Bread & Brotherhood

[Quillon Hawke]

The stench hit first.

Even with the brisk winter air fighting to clear the streets, the area clung to the rot of old refuse and too many bodies packed too close together. Quillon Hawke adjusted the strap of his simple black jacket: thick canvas, built for work, with the Brotherhood of Ascension's emblem stitched modestly above the chest. His jeans were worn but clean, his boots sturdy enough for cracked sidewalks and mud-slick alleys. He looked out of place here, but not unwelcome. The Brotherhood's reputation reached even the forgotten corners of the city. If not respect, then at least tolerance.

Hollow-eyed figures watched from makeshift shelters: tents stitched from tarps and duct tape, blankets draped over shopping carts. Children peeked out and vanished again into the broken forest of rusted beams and concrete pillars. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Always a dog, in places like this. 

Quillon shifted the heavy pack on his back, full of simple offerings: thermoses of hot soup, loaves of fresh bread, bundled socks, cheap but clean gloves. Enough for today. Not enough for tomorrow.

It never was.

He moved to a patch of cleared ground near an old, fire-scorched wall and set down a folding table, scratched and battered from use, then began unpacking. A few people drifted closer, drawn by the smell of real food. The scent of warm broth seemed almost unnatural here, in a place that smelled only of despair, body odor, and open sewage.

Quillon worked methodically, gloves off, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms marked with faint scars from a childhood full of intravenous lines and medications. His presence was steady, grounded. Not friendly. Not soft. But sure.

As he handed out cups of steaming soup and warm bread, he spoke without sermonizing or shouting, just a simple reminder.

"No soul is too lost," he said, offering a sandwich to a young man whose hands shook from cold or hunger or something deeper. "Ascension waits for all who reach for it."

Most only nodded, or said nothing at all. That was enough. 

"If you think you have higher powers, we can help you find it."

"The veil calls to all. Who will answer?"

Quillon kept his face impassive, though a knot of old frustration twisted in his chest. Hope was a slow harvest. Hard to plant, harder to grow.

Today, he sowed what seeds he could.

[Anita]

Anita’s time with Hayden had been necessary. A good time and a good distraction, but the next day had found her not spending time with family. Instead she found herself in one of the refugee camps. People here got hurt or sick, and it was rare for them to seek medical attention. They just couldn’t afford it. It was unfortunate, and it was a difficult problem to deal with.

Cor had asked her to go. It was her off day - he couldn’t command it. He also couldn’t send crew today to do it. They were needed to respond to their normal calls, but Cor knew she wouldn’t refuse. She wasn’t angry about it. She was happy to help. This is why she did what she did. Someone had donated to help the camps. This was a way she could do it.

The camp was like all the others. Makeshift shelters dotted the area. Too many people were squashed together. It smelled bad in a way that only desperation could create. It was incredibly sad. She hoped all she had to deal with was simple injuries or sickness. Something she could actually help with. But Anita was prepared to convince someone to go to the hospital. As long as they were in sound mind, she couldn’t force the issue.

She pulled her medical bag out and began to check around and see if anyone needed help. Her coat was a dark blue with the Star of life on the back and shoulders. It was a symbol most recognized. People would know she worked in EMS. She saw a gentleman handing out food to the people here, a symbol of the Brotherhood of Ascension on his chest. He spoke quietly those who came to him. Despite her own misgivings on religion, she appreciated the help that most did for those less fortunate. She respected the fact that he wasn’t forcing conversation either. Just simple words of comfort from his belief or holy book or whatever the Brotherhood preached. Anita gave him a respectful nod as people began to come to her too. It had to be frustrating. She doubted the people here would be very receptive.

A child approached, followed by her mother, grasping her hand with a pained expression on her face. Anita got on one knee and pulled out a pair of medical gloves. ”What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked with an encouraging smile on her face.

The child didn’t answer, just held out her hand. Anita took it and looked, noting the cut on the girl’s hand. It still bled and was fresh. It wasn’t deep either. No one was running at her with emergencies, so this seemed like a good start.

Anita opened her bag and spoke to the girl. ”Lets get that cleaned up. It’s going to sting a little, but this will help a lot.” the girl nodded and winced a little as Anita cleaned the wound before applying a bandage. The girl left with a slight smile. That was enough. She wouldn’t hear a thank you from most of the people she helped; they were a quiet bunch, but the smile, nod, or even just walking away would be enough.

[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.