Year 192 | August 17 — Southern Camp / Peripheral Zone C
Matt woke to the dry clang of metal echoing in the distance. It wasn't an alarm. Or a call. Just South Camp breathing from the inside — if that could still be called breathing. Some days, the system seemed to pulse like a caged beast. Others, like today, it only groaned.
He opened his eyes slowly, careful not to move too much on the torn canvas mattress beneath him. The upper corner of the wall trembled with the effort of a rusted vent. Rust had drawn maps where paint once lived. There was moisture. There was the smell of old electricity.
Beside him, Luke slept with his mouth slightly open. His blond hair — thin and messy — stuck to his sweaty forehead. His hands were clenched, as if still fighting something in his dreams. Seven years old. Three of them spent in here. His green eyes, when open, always looked too bright for this place.
Matt was ten. He'd been at the Camp for six years. He was blond too, with green eyes, though his hair was almost always hidden under the worn cap of the standard uniform: a long-sleeved brown shirt, dark pants, and shoes with thinning soles. They wore the same outfit, the only difference being their height — and the way Matt wrapped his old jacket around his brother on colder days.
"It wasn't supposed to be him here with me," Matt muttered, not sure if he was talking to Luke or to himself.
He slipped out of the makeshift bed and adjusted the blanket over his brother. His fingers brushed gently over the seam he'd stitched weeks earlier. The corner was coming undone again.
"That day... I didn't really get what they meant about splitting a sentence," he whispered, smoothing the rough fabric. "I just didn't wanna be away from him."
He put on the brown shirt and the shoes with the worn soles. The electronic bell hadn't rung yet, but the shift would start soon. In the Camp, time didn't follow clocks — it followed noises, commands, and machines that decided when the day began.
They walked down together through the grated corridor to the transport yard. Luke yawned, eyes half-open, one hand gripping his brother's sleeve. They passed two watchtowers — one with its spotlight hanging to the side, the other with a shattered cabin window. The drone that usually hovered there was gone.
"I think another one crashed last night."
Matt nodded but didn't answer. Luke always spoke softly when talking about drones — like he was afraid they could still hear him.
Where the tracks split, a bruised apple lay in the corner, covered in dust and moss. Luke spotted it first. He crouched, glanced around, then met Matt's eyes. He didn't say a word.
Matt lifted the edge of his coat and made space near his body. Luke got it. He hid the fruit and kept walking, his steps lighter now, almost cheerful.
The entrance to the parts hangar already reeked of heat. A metallic haze crawled through the cracks, shaping shadows in the artificial light. The floor, stained with old oil trails, clinked with every new hit of the conveyor belts.
"If you stay on the green plates, it's cooler," Matt said, pulling Luke to the left side. The red plates buzzed louder — a sign of circuit overload.
Inside, the sound was constant. Mechanical arms cut, welded, joined — as if the world depended on that rhythm. Maybe it did.
Each kid had a station. Luke handled the light parts, stacking molds and activating test sensors. Matt worked the joining molds — tougher, riskier.
Steam rose in columns, building an industrial fog. Voices got lost in the noise, swallowed by the machines' steady pulse.
"Matt."
The voice came quietly, between cycles. Luke kept his eyes on the mold he was stacking.
"They said some machines downtown stopped working. Like... really stopped. No one can turn them back on."
Matt felt his blood chill. The hand guiding the lever froze half a second before the click.
"It's not the first time I hear that. But they never say where. Never the truth. Who told you?"
"Sami. He said his brother came back and told him. But people don't really believe it."
Matt adjusted the piece and locked it in place. He looked at Luke for a moment that lasted too long, then turned to the side grille. A shadow moved there.
Gav.
The veteran caretaker crossed the sector with firm steps. His uniform was the same as everyone else's — just cleaner. His hands were always stained with old oil. On his face, a crooked smile that mocked his own exhaustion.
"Matt. Line three's out of sync. Or maybe it's just tired — who knows. These machines wake up cranky."
Matt rushed to the transport base. The main pipe had twisted slightly, leaving a gap where pressure leaked.
"You know how to fix it?"
"Yeah. I mean... I think so."
"Good. 'Cause if you mess it up, line three blows, and we'll have to put on a circus show to distract the others while we fix it."
Matt turned the power key, adjusted the lower lock, tightened the valve with the pressure pin, and tested the return from the side panel. The click said it worked. But Gav's gaze still weighed on him.
The man crouched, fixing a loose joint Matt had missed.
"See that? Leave it like this, and the machine throws a tantrum. And nobody wants to see a machine throwing a tantrum — they're worse than hungry kids."
Matt smiled without showing his teeth. Gav winked and gave him two pats on the neck.
"Good work. Next time, just pretend you were born knowing. We'll pretend we believe you."
Even when he messed up, Gav still taught him — in his own way.
By the end of the shift, their eyes burned. The dust from the parts clung to their skin. Luke wiped his hands on his shirt. Matt just watched. There wasn't enough water for everyone. And it wasn't their turn in line.
The sky beyond the dome always looked faded. But that afternoon, something was off. There was color. A strange green glow, diffused and filtered through layers of dust and artificial light — like the sky itself was getting sick.
"Look..." Luke pointed.
Matt lifted his eyes. No sound.
No drones. No automatic commands. No orders. No blinking lights from the towers. No static from the speakers.
Just silence.
A silence so heavy it made his eardrums ache.
He looked around. The other recruits had stopped too. Some hugged their arms. Others just stared at the sky.
Then he felt it.
A faint vibration, barely there, running through the metal tracks under his feet. Like something was breathing down below. Something huge. Something asleep.
Luke tugged his sleeve.
"Matt... what is it?"
Even silence shouldn't sound like this.
He didn't answer.
The sky turned greener.
And no system came back online that day.
◇◆◇
Year 192 | August 19 — Northern Camp / Peripheral Zone S
The smell of cheap disinfectant mixed with grease made her eyes sting. The main hallway of Block C — narrow, lined with cracked tiles — was as damp as ever, with gray puddles reflecting the pale glare of the high lamps. Vika pushed the cleaning cart with hunched shoulders, arms tight, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Five rows. Three hallways. Then the disposal wing. Just that."
Her cracked boot slid over an oil streak, but she caught her balance with a sharp, practiced move. The graphite-gray jumpsuit hung from her thin body like an old rag. The hand-sewn side stripes had come loose again, revealing parts of her scarred leg. Her blue-gray hair was tied in a messy knot. It was always tied. Always dirty. Always out of the way.
The drone fixed in the ceiling corner gave a weak beep. Its scratched lens turned toward her. Vika didn't stop. Didn't look up. Just kept going.
The cart rattled with expired bottles, peeling labels, and yellowed liquids. At the bottom, a roll of stained cloth dripped an unidentifiable mix. It was the same every day. Almost every day. Except when there was an inspection — but there hadn't been one in weeks.
In the side corridor, two other girls scrubbed the floor with broken brushes. Same age, maybe a little younger. One kept coughing nonstop.
Still got lungs. That's something.
The smell of unwashed bodies grew stronger as she neared Wing Four. Vika stepped around a larger puddle and turned left. A group of smaller inmates huddled in the back beside empty supply crates. They were laughing at something she didn't hear. One of them stared at her — tall, broad-shouldered, shaved on the sides. Her uniform had red-stitched marks — signs of punishment. And survival.
Vika walked past without changing pace. But the woman moved.
"You carrying something there, kid?"
She grabbed the cart with a filthy hand, stopping it with a thud.
"You shouldn't be walking here alone."
Vika didn't reply. She slowly released the handle. The woman stepped closer, trying to snatch one of the bottles.
It happened fast. Vika twisted her wrist, shoved the woman's elbow with her shoulder, and drove her own elbow into the exposed ribs. The inmate staggered back with a muffled sound — more surprised than hurt.
"You little—!"
Vika had already grabbed the cart and vanished down the next hallway.
The trick is never stop. Never.
No alarm. No drone. Nobody cared.
Farther ahead, near the pipe sector, something made her stop. Leaning against a hot, humming tube, a small girl was crouched down. Her knees were scraped, her thin elbows pressed to her chest. She cried with red, voiceless eyes — like she'd already screamed too much.
Her dirty hands clutched her stomach. Her mouth opened and closed in an empty motion, as if still asking but no longer expecting anything.
Vika watched for a second.
If you give now… you'll have to give forever.
At the bottom of the cart lay a dry cookie, forgotten between rags. She saw it. Thought about it. Then turned away.
The girl lifted her eyes.
"Please…" she whispered, barely audible. "Just a piece…"
Vika froze for a moment. Her fingers brushed the side of the cart — then gripped tighter.
"You won't last if you keep begging like that."
"But… I'm hungry."
"Everyone is."
"Are you like them?"
"No. I'm just someone who learned."
"Learned what?"
"To turn my back."
The girl sniffled.
"When I grow up, will I turn my back too?"
"If you grow up. You will."
"Have you done it before?"
Vika hesitated. "Yeah. And I'm still alive."
"Then… maybe I need to learn too."
Vika nodded — barely. Then, without another word, she walked away.
(Pain teaches more than pity.)
As she turned the next corner, muffled voices came from a group near the broken ventilation duct. Three older inmates spoke close together, almost whispering.
"They said it was their mother's inheritance. Sixty years of sentence split between her three kids."
"She died in the third cycle, and they still threw the three of them into different camps."
"They shouldn't be allowed to. None of them even committed a crime."
"They don't care about crime. Only about numbers."
"That's why we're here. 'Reeducation,' they call it. But this is inheritance. Blood prison."
Vika passed without looking, but the image of the crying girl still echoed inside her — even without a name.
So that's how a sentence multiplies. Like a plague.
Three steps past the duct, the floor vibrated under her boots. A low sound — almost a distorted note — echoed through the pipes like a trapped scream.
The ceiling shook.
The lights flickered — and changed color.
From cold white to a sickly, pulsating hue between green and orange. Sirens began to howl, first high-pitched, then deep. It wasn't the sound of the daily alarms. It was something else. Something old. Uneven. Wrong.
Vika stopped in the middle of the hallway. Behind her, the little girl was still curled up. Ahead, the side ceiling of Wing Three collapsed with a deafening crash. Dust and shards of metal exploded into the air.
No command. No voice through the speakers. The drones shut down. The camp stopped. The vibration wasn't just in the structures — it came from inside.
Vika looked up. Above her, a fresh crack split the ceiling like a crooked scar.
It wasn't the end.
But something had started to break.
◇◆◇
Year 192 | August 22 — Eastern Camp / Peripheral Zone A
The crates were stacked in a shaky pile, like they were just waiting for an excuse to collapse. They were all bigger than her. Every single one. Gray on gray. Matte plastic, rusted metal, and the smell of old mold.
Sierra was small, bony, with thin arms and knees marked by old bruises. Her black-blue hair was tied in a messy knot at the back of her neck, loose strands sticking to her forehead. She wore the standard uniform, but the shirt was way too big, the sleeves folded over and over.
She stared at the crates with the same look she used for the world: cold, calculating, silent.
They want me to prove something. I just wish they'd stop looking.
The eyes on her weren't curious. They were restless. Suspicious. Officers, recruits, older kids — no one spoke, but she could feel it. The weight of their stares pressed against her back like something sticky that wouldn't come off.
"Move that."
The voice cracked through the air. The officer was tall, dressed in the black uniform with red details worn by cargo-sector supervisors. Pale skin, sunken eyes, and a beard shaved in a rush. His fingers tapped impatiently on the side of the electric baton clipped to his belt.
Sierra didn't answer right away. Her eyes moved carefully toward the nearest crate.
"I... I can't reach it. The wheels are busted. I can't do it alone."
"Yes, you can. Or do I need to call backup?"
She tried again. Pushed with her shoulders, using all her weight. The crate didn't move. The officer sighed loudly, then shoved her aside. She fell on the concrete, scraping her hands as she tried to break the fall.
"Get up. This isn't a daycare for Type-As."
The other kids looked for a second, then turned away just as fast.
Type-A. Always that name. Like it was inherited. Like she'd chosen it.
She got up slowly. Her knee throbbed. Her hands stung. But her gaze stayed steady.
If I fall again, they'll laugh. If I stand, they'll hate me. There's no winning here.
Two boys whispered near the east corridor, their uniforms stained and faded.
"She's a Type-A kid. Bet she's gonna blow something up."
"Or go crazy like her mom. They say she burned people just by looking."
Sierra heard them, even though she didn't want to. She didn't reply. Pretended not to. Her mother always hugged her gently — never hurt her, or anyone else.
A bit farther, two girls whispered while stacking boxes.
"She shouldn't be here. They should've sent her to a place for people like her."
"Or the basement. We shouldn't have to share space with one of those."
Sierra walked closer and, pretending to push a crate, murmured softly, "I'm only here 'cause they made me. Just like you."
The girls stared at her for a second, then turned their backs, as if touching her could infect them.
The cargo sector was one of the oldest parts of East Camp — low ceiling, exposed beams, tangled hanging wires, warning signs with faded letters. The lights flickered like a faulty breath. Dust twisted in spirals inside the light beams.
Sierra moved from crate to crate. Pushed what she could, faked moving what she couldn't. Every muscle complained, but her eyes stayed sharp.
An older boy came up beside her. Dark eyes, blank expression. He stopped next to her.
"If you're smart, you'll stay quiet. If you try anything…"
She looked straight at him — the first time she'd faced anyone there. "And if I do? You gonna stop me?"
He didn't answer, but the finger slicing across his neck said enough.
I didn't ask for any of this. I just exist.
Then the sound changed.
First, a hiss — soft, like a broken code trying to rebuild itself through the speakers. Then, a crackle of electricity across the ceiling. The lights flickered harder. Then came the tremor.
This place can't hold much longer.
The crates rattled. A side gate started dropping early, without warning. Kids screamed. Some ran the other way. The officer shouted orders, but most got swallowed by the noise of failing alarms.
Sierra ran. Her knee gave out. She fell.
The ceiling groaned like cracking ice. A beam shifted. Bits of plaster rained down. She tried to crawl, but something held her — her ankle, trapped under a bent metal strip. The crate beside her tilted, about to fall.
I'm gonna die here.
But something broke. Inside. As if the world itself hesitated for just a moment. The crate froze midair — a fraction of a second. Time wavered. A low, deep hum filled everything.
It wasn't visible. It wasn't a force. It was a pause. A refusal.
Sierra yanked herself sideways. The crate crashed down where she'd been. The metal clanged like snapping bones.
She crawled under a low beam, arms bleeding, face coated in dust. When she looked back, she saw the other kids staring — some bleeding, some unconscious.
The lights flickered back on. The hum reset the system. But no one explained anything. No voice came from the speakers. The officer was gone.
Sierra stayed on her knees among twisted crates. The air smelled like burning. And fear.
Now everyone was looking at her again.
Not like she was new
Like she was dangerous.
An older girl pointed at her, voice shaking with anger.
"It was her. I saw it. She did something."
Some backed away. Others whispered. The same boy who'd threatened her took a step forward — but before he could move closer, another voice broke in.
"Leave her alone."
It was a tall boy with messy brown hair and freckles dusting his cheeks. He held a small pack of bandages and a bottle of water.
"Here. It's not much, but it helps."
She hesitated. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"'Cause you're hurt. And 'cause sometimes… people are just lonely. And they need someone."
Sierra held the bottle with shaking, dirty hands. The silence between them felt different. Not the kind made of fear. Or threat.
He knelt, pulled a rag from his pocket, and started helping stack one of the fallen crates beside her.
"You don't have to do that for me."
"I'm not. I'm doing it 'cause no one should go through this alone."
Sierra looked at him for a few seconds. Then helped. Without another word.
Maybe it was just a mistake. But if it wasn't… what did I just do?