The desert at night is a different world. The day's relentless heat gives way to a chill that seeps into your bones, a cold that feels almost alive, a living entity that wraps itself around you, sinking its teeth into your flesh.
The moons, two of them, hang low in the sky, one a perfect, silver orb, the other a crescent that looks as if it's been torn apart somehow, the edges ragged and raw. Their light paints the sand in shades of blue and grey, turning the familiar landscape into something alien, something other.
Something beautiful.
Something deadly.
Alistair and I move through this strange, moonlit world, our steps slow, cautious, our eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement, any indication that we're not alone.
I walked across the desert at night before, but it felt....
Entirely different this time.
More dangerous despite knowing what is out there, despite it not being a mysterious place to be lost in.
Because we are headed back into the jaws of the beast, and I know it.
But there's no fear.
I'm angry. The anger is a living thing inside me, a beast that's been unleashed, a force that drives me forward, that refuses to let me falter, to let me fail.
It's the only thing I have left.
The supply depot is hours away. Even further now than when Ivan took us there from the base.
...I don't want to pass by the base. I don't want to look at what is left. If it's been destroyed. If there's evidence of the attack.
Perhaps worse - if there isn't.
I keep my gaze ahead, on the path, on the mission.
I can't afford to be distracted. I can't afford to let the grief, the fear, the despair creep back in.
I can't let the temptation of trying to relocate and rebuild again. Not there.
I don't think most of us want to be there.
I don't know if most of us could handle it if we did.
I do know -
I think.
I'm sure that they'll come back again if we are careless enough to go and try to re-establish ourselves there, even if it looks safe. It doesn't take a genius to know that's what will happen...and with Mia and Eric involved, there's no way they won't do it.
I grit my teeth.
I don't want.
To think about any of that anymore.
There's hours more of walking to do. And if I'm already starting to get lost in my head, it's only going to get worse.
I glance at Alistair, who walks beside me, his expression as unreadable as ever. He's a strange one, quiet and withdrawn, his eyes always watching, always assessing. I don't know what to make of him, don't know what drives him, what makes him tick.
But I guess it doesn't matter.
We're here for the same reason.
We both want to make them pay.
"Do you have a plan?" he asks, his voice a low, raspy murmur that barely disturbs the quiet of the night.
I shake my head. "Not really. I figure we'll sneak in, grab as much as we can carry, and get out before they even know we're there."
It's a flimsy plan, a desperate, half-baked idea that's more hope than strategy. But it's the best I can come up with.
He doesn't argue, doesn't point out the obvious flaws in my plan. He just nods, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "Alright."
We walk in silence for a while after that.
Finally, he speaks again. "Any plans for what happens if they spot us?"
He asks. His voice doesn't sound like he expects much of a response.
"...Guess we don't have any choice but to run."
It's not likely to succeed.
None of this is likely to succeed. I know that.
But I-
I don't like that plan.
"...They won't catch us if they're too busy putting out a fire." When I say it, it's a surprise even to me.
I didn't realize I'd been thinking it. I guess I just. Was. I didn't have to really think about it, because I've been so angry for so long.
Alistair's brow raises slightly. "A fire? Not a bad idea. Might cause enough of a distraction to give us a chance." His eyes flicker to me. "It rules out a stealthy exit. Means we only get one shot, right?"
"Yeah. Maybe."
Being able to pilfer more things over and over is better, assuming we don't get caught, though I can only imagine how that'd eventually collapse on someone.
But now that I'm imagining that place up in flames, I can't help but think I want to see it.
The place where I lost everything, where my friends died, where my friends...
"Did Ivan ever burn anything? Destroy their things?" I ask, my tone dull, distant.
"...Not that I know of. He wanted to exist under their notice, after all."
Alistair says, matter of fact.
That makes sense.
It makes me think these aliens have never experienced having something of theirs destroyed by us.
And isn't that what a rebellion does, anyway?
Tear things down.
Ruin them.
Make them pay for what they've done.
For the people they've destroyed.
I clench my fists.
Yeah.
I want to see the depot go up in flames.
"Then let's make it memorable." My voice is a low growl.
A hint of a smirk passes over Alistair's lips.
He nods. "Fine by me."
The supply comes into view, finally. There's only one moon left up in the sky, but we still have plenty of time left before dawn. It's still at quite a distance, but the shape of it is unmistakable to me. Despite the danger of being so close to the aliens, I can't help a bit of relief. Both that we still have time, and because it means that I haven't been accidentally leading us out to wander until we die in the empty wilderness.
The relief doesn't last long.
A twisted hunk of metal stands between us and the supply depot. Metal debris is scattered across the clay ground, and a deep groove is cut into the ground behind it. My hands shake at my side. In the dark, so dimly lit by only one moon, it's hard to make out the details of what I'm looking at.
I don't need to.
My heart beats against the cage of my chest so hard that I stumble a step, feeling dizzy. Perhaps that's not because my heart's trying to escape, but because my breathing is no longer regulated - short, tight and too quick.
Alistair's hand grabs my arm. "That's…"
"The ship." I struggle to swallow, to force myself to speak again.
Seeing it is-
I can feel the heat on my face from the explosion, the ringing alarms in my ears. I can feel Hestia in my arms, the solid metal slamming into my back. I can….
I…
Punch my thigh. It's a strange gesture, I suppose, but the shock of the impact breaks my thoughts from the spiral. I can't. Let myself lose sight of where I am, of where we are, of what we're doing.
Alistair is watching me, his expression that unreadable thing it always is. "You good…?"
"I'm. Fine." I say, and force myself to take a step forward.
The depot is near, just on the horizon and soon will be the dawn. We can't stop to reminisce.
As we walk closer to the twisted, burned out shell of what was once our hope to go home, the wind lightly stirs up the clay and sand, blowing a chill breeze across our exhausted forms.
I choke, double over, and clasp my hands over my mouth. Alistair recoils and turns his head away, making a retching sound through his hand.
The overpowering stench of rotten meat. That's what the wind carries from the ship in front of us.
Tears run down my face, fresh, hot, and absolutely furious.
"Those… bastards…" Alistair hisses, low and even more rasping than usual.
The aliens couldn't even be bothered to deal with the bodies of the people who died trying to escape. They'd left them all to just…rot. To decay, without a burial.
And I…
I can't take another moment of it. My knees collapse, palms scraping on the clay.
I scream.
I know that I shouldn't. I know that I should hold it in, that I should keep pressing forward, to think of nothing else but the mission. But I can't hold it in another moment. I can't be silent as images of my friends, of Hestia and myself, decomposing, ignored, never even buried, rush through my mind.
I don't cry. It isn't about that. Tears can't hope to express how I feel.
I scream.