Bread & Brotherhood

[Quillon Hawke]

Quillon inclined his head at her name.

“Raikov.” He said it softly, testing the sound and wondering if he knew any Raikov's. His voice was more level now, not quite formal, but precise. “Thank you, Anita.”

He stood fully upright, adjusting the weight of his purple coat around his shoulders. The soreness in his ribs flared again, a reminder of the pavement’s welcome. Still, he made no sign of discomfort beyond a slow breath drawn through his nose.

“It’s a good thing you were here,” he added, glancing toward her med kit. Then, with a trace of dry restraint: “I suppose the Ascendancy works through whomever is willing.”

It wasn’t flippant. In fact, there was a note of sincerity there, wrapped inside the stoicism.

He watched her for a moment longer, not speaking, just observing. Her calm. Her clarity. She reminded him of one of the nurses from his youth. The one who read to him after lights-out, when his body had failed and the machines spoke louder than the people.

He hadn’t thought of that woman in years. He didn’t remember her name, but he remembered the kindness.

The cold wind slipped through the camp again. Tents rustled. Distant voices carried over the broken pavement.

“I should return soon,” Quillon said. His eyes moved to the last of the emptied food crates. “The Brotherhood doesn't leave things behind.”

Then, after a pause, he said something unexpected.

“You don’t speak like someone unfamiliar with hardship.” He tilted his head slightly. “Have you been working in places like this long?”