Rude Awakening

The first thing Anzel felt was the wheat, soft, warm, and impossibly real. It whispered against his bare skin like breath, the delicate blades rising and falling with the breeze. His eyes opened slowly, light flooding in as if someone had pried open the sky. Above him, a dark grey dome of clouds stretched thin over the world, untouched by the smog that choked the city below him. The rain had ceased and small rays of light peaked through the heavenly cover beyond, one streaming down to hit the area he currently lay.

He sat up with a groan, blinking against the haze of confusion. A wheat field, golden and swaying, surrounded him on the hillside, its roots stubbornly gripping the land on the city's outer lip. Beyond the incline to the left of him was the ocean, dark and still as glass, stretching endlessly toward a horizon veiled in fog. To the right of him, the crumbling black spires of Section 7-A pierced the sky like rotting teeth. The city looked even worse from this vantage, a dying thing pretending to live.

"You're awake," came Hazil's voice, calm and a little amused. She sat a few feet away still dressed in her tactical gear before tossing a bundle of jet-black military clothes into his lap, much like his previous outfit yet devoid of the Axis attachments. "Get dressed. You're creeping me out."

He looked down and realized, with mild horror, that he was completely naked. Of course. No rebirth came with dignity.

Anzel tugged the upper half of the uniform over his head and laced up the outfit's rough cargo pants, still reeling from the weight of his own limbs. His body felt lighter and foreign like someone had borrowed it and given it back with unfamiliar wiring. The reconstruction was perfect, sure, but it wasn't him. Not completely.

"You always take the effort to bring me back to our field," he muttered.

Hazil gave a small, dry smile. "Figured it'd be nicer than a metal slab."

He nodded, breathing in the scent of wheat and salt. "Thanks."

They sat in silence for a long while, the wind tugging lazily at their clothes as they watched the city, cloaked in a thick blanket of grey smog, continuously cough dark fumes into the sky before Anzel's eyes wandered to face behind him at his and his sister's shack, more so a miniature tower built of the same brutalistic material of the city below.

"This is my home," he muttered.

The thought made his chest tighten — not with warmth, but with guilt. How many people had died just to get him here again?

Hazil finally broke the silence. "You ever think about getting out of the foot soldier rotation? Maybe aiming for commander? I mean to actually get shit done. With authority." She paused. "You keep complaining you have no say in what happens. That if only you had a little more influence, a little more power..."

Anzel paused, startled at the sudden spark of conversation before running a hand through his hair, still sticky from dried reconstruction fluid. He had thought many times about becoming a commander, a grand figure revered by all those around him. Those dreams died after the incident a few years ago. He hesitated. "Come on Hazil, stop joking around like that. You know I don't have what it takes. I'm not like you. I'm just—I make bad calls, Hazil. Tajin, the squad… even the kid," Anzel stopped for a second to take in a sharp breath. "I couldn't save them."

"Then become someone who can."

Anzel wanted to argue. To crawl back into the comfort of self-loathing. But something about the way Hazil said it — not with pity, not with false hope — made it hard to ignore. She wasn't coddling him. She believed it was his only way forward.

He glanced sideways at her. "You really think it's that simple, huh?"

She stood up and stretched, the sun catching the edge of her blonde hair. "Nothing's simple in this city."

Her tone darkened as she shifted the conversation.

"Speaking of which… something's going on. Below the surface."

Anzel raised an eyebrow.

"Section 7-A is on the edge," she said. "Military reports claim several sub-cities went dark in the last week. They're calling it 'quarantine enforcement,' labeling the agricultural networks as biohazard zones."

He turned toward her fully. Section-7A's sub-cities were smaller versions of the main city which focused on providing an agricultural network to fuel Section-7A's populace. "That's a major supply chain for this city's food. If those routes happen to be cut—"

"Exactly. Food, water, stabilization meds — all blocked off. And guess who's filling the gap?"

"…Cyros," he said bitterly. Anzel's stomach twisted. Cyros was the offshore authority that claimed control over all developments in military tech and anti-Havok operations, working in collaboration with the Coalition Army.

Hazil nodded. "They've also been importing containers of 'classified materials' from the sea by the dozens. No manifest. No military oversight. Just straight into the docks."

The wind seemed to shift a little colder now.

"And the Peacekeepers?" he asked. Peacekeepers were the main way Cyros enacted their power in various city sections.

"Working overtime," she said. "Public executions almost every day now. They're gathering anyone suspected of infection and parading them in front of city centers. No due process. No trial. Just a gun and a timer."

Anzel clenched his fists. "What about the High Commander?" He was the ruling force of Section-7A's stratocracy.

Hazil's voice was ice. "Not a damn word. No press briefings. No troop reallocations. Nothing."

A long silence followed. The two of them stood at the edge of the hill, the field bending low around them as the wind picked up again.

"You think it's war?" Anzel asked quietly.

Hazil looked out over the sea.

"I think Cyros is preparing for something. And the Coalition is either too scared or too complicit to act. I don't know. Maybe I'm just paranoid… "

Anzel looked at her — really looked — and saw the tired rage behind her eyes. The entire reason Hazil had joined the military was to uncover the seeds of corruption alongside the inherent secrets of the Coalition Army and any ruling government force for that matter, a habit she picked up after her parents, once summoned by officials of the army for no apparent reason, had disappeared without a trace. No explanation. Nothing. Yet the army seemed to be adamant in keeping any information on the subject secret.

They had let Hazil into the army years later in what Anzel assumed was hopes that she would die an early death and complete whatever supposed coverup was happening. Yet she survived, even going so far as to become first Lieutenant at one point, before getting involved in Anzel's incident had demoted her to second Lieutenant as of late. For that, he felt deeply ashamed knowing that he had halted her pursuit of truth to some degree. Before then, many in the army revered her, only a select few officials, who Hazil suspected were in on whatever happened to her parents back then, keeping weary looks of contentment toward her now that she had become a potential threat to their operations. They had greatly protested her rise to power and yet she prevailed. And now she was hated and mistreated by both parties, emotions engineered by said officials and exacerbated with the occurrence of the incident. Anzel tried to pull his mind away from such thoughts.

He started to respond to her concerns yet was cut off by a distant howl of sirens, echoing up from the valley below. The city shuddered under the sound — long, blaring tones like the cries of dying machines.

Hazil stared downward. "Another purge," she said bitterly.

Even from here, they could see the smoke rising higher, as if the city was standing in preparation for the events about to come. The peacekeepers had begun another public execution — the ones infected or simply found unlucky would soon die horrifying and unjust deaths for reasons outside of their control. Anzel's heart twisted knowing that a vast majority of those being executed today were as a matter of fact not infected, rather they were more or less likely being rounded up for some form of petty crime or speaking out against those in authority. Something he heard those within the Coalition Army refer to as "Street Sweeping."

Hazil turned and walked toward Anzel's home, muttering softly, "I need a drink."

Anzel remained outside, watching the dark plumes rise from the heart of the city, lost in thought. The fragile little capsule of safety where Anzel and his sister, Hope, could call home was their only escape from the ugliness of the world. He hadn't realized how long it'd been since he had first inherited the home from his parents. He had long past forgotten his father who he had never known and his mother had ventured somewhere far off for some form of research being conducted in a foreign land, only to cease all communication months later, leaving Anzel and his sister to fend for themselves. Subsequently, he had been drafted into the Coalition Army which provided them with meager wages that kept them afloat. Pondering upon this for another few moments he rested his eyes. 

That was when he heard it — the sound of shattering glass, a frantic curse, and the door swinging open behind him.

Hazil burst out, eyes wide. "Anzel—!"

He turned, body suddenly tensing.

"She's not here. Hope's gone."

The world froze.

Anzel's breath caught in his throat. "What?"

"She's not anywhere. No food eaten. No supplies taken. She didn't just go for a walk—she's gone."

He stormed past her into the house, eyes scanning the sparse interior. Her cot. The little table. The knapsack where she kept her trinkets. Empty.

No blood. No signs of a fight. Just absence.

Hope.

Anzel stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

Not her. Please, not her.

The sirens continued their incessant howling in the distance.

And for the first time since his resurrection, Anzel felt alive again — but only because something inside him was already beginning to break.