The command tent of the Latin American-African Union was a world away from the sterile, steel-and-glass efficiency of the EAC. It was a vast, open-sided pavilion, the air rich with the scent of desert herbs and the low hum of a geothermal generator. Intricate Kente cloths hung beside holographic tactical displays, and warriors with jaguar-fang necklaces stood guard next to technicians monitoring satellite feeds. It was a place of two worlds, a union of ancient tradition and the harsh necessities of the new age.
At its center, Queen Xhosa and the Andean General, Vargas, stood before a glowing 3D map of the Ain Al-lah mine. They were not discussing healing. They were discussing logistics.
"The first ten percent of the extracted crystals must be allocated to Project Aegis," General Vargas stated, his voice a hard, metallic rasp. "Our cities are vulnerable. The crystals will power a network of defensive energy shields."
"Agreed," Queen Xhosa said, her face grim. "The next twenty percent will be routed to our weapons development program. We cannot rely on spears and arrows against the Alliance's next generation of mechs. We must have a deterrent."
Diego entered the tent, his bare feet making no sound on the woven carpets. He had just come from the makeshift refugee camps, where the surviving Desert Folk were being treated alongside the LAAU's own wounded. The smell of antiseptic and despair still clung to him.
He listened, his heart growing colder with every word. "Strategic reserves." "A-Class Awakened recruitment." "Fortification." They were the words of generals and politicians, the words of men carving up a prize.
"And the land?" Diego finally interrupted, his voice quiet, yet it cut through the strategic chatter like a shard of glass.
General Vargas turned, an annoyed expression on his face. "Commander Rodrigues. The land will be secured."
"I did not ask if it would be secured, General," Diego said, stepping forward into the light of the hologram. "I asked about the healing. The Amazon still burns with a poison fever. The plains of the Serengeti are birthing twisted things. The desert here... it is screaming. These crystals," he pointed at the glowing map, "they are the Earth's medicine. They must be used to purify the wounds."
Vargas let out a short, harsh laugh. "Medicine? Boy, that is ammunition. That is the fuel for the shields that will protect our children and the fire for the weapons that will keep the Alliance from coming back to finish the job. You speak of healing the land? What good is a healed land if our people are enslaved upon it?"
"We could allocate a small percentage for environmental restoration projects..." Queen Xhosa began, her tone conciliatory.
"A small percentage?" Diego's voice rose, the quiet respect gone, replaced by a raw, burning anger. "You would offer a bandage to a body that is dying of a poisoned heart?"
He looked from the general's hard face to the Queen's conflicted one. He saw their maps, their quotas, their cold, pragmatic equations. And in them, he saw the reflection of the very enemy they had just defeated.
"I have seen this before," he said, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "I saw it in the eyes of the metal men who came to this place. The same hunger. The same lust for power. The same belief that the Earth is a thing to be plundered for its strength."
He looked at them, the heroes of the resistance, the leaders of the free tribes. And he saw only a new set of plunderers.
"You are no different," he snarled, the words a final, unforgivable accusation. "You are just carving the world for yourselves. You have become the very thing we fought against."
He turned his back on their stunned, furious faces and walked out of the tent, away from the holographic maps and the cold calculations. He walked away from the Union, from the tribe of man, and back toward the only tribe he had left: the wounded, screaming Earth.