Three days. Seventy-two hours of grey sky, black trees, and the gnawing, hollow ache that had turned from a pinch in their stomachs into a rhythmic, pulsing roar.
By the third afternoon, the "Dead Zones" began to bleed into the outskirts of a nameless, rusted settlement. It wasn't a city—the High Wave didn't waste resources on places this broken—but a "Transit Hub," a collection of corrugated metal shacks and smoke-stained chimneys clinging to the side of an old railway line.
The Hollow AcheSofia was pale, her steps heavy and dragging. The "Influence" that usually made her radiant had dimmed to a flickering candle. She looked smaller than she had in the mirrors at home, her coat hanging off her narrow shoulders.
"Jess... my tummy feels like it's shrinking," Sofia whispered. She hadn't complained once, but the way she stared at a discarded, moldy ration wrapper on the ground told Jessica everything.
Jessica felt the hunger differently. It made her sharp, her telepathy flickering with every desperate thought she caught from the passing scavengers. Starving... Need fuel... Hide the scrap... The air in the town was thick with the mental noise of a thousand hungry ghosts.
"Just a little further, Sof," Jessica said, her voice raspy. She gripped her sister's hand, feeling the girl's skin—cold and dry. "We aren't begging. We're trading."
The Iron SkilletThey stopped in front of a low-slung building with a flickering neon sign that simply read: FUEL & FEED. Inside, the air smelled of burnt grease and old cabbage—a scent that made Sofia's eyes fill with involuntary tears.
Jessica walked up to the counter. Behind it stood a woman with skin like cracked leather and eyes that had seen the end of the world twice over. She didn't even look up from the ledger she was marking.
"No credits, no soup," the woman rasped.
"I'm not asking for charity," Jessica said, leaning over the counter. She lowered her voice, her eyes darting to the High Wave posters peeling off the back wall. "I'm a hard worker. I can scrub the floors, haul the canisters, or fix your wiring. My sister is small; she won't take up much space. One room for the night. Two bowls of whatever's in that pot. That's all."
The woman looked up then, her eyes landing on Sofia. As the younger girl stood there, shivering and exhausted, the "Influence" began to seep out of her like a silent plea.
The woman's hard expression faltered. A strange, confused softness flickered in her thoughts—a sudden, irrational urge to feed this child and keep her warm. She looks like a porcelain doll... I can't let her starve...
"The back room has a leak," the woman muttered, shaking her head as if trying to clear a fog. "And the soup is mostly broth. You haul the heavy water crates from the cellar to the kitchen, and you can stay until dawn. But the girl stays in the room. I don't want her underfoot."
The Labor of LoveFor four hours, Jessica's world became a blur of heavy lifting. Her muscles screamed, her empty stomach cramping with every crate of water she hauled up the narrow, rotted stairs. She didn't use her powers to make the work easier; she needed to save her mental energy to keep their presence masked from any passing patrols.
In the small, damp room in the back, Sofia sat on a pile of moth-eaten blankets. When Jessica finally walked in, trembling from exhaustion, she was carrying two wooden bowls of thin, grey stew.
"Eat, Jess," Jessica whispered, sitting on the floor and handing the fuller bowl to her sister.
Sofia took a sip, her eyes closing in bliss. "It's warm. Thank you, Jess."
Jessica watched her, taking only a small spoonful of her own. She looked at the grimy window, watching the searchlights of a distant High Wave tower sweep across the horizon. She had paid for this night with her blood and sweat, but she knew the "softness" she'd felt from the shopkeeper was Sofia's doing, not hers.
She's getting stronger, Jessica thought, watching the way the light from the single candle seemed to bend toward Sofia. Even when she's starving, the world wants to serve her. And the more the world wants her, the harder it will be to keep her hidden.
"Sleep now," Jessica said, pulling the blankets over them both as the rain began to drum against the metal roof. "Tomorrow, we move again."
Three days. Seventy-two hours of grey sky, black trees, and the gnawing, hollow ache that had turned from a pinch in their stomachs into a rhythmic, pulsing roar.
By the third afternoon, the "Dead Zones" began to bleed into the outskirts of a nameless, rusted settlement. It wasn't a city—the High Wave didn't waste resources on places this broken—but a "Transit Hub," a collection of corrugated metal shacks and smoke-stained chimneys clinging to the side of an old railway line.
The Hollow AcheSofia was pale, her steps heavy and dragging. The "Influence" that usually made her radiant had dimmed to a flickering candle. She looked smaller than she had in the mirrors at home, her coat hanging off her narrow shoulders.
"Jess... my tummy feels like it's shrinking," Sofia whispered. She hadn't complained once, but the way she stared at a discarded, moldy ration wrapper on the ground told Jessica everything.
Jessica felt the hunger differently. It made her sharp, her telepathy flickering with every desperate thought she caught from the passing scavengers. Starving... Need fuel... Hide the scrap... The air in the town was thick with the mental noise of a thousand hungry ghosts.
"Just a little further, Sof," Jessica said, her voice raspy. She gripped her sister's hand, feeling the girl's skin—cold and dry. "We aren't begging. We're trading."
The Iron SkilletThey stopped in front of a low-slung building with a flickering neon sign that simply read: FUEL & FEED. Inside, the air smelled of burnt grease and old cabbage—a scent that made Sofia's eyes fill with involuntary tears.
Jessica walked up to the counter. Behind it stood a woman with skin like cracked leather and eyes that had seen the end of the world twice over. She didn't even look up from the ledger she was marking.
"No credits, no soup," the woman rasped.
"I'm not asking for charity," Jessica said, leaning over the counter. She lowered her voice, her eyes darting to the High Wave posters peeling off the back wall. "I'm a hard worker. I can scrub the floors, haul the canisters, or fix your wiring. My sister is small; she won't take up much space. One room for the night. Two bowls of whatever's in that pot. That's all."
The woman looked up then, her eyes landing on Sofia. As the younger girl stood there, shivering and exhausted, the "Influence" began to seep out of her like a silent plea.
The woman's hard expression faltered. A strange, confused softness flickered in her thoughts—a sudden, irrational urge to feed this child and keep her warm. She looks like a porcelain doll... I can't let her starve...
"The back room has a leak," the woman muttered, shaking her head as if trying to clear a fog. "And the soup is mostly broth. You haul the heavy water crates from the cellar to the kitchen, and you can stay until dawn. But the girl stays in the room. I don't want her underfoot."
The Labor of LoveFor four hours, Jessica's world became a blur of heavy lifting. Her muscles screamed, her empty stomach cramping with every crate of water she hauled up the narrow, rotted stairs. She didn't use her powers to make the work easier; she needed to save her mental energy to keep their presence masked from any passing patrols.
In the small, damp room in the back, Sofia sat on a pile of moth-eaten blankets. When Jessica finally walked in, trembling from exhaustion, she was carrying two wooden bowls of thin, grey stew.
"Eat, Jess," Jessica whispered, sitting on the floor and handing the fuller bowl to her sister.
Sofia took a sip, her eyes closing in bliss. "It's warm. Thank you, Jess."
Jessica watched her, taking only a small spoonful of her own. She looked at the grimy window, watching the searchlights of a distant High Wave tower sweep across the horizon. She had paid for this night with her blood and sweat, but she knew the "softness" she'd felt from the shopkeeper was Sofia's doing, not hers.
She's getting stronger, Jessica thought, watching the way the light from the single candle seemed to bend toward Sofia. Even when she's starving, the world wants to serve her. And the more the world wants her, the harder it will be to keep her hidden.
"Sleep now," Jessica said, pulling the blankets over them both as the rain began to drum against the metal roof. "Tomorrow, we move again."