Bread & Brotherhood

[Quillon Hawke]

Steam curled from the last thermos as Quillon poured the remaining broth into a paper cup. His hands moved with practice as though he’d done this many times before, but his gloved fingers felt the sting of wind slicing through the camp. Surrounding him, the crowd had dispersed back to their tents and shelters. The food was almost gone. The faithful, as always, were few. He handed the cup to an older woman whose coat was more duct tape than fabric. She didn’t meet his eyes, just muttered a thank-you and shuffled away. Quillon watched her go. There was always a moment, right after the giving and right before the next hand reached out, where silence pressed in. It always made him feel like a fraud.

He cleared his throat and lifted his voice, calm and sure despite the cold tightening his jaw. “The Ascendancy sees us,” he said. “He acts through us. Through the Brotherhood. No one is forgotten.”

That was when the man spoke up. “You sure about that?”

Quillon turned. The speaker was tall, middle-aged, and wrapped in an old jacket, faded red with frayed sleeves. He had that look some of the long-timers had. Not just hungry, but angry about it. Like life owed him more than cold concrete and stale breath.

“You sure he sees us?” the man said again, stepping closer. “Because all I see is soup and sermons. We get scraps. He gets worship.”

Quillon held his gaze. “He saved this city,” he said evenly. “The Ascendancy stopped a nuclear weapon. Would you have preferred he hadn’t intervened at all?”

“Oh, sure,” the man laughed, short and bitter. “My brother OD’d behind a parking garage last week. Where was your god then?”

Quillon didn’t flinch, but something in his chest twisted. “I’m sorry,” he said. Simple. Honest. He meant it.

But the man wasn’t looking for sympathy. “You come down here with your little Brotherhood logo, hand out lunch like its salvation, and act like it makes a difference. You think this helps?” He gestured around at the tarps, the refuse, the hopelessness.

“It helps the person who is hungry right now,” Quillon said.

That was the moment the man shoved him.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not a punch. Not a brawl. Just a sudden, frustrated surge forward. Hands on Quillon’s chest. A shove.

Caught off guard, Quillon stumbled, his boot slipping on a broken chunk of sidewalk. He went down hard. Pain lanced through his ribs as his side hit the ground.

Quillon lay there, breath caught, staring up at the sky between half-collapsed buildings. No one moved.

The man stood over him, chest heaving. “You don’t know what it’s like down here,” he muttered. Then he turned and disappeared into the maze of tents and shelters.

Quillon sat up slowly. His side screamed in protest. Blood weeped from a scraped palm. Around him, people watched. Some were curious, others disinterested, and no one offered a hand up.