After their latest encounter with a Sandstorm, Hector and Joseph's unit were ordered to pack up and head for a nearby trading town for a rest rotation. Inside their makeshift bunks, the two brush off their uniforms of sand and crushed concrete while packing their belongings into bags of synthetic leather and fibers - passed around from whoever unlucky owner it had before them.
The town was not far, and it's like any other rotation for Arxtian soldiers. Just a half-day march, but the shift from the trenches to the civilian outpost always carried a strange weight. For months, they had only known mud, silence, roars of pounding artillery, and the occasional flight of bombers and helicopters and constant zooms of drones.
In the town, the air buzzes with trade, smuggling, whispers of the next campaign, and groups of mercs and looters roaming around to get their next commission or trade what they got from the ruins of the old metro, including equipment from perished friends and foes.
"Can't they spare a truck to pick us up?" Joseph muttered, fighting with the zipper of his overstuffed bag.
"They only roll those out for the wounded or the boys heading straight to the front," Hector shot back, eyes fixed on his own packing. "You know how badly they need every truck they've got."
"Those trucks have to return," Joseph pressed, his tone sharp with irritation. "Why can't they just divert for us? They'll pass the road to town anyway."
"Eh." Hector gave a small shrug, tightening the strap on his satchel. "Most head straight back to headquarters for the next batch. Different route. Different priority."
Joseph finally yanked the stubborn strap into place and slung the bag over his shoulder with a frustrated grunt. "Half a day's march just to breathe in the stink of that town. Hardly feels worth it."
Hector stood, cinched his last buckle, and arched his back until it cracked. "Worth it enough. Better than another night staring at dirt walls."
Ahead of them, the column was already in motion, boots pounding rhythm into the road, dust rising under the weight of bodies and gear.
A sharp whistle tore through the noise, echoing from the barracks door. "Formation!"
The word snapped like a whip, pulling men upright, packs adjusted, rifles settled. Joseph sighed, shifting his weight into line beside Hector.
"Here we go," Hector muttered, and the march began.
---
As the column pushed forward, the landscape unfolded in ruin. Centuries-old skeletons of cars lay rusting along the roadside, their shells half-swallowed by drifting sand. Overhead, what remained of broken skyways jutted out like fractured ribs, cables hanging like tendons in the wind.
The air stinks of metal, dust, and faint fuel exhaust the unforgettable smell of war layered over the bones of the old world.
They marched past the hulking silhouettes of convoy trucks, engines grumbling, each one escorted by mechs trudging alongside like the armored beasts they are.
Their hulls were pocked with scars, paint stripped away by sand and gunfire, heavy cannons slung across their shoulders.
The convoy moved opposite the soldiers, bound for the front, and for a moment the two streams of soldiers brushed past each other - the worn-out making way for the next batch to be worn down.
Joseph glanced at the war machines then at a passing truck with a young face, barely a boy, staring back as they passed, expression unreadable beneath the dust streaking his face.
"Four weeks," Joseph muttered.
Hector grunted without looking, his gaze fixed forward, boots steady in rhythm with the line.
"Four weeks of training for those conscripts, I heard."
The words lingered, like the dust clinging onto their uniform as they marched through. Hector broke the silence after a moment.
"Don't you have a kid back at the bunker colony, Joseph?" he asked, eyes fixed on the fading boot marks left by the column ahead.
Joseph's jaw tightened. "Not anymore. He perished from starvation." His voice was low, flat, as though worn smooth by repetition. "My previous unit got wiped out so hard the overlord refused to spare us rations for weeks. We had to hunt whatever insects were still alive then - ones that wouldn't kill us."
Silence followed.
"I shouldn't have asked. Sorry," Hector murmured.
"Pssh - if anything, I'm glad you asked. I almost forgot he once existed." Joseph forced a faint smirk, trying to lift the weight off his words. But his sadness were evident despite the desperate attempts of flowing sand and dust to cover his face.
Hector didn't press further.
The march had a way of swallowing moments like these, grinding them down into silence and dust. All he could do was keep pace beside Joseph.
Ahead, the outline of the trade town sharpened - its broken towers jutting like jagged teeth.
"Look alive, boys! We're approaching the trade town!" the column leader bellowed, his voice cutting through the tramp of boots.
A ripple of cheers rose from the line - some hoarse, some full-throated, but all tinged with relief. The last rays of the setting sun glinted off helmets and rifle barrels, painting the weary column in fading gold as their destination came into view.
The town loomed like a scar from the old world - collapsed concrete, rusting cars stacked into makeshift barricades, and crooked neon signs that somehow still sputtered with dying light. Life clung here in stubborn pockets, the air thick with smoke, spilled liquor, and the bark of merchants shouting over one another.
The soldiers scattered the moment they were dismissed.
Some barreled toward the taverns, eager to drown weeks of mud and marching in whatever swill passed for beer.
Others stumbled down alleys where brothels had painted over ruin with cheap color, laughter and perfume spilling into the street.
Dice clattered in the shadows of burned-out storefronts, men hunching over crates, gambling away what little coin they had left.
Joseph adjusted his pack and looked at the chaos with tired disdain. "All that walking just to waste it all in one night," he muttered.
Hector gave a short grunt of agreement. He wasn't much for noise, and Joseph wasn't likely to follow the others either. Together, they drifted past the bars and alleys until they found a quiet stretch of broken wall near the edge of the market square.
Joseph dug out his ration tin, flicking it open with a practiced motion. Hector sat beside him, pulling a small notebook from his pack, the kind he sometimes scribbled in when words or sketches came easier than talk.
Around them, the sounds of indulgence raged on - cheers, moans, curses, songs - but the two of them settled into silence. Neither had the heart for fleeting distractions. For Joseph, the liquor wouldn't wash away memories, and for Hector, the company of strangers could never measure up to the quiet loyalty of a comrade at his side.
Here, with their backs against crumbling stone and the world's noise kept at arm's length, they found their version of respite.