Of A World Of Ashes

The heavy wooden door creaked open and beyond it, the sky over Herah burnt in furious crimson and yellow, the sun drowning in an unmistakable darkness owed to the onset of nightfall.

Mena watched from her perch atop the staircase as a man clad in a cloak – one that mimicked the emerald and gold of the Köztar’s sigil – walked into the apothecary’s store. His boots thudded against the scuffed wooden floors, and his malacca found purchase in a dent in the flooring, shaking his footing. He recovered just in time to puff from the cigar he held in his left hand – a portrait of nonchalance despite the color that tinged his cheeks. Wisps of smoke rose amongst leather-bound books stacked on mahogany shelves.

Nahlia coughed from behind the counter. “How may I help you?” Her voice was tight as she rushed over her words, “I must inform you that we do not sell intoxicating herbs or the sort.”

The man’s gaze dipped to the cigar he held, a ring of fire still ignited at one end. “Fortunately, that is not the purpose of my visit.” He looked over the counter at Nahlia who rubbed her lenses before letting them hang from her neck, suspended by a thread.

He started, “I am here to ask you whether you’ve been approached by members of the Qarşil.”

Mena could see Nahlia’s breath quicken as she stilled. “Patrol reports that individuals wearing attires resembling Qarşilian gear were seen in this neighbourhood,” The agent continued while his wandering eyes searched the darkness that hid most of the workshop. “I would not call it a neighbourhood,” Nahlia retorted.

Mena silently reprimanded her for speaking. “And why would you not?,” The malacca in his hand glistened in the firelight. “Do you taunt the regime?” He would prove to be a menace if Nahlia instigated him further. Mena was sure of it.

“I do not. I’m rather surprised that you would suggest so,” Nahlia shrugged as she fiddled with her fingers - stained the colour blue from ink. “What is it that you house upstairs?,” The man averted his gaze to the staircase of bronze that clashed against wood.

The knife at Mena’s waist was bitingly cold and ready to draw blood. Don’t move, don’t breathe. Her breath lodged in her throat. Do you hear shadows drawing breaths?

“That is where I store my belongings and take rest.” Nahlia yawned.

Satisfied with the answer, the man’s footfall retreated. “Do report if you happen upon suspicious activity,” He held out a card embedded with the Köztar’s insignia – a serpent’s eye.

Nahlia palmed the card and nodded. Mena heaved a sigh when she heard the door shut, heat flushing through her body until it materialised into an ache in her head.

She drew out her dagger. The peridot hilt gleamed in the darkness and refracted firelight onto the metal that acted as her arm.

Her head thrummed with the incoherent mumbling of a system that had been installed within her, “Subject Beta X121, report.”

She lifted herself off the staircase’s railing and landed next to Nahlia with a clunk. Nahlia narrowed her eyes, “Shatter the flooring next.” Mena flashed her a grin.

“What was that about?” “You tell me,” Nahlia bared her iron canines at Mena. She tutted, “How often have I asked you to get rid of your armour before entering my store?” “Often enough.”

“Do you pay heed?,” Nahlia lifted Highness off the armchair placed in the darkness and sat down. The feline purred at her feet, his mechanical eye scanning the room for another spot.

A pang jolted through Mena’s head. “I have to go,” She shrugged off her jacket and threw it at Highness who immediately pawed it.

“Keep living like this and you’ll find yourself six feet beneath,” Nahlia drawled.

She was right. Mena trained through the day and served the Köztar after sunset, resting for a mere three hours. The system continuously spouted orders after dusk. Disobeying the regime was a fool’s errand – even the resistance knew as much.

Mena trained under warring entities; the Köztar and the Qarşil. The Köztar claimed to be merciful, even when it burnt through countries and devoured continents. It claimed to be a new world order that would ease the Earth of its burdens and improve upon the state of humankind. After rummaging through the planet, they now called the distant star of Persephone home.

When the Köztar had turned to countries of the East, Mena’s parents had presented their children to the regime. She and her brother were raised by the Szónak. Edified to fight and die for the regime. They had often found themselves at the Oriz’s guns when a hunger for freedom surged. That was then when her brother was recruited by the Szónak – threatened into submission as they cracked into his mind.

Mena never saw him again. In the years she spent training with Oriz cyborgs by nightfall and commanding the Qarşilian resistance by day, she fancied the thought of him escaping. “Eight years of training are enough to defend against bare-faced attacks.”

The mercy of the Köztar extended to the battlefields they sent her to scrounge. Once, a member of the resistance shot her in the arm. She fought the urge to scream at him that she wasn’t the enemy, but her voice sank when she saw the Oriz who had caught up to her and swiftly beheaded the man.

Mena shook her head as Nahlia stared at her from behind a book. Nahlia had been a member of the Qarşil until her father died fighting the Szónak. “There is no benefit in fighting the invincible,” She had said when she had handed over her sapphire-studded dagger.

Nahlia’s father left the commandment of the Qarşil to Mena before leaving to fight a battle in the Daragh, knowing that his daughter wished no part in organising a resistance. Mena had seen them crumble before her eyes.

The Qarşil consisted of twelve hundred soldiers, eight scholars and twelve Temirs – hunters of the Southern continent. Mena knew that they were lost against the Köztar.

Donning an armour of black, Mena left Nahlia to her book.

The Earth was reduced to a vast desert that stretched to the horizon. The darkness of Mena’s boots was engulfed by golden sand as she slipped through the back door and started on her way to the guardhouse.

Navigating her way by lampposts that illuminated the ghost town bordering the guardhouse, Mena felt the ache in her head dull as the system mumbled another order before shutting down again.

She was met by a file of slaves trudging towards the quod. They followed an Oriz who held a chain that bound the slaves by wrist and feet. Their hands were stained black from spending the day toiling in magnetite mines. The Oriz wore a black mask similar to the one she did and barely glanced at her as she passed through the gates.

A decimated prison and the colossal white artillery beamed against the sand. The guile of the regime.

Mena had pulled her dagger out of its sheath and had been preparing to place it in her boot, where she always did whilst on assignment, when a blow to her head blackened her vision.

~

The first thing Mena heard when she regained consciousness was her drumming heart. Darkness dispersed as she regained vision, the heat of a flame drawing her to senses.

An Oriz held a firebrand to her face. And when it withdrew upon seeing her awake, she hoisted herself on the arm of metal. The electric buzz of the system was gone.

The crowd of Orizs and Szónak parted, and she saw him. Wearing a cloak darker than night and a top hat that reached a foot above him was the Doctor.

Memories of when she had first met him flooded her; white lights of an operating room and his voice echoing faintly. “You live by the mercy of the Köztar. What’s given can be taken back.”

He stepped closer and Mena saw the glint of the staff he held was eerily similar to the one the agent had brought to the apothecary.

“The soil of this valley is stained with blood,” He began, “Blood of those who thought themselves superior, who lived to deceive the regime that had shown them mercy.” Mena composed herself and realised where she was. The sand beneath her was red ash.

“Tell me, have you betrayed the Köztar?”

“Yes,” Mena’s voice was hoarse. The Doctor raised a brow in amusement. “Do you know the crimes of which you are guilty?” He walked in circles around her. “No.” “Well, we are merciful enough to inform you of them. Two slaves escaped under your watch, and we have reason to believe you aided them.”

Mena sighed. She did not regret letting the girl and her sister escape. Not when their eyes shone with a glint of humanity that would soon be eradicated. “Moreover, you have been participating in activities designed to harm the regime,” He fiddled with a dagger in his hand - it wasn’t hers.

The sapphire turned a deeper shade of blue when he threw it into a torch held by an Oriz. Mena heard Nahlia’s stifled sobs before she saw her, her hands bound by chains and face muddy. The cloth in her mouth was red.

“Leave her out of it,” Mena spat at the Doctor. The nape of her neck – where the system was implanted – began heating. The Doctor grinned. “Not yet.”

Something shuffled amongst the crowd which had organised itself into a circle. “Do you plead guilty, Subject Beta X121?,” Mena remained quiet, her eyes fixed on Nahlia whose cries had ceased. Her shoulders shook with effort and her grey eyes looked into Mena’s brown ones, devoid of fear.

The Doctor repeated his question and Mena chose to keep her silence. Between the gaps in the circle, Mena glimpsed a dot of gold. Further straining revealed the orange-furred outline of a feline with a golden eye and silver collar. Highness tipped his tufted ears back and sat low, body camouflaging in the sand.

“Do you plead guilty,” The Doctor’s voice was as cold as the midnight chill that grazed Mena’s cheek. “Yes,” She muttered. Her gaze remained unwavering from Nahlia’s when the crowd shuffled. Highness was a shadow.

The Executor emerged, his iron-clad armour breaking the monotony of black. The blade of the scythe he held glinted in the moonlight as he lifted the sheath.

Mena looked up at the night sky bejewelled with stars that glittered like gemstones upon a wolf’s mane. She wanted to taste freedom.

Night wind swirled around the blade as it was brought down. And the caracal’s hiss echoed through the desert.

Caracals were keepers. Survivors. Symbols.

A glimpse of familiarity passed through the Executor’s brown eyes. The assembly stiffened when they realised what was coming their way.

With the wave of caracals that swarmed with silver-teeth flashing and taloned claws gripping the sand, they would beg for mercy.