Civil War #7 – Chapters 10 and 11

Chapter Ten – Return to the Silence 

Ash rode back to the commune in silence. 

The transport hummed along a raised magline, flanked by sheer fencing and floodlights that turned the outside world into silhouettes and haze. A single enforcer sat at the front of the cabin, motionless behind a dark visor. Ash’s wrists were still cuffed, his body still aching beneath fresh wraps and a cold pain suppressor stitched into his side. 

His mind didn’t stop. 

He kept replaying the moment—the way Corwin slipped the object to the tech, the weight of those old words in the woods, the idea that somewhere, somehow, they might still be playing the same game. 

He didn’t know what the object was. 

But he knew it mattered. 

He would get it to someone. Somewhere. If there was still a resistance out there, he’d find it. And if there wasn’t… 

He’d make one. 

The commune loomed ahead like a gilded cage, familiar but colder now. The gates opened with a hollow chime. Ash stepped out, cuffs removed, no words exchanged. A handler motioned toward the communal dorms. 

Back to his room. Back to the whispers. 

Except the whispers had already started without him. 

Screens lit up across the dorm corridors. Replays of the fight. The Director’s speech. Reactions. Chatter. 

And then— 

Ember. 

Her face appeared on one of the public screens. 

She was sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed, streaming live to her local feed. Her voice was calm but lit with fire. 

“I know what I saw. I saw someone stand up. I saw someone fight. Maybe he lost, but he stood up.” 

The viewer count on her stream was rising fast. So were the comments. 

“Traitor lover.” 

“Finally someone said it.” 

“Watch your back, Ember.” 

She ignored them all. 

“We pretend like we have choices here. Like we get to vote with our likes and hearts and comments. But we don’t get to choose who we admire unless they already tell us who’s safe to cheer for.” 

“I liked Ash before today. I still do.” 

“That’s all I’m saying.” 

The stream cut off. 

Ash stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the now-black screen. 

His fingers curled into fists. 

Not because she’d spoken up. 

Because someone else still believed. 

He turned and walked toward his dorm. 

The game was still on. 

But he wasn’t playing alone anymore. 

Chapter Eleven – Smoke Signals 

The next morning came like ash on the wind. 

Ash stirred in his bunk, sore and restless, the hum of the communal dorms washing over him in low static. The screens above the hall flickered with routine announcements—meal rations, production targets, behavioral highlights. He wasn’t paying attention. 

Until he heard Ember’s name. 

“Communal citizen Ember Rae has been reassigned due to conduct unbecoming of a local representative. No further details will be provided.” 

The voice was synthetic. Flat. Final. 

Ash sat up. 

The screen showed her profile briefly—frozen, grayed out. Her stream archive was gone. Her local feed—locked. Her name was already being replaced in the community highlight scroll. 

Across the room, whispers were growing. 

“Did you hear?” 

“She backed him. That pleeb Ash.” 

“They dragged her out last night. Just gone.” 

Ash stared down at the floor. 

She had spoken up. 

And now she was gone. 

The silence in him wasn’t grief. Not yet. It was fury in a pressure chamber. 

Ash rose from his bunk and drifted through the corridor, headed toward the food station. The hallways smelled like recycled starch and damp plastic. No one looked up. No one asked where Ember had gone. 

The cafeteria was half-empty. He took a tray and let the dispensers cough out a reconstituted meal: gray porridge, two pills, a lukewarm synth-fruit square. 

He sat alone at the edge of the bench seating, staring into the mush as if it might rearrange into something meaningful. 

That’s when Jax walked in. 

Dressed sharp in his status-trimmed jacket, the smug angle of his shoulders said everything. He spotted Ash, and his lips curled. 

“They really don’t learn, do they?” Jax said, sliding his tray down across from Ash. “The ones who stick their necks out always end up reassigned or worse.” 

Ash didn’t look up. “You proud of yourself?” 

Jax shrugged. “I follow the rules. It’s what we’re supposed to do. Maybe if Ember had remembered that, she’d still be streaming dance vids to thirsty nobodies.” 

Ash’s spoon scraped the side of his tray, slow and deliberate. 

“You’re not going to last forever,” Ash said. 

Jax grinned. “Neither are you.” 

He leaned closer, voice dropping. 

“But at least I won’t die alone and forgotten. You think they’ll remember you, Ash? After the next viral fight? After the next round of feed-hungry saviors?” 

He stood, grabbing his tray. 

“Good luck in New York, rebel boy.” 

He left without waiting for a reply. 

Ash stared into his meal a while longer, before pushing it aside and heading back to the courtyard—just in time to hear the rumble of shuttle engines overhead. 

That afternoon, the commune buzzed with a new distraction. 

A shuttle descended near the courtyard, its engines gleaming. Crowds gathered—pleebs leaning against railings, upwardly mobile members standing poised and ready with stream gear. 

A red carpet rolled out. 

Mouse stepped off the shuttle. 

But he wasn’t the Mouse Ash remembered. 

He wore polished boots and a monochrome trench lined in copper thread. His once-hunched shoulders were square. A small badge glimmered near his collar—UPWARDLY MOBILE, stamped beneath a sigil of the Seven. 

But it wasn’t just his posture or the clothes. 

Strapped to his back was a sleek, humming tank—filled with a pulsing black fluid, connected to thin tubing that snaked into ports along his arms and neck. The liquid shimmered like oil under the sun, feeding into him with each rhythmic thrum. 

He was enhanced now. 

A cyborg. 

In the commune, upgrades like that were unheard of—fairy tales and rumors whispered by tech-hungry kids. But in places like New York, where the true Children of the Seven ruled, such enhancements were not just common—they were expected. 

Mouse didn’t just look healthy. 

He looked powerful. 

The handlers beside him stood just out of frame for his stream as he filmed his return. 

“What’s up, fam,” Mouse said into his lens, “It’s good to be home. Sort of.” 

Ash stood near the back of the crowd, watching. 

Mouse caught sight of him and walked over, waving off his handlers. A few upwardly mobile trailed behind, curious. 

“Ash,” Mouse grinned, “look at you. Still got the same scowl. You know, you went viral after the fight. Even the fall looked heroic. Sort of.” 

Ash didn’t speak. 

Mouse’s grin thinned. 

“You’re lucky, you know. Most guys with your track record would already be mist fog by now.” 

Ash’s eyes narrowed. “What did they do to Ember?” 

Mouse’s face flickered—almost sympathy, then apathy. 

“She chose wrong.” 

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. 

“You’re going to New York.” 

Ash’s jaw tensed. 

“They want to make you their martyr. Or their monster. Depends on how the show goes.” 

He stepped back again, voice louder, fake-cheerful for the stream. 

“Still, man… you’ve got that spark. Just don’t let it burn you out.” 

As Mouse turned to leave, he paused. 

“Oh, one last thing.” 

He looked over his shoulder. 

“The Director plays a long game.” 

A long beat. 

“But maybe your brother plays one longer.” 

Then he was gone, swept into the arms of the handlers and the upwardly mobile crowd, his stream echoing down the hallway. 

Ash stood alone. 

But not silent.