes me invisible. If anyone starts sniffing around about you… Let’s just say, I’ll make sure it stops there.’

He frowned, stunned. ‘Why?’ 

Her grin faded. She looked away, eyes cast down, her lips pulled thin as if pained, and for a moment she showed a wound she hid well under all her armour.

‘Because,’ she said, blunt and certain, ‘you’re my friend. And this place eats people alive. So, don’t tell anyone else who you are. Not a whisper. Not a word. You keep your head down, you learn, and you stick with me. You had my back. I got yours. Okay?’

His throat tightened. He nodded.

She straightened, her grin returning, ‘Besides, if you go back out there, who’s going to be my Tech when I make full Dragoon? I will need someone I can trust. Not some inner-colonies know-it-all.’

He looked at her again, frowning so deeply it pulled his sunburnt skin, ‘Your Tech?’

‘Yeah, mine. Why not?’ Her mouth quirked. ‘I can keep an eye on you. Besides, girls are smarter than boys. You wouldn’t know what to do without me anyway.’

Boy tried to answer, but the lump in his throat held him. For the first time since he’d been dragged into this world, he felt something, a connection he couldn’t describe.

‘I don’t even know how the walls speak,’ he sighed, sheepishly. ‘How am I supposed to be your Tech?’

‘Nobody is born one, dummy. You learn to be one. And you got my helmet off, so you know something already.’

Boy sighed again, staring at the door, ‘So I have two options. Stay, learn, be your Tech, hide who I am and who my mother is – or be…’

‘Dissected.’

He frowned at her, ‘Die-what?’ then shook his head, ‘Never mind. You know what I’m saying.’

She nodded, ‘-Or?’

For a while, he started again, thinking of the world as it was now, a world of ash and heat.

‘Or I go back out into the desert and probably die.’

She sighed, ‘Well, think about it. But remember… at least here, you got me.’

He watched her as she strode to the door. She hesitated, then glanced back over her shoulder. For once, her sharp eyes softened. 

‘I don’t like you dying either way.’

With it, she vanished into the hallway, leaving him staring at the open door, a new thought eating its way into his mind, something he never thought possible.

Boy sank back into his pillow and tried to imagine the face of the mother he had never known, wondering who she was. Wondering if she’d been a warrior who raged like Shatterwing, or maybe she’d been one of those inner-colony kinds who laughed at people like him.

He wanted to ask her things, wanted to ask Ole-Pappa, but he was gone as well, dead in the ash, the picture of him dying replayed every time he blinked. The questions piled up in his chest until it felt like he was being buried under them, suffocating beneath doubt.

He turned over, restless, tears streaking cold trails onto a cool pillow.

Every so often, someone would come by to check on him, smile politely, ask how he felt, and then glance at the chart next to his bed on the wall. He lied each time, saying he was fine.

He wanted someone to talk to, but not the stranger in their green and white uniforms, with their tablets displaying his file.

He wanted to hear a real voice — his mother’s, Ole-Pappa’s, Shatterwing… but his thoughts and the talking walls were his only company.

All units report… drills commence at O-sixteen hundred… lights out in fifteen…

The voices in the walls filled the air with messages, instructions, and calls for people, telling them what to do. They did not seek to comfort, to soften the ache, the loneliness in the alien world.

Pulling the blanket around himself, Boy closed his eyes, praying for a real voice that never came.

### Rebirth ###

Sleep dragged Boy back into the wasteland.

The sky felt heavy, thick with smoke and the scent of blood. Monsters lurked around him. He heard them stalk, and saw shadows closing in. He stumbled backwards, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, his heart pounding so fiercely he thought it would burst from his chest. He stumbled, falling backwards and landing in the ash as the shadows lurched. He felt something in his hand and gripped it — a small stone dagger.

He clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes. In the distance, he saw something. A blue light flashing swiftly and precisely. Shatterwing, fighting, a wall of shadows between him and her.

‘No!’ he declared, leaping up as the first monster burst from the shadows, revealing its razor teeth, glistening scales, and claws like swords dragging in the dirt. For a moment, he hesitated. The monster was four times his size, powerful, dripping with blood.

‘Boy!’ he heard Shatterwing call, her voice anxious, urgent.

‘No!’ he affirmed, gripping his dagger in both hands in front of him. It grew into a sword, too big for him to be able to hold, and it dipped down into the ash. The beast lunged, and though terror clawed at him, he held, roaring back at the beast in defiance.

‘Come on then! Come on!’ he challenged, planting his feet firmly and trying to raise the sword in defence. 

Then a flicker sparked in the shadows. Feathers, fire, and Shatterwing’s fierce eyes burst through the bulwark of monsters. She came charging from the shadows, levelling everything that stood in her way. She leapt over him, pivoting and standing behind him, wrapping her hands around his sword, and lifting it; together, they could. 

The blade erupted into flames.

He looked at her, and she glanced at him. She winked.

The fear in him diminished. It was there, but it was no longer in control.

The monsters leapt, and the sword answered. A wave of flame burst from it, searing them into ash.

Boy woke up gasping, the machine beeping wildly beside him. 

‘Hmm, bad dream?’ Doctor Eagner smiled reassuringly, waking him with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. 

‘No,’ he said, remembering glimpses, flashes of the dream. Remembering standing shoulder to shoulder with Shatterwing and feeling mighty. ‘Not a bad dream.’

The machine’s anxious beeping subsided, and his breathing slowed. Nearby, the door hissed open, and the tall man in the blue uniform from earlier stepped in, Shatterwing following. Boy straightened instinctively. Older men in the village rarely had time for children. Seldom did they do anything but punish.

‘How’s our visitor?’ the man barked.

Visitor, Boy thought, the machine next to him beeping just a bit more urgently, betraying his fear.

‘Comfortable,’ Doctor Eagner responded gently. Boy saw how she glanced at the machine, then back to him. Eagner smiled slightly, squeezing his shoulder again before standing back.

Boy looked from her to Shatterwing. She looked sharp, her movements stiff, always standing one step behind the man in the blue uniform. But it wasn’t from fear. She did not look afraid of him. It was something else he could not quite place. After all, she stood two feet taller than the man and was clad in more metal than Ole-Pappa had on the entire farm. Why would she be afraid of him?

‘Boy, this is Colonel Lorence. He is the commander of the base.’ Doctor Eagner introduced.

Colonel Lorence observed him for a moment before walking to the wall where a chair rested. He dragged it away from the wall, the scrape of its legs harsh in the silence, and sat down beside Boy’s bed. Doctor Eagner opened her mouth to speak, but Lorence waved her aside with a flick of his hand. The Colonel leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on Boy like one of the monsters looking for an opening.

‘You’re a conundrum to me, young man,’ he said at last. His voice was calm but menacing, threatening. Every word was pronounced slowly and deliberately, not with anger or frustration, but with something Boy had never heard before, something he could only think of as a storm blown in on the high tide. Something best not be caught in.

Lorence allowed the silence to hang before speaking again, ‘Tell me — what can you do?’

Boy swallowed hard, throat dry, ‘Do, sir?’

‘Can you read? Write?’ the man asked, his tone indifferent, cold, but edged with frustration.

Boy nodded, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘This isn’t a fishing village. This is a military compound, and we are at war. I’ve got soldiers drilling, engineers building, medics patching up the broken. Every one of them pulls their weight, has a purpose, a reason to be here. I don’t have space for anyone without,’ he paused, his eyes drilling into Boy’s, ‘purpose. Do you understand that?’

Boy swallowed again, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘What else, then? Any skills?’

He shook his head, ‘Just farming, sir – and I helped Ole-Pappa fix machines?’

Lorence raised a brow, ‘Machines? Shatterwing tells me your village was primitive. What kind of machines?’

‘Farming things, sir. I helped Ole-Pappa, and he taught me some of the things we used.’

Lorence leaned back in the chair, his eyes fixed on Boy. He looked amused, his lips curling into half a smile, his eyes rolling back as if Boy said something stupid.

‘He’s got guts, Sir,’ Shatterwing interjected. ‘He bought me time, threw himself at a Caiven horde so…’

‘That’s enough, Cadet.’

‘Sir…’

‘I said, stand down, Cadet,’ Lorence growled, glaring at Shatterwing.

She nodded, stiffened. Her lips pulled into a sneer.

‘Savages, you’re all alike,’ Lorance said, still glaring at Shatterwing, before turning back to Boy. ‘Ill-disciplined, unruly. Don’t even know what the Coalition is up against. Don’t even know we are at war. Hell, half of you resent us for protecting you,’ he hissed. ‘You think fixing scrap and farming wheat is all there is to life,’ he continued. ‘You ever fired a rifle?’

Boy swallowed again, glancing at Shatterwing. Some of the men in the village had guns. They hunted birds with them, sometimes bigger animals that attacked the herds. He never touched one.

‘No, sir.’

He could see the disdain on Lorence’s face, the scorn in his eyes. His words carried no hint of understanding, no warmth, just contempt — every word meant to injure, to hurt, spoken from the safety of his authority. A cruel man, like most of the men in the village. But Lorance was different. He had power. He could quiet Eagner, silence Shatterwing. He wielded that power over people he saw beneath him. He was a man who would use that power to hurt others.

A bad man.

For the first time, despite all the wonders of the alien world around him, Boy understood why his mother tried to shield him from the world she came from.

‘Tell me, boy, what use do I have of you?’

Boy glanced between the man and Shatterwing, not sure how to answer.

Lorence stood up, looking to Doctor Eagner, ‘Ship him off-world to the nearest children’s care facility on the first transport out. I don’t have time to waste on a primitive brat.’

Boy saw the horror in Shatterwing’s eyes. She wanted to speak, protest, but he understood she would be in trouble. 

‘Grain separator!’ Boy blurted without thinking.

Lorence turned to him, a single raised eyebrow, ‘What?’

Boy’s chest heaved. ‘Grain separator, sir,’ he said again, steadier this time. ‘When it jammed, I fixed it. Ole-Pappa only had to show me once, show me which tools to use. Belts, teeth, all of it. I fixed it. And the irrigation pump, too. If that failed, the crops would go dry. I learned to patch leaks, clean filters, keep it running.’ He paused, thinking of what else he could do, and what other words he knew. 

‘The generator in the village hall. It broke once, and Ole-Pappa showed me how to fix it. I know how it works. I am good with my hands, sir. I learn fast.’

Lorence studied him, his expression unreadable. It made Boy feel uncomfortable, as if he were a herd animal being examined to see if he was fit for slaughter.

Boy pressed on, his eyes flicked to Shatterwing, then back to the Colonel. ‘Her armour, it reuses water. Keeps her alive. It uses pumps. It must. Not the same, but I can learn how they work too. I will learn… Sir.’

Time felt frozen. Not even the walls spoke. It felt as if he was back in the wastes, back where the twin suns glared hatefully at him. Lorence said nothing, looking to Doctor Eagner, who showed him the tablet. He took it, flicking across the screen with his fingers, his eyes narrowed as he read. He sighed deeply, handing it back to Doctor Eagner, then looked to Boy.

‘You make the bio-cut, but you are too young to fight. I will give you six months. Show me you’ve got what it takes, and I will offer you an apprenticeship in the Engineering Corps. Fail, and you get shipped off-world and out of my base.’

Boy looked at him for some time, then at Shatterwing. Her lips tugged into the faintest smile, the glee in her face hard to hide even for her.

He looked back at Lorence. The Colonel’s gaze lingered on him longer than was comfortable. His brow furrowed, and for a heartbeat, his stern mask cracked into something more unsettled. ‘You remind me of someone,’ he said slowly.

Boy felt his eyes stretch. He dropped his gaze to the blanket, trying to hide the secret he held. What if Lorence could read minds? What if he could see a resemblance in his face, his eyes?

Don’t think of her. Don’t think of Ole-Pappa, he told himself, holding his breath until it hurt.

‘There was a Dragoon under my command. Many years ago. She was foolhardy, too. Rim-worlder, like you. She wouldn’t give up either, even when it would’ve been easier. Are you going to make my life hard, Boy?’

Boy held his breath, heart pounding. He shook his head, not daring to look up, ‘No, Sir.’

‘Look at me when you talk to me!’

Boy tore his head up, staring into the man’s eyes, fighting the urge to look away.

‘No, Sir.’

The Colonel nodded, ‘You do learn fast. Good,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘And “Boy”… that’s a miserable excuse for a name. I can’t have that on my roster. You’ll need a name, or at least a callsign.’

The room fell quiet until Doctor Eagner glanced up from her tablet, looking to Lorance, then back up at Boy. She gave the faintest smile, ‘Phoenix,’ she said softly. ‘The callsign’s open. It fits. He rose from the ashes, after all.’

Lorence shot a look at Doctor Eagner, ‘Phoenix,’ he said, staring at the woman.

She just shrugged, ‘It’s a bit mythical, I guess, but it is fitting.’

Boy saw the man’s eyes narrow on her before turning back to him. ‘Fine. It’s better than Boy.’ His eyes hardened, ‘Clock is ticking, Phoenix,’ he warned, before putting his hat on and leaving the room.

Boy followed him, watching as the doors hissed closed behind the Colonel.

Phoenix.

‘Well, the man hath spoken,’ Doctor Eagner said, putting her tablet on the table next to him before leaning down over him, taking his wrist in her hands and checking her watch for a few seconds. She released him, checking his eyes, the tubes in his arm, then stood back, smiling, 

‘Let me see how quickly we can release you. You should be alright to move around now. Still very underweight and a little dehydrated, but everything else looks good. As I would expect from Phoenix.’ She let the name hang in the air for a few moments, then turned to Shatterwing. ‘I’ll make some arrangement, see if we can get his quarters assigned close to yours,’ she smiled.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Boy – Phoenix rather – half-whispered. or the first time, he felt the shape of a name settle over him, not an insult, not a dismissal, but something he could claim. Phoenix. It burned in his chest with a fragile heat, a reminder that he was no longer nameless, no longer just “Boy.” He had a name now.

‘Of course,’ Doctor Eagner said and left, the doors hissing closed behind her moments later.

‘She knows.’ Shatterwing said, coming to stand next to Phoenix.

Phoenix frowned, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t you hear what she said?’ Shatterwing sounded exasperated, rolling her eyes, ‘Boys are dumb.’

‘Hey!’

She did not apologise, ‘That callsign. She knows. It was…’

‘My mother’s…’ he finished her sentence, his mind adrift, staring at the closed door in front of him. 

Phoenix smiled as he laid back into his pillow, shoulders loosening. ‘Guess we’ll stay together, then.’ 

Shatterwing smirked, the tension slipping from her face. ‘Guess so.’ She glanced toward the door, then walked to the bedside table, snatching up Doctor Eagner’s tablet gently in her gauntlet. A prong click-clacked and emerged from her gauntlet’s finger and danced across the screen.

‘Eagner left this here on purpose,’ Shatterwing mumbled, her eyes darting across the screen. ‘Here,’ she murmured, half to herself, her finger whizzing across the screen.

Phoenix just looked at her, somewhat amused. Then she shoved the tablet into his hands. He was confronted with a face he had never seen before, yet somehow felt he knew. The name “Phoenix” was printed boldly and large at the top left of the screen.

He froze. His breath caught, chest tightened. His mother. For the first time, he saw her face.

‘Here,’ Shatterwing said, tapping on a symbol on the screen. Endless rows of words and numbers appeared, each preceded by a small square with a symbol in it. ‘Audio reports,’ she explained. ‘Combat logs. They record everything we say in missions or training.’ She tapped one. ‘Here. Listen.’

Static crackled, then a woman’s voice — young, strong, unyielding — filled the air. Phoenix’s eyes stung. He held the device as if it were glass that might shatter in his hands. He didn’t understand much of what she spoke, but it was her — it was his mother.

When the audio report finished, Phoenix’s eyes were filled with tears threatening to fall. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered hoarsely, though whether to Shatterwing or to the voice, he wasn’t sure.

Then, almost without thinking, he swiped. The image shifted, and there was Ole-Pappa. His mother stood in the foreground, while a younger Ole-Pappa grinned in the background of a hangar, broad-shouldered, grease-stained, proud. Happier than Phoenix had ever imagined him. Beside the photo glowed a small voice icon.

With trembling hands, he tapped the file. A rough, familiar voice spilled out, warm, steady, as if it were standing right there, in the room.

‘Ole-Pappa,’ Phoenix whispered, the tears finally slipping out of his eyes and down his cheek.

‘Don’t worry,’ Shatterwing smiled, taking the tablet back. ‘When the dust settles and Lorence forgets who you are, we’ll figure out how to access the files without having to steal tablets,’ she winked.

He half smiled, nodding.

Shatterwing barely placed the tablet back on the table when Doctor Eagner strode through the door again. She walked to the table, picked up her tablet and smiled at them, ‘Getting forgetful in my old age,’ she said, before turning and leaving again.

Phoenix frowned. Eagner did not look “old”.

‘I got to go. We’ll catch up soon,’ Shatterwing said.

He nodded and watched as she left as well. 

That night, while the base slept and the walls droned their cold commands, Phoenix lay awake, smiling through his tears, staring at a dark ceiling, seeing his mother standing indomitable and mighty, Ole-Pappa standing behind her, grinning with pride.

 Ole-Pappa was gone, and he had never truly known his mother. Yet in their voices, faint and broken across the gulf of time, he heard enough to know what they had wished for him — that he would grow into someone of his own. And although he stood only at the start of that journey, he had. He was no longer just “Boy.” He had a name now, one he had claimed through courage.. 

Phoenix. Along the way, he also discovered someone he could trust, a bond he had never experienced before. Whatever awaited him here in this strange world, he knew he could face it. Not because this place welcomed or even wanted him there, but because he found strength he never knew he possessed and a friend who showed him what he could become if he chose to.

And for the first time in his life, he made a choice for himself.

He chose to stay.