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.

[Anita]

Things were calming down. It was a light day with simple injuries that Anita could help with. It made things easier and people began to move on. The preacher man gave a final benediction as he finished up and that’s when her attention was drawn to the conflict. The preacher man faced one of the refugees who was angry. Anita could understand that. Resentment was something normal in areas like this. She honestly hoped that the preacher wouldn’t allow this to color his attitude towards the refugees and poor. Most of them were grateful even if his message was falling on mostly deaf ears.

Anita as well as the refugees watched it unfold. Then she saw it; an image overlay the two men. A hazy image of the aggressor pushing the preacher and the preacher falling to the ground hard. Hayden told her she was a prophet of some sort. So she figured out she was seeing the future. She couldn’t prevent the fall, but she could respond quicker. She grabbed her bag and headed over to the preacher.

By the time she arrived, the aggressor had left and the others were keeping their distance. Some watched with curiosity, but most ignored it. ”Im Anita - I’m a paramedic.” she said as a means of explanation as she began to visually examine him.

He didn’t look too dazed and his eyes appeared clear. He had a hand at his side and the other was bleeding. As she did this, she removed her old gloves, sanitized her hands, and put on a new pair with practiced ease. The big issue would likely be the pain in the side. The hand wound was bleeding and was superficial. She began to clean the wound and wrap it as she asked a couple of questions. ”Can you tell me your name please?” it was a simple question to establish if he was coherent. It was also polite to ask. ”Did you hit your head as you fell? Any pain besides the side of the scraped hand?”

The only reason why she did anything with the hand first was because she could easily do it while getting information from the preacher. Wrapping a hand was almost second nature to her, and she did it with the speed on someone who had practiced the motions daily. The motions and the time of her voice did indicate that she actually cared and wanted to help this man.

[[Roll for prophetic vision 12+2=14 - success]]

[Quillon Hawke]

Quillon blinked against the dull throb in his side, his breath steady but shallow. When the woman approached, his posture stiffened reflexively. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t lean in either.
“I’m fine,” he said at first, voice quiet but firm. A pause. He tracked her methodical hands as she slipped on the fresh gloves.  Still, he didn’t pull back when she took his injured hand.

“Quillon Hawke,” he answered when prompted, glancing at her briefly. His gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary, adding almost as an afterthought. “Veilwarden of the Brotherhood of Ascension.”

He winced slightly as she began to clean the scrape, but made no sound. His voice remained even. “I didn’t hit my head. Just my ribs. Nothing cracked, probably just bruised.” The antiseptic stung, but what caught him off guard was the way she moved. Clean, efficient, but… gentle. She wasn’t just going through the motions. She cared. That wasn’t common. Not out here.

He exhaled slowly, not from pain, but memory. Scratchy sheets. Fluorescent lights. The quiet beep of machines, the steady rhythm of nurses checking vitals. It felt like a lifetime ago, younger, weaker. So much time spent waiting for someone else to help him stand.

He glanced down at the wrap forming over his hand. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, and yet there was something soft in them. He hadn’t expected that. “…You’re good at this,” he said, quieter now. A touch of surprise in the words. Not flattery. Just an observation, maybe even respect.

“I’m grateful. For the care.” He looked her in the eye for a moment, letting the silence stretch, then nodded once.

[Anita]

Anita gave Quillion a smile as he added on the title of Veilwarden. She had no idea what it meant and knew very little of the Brotherhood. Her smile wasn't mocking, but it was encouraging. Even if she didn't follow his faith, he should be proud of what he was - and what he had done to help the people here today. She really hoped that his experience didn't keep him from coming back.

She nodded at his assessment of his own injuries. Quillion didn't seem to be breathing hard or anything. Anita looked up at him as he mentioned she was good at her job. What she was doing really wasn't difficult, but he had perhaps sensed more than just her going through the motions. He was understanding that she actually did care.

"I don't like seeing people hurt," she explained and gave him a grin. "I guess I picked the right profession."

Quillion thanked her for the care and was silent before giving her a nod. "You're very welcome," she said, her gaze moving towards where the man who had assaulted Quillion had gone before she turned back to face him. She spoke quietly. "Try not to hold it against him. I've worked a lot with those who are...less fortunate. Most down here are worried about their next meal or shelter, and some...well...they're angry. Trust me - most people here are grateful even if they don't show it." Anita gave him an encouraging smile as she stood up and offered her hand to help him to his feet.

[Quillon Hawke]

Quillon studied her smile. Not patronizing. That surprised him. Most who didn’t know the Brotherhood had one of two expressions: reverence or doubt. She had neither. His eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke. Not suspicious, just... watching her. Measuring.

“You picked well.” It came out without thought. That happened more often lately. Since the healing. Since the Brotherhood. He glanced down at his hand, now bandaged up properly, the skin still warm beneath the wrap. The contrast of tenderness over a scraped hand lingered with him longer than it should have.

When she told him not to hold it against the man, Quillon looked past her, toward the alley the aggressor had vanished into. He was silent for a moment before quietly responding. “I don’t.” He said it with a sense of certainty, though he wasn’t sure it was entirely true.

He accepted her outstretched hand only after another thoughtful moment. Not because he questioned her intention, but because instinct made him cautious about leaning on others. Still, he clasped her wrist, firm, grounded. As he rose, he gave her a small nod. Something almost like acknowledgment. Or perhaps respect.

“Most people don't show much. But I don’t do this for thanks.” He adjusted his coat, which flared from his shoulders more like a cape. His gaze lingered on her face, studying her again, more openly this time. She was calm. Clean. Kind.

“You’re not part of the Brotherhood.” Not a question. An observation. He looked away, back at the street, voice quiet but steady. “But you serve all the same. You're not being paid for this job?”

[Anita]

Anita noticed the pauses of assessment. Quillion was trying to figure her out. In some ways she was used to that. Anita was usually a pretty genuine person. So many people wore masks now, it was almost an oddity to just be who you were. It made her wonder if Quillion wore a mask, or perhaps there was something in his past that put him on edge a little bit, but it didn't matter. He seemed nice enough and seemed like he actually was here to help.

She nodded at his statement of not doing this for thanks. She wasn't here for the pay either. She was in fact volunteering her time here today. Interestingly enough, that was what he asked her.

"No, I'm not paid for being her today. It's not odd for us to get requests to check on things or run medical tents for charity events. I don't mind it."

Anita gave him another smile as she removed her glove and placed them in a red biohazard bag that she tied and placed in a plastic container for biohazards in her med bag. She made sure everything was placed correctly and then closed the bag. She thought for a moment while doing so. She actually knew very little about the Brotherhood.

She turned her eyes back to Quillion, eyes curious. "So, Quillion, what's a Veilwarden?" She asked.

[Quillon Hawke]

Quillon watched as she disposed of the gloves. Careful. Exact. Like ritual. It reminded him, oddly, of the liturgical gestures before Brotherhood prayers: purposeful and every step filled with meaning. There was a reverence to it, even if she didn’t mean it that way.
Her question lingered in the air for a moment before he answered. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he wanted to say it properly.

“A Veilwarden is a servant of the threshold,” he said at last. His voice carried the rhythm of someone who had said this before, but not enough to grow tired of it. “We stand between what is seen and unseen. Between what people believe... and what they endure.”

He looked down briefly at his bandaged hand, flexing his fingers beneath the cloth.

“We teach others. We protect the Veil. We witness the might of the Ascendancy.” He glanced back up at her.  His tone wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be.

“The title isn’t a reward. It’s a responsibility. And thank you for treating me with care, when many wouldn’t have.” His gaze steadied on her again. “You’ve given me your time. Your help. And your hand.” There was a flicker of something dry in his voice. Not quite humor, but the hint of it.

“May I ask for your name as well?”