"Do you have something to tell me, Ashen?" Mara's voice, though calm, cut through the oppressive quiet, startling Ashen so completely he actually flinched.
He hadn't realized how deeply he'd been lost in the silent, furious argument with Nexis.
His head snapped up, meeting his her unwavering gaze. Her eyes, usually so warm and perceptive, held a cool, assessing quality now that made his stomach clench.
He swallowed, trying to force down the frantic beat of his heart. "No, Auntie," he managed, the word 'Auntie' slipping out almost unconsciously, a subtle acknowledgment of their hidden bond amidst the chaos.
"I... I'm fine."
Nexis's annoying voice vibrated in his head again.
Ashen tried to keep a straight face as he scolded him in his mind.
'Can you please shut your mouth for at least a couple of minutes?'
'Why? I thought you had access to my entire life, you should know about this.'
Meanwhile Mara's brow furrowed, a faint, almost imperceptible shift. "You don't look fine, Ashen."
She leaned forward slightly, her posture radiating a quiet authority that belied her age.
"Is something wrong? Something you're not telling me?"
He averted his gaze, focusing on a scuff mark on the concrete floor. "No, it's... I have no idea what's going on."
He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit. "I'm as confused as everyone else. One minute i see Rill's bowl falling, and the next... it was in my hands.
He gestured vaguely at himself, deliberately vague, omitting the glowing orb that had absorbed itself into his chest, the sentient parasite constantly whispering threats.
Mara watched him, her silence drawing the moment out, making the air thick with unspoken questions.
Ashen could feel her eyes dissecting him, searching for tells. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to keep his expression neutral. He knew her, knew her sharp mind, her past as a tactician. It felt like a lifetime of their shared history was being weighed in this single, fraught moment.
Finally, with a soft sigh that seemed to carry a hint of weariness, Mara pushed herself up from the chair. The scraping sound echoed in the small room.
She moved towards the door, her movements precise and deliberate. "Alright then," she said, her voice firmer now, almost brisk. "Head back up and join the others. We're packing up camp."
Ashen blinked, caught off guard. "Packing? Why?"
They had just settled into Hollow Peak, a stronghold with nearly fifty residents. Moving was always a massive undertaking, dangerous and exhausting.
Mara paused at the doorway, her hand on the cold metal. Her gaze met his, sharp and grave. "Another drone was spotted in the vicinity," she explained, her voice low, "and this one was a new model. More advanced." Her eyes narrowed, a glint of steel in their depths. "We can't risk staying. And as for you," she added, her voice dropping, a warning in her tone, "we'll deal with this... situation later. Understand?"
**********
Ashen ascended the rough-hewn stairs from the underground room, the dull thud of his boots on the steps a rhythmic counterpoint to the growing clamor above.
He emerged into a scene of barely controlled pandemonium. The camp, usually a low hum of activity, was now a whirlwind of frantic motion. People rushed between tents, voices raised in hurried commands and stressed questions.
Supplies were being haphazardly bundled, tarpaulins ripped down, and the air buzzed with a palpable urgency. The sudden shift in atmosphere was jarring, a stark reminder of their precarious existence in the Drift.
He hurried towards his own small tent, a modest shelter made of salvaged canvas, his chest tightening with a familiar blend of anxiety and protectiveness.
Pushing aside the flap, he found Elara already inside, a small, focused whirlwind of efficiency. Their few sets of worn clothing were neatly folded, along with their patched sleeping rolls and the small, carefully guarded pouch of personal trinkets.
"Where have you been, Ashen?" Elara demanded, her voice sharp with a mix of worry and exasperation. She paused her packing, turning from their meager belongings to fix him with a direct, intense gaze that belied her eleven years. "I've been looking everywhere for you! We need to go!"
Ashen shrugged, forcing a casualness he didn't feel. "Uhm, I had some stuff to deal with." He tried to avoid her perceptive eyes, busying himself with loosening a tent peg that wasn't actually stuck.
Elara's movements stilled completely. She slowly turned to face him fully, her expression shifting to one of keen suspicion. Her bright, perceptive eyes narrowed. "You didn't get into trouble again, did you?"
Ashen startled, the innocent question hitting a raw nerve. "What, of course not!" he blurted, a nervous chuckle catching in his throat. His smile felt brittle, stretched too thin.
Nexis's irritating voice chimed in his head, a smug, unwelcome commentary. Ashen shoved the thought down, willing the parasitic entity to be silent.
"Right," Elara said, her tone laced with unconvinced skepticism. She clearly wasn't buying his flimsy denial, but a flicker of a sigh seemed to pass through her, as if she knew pushing wouldn't help right now.
"Well, whatever. Just help me pack so we can go help the others."
"Right away, Captain Captain."
He knelt, his movements quick and efficient, helping her empty their small tent of the last few items. Together, they undid the poles, carefully folded the worn canvas, and stuffed it into a hiking bag, securing the straps.
With their personal gear secured, they moved out to assist the rest of the camp. They didn't really have much in terms of possessions; their survival strategy revolved around choosing camps already equipped with basic supplies, minimizing their need to travel with heavy loads. Everything, from communal cooking pots to spare scavenged parts, was steadily loaded into their two precious convoy trucks.
In this harsh, post-apocalyptic world , the value of movable engines was immense, especially for those living out here in the lawless Drift.
The disaster had annihilated roughly ninety percent of the world's transportation means.
While the government-run Strongholds and some established factions had managed to develop new methods of transport, that luxury was solely for their own groups.
For people like them in the Drift, acquiring a working vehicle meant painstakingly scavenging through wreckage, piecing together corroded parts – an exceedingly difficult and dangerous endeavor.
Which was why their two sturdy convoy trucks were truly impressive, gleaming testaments to their resourcefulness.
However, they were mostly used for carrying essential cargo and providing transport for the elderly and young members of the group. The rest of them, still had to walk.