The great irony of this world; old March seemingly spared against the tide of chaos sweeping through the entire populace. A conflict concentrated against the centralized blocks of federal infrastructure; miles of emptied apartments, abandoned factories, and dust separating the Five from an active warzone.

Distant sirens and automatic cannon fire, a percussion of mortar and artillery shells drowning the chanting of zealots and the piercing screams of the dying. Columns of smoke rise from razing city blocks, dusty skies choked with the ashes of a civilization at the finale of its existence.

The tower still stands, a full activation awaiting the final cascading order. A consequence of salvation, an annihilation incomplete without the five fragments now wandering the city streets.

A hunted group keeping faces beneath wide brimmed hats, an attempt at anonymity failing as they walk through near deserted sidewalks. The children of the world and one beyond it gather glances from hidden forms behind boarded windows and door frames, a path of death following the One.

There are a few store fronts still open, their proprietors either living in ignorance or thriving within the raw stubbornness of faith and profits. Eyes seeking the specialized signage of traveler stores, a world beyond the safety of the cities to be explored by the equipment and supplies sold within it.

Beyond the Seven First Cities of the Federation, here on the frontier of the Southlands and in the midst of a revolution; they find just one. Hand painted signage of a represented traveler with five simple lines, a soul hiking across a hostile world with backpack and walking stick.

There is no name or ownership attached to it, only a mere reference to a specific activity from the signage. Faded advertisements for long dead inventory sales and saloons stuck upon dusty windows ignored by the five, instead leaving them with an impression of utter poverty.

“Rations and climbing gear…” Madeline comments on the group quietly, the vanguard of social charisma the first to reach for the door handle.

“We make this quick.” Judge Murphy orders the group.

A statement ignored, the woman pushing herself into the space as they all follow behind.

The floor of unswept dust and sand accumulated over the course of uncounted years is suddenly disrupted by the arrival of foot traffic, six bodies crammed into a space piled high with aisles of undisturbed merchandise.

There is no organization to it all; tattered backpacks haphazardly strewn over shelves of expired bullets alongside racks of half-filled canteens of stagnant water, broken electronics stuffed into a line of dried whisky barrels all finished by a far wall of rusting gun parts.

One ancient soul stands watch amongst the debris, the woman’s face hidden beneath a black cowl and long, unwashed clothing. An age played upon her hunched, near half-circular posture; a voice barely eking out words as she hears the doors open. “H-hello there…”

Alto Carrin approaches her through the mess, a kind smile as he introduces himself. Traditional northlandic respect to those in the most senior of ages, a short bow towards half-blinded eyes. “Hello grandmother.”

“Oh hello young man…” The old shopkeeper replies to the unexpected friendliness. “Thank you… what are you looking for?”

“Food and maybe some rope.” The man answers. “Do you have any here?”

A biological archive flickering away from age, her words unable to fully grasp the situation at hand. “I-I think so?”

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They already set themselves to work behind Alto.

Samuel’s passive augmentation suite scans through the aisles while his sibling’s form pulls itself to devices more present as natural eyes catch the symbology forged in brass. Samantha’s interest centered upon a forged longblade still within a synthetic fabric sheath, the five sided pentagon and one dot placing an age during an empire of twelve cities.

A heavy four pounds, the near-useless melee weapon in a battlefield of gunfire held by the girl within her small hands.

Madeline’s path of investigation moves next to her, a short gaze discovering the curio as well. A small jibe towards the child of Armin, a tidbit of advice from the ancient traditions of Centralis. “There’s a sword in there you know?”

Samantha pauses. “A sword?”

“Yeah, pull it out.”

One hand upon the sheathe, another on the handle; interrupted by Samuel. “Do not become distracted.”

A hand shoving aside an entire column of flayed clothing at the bottom most shelf, the brother reveals the tiny stack of cased rations. Still sealed against the elements, caked in a layer of dust.

The seven bars of the federation printed upon cardboard, two dialects of standard language and one foreign alongside it in the marking of ownership. Humanity’s mercy, shipped from the massive food production factories of Centralis and her sisters into the southlands. A great war not won with bullets, but by the betrayal of a starving civilian population beneath an uncaring god emperor.

FEDERATED CITIES

HUMANITARIAN

HUMATINANI

CIVILLIA HUMATARA

“Ohhhhh look at that.” Madeline wows herself. “How many calories is in that thing?”

Samuel brings forth the niche trivia, read on a long forgotten history publication found within public libraries. “A federation aid package contains ninety six thousand calories to provide sustainment for one average sized southland family for one week's time.”

“Well according to the label this one looks to be one of the newer ones with more calories and more filler.” Madeline yells out towards the remainder of her group with her next words. “We got the rations!!!”

Both Samuel and Samantha object at the same time towards the item, a sharing of words creating a choir of two. “Are there alternatives?”

The woman rolls her eyes, already pulling out the box from its snug position. “What do you mean?”

“There may be rations of higher quality available within this establishment.” Samuel answers her coldly.

“I doubt it.” Opening the case, the woman finds the authenticity confirmed.

Tiny, half foot long sticks of pure dehydrated nutrition wrapped in generic pale green plastic packaging; the simplistic printed constant of seven black bars defining its benefactor. Madeline takes one sample from the stack, peeling open the airtight seal as she observes the actualized quality of the item.

Yellowish material pockmarked with brown bits of crushed nutritional supplements dried and baked together with industrial filler; a rock-like surface holding a texture comparable to its analogistic partner.

Almost a thousand calories, compressed by industrial processes into tiny portable frames.

“They’re still good!” Madeline confirms with a mild surprise, bringing the entire case up towards the back of the establishment for purchase. “I guess we’ll just each carry our own meals for now, don’t wanna overload the witch.”

She’s joined by Judge Murphy.

The old man somehow scrounging an entire sixty foot length of synthetic rope and two harnesses from the mess of the aisles, one more section added upon the purchase.

A shopkeeper narrowing eyes upon the seemingly randomized selection, a commentary from ancient wisdom placed before now five forms standing in front of the counter. “You going out to climb the mountain or something?”

“Something like that.” Alto answers with a warm smile.

Madeline raises her voice as she brings the major topic to bear, hands already burying themselves within pockets. “How much?”

A breath struggling, the ancient woman simply smiles at the group. Hope rekindled within her soul, growing beyond the necessities of simple currency. The blue eyes of the southlands sparked with the finality of a life, acceptance of a fate and prophecy come to fruition. “Ohhhh, it's fine. You can just take it.

“Our salvation is already here, after all.”