I'm drowning in shadow that tastes like copper.
I lay in a vast void of darkness; no air, no up, no down. Stars begin to burn overhead, cutting through the emptiness. Constellations forming words that I can't understand; every time I reach for their meaning, they scatter and reform.
At the edge of perception stands a silhouette. It wore my face, only— older. Deep brown eyes, scars, and cracked lips. He's fighting... Always fighting. Losing every single time. Yet he always fights.
Inside me, something vast unfurls. Unfathomable.
In the same place, at the same time, a woman made of ice stands frozen. Tears of purple gold run down her cheeks, evaporating before they fall. Her mouth shapes one silent word that I cannot hear.
The silhouette leans close now, even older and more worn. I can feel its breath on my skin.
"Find,"It whispers, voice harsh and degrading.
Then, without warning, every star blinked shut. No explosion. No sound. No light. Only a dream of a dream; a memory of what once was.
I lay in a vast void of darkness; no air, no up, no down.
Only the taste of copper in my mouth, it crushes me, folds me and swallows me whole.
-
I snapped awake.
Another damn dream... They keep getting weirder.
My mouth still tasted of copper. It was thick. The sensation filled my mouth, coating my tongue. Permeated every nook and fold.
6:47 AM glared at me from across the room.
I rolled from my bed and stumbled to my ensuite. With a heave, I pulled myself over the sink and spat clear saliva. Rinsed my mouth. Spat again.
Still, copper.
I looked into the mirror and opened my mouth, pulling apart my lips, trying to see where the taste was coming from. I lifted my tongue and waggled it around to get a better look. There was nothing out of the ordinary, no sores or even a bleed.
For half a heartbeat, the bathroom mirror showed my face,—The silhouette of a dying man stared back. I jerked away, stumbling back into my room. The tiles offered no purchase as my feet slipped from beneath me. I landed hard and with a thud. My elbow screamed in pain, but it felt distant, my mind still reeling from the shock.
I didn't move. The walls and roof blurred around me as I tried to slow my breathing.
That was...
I turned my head toward the bathroom door, half-expecting him to step through it. Nothing. Slowly, I pushed myself up onto my elbows and then my knees.
Just anxiety. Yeah- anxiety...
Sickness overwhelmed my senses; I needed air. From a crawl to a stand, I rushed to the other side of the room, yanked the curtains across, and gulped air into my lungs. The cool air calmed my racing heartbeat, but copper persisted. Moments passed as I stared out into the morning air, trying to soothe my mind by watching the city below.
Auralith hung low and swollen over the city of Acheron. Her younger sister Vesperon trailed behind her like an afterthought. Their light fought against bright neon that rose as spires of advertisements and federation propaganda.
My thoughts drifted to tomorrow. The Testing. A hundred thousand pairs of eyes, judging, while machines ranked drops of blood from every fourteen-year-old in the city. Our worth would be displayed side by side on holographic screens for all to witness; our futures decided by one single result.
Time passed as the sun began to rise, my breathing eventually calming with each minute that passed. Eventually, I was pulled from my thoughts by the subtle odour of something burning. The smell tickled my nose; charred glowroot.
"Mother must be cooking breakfast."
But it was strange, Mother never burned breakfast.
I shut the window.
Stepping back, I headed through my door and into the hallway. Sara's door was closed, and the lights were off.
[Thirty-eight days since last message]
"One, two, three… twelve." Twelve steps. I counted them every morning now. Ever since she left. It helped drown out the silence that echoed from her room.
"Marcus?" Mother's voice floated up; it cracked on the second syllable. "Breakfast is ready, honey!"
My ears perked at her call, my stomach growling. Before I knew it, my legs carried me down the stairs.
The kitchen was large and comprised of clean lines and practical surfaces. Stainless metal counters, with a traditional gas-fired stove set in. Pans hung in order of size, and knives were arranged by length. There were no decorative touches; just equipment maintained to inspection standards. This was Mother's domain, but built to Tiernan specification.
Mother was at the stove, humming an old military cadence lullaby. The same she used to hum to me whenever I had nightmares; back when the nightmares used to be about buggers under my bed. Her chestnut brown hair flowed behind her as she cooked away. Yet there was no blackened smoke, no burnt food, no sign of where the burning smell had come from.
Father sat at the table, back straight as on parade days. He hadn't noticed me yet; instead, his attention firmly sat on a holopad angled just beyond my view. His brow was furrowed as his steel grey eyes darted across the screen in a strict mechanical fashion.
I rolled lightly onto my toes, pushing myself upwards slightly so that I could sneak a glimpse without being obvious. It was a spreadsheet of endless names, a casualty sheet.
Was he searching for Sara's name?
After a beat, he looked up. I quickly rolled back onto my heels and pretended not to look. If he noticed, he didn't show it. His lips curled into a warm smile that almost made me feel better. I formed a smile of my own mouth trying to reciprocate. It was unconvincing even to me. He must have noticed the strain as he stood up from the table, and opened his arms.
A whirl of emotion roiled in my stomach; I forced myself forward into his embrace. His arms wrapped around me, warm and large. He held me like he did when I was seven, as though I just scraped my knees. Tight and fierce. For just a second, I felt better, warmer. Yet it was ruined by the dawning sensation that something bad had happened... Was Sara—
"Morning, kiddo," he murmured into my hair.
"Morning, Father." I hugged back, suppressing an internal scream.
Father released me slowly, like he was afraid I'd break if he let go too fast. I waited for the dreaded words, but they never came.
"Aww, look at you two." Mother beamed.
Stepping forward, she touched my face, her thumbs tracing my cheekbones as if memorising them. "My handsome boy. You look more like your Father every day."
"Mother..."
The moment was cut short as Father let out a boisterous laugh; my face burned red from embarrassment. I pulled from her touch with a huff and sat down at the table, just opposite Father.
"Are you excited for tomorrow? It's a big day!" That look in his eyes…
Filled with expectation. Pride. Certainty.
The look on my face made Father laugh, again.
"No need to worry, kiddo. After all, Tiernan blood runs true!" Father boomed the family motto
One golden chicken egg, perfectly centred and specially imported from Earth. Several strips of veilweed curled into ribbons. And glowroot, a local tuber, formed into neat balls of fried savoury goodness. My stomach rumbled, but I had no appetite.
Father leaned over the table and ruffled my hair. "Eat," he said with a gentle gruffness. "You'll need your strength."
Mother sat beside me, our shoulders barely touching. She didn't eat; instead, she watched me take the first bite, smiling as if it were my birthday. It tasted like home. It tasted like every morning she woke up early to cook for us. For thirty seconds, the kitchen was warm.
The low hum of a shuttle outside interrupted the tenderness; our gazes shifted collectively to the front door. After an agonising moment of anticipation, it opened. The warmth cracked like thin ice.
General Arthur Tiernan—my Grandfather—entered, occupying the space. War medals gleamed on his uniform, iron-grey hair cut short, posture perfect. He resembled the man from my dream: same cheekbones, same mouth. Only the eyes were different; gunmetal grey, not brown. For a moment, I thought the silhouette had learned to walk in daylight.
I froze mid-bite.
Father's chair scraped back like a rifle bolt. He stood at attention before he'd even realised he'd moved.
"Still spoiling him, Sophia?"
Mother lifted her chin and spoke with confidence, "Someone has to."
A sound that could have been amusement escaped the man's lips. He continued forward, stopping just by my chair. A gloved hand came down on my shoulder, heavy, but not crushing. His fingers gave one gentle squeeze, the closest thing to affection I'd seen him allow in uniform.
"Tonight's your Testing-eve dinner." He paused, "Conduct yourself as a Tiernan when it arrives."
He removed his hand from my shoulder and turned to Mother. "Save me some of those glowroot balls. Your recipe's still better than the officers' mess."
"Of course, General." Mother replied with a smile.
Grandfather wheeled on his heel at the response and marched back towards the front door. He opened it and paused.
"Dress uniform, Marcus. The holo-recorders like clean lines, and your grandmother's ghost likes seeing her grandson sharp."
The door closed behind him with the same soft click. The kitchen breathed again. Father exhaled, as if he'd been holding it for years and relaxed his posture.
Mother stood from the table, wiping her hands on her apron. "We can't sit here all day. Finish your breakfast and get ready, we'll walk the long way to the tailor. Your dress uniform needs pressing for tonight."
I nodded at the words and began devouring my meal, using it as a distraction for what was to come.
I followed Mother into the upper-residential district. District 1 was smaller than the rest of Acheron, home to elite families and the wealthy. Large houses, beautiful gardens, and pricey hovercraft lined the streets in orderly rows.
Beyond the buildings and on the horizon, the city centre loomed in sight.
Thousands of star-lanterns drifted above rooftops, slow and deliberate, each one a drop in an ocean of neon and morning light. Colossal holoprojectors towered, streaming Federation propaganda: a Seraph-class mech cleaving Buggers in half with a molten sword, a ticker warning of elevated ether anomalies reported in sectors 7, 12 and 14, and a building-sized countdown:
TIME UNTIL TESTING: 27:47:24
27:47:23
27:47:22
27:47:21
I couldn't take my eyes from the countdown, watching it as we walked. Each second felt like a punch in my stomach.
Mother's hand tightened on my arm as she pulled me forward. We started the long descent down from the district's ridge, leaving the quiet gardens and high walls behind. We had to pass through several upper and middle-class housing districts before reaching the city proper. The walk would take an hour, maybe more.
Below, the boulevard flowed like a living thing. Figures wearing everything from silks to uniforms, to patched browns and greys. They moved from block to block. To the right, it was industrial and concrete. Smog billowed upwards in towers of blackened air, drifting towards the main streets. Only to be blocked by an invisible wall, causing it to cascade higher. To the left, a metropolitan paradise of bright colours and refined buildings, where people laughed, danced and cheered. Separated by a single road.
We turned before the boulevard, slipping into a side street that smelled of starch and old money. Crowds thinned; propaganda noise faded. Three blocks of the High-Class Service District carried us from downtown's noise and delivered us to the tailors.
A brass bell tolled as we stepped inside. Bolts of military dyes lined the walls like regiments at parade: midnight blue, light grey, blood red. High-quality too.
The tailor emerged from the back, wiping his hands on an apron. His gaze slid across Mother's face, then dropped to the folded uniform in her arms. The moment he saw the Tiernan crest stitched in silver thread, his shoulders folded forward. With a bow, he took the garment with both hands as though it might burn him, and vanished behind the curtain. No questions, no quoted price.
In less than two minutes, he returned, the dress uniform already pressed to a knife's edge, every seam perfect. He held it out like an offering, eyes fixed to the floorboards.
Mother's fingers brushed his as she accepted it. "Thank you, Master Lorne," she said.
He didn't look up.
-
By the time we arrived home, the sun had already started to sink behind the industrial district's towers, painting everything the colour of rust. Grandfather's anti-grav shuttle sat in our drive like a predator in waiting. I could feel Mother's hand firmly tightening on my shoulder.
Inside, I could hear voices that echoed from the dining room. Uncle Michael's laugh, sharp and performative. Uncle David's lower tones, probably bragging about his son's B-Grade assessment from last year. Fewer voices than I feared, more than I had hoped...
Mother stopped me before the entrance, fixed my already perfect collar and smoothed my hair. Her hands were deft and soft.
"Remember," she said gently, "Don't let tonight get to you. Stiff upper lip."
Her voice betrayed her words; her gaze was soft and mellow. I knew she wanted to comfort me, but now wasn't the time. After studying my face for a long, suffocating moment, she let go. Her gait stiffened as she became the proper Tiernan wife once more, her mask sliding back into place. We moved forward.
The front door was old wood, real wood, shipped from Earth at absurd cost. A gift from Grandfather. It was supposed to represent origins, tradition and family. But right now... It looked voracious, as if it were going to devour me whole.
"Ready?" Mother asked, though we both knew the answer didn't matter.
She exhaled once, steadied herself, and pushed the door open.
Light spilled.
The conversation silenced.