The Machines

Chapter 18: The May Day Waltz

The heavy silence of the mess hall was broken by the rhythmic clinking of tin spoons against bowls, but the atmosphere had shifted. Brian leaned back, his chair creaking against the concrete floor, a glint of genuine warmth returning to his weathered face.

"You lot are in luck, though," Brian said, wiping a stray drop of stew from his beard. "You’ve arrived on a special night. We’re celebrating May Day."

Marcus looked up, his brow furrowing. "May Day? Brian, it’s a war zone out there. You’ve got 'Clankers' breathing down your neck, and you’re throwing a garden party?"

"Not a garden party, mate. A survival tactic," Brian countered. "Morale is just as important as ammunition. We try to hold on to the old traditions—the ones from before the Hives. It helps the people feel normal. Reminds them that we’re human and the Machines aren't. There will be music, real food from the hydroponics, and even some fermented potato hooch that’ll peel the paint off a tank."

Beside Marcus, Veronica’s entire posture changed. Her big brown eyes lit up with a spark of pure wonder. In the sterile, cramped corridors of the Valkyrie, "celebrations" consisted of an extra ration of synth-protein and a recorded speech from the Commander. She had never been to a party. She had never seen people dance or heard music that wasn't filtered through a headset.

She turned to Marcus, her hands clasping together in a silent plea. "Marcus... please? Can we go? Just for a little bit?"

Marcus tightened his jaw, the tactical side of his brain immediately screaming no. They were in a strange base, surrounded by strangers, and they had a grueling march to London ahead of them. They needed to check their gear, review Brian's maps, and sleep. He opened his mouth to deliver a firm, "Captain" refusal.

But then he looked down.

Veronica was looking up at him with a perfect, devastating pout. Her big doe eyes were wide, shimmering with a vulnerability and hope that hit Marcus harder than any plasma bolt ever could. She looked so small, so hopeful, and so utterly out of place in this world of ash.

Marcus felt his resolve crumble like dry sandstone. He let out a long, defeated sigh, his head dropping for a second as he accepted his fate.

"Fine," he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite. "But we aren't staying late. We move as soon as the sun rises. Not a minute after."

Veronica let out a tiny, high-pitched giggle of triumph, impulsively grabbing Marcus’s massive, scarred arm and hugging it to her side. "Thank you! Thank you, Marcus!"

The contact sent a jolt of heat through Marcus’s bicep. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the subtle smirk that was threatening to tug at the corner of his mouth. He looked up to see Brian watching him with a knowing, lopsided smile. Brian didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes said it all: the mountain of a man, the legendary Reaper, was wrapped around this girl’s little finger, whether he liked it or not.

After the meal, the team was allowed to wander the "Market Wing" of the Warren. It was an incredible feat of ingenuity—a long, vaulted corridor of the bunker transformed into a bustling bazaar. Stalls were packed with everything from scavenged pre-war clothes and preserved toiletries to handmade toys and recycled weapon parts.

Marcus walked with a slow, heavy tread, his eyes subconsciously scanning the crowd for threats even here. He found himself drifting toward a stall filled with old physical media—discs and tapes from a world that had valued stories.

He saw Veronica out of the corner of his eye. She was standing at a small table, her fingers gently tracing the faded plastic of an old DVD case. Marcus walked up behind her, his shadow falling over the table.

She was looking at The Notebook.

A sharp, sudden pain flared in Marcus’s chest. He remembered that cover. He remembered the way the living room of his old house smelled when Sarah used to put that movie on for the tenth time. It had been her favorite. She’d cry every time, and he’d sit there, pretending to be bored while secretly holding her hand in the dark.

"It’s a story about a man who never gives up on the woman he loves," the elderly woman behind the stall said softly, noticing Veronica’s interest. "Even when she forgets who he is. It's a bit of a relic now, but it's a good one. You can have it, dear. Consider it a May Day gift."

Veronica’s face beamed. "Really? Thank you so much." She carefully tucked the movie into her side-satchel, patting it as if it were a precious treasure.

As she turned away from the stall, a blur of fur and energy came skidding around the corner. A medium-sized, scruffy terrier-mix dog came sprinting toward them, its tail wagging so hard its entire back half was swaying. It let out a series of sharp, excited barks.

Veronica gasped, her eyes going wide with terror. She had seen images of animals in the ship’s database, but she had never seen a living, breathing creature that wasn't a Machine or a human. To her, anything that moved that fast and made that much noise was a threat.

Instinctively, she lunged toward Marcus, clinging to his side and burying her face against the hard plating of his arm.

Marcus didn't flinch. Instead, a low, rumbling chuckle escaped his chest—a sound so rare the rest of his team would have probably checked him for a concussion.

"Easy, Ashcroft," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a gentle tone she rarely heard. "It’s just a dog. He’s friendly, see?"

Marcus crouched down, his massive frame shrinking to the dog’s level. He extended a calloused hand, palm flat. The dog immediately slowed down, sniffing Marcus’s fingers with a wet nose before letting out a happy whine and licking his hand. It leaned its weight against Marcus’s knee, begging for scratches.

Veronica peeked out from behind Marcus’s shoulder, her breathing still a bit fast. She watched as Marcus—the man who had decapitated an Alpha just days ago—scratched the dog behind its ears with surprising tenderness.

"He won't hurt you," Marcus encouraged. "He just wants to say hello."

Veronica hesitated, then slowly lowered herself to a crouch beside Marcus, her body still tightly pressed against his side for protection. She reached out a shaking hand. The dog turned its head, sniffed her fingers for a second, and then delivered a long, sloppy lick across her palm.

Veronica jumped, then let out a startled laugh. "It’s... it’s warm. And wet."

She began to pet the dog, her fingers sinking into the soft, messy fur. The dog responded by wagging its tail even harder and licking her face, causing her to dissolve into a fit of giggles and smiles.

Marcus watched her. He didn't realize he was doing it, but a genuine, subconscious smile spread across his own face. Seeing her like this—unburdened by the mission, laughing at something as simple as a dog—made the weight of the apocalypse feel a little lighter.

Veronica looked up at him, her smile widening when she saw his expression. "Holy s**t," she whispered, her eyes dancing. "Mountain man can actually smile. I was starting to think you didn't have any teeth, to be honest."

Marcus felt his cheeks heat up slightly. He stood, shrugging his broad shoulders as he pulled his "Reaper" mask back into place, though it didn't quite fit the same way anymore. "I’m filled with surprises, Ashcroft. Don't get used to it."

As the afternoon waned, a group of women from the base "kidnapped" Veronica, insisting that if she was going to a May Day celebration, she had to do it properly. Marcus let her go, spending the next few hours walking the perimeter of the cavern, his hand never far from his sidearm. He was patrolling out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere.

The celebration was held in the "Grand Cavern," a massive natural cathedral within the mountain. The Underground had gone all out. Scavenged strings of multicolored fairy lights hung from the stalactites. There were balloons made from recycled latex and tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats, fermented juices, and fresh bread. In the center, a tall wooden pole had been erected, draped in long, colorful ribbons—the May Pole. A DJ was set up in a corner, tinkering with a prehistoric-looking sound system.

The cavern began to fill with people. There was laughter, the sound of glasses clinking, and the heavy beat of pre-war pop music beginning to pulse through the air.

Marcus stood near the entrance, leaning against a pillar of stone. He was dressed in a clean black shirt sleeved shirt, his hair damp from a second, quicker wash. He looked imposing, his muscular build drawing glances from the local women, but his eyes were fixed on the tunnel leading from the living quarters.

Then, she appeared.

The crowd seemed to part as Veronica walked into the cavern. Marcus’s heart did a strange, violent stutter against his ribs.

She was wearing a dress. It was a deep, forest-green color that made her brown eyes pop. The fabric was light, hugging her curves in a way that the tactical gear never could. The sleeves were thin, showing off her soft, tan shoulders. But the length was what caught Marcus’s breath in his throat—the hem stopped dangerously high on her thighs, showing off her long, flawless legs. Her dark hair was down, falling in soft waves over her shoulders.

She looked like a miracle.

Veronica spotted him and her shy smile returned. She walked up to him, her movements a bit awkward, as if she wasn't sure how to move in something so feminine.

"You look..." Marcus started, his voice failing him for a second. He cleared his throat. "You look beautiful, Veronica."

She chuckled nervously, her hand going to the hem of the dress to pull it down slightly. "I’ve never worn a dress before. It’s always been sweatpants or leggings on the ship. Is it... is it supposed to be this short? The ladies said it was a 'party dress' from the 2010s, but I feel like I'm missing half my clothes."

She turned around slowly to show him the back. Marcus couldn't help himself; his eyes tracked the movement, taking in the way the fabric draped over her hips and the sheer, tan perfection of her legs. The blood began to thump in his ears, a heavy, rhythmic heat.

"You look fine," he managed to say, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his expression neutral. "More than fine."

She smiled again, a bright, radiant thing that made Marcus’s heart skip a beat.

Suddenly, the music shifted. A high-energy, infectious beat filled the cavern—the opening notes of Rather Be by Clean Bandit.

Veronica gasped, her eyes widening. "I know this song! It’s on the old-world archives!" She started jumping up and down in excitement, the short dress moving dangerously with every bounce.

She grabbed Marcus’s arm, her fingers warm against his skin. "Come on! Come dance with me!"

Marcus stepped back, his eyes widening. "No. No way. I don't dance, Veronica."

"Please?" she begged. She leaned in, her face close to his, and gave him those big, devastating doe eyes once more. She pouted her lip, looking so hopeful and full of life that it was impossible to resist. "Please, Marcus? For May Day? For me?"

Marcus looked at her, then at the dance floor where people were already spinning around. He looked back at her beautiful, expectant face. He knew he should say no. He knew he looked ridiculous—a 220-pound killing machine being dragged to a dance floor by a girl in a green dress.

But he couldn't say no. Not to her.

"One song," Marcus growled, though the corners of his mouth were twitching. "Just one."

Veronica squealed with delight and pulled him toward the center of the cavern, the Reaper following the girl into the light.