The wind had been quiet for days, like it was holding its breath. The kind of stillness that made people nervous. John Voss stood on the crumbling edge of Fortis Isle, staring out over the gray horizon, his face weathered by time, his eyes shaded beneath the brim of his old military cap. The ruins of a once-thriving island stretched out before him—buildings, shattered and burnt to their skeletons, roads cracked and swallowed by weeds. There was no life in this place, not anymore.

He flexed his stiff fingers, feeling the ache shoot up his arms. The war had taken its toll on his body, but that was only the half of it. The scars on his face, on his chest, those were from the things he’d seen, from the things he’d done.

But now, all that was left was the quiet. The endless quiet.

“John.” The voice came from behind him. Clara. Always there, steady as a heartbeat. She was a stark contrast to him—young, determined, eyes still sharp, full of the idealism that he’d lost long ago. She hadn’t seen what he had. She hadn’t lived through the war, the betrayals, the chaos. She didn’t know the price of survival.

“Still waiting,” he muttered.

She stepped up beside him, her boots crunching softly on the broken pavement. The wind, thin and cold, tugged at the edges of her jacket, but she didn’t seem to mind. Clara was tougher than people gave her credit for. A product of the Pacific Northwest—her roots buried deep in a world that no longer existed. She’d come to Fortis Isle hoping for something better, something free. Now, it seemed like the island was doing its best to destroy her hope bit by bit.

“Anything?” she asked, her eyes scanning the empty horizon, just like his.

“No,” he answered, his voice low, guttural. His old bones ached, but it wasn’t just from age. It was the weight of the world bearing down on him, a burden that had grown too heavy to bear. The island was running out of everything—food, medicine, hope. And the supply drops from Xyrexia Industries? They were few and far between. The last drop was weeks ago, and it hadn’t even been worth mentioning. Boxes of empty promises, nothing substantial to help them survive.

Clara’s gaze flickered to the sky, where the occasional Xyrexia drone drifted overhead, their sleek metallic bodies reflecting the dull light. It was almost like the drones were mocking them—promising salvation that never came.

“They said the drops would be more consistent,” Clara said, a slight edge in her voice.

“Things have changed,” John replied. “The world’s not the same as it used to be.”

He turned away from the ocean, his worn boots scraping over the rubble as he walked toward the derelict buildings that used to house a thriving community. Now, they were nothing more than bones of what was lost, hollowed out and covered in the scars of the past.

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Clara followed behind him, keeping a few paces back, her eyes always on alert. The way she moved—graceful, quiet—was a reminder of how much she had changed since the war. How much they had all changed.

“Do you think it’s over?” she asked, her voice soft but filled with uncertainty.

John paused, turning to face her. He saw the question in her eyes, and it hit him harder than he expected.

He had no answer.

The war had taken everything from them. The old world, the world they knew, was gone. The government, the systems, the hopes of rebuilding—all of it had been swept away by the tide of violence and greed. What was left? Nothing but survivors, scraping by, trying to make something from the ashes.

“You mean for us?” John asked. He could already see the answer in her eyes before she spoke.

“No,” she said, her voice steady. “I mean for the island. For everyone here.”

John sighed and shook his head. “We’re not out of the woods yet. But we’re still breathing.”

That, he realized, was the truth. They were still here. And that was more than most could say.

They made their way down the narrow path that led to what used to be the central square. Now it was just a collection of broken concrete and rusted metal. The trees—what few were left—were sparse, twisted remnants of their former selves.

John and Clara walked in silence, the sound of their footsteps the only noise that dared to break the stillness. They were used to the quiet. But it was never comforting.

It was eerie. Deadly.

They reached what remained of the old communication hub, a crumbling building that once housed the infrastructure to connect the island with the outside world. Now, it was just another monument to what had been lost. John pushed open the door, its rusted hinges creaking with protest. Inside, the dim light of their flashlights revealed rows of old, outdated equipment, some of it still flickering weakly.

He made his way to the central console, flipping switches and pressing buttons, waiting for a signal that never came.

Clara leaned against the wall, arms crossed. She’d stopped asking about the communication systems—they were broken, and no one had any idea if they’d ever work again. The island was isolated, cut off from the rest of the world.

“I hate this,” she muttered, breaking the silence. “I hate waiting.”

John didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. They had been waiting for so long, it had become a part of their existence. A part of the island’s identity.

They were all waiting for something that might never come.

There was a faint beep from the console, followed by a soft, static-filled voice. It was barely audible, but it was there.

John’s pulse quickened. Clara stepped forward, her eyes wide.

“Is that…?” she asked, her voice tight.

John leaned in, straining to make out the message. It was faint, fragmented, but he could hear the words.

“... drop incoming... coordinates... 10 hours... prepared...”

Before he could process it, the signal was lost, the screen flickering to black.

“What the hell?” Clara breathed, her voice shaking. “Was that—?”

John stood up, his mind racing. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

A supply drop. After all this time.

But something was wrong. The urgency in the message. The fragmented transmission. It didn’t feel like a normal drop.

He turned to Clara, his face grim. “Get ready.”