`Civil War #7 – Chapter One: Ash and Ember`

Civil War #7 – Chapter One: Ash and Ember 

The artificial sun glared down on the commune, casting clean shadows over fields too orderly to be natural. The scent of synthetic wheat mingled with the low hum of the harvest drones drifting overhead. Ash wiped the sweat from his brow with a dirt-streaked hand and swung his scythe into the next stalk. 

“Hey!” a voice cracked through the humid air. 

A crowd had gathered by the hydration station. One of the pleebs—skinny kid, probably just out of basic workschool—was on the ground, holding his cheek. Standing over him was a taller boy in a fitted blue-grey uniform, crisp and uncreased, with the unmistakable angular lines of the upwardly mobile. 

Ash dropped his scythe and jogged over. 

The uniformed teen, all smirk and entitlement, kicked the pleeb’s water canister away. “Did I say you could cut in line, mudrat?” 

Ash stepped between them. “Back off.” 

The upwardly mobile kid raised an eyebrow. “You want to go to the pits for a dirt farmer?” 

“I want you to walk away before I send you there myself.” 

The kid lunged. Ash didn’t hesitate—his fist cracked against the kid’s nose with a satisfying pop. Blood sprayed onto the beige dirt. The kid stumbled back, howling. The onlookers froze. 

Then the sky screamed. 

A flash of heat split the air, and a nearby silo erupted in flame. The ground trembled beneath them. Something—someone—was attacking the commune. 

Panic spread like fire. Workers scattered, screaming. Drones buzzed wildly overhead, caught between programmed efficiency and raw chaos. Sirens, old and unused for years, wailed with a ghostly, distant tone. 

Ash didn’t run. 

A grain hauler—sleek, multi-legged, glowing with red diagnostics—had tipped in the blast. Sparks flew from its joints. Beneath one leg, a man screamed. Trapped. 

Ash sprinted across the dirt, dodging burning debris. He threw his shoulder under the machine and heaved. It groaned but didn’t budge. He tried again. His muscles screamed louder than the wreckage. 

Then another pair of hands joined him. 

Corwin, dressed in slate-black trim and glowing cuffs of rank, appeared at Ash’s side. His hair was clean, his face unlined. He barely looked like someone who’d grown up in the same dirt. 

“You’re going to get crushed,” Corwin muttered. 

Ash didn’t look at him. “Then help or move.” 

Together, they lifted—just enough for the trapped man to crawl free. As soon as he was clear, the hauler collapsed with a final hiss. 

Then came the whine of electric wheels. 

Three security units in gleaming black armor rolled in—two on hover-chariots, one on foot with a pulse baton already charged. The Cops. Their helmets bore the silver crest of the Seven. They scanned the scene and locked onto the brothers. 

“Step away from the pleeb,” one ordered. “State your rank.” 

Ash stepped forward instinctively, but Corwin blocked him, lifting a communicator from his belt. The symbol of the Seven glowed coldly on its face. 

“He’s with me,” Corwin said coolly. 

The cop sneered. “So what? You running with dirt now? Forgot which side your bread’s printed on, kid?” 

Ash tensed. Corwin kept his expression neutral, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed him. 

“Watch it,” the cop added, lifting his baton. “You keep slumming like this, you’ll end up—” 

A long, low hiss split the moment. 

A silver transport—sleek, vertical, nearly silent—descended from the sky, kicking up dust in controlled bursts. The sleek triangle of the Seven gleamed across its nose. 

The security officers stiffened, stepping back in formation. 

Corwin stepped behind his brother, then hesitated—and moved quickly to stand behind the approaching transport. As the side door hissed open and extended its magnetic stair, Corwin took his place just behind the man stepping out, as if rehearsed. 

The Director. 

His presence was immediate and sharp, like the moment just before a blade drops. The Director’s suit shimmered faintly under the burning sky, fabric interwoven with metallic strands that caught and twisted the light. Reflective glasses obscured his eyes, though night had not yet fallen. 

The cop, clearly rattled but still riding the high of authority, muttered under his breath—and then, with a sidelong glance, spat at Corwin’s feet. 

Corwin didn’t move. Not a flinch. But the insult sizzled in the air like static. 

The Director stepped down, boots whispering against the dirt. 

He didn’t look at the spitting cop. Didn’t need to. 

“Something the matter, Officer?” he said, voice silk-wrapped steel. 

The cop stiffened. “No, Director.” 

The Director’s lips curled into the faintest smile. 

“Then perhaps don’t threaten my investments.” 

His eyes never quite landed on Ash, but the word investments made the younger brother feel like a broken tractor engine—useful, replaceable. 

The Director finally turned to Corwin, who stood tall despite the dust on his boots and the spit drying by his heel. 

“You’ll learn,” the Director said smoothly, “that power isn’t about standing apart. It’s about knowing when to pretend you care.” 

Then he walked on, moving past the ruined silo, the smoldering grain hauler, and the gathering crowd like none of it mattered. The cop lowered his head. 

Ash glanced at Corwin, who was now perfectly still—like someone trying not to bleed in a pool full of sharks. 

Corwin didn’t meet his brother’s gaze. 

They returned to the group home just after curfew. The lights overhead flickered, pulsing with the low thrum of surveillance bots monitoring movement from the corners. The common room was mostly empty, a single screen glowing with the day’s top-ranked content creators. 

Ash sneered as a glistening influencer danced on screen, flames behind him and fake tears on his cheeks. “That’s what the attack was. Just someone filming another stunt. People trying to get viral. Like always.” 

Corwin shook his head. “It wasn’t a stunt. It was dissent. Anti-Seven radicals trying to destabilize the commune.” 

Ash shrugged, walking past the flickering screen. “Same difference. Content either way. We’re all just background noise for someone’s channel.” 

They made it to the front office where Headmistress Elira sat behind a glass desk, gray hair pinned tight, eyes sunken with years of tired discipline. A humanoid bot stood silently at her shoulder, arms folded like a soldier. 

“You’re late,” she said flatly. 

Corwin dipped his head. “We helped during the attack.” 

She glanced at the monitor, already updated with The Director’s report. “I know. You did well, Corwin. You listened. That’s what leadership looks like.” 

Then her eyes shifted to Ash. “Your room’s a mess. Again.” 

Ash flinched, visibly rattled. “Sorry. I—” 

“Go fix it,” she cut in. “Now.” 

Ash walked off quickly, his steps sharp and uneven. 

Back in their small shared quarters, Ash pushed open the door and darted inside. He threw his bedding to the floor and dropped to his knees, pulling a loose panel from beneath the bunk. 

His hands trembled as he pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. He unrolled it quickly, flipping through aged, smuggled books—tattered covers, forbidden names. Che Guevara. Fred Hampton. Howard Zinn. 

He turned one over. Pages missing. Another bent. He began rearranging the cache when the door slid open behind him. 

Corwin stood in the doorway. 

Ash froze. 

Corwin’s voice was low, sharp. “You’re still reading that trash?” 

Ash scrambled to hide them, but Corwin was already inside, yanking one of the books from his hand. 

“You want them to search your room?” Corwin hissed. “You want to end up reprogrammed? Or disappeared?” 

Ash looked up, eyes burning. “I want to understand.” 

“You’ll understand nothing if they burn your brain out first.” 

They stared at each other, the silence between them heavier than any siren. 

Then Corwin tossed the book onto the bed and dropped onto the small couch across the room like he owned it. 

He grabbed the remote and powered up the room’s holo-screen. The wall flickered to life, showing a pulsing map of their region—each dot a registered content creator. 

Corwin zoomed in on their commune, tapping a node at random. 

A preteen’s video popped up—a boy laughing uncontrollably as he tripped over himself and landed in a grain vat. Edits added fake audience cheers and emojis. 

Corwin chuckled. “Classic. Idiot humor still gets views.” 

He scanned to the next one, filtering for girls. “Too fat… too funny… too funny-looking,” he muttered, flicking through without shame. 

Ash reached over and yanked the remote from his hand. 

He tapped in a name. Ember. 

Her stream opened. A blonde girl, a few years older than Ash, singing into a salvaged microphone. Her voice was soft, untrained, but something about her presence held stillness in the air. 

Corwin grinned. “Oooh, got a crush? That why your room’s always a disaster? Daydreaming about little miss notes-and-nostalgia?” 

Ash rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. 

Corwin snatched the remote back and tapped into Ember’s profile. He scrolled lazily through her recent videos, scoffing at the earnestness in her thumbnails. 

“She’s too nice,” he said. “Would never give it up easy.” 

Ash’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes lit up with something quiet and sharp. “I know,” he said, a gleam in his gaze. 

Corwin gave him a sideways look but said nothing. 

Then he flipped to the local trending list. 

“Check us out!” he said. “We got on the leaderboard for the day!” 

The screen played a quick clip—grainy footage of Corwin helping lift the hauler, Ash’s face just barely in frame. 

“See?” Corwin said. “We’re not background noise. We are the story.” 

Ash didn’t reply. He just stared at the screen as his own image flickered back at him—pixelated, distorted, already part of someone else’s legend.