Dewy's Nightmare

"Momma, tell me a story." The little girl’s voice, soft as a whisper, cut through the quiet of the underground bunker. It was a familiar request, a nightly ritual that brought a fleeting sense of normalcy to their desolate world. "Which one do you want to hear tonight, darling?" Her mother’s voice was weary but laced with a gentle tenderness. "The tale of the Running Shoes? Or perhaps the one about Alice in Wonderland?" "I want the story of how everything came to be, Momma," the little girl insisted, her plea a sudden, fervent cry. "Please, please, please!" A soft sigh escaped the mother's lips. "Fine, my little Oma. Jeez, you don’t need to shout." She reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her daughter’s face. "Close your eyes, and imagine the night sky, stars swirling around you like you're the center of it all, my love. Gaze deeper, to the very distant horizon of the stars, beyond anything you can imagine." The Oma's eyelids fluttered shut, and she obediently began to picture the cosmic dance her mother described. "That's how everything came to be, little one," the mother's voice grew hushed, taking on a tone of reverent awe. "Hundreds of millions, no, billions of years ago, there was nothing. Darkness, a void that encompassed all of existence stretching to the corners of the universe. Then, from the endless expanse of space, came Amaya, the mother of all creation. Her luminosity brightened the vast emptiness of space, her warmth touching the cold darkness. And from her essence, everything were all made. From her touch, life itself was born, and that life spread throughout the entirety of existence, blossoming like a rose." The mother's words painted a vivid picture in the girl’s mind: the sun, the planets, the mountains, the oceans—all brought forth by this divine touch. "The birds, the insects, the animals both tiny and mighty, were all the making of Mother Amaya," she continued, a note of deep conviction in her voice. "And we are forever grateful, for through her, we are, and for eternity, we shall revere her divine name. Did you like my story, my little Oma?" The child’s eyes opened. The spell was broken. What a beautiful lie, Dewey thought to herself, a cynical sneer twisting her lips. She leaned behind their chamber door, where her sick mother tucked little Oma to bed. Their existence were a pack of lies, fabricated stories told to sick-in-heart souls so they wouldn’t dare think for themselves, or question the dark reality they were forced to endure. "I’m not like them, the sheep who follow a blind faith that we are flock to a divine maiden who created us just to suffer and gnash our teeth in this scourged planet called Earth". Dewy whispered to herself. Dewy cursed, stamping a clenched palm on the parched earth. The flimsy illusion of the story vanished, replaced by the grim reality of her existence. She brought a flask to her lips, its contents a harsh whiskey that burned a familiar path down her throat. She took the last drop, then tossed the bottle aside, its glass scattering into a million shards on the ground. She raised her binoculars, the cold metal countering the whiskey’s fire on her throat, and peered at the horizon. The landscape, once a testament to humanity’s triumph, was now a scarred wasteland. War machines, their immense bodies a mockery of their advanced design, moved with a slow, deliberate menace across the terrain. With every turn of their colossal wheels, the weak earth trembled, a constant reminder of the fragile state of their world. "Boogers! Twelve o’clock!" she yelled, her voice a sharp command that carried through the dusty air. A young guard, hunched low in the trench below, snapped to attention. "Alert the troops," she continued, her tone brooking no argument. "Prepare to evacuate. We’ll be bordered in ten,over!" "Copy, Captain!" the guard responded, his voice filled with a desperate urgency as he took off to alert the troops. Anya Dew, known to her comrades as Captain Dewy of the 6th Division, has joined forces with the Rebel Opposition Army ( ROA), the last bastion of hope against the tyrannical Neméan Federation. The year was 3076, and the once-flourishing planet of Earth, a marvel of advanced technology and civilization, had been ravaged by a powerful, highly advanced alien race. They had seized the government, crushing all who dared to oppose them. Eighty percent of the world's population was either dead or missing. The remaining few survivors were in hiding, cowering in underground bunkers or shelters, avoiding the immense nuclear radiation that now blanketed the surface. The sky, once a brilliant blue, was perpetually gray, a grim shroud of nuclear debris that had fallen from the heavens as the galactic battle intensified. Rebel forces had gathered worldwide, but their efforts were largely in vain. They were fighting an enemy with technology far superior to their own, an enemy that seemed unstoppable. But the tide was beginning to turn, however, and the change came when Dewy's 6th Division, the Warhounds,known for its strategic prowess, had joined forces with the ROA, the beating heart of the rebel force. "Seal the hatch! We're ten minutes out, they're at our doorstep, so do it now!" Dewy screamed with an authority that echoed through the narrow tunnels as the soldiers scrambled to their bunker. "But, Captain, our men are still out there!" a soldier in charge of the gates retorted, his face a mask of conflict. "Just do it!" Dewy snapped, her patience worn thin. The Neméans were at their doorstep. Hesitation would mean utter annihilation. "Yes, Captain!" the soldier shouted back, his hand shaking as he pushed the button. The hatch rolled down, a heavy, metallic groan, sealing the bunker shut and activating their camouflage shield, a technological marvel of human ingenuity. For the first time since the war began, they were able to push back the enemy's attack. They had not only held their ground but had seized some of the Neméans' ammunition, causing significant damage to their forces. The victory, though small, was monumental. Dewy had led the charge, her victory always assured, but at the cost of many. Now, as the dust settled, she found herself standing before Obi, a Major, head of the 1st Division ,and one of the prominent leaders of the ROA. "What's our situation out there, Captain?" Obi asked, his voice calm yet demanding. "It was a miracle," Dewy replied, her voice raspy from shouting commands. "We were able to obliterate two enemy sites, even seized some of their gear, but we took too much of a toll, Major. Our casualties are numbering in the hundreds, sir." Obi sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand lost lives. He leaned back in his seat, a flicker of relief crossing his tired face. "Captain, do you know how many times we've lost to the Neméan enemy? The lives we've lost through the decades? Thousands, soldiers and civilians. Compared to all that, this is a victory—a big one." He tapped at his tablet and read a report on the last raid, his expression lightened up. "Our injured will be treated. With this lead, we'll push through. See to it that those outside the bunker are safe, alert other bases to take the same measures, we prioritize them, let's cease counterattack for now please. And good job on your win today, captain, It's all because of you and your indomitable team." Major Obi took a cigar from a shelf, the dry scent of tobacco filling the air. He lit it, its smoke a thick, gray cloud that momentarily obscured his face. "The Veterans will be meeting tomorrow by midday," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I'd like you to attend in my stead, Dewy." "The Veterans, Major?" Dewy was surprised, a sudden thrill shooting through her. The Veterans were a group of revered warlords who spearheaded the Rebel Opposition Army. They were the legends, the mythical figures of their resistance. "Yes, Dewy. You heard me right," Major Obi responded, another puff of thick smoke clouding the air. "That's an order, Captain. It's time you prove your worth to them. They're dying to see the mighty Captain of the sixth Battalion in action. This is your chance soldier. Dismissed." "Without a doubt, Major," Dewy saluted, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and tension. She turned and headed back to her base, her mind already racing with thoughts of the meeting. The dream of meeting the legends, the ones who had fought this war since the very beginning, was finally coming true. It was an honor, a chance to prove her mettle and earn the respect of the very people she had idolized. This was more than a victory. This was the beginning of her legend. The story of her life, once a tragedy, was about to become an epic. Her mission for the day was yet to come to an end . Dewy and her crew of Warhounds swept through the landscapes of the 6th jurisdiction. Throughout the evening, they scurried around the grasslands, rounding up their lost men, clearing the remaining traces of the enemy.