Snow found Rain exactly where she expected—perched cross-legged on a patch of cracked earth just outside the Niners' campsite, surrounded by a chaotic halo of Old World books. The girl was hunched over one of them, her brow furrowed in concentration as she ran her fingers along faded, brittle pages. The wind tugged at the loose ends of her scarf, flipping a few pages and sending stray dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun.
Snow shook her head and approached silently, her footsteps muffled by the dry dirt. Rain was so absorbed in her reading that she didn't even flinch when Snow stopped a few paces away.
"Hey," Snow said, her voice low and clipped.
Rain didn't respond. Snow's eyes narrowed. With an exasperated sigh, she reached into her pack, pulled out the green metal object she'd scavenged from the satellite, and lightly tapped Rain on the head with it.
Rain yelped, startled, and nearly toppled backward. She scrambled to steady herself, clutching the book to her chest like it was a shield. Her wide eyes darted up to meet Snow's cool, steady gaze, and a smile broke across her face.
"Snow!" Rain exclaimed, her voice bubbling with delight. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"
"Didn't sneak," Snow said, her expression softening just a fraction as she took in Rain's radiant grin. "You weren't paying attention."
Rain stuck out her tongue playfully, then set the book down on the pile beside her. "Well, you didn't have to smack me with… whatever that is." She gestured toward the green object in Snow's hand.
"Had to do something," Snow said, holding it up for Rain to see. "Brought this for you."
Rain's eyes lit up, but before she could snatch it away, Snow pulled it back.
"Why are you sitting out here, anyway?" Snow asked, her voice tinged with mild irritation. "You're too far from camp."
Rain's smile faltered, and she gestured toward the disorganized pile of books around her. "Because of them," she said, her tone slipping into a childish whine. "The others keep threatening to burn my treasures every time I turn my back. Said it'd make 'decent kindling.'"
Snow sighed, casting a glance back toward the camp. She could picture it all too clearly—Dug, mainly, and the rest of the Niners, laughing at Rain's expense, kicking her books around like trash. It wasn't the first time they'd done it, and it wouldn't be the last.
"They don't understand you," Snow said, her voice quieter now.
"They don't want to," Rain muttered. She hugged her knees to her chest, pouting. "All they care about is scrap and food. None of them see how important this stuff is."
Snow crouched down beside her, setting the green object on the ground between them. "It's not just them. Most people don't trust Knowers. They think you're all crazy for poking around Once-World tech—breaking taboos, waking up things that should stay dead." She paused, her voice growing colder. "They're afraid of what they don't understand. That's why they treat you like this."
Rain glanced at her, her expression softening. "Not everyone treats me like that," she said quietly.
Snow didn't respond, but the faintest flicker of something crossed her face. Loyalty. A silent promise.
Rain smiled again, though it was smaller this time. She reached over to her pile of books and plucked up a battered, dog-eared volume. "Speaking of Once-World tech, I finally figured out what that machine was—the one we saw in the bunker last month."
Snow raised an eyebrow. "You mean the one Bricks called a 'big useless box of wires'?"
"The water pump," Rain corrected, her voice tinged with excitement. "It's not useless at all! This book explains how they worked back then—drawing water straight from the ground, endless amounts of it. If we could fix it…"
Snow's lips pressed into a thin line. "You're not seriously thinking about fixing it, are you?"
Rain hesitated, then nodded. "Why not? If we could get it running, we wouldn't have to keep wandering all the time. We could live there—build something permanent."
Snow shook her head. "And you think Bricks is just going to drop everything and settle down because you found a broken water pump?"
Rain's enthusiasm wavered. "Well… no," she admitted. "But if I explained it to him—"
"They won't listen to you," Snow cut in. Her tone wasn't cruel, just matter-of-fact. "You know how they are. They'd laugh in your face."
Rain sighed, her shoulders slumping. "You're probably right," she said. "And even if they didn't, none of them would know how to fix it anyway."
Snow nodded. "You're not wrong about the pump, though. It'd be worth a lot if someone could get it working. Just… not with this lot."
Rain gave her a sheepish smile. "I guess I got a little carried away."
"A little?" Snow said dryly. She gestured toward the pile of books. "What'd you trade this time? More of your rations?"
Rain winced. "It wasn't that much! Just a couple cans. And it was worth it!"
Snow pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're going to starve yourself for this junk."
"It's not junk!" Rain said, puffing out her cheeks indignantly. "It's history! Knowledge! And besides, you're here to make sure I don't starve, right?"
Snow rolled her eyes, but there was no malice in it. Instead, she picked up the green object and placed it firmly in Rain's hands.
"Here," she said. "Found this in the satellite. Thought you'd like it."
Rain's face lit up like a child's on a festival day. "Snow! This is amazing! What is it?"
"No idea," Snow admitted. "Figured you'd want to find out."
Rain hugged the object to her chest, beaming. "Thank you!" she said, throwing her arms around Snow in a sudden burst of affection. Snow stiffened at first but didn't pull away, letting Rain cling to her for a moment before gently prying her off.
"You're welcome," Snow muttered, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve.
Rain tilted her head, studying the object in her hands. "It looks like… I don't know. A key, maybe? Or a piece of something bigger."
"You don't know either?" Snow said, smirking faintly.
"Not yet," Rain said, undeterred. "But I will. Once we reach the next trading station, I'll find someone who does."
Snow nodded, her expression unreadable. "Good luck with that," she said, standing up and brushing off her knees. "Just don't trade any more food for it."
"No promises," Rain replied, grinning.
Snow shook her head and started back toward the camp, Rain's laughter following her like a bright thread in the gloom.
The evening air around the Niners' camp was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of cooking fires. Shadows danced on the crumbled walls of their makeshift campsite, figures moving like ghosts as the tribe gathered for the nightly ritual: the rationing of food.
A rough plank served as a table where Bricks, towering and broad-shouldered, stood with arms crossed. Beside him were the meager spoils of the day—a pitiful assortment of cans, dried meats, and stale bread. He called out names one by one, distributing rations according to rank and effort.
"Scavengers first," he barked, his voice carrying over the crackling flames.
The scavengers came first. They always did. They had bled for their scraps today, digging through the ruins of a forgotten place, digging in the dirt for the treasures of a world long gone. Their hard work earned them first pick, a privilege that was well understood and never questioned. The ones who did the menial work—carrying, cleaning, maintaining—were left to scramble for what was left, the bones of the day after the scavengers had had their fill.
When Snow stepped forward, there was a notable pause.
"You get double," Bricks said, handing her an extra can of seasoned meat. "For Solus-9."
The extra ration did not go unnoticed. Whispers rippled through the group, and a few of the scavengers threw Snow sharp, resentful glances. Dug, ever the loudest grumbler, muttered something about "favoritism" under his breath, but Bricks silenced him with a glare.
Rain's name was called last. She skipped toward the table with her usual cheerful energy, though her expression faltered when Bricks handed her a single piece of dried bread.
"That's all for you, Knower," he said gruffly.
Rain nodded, unbothered, and retreated from the group, clutching her ration like it was a prize. Snow followed her, her double portion tucked under her arm.
They found a quiet spot away from the others, near the edge of the camp where the crumbling remains of a rusted car provided some privacy. Rain sat cross-legged on the ground, nibbling at her bread. Snow dropped to a crouch beside her, pulling a can of seasoned meat from her rations and setting it between them.
"Here," Snow said, prying the lid open with her knife.
Rain's eyes widened. "Snow, you don't have to—"
"I'm not hungry," Snow lied, pushing the can closer. "Eat."
Rain hesitated, but the smell of the meat was too enticing to resist. She tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the can, her face lighting up as she tasted the savory seasoning.
"Thank you," she said between bites, her voice soft.
Snow leaned back against the rusted car, watching Rain eat. For a while, they sat in silence, the distant sounds of the camp fading into the background.
"I heard something in Solus-9," Snow said finally, breaking the quiet.
Rain looked up, curious. "What was it?"
"There was a message," Snow began, her voice low and measured. "One of the thinking boxes—the ones you're always talking about. It said something about the world. That it's… stable again."
Rain blinked, her bread forgotten in her hand. "Stable? What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Snow admitted. "It didn't make much sense. Something about the atmosphere. It said the message was being sent somewhere."
Rain's mind raced, her eyes shining with excitement. "Solus-9 must have been watching the world from up there," she said, pointing to the sky. "Beyond the clouds. Recording everything. If the message is true, it means…"
"It means nothing," Snow interrupted, her tone sharp. "Even if the world's stable, it doesn't change anything for us. We're still stuck scavenging ruins and fighting off bandits."
"But it could change things," Rain insisted, leaning forward. "If there's a place where the air is clean and the land isn't scorched, we could find it. We could settle there. We wouldn't have to live like this anymore."
Snow didn't answer right away. She stared at the firelight flickering in the distance, her expression unreadable.
"The Niners won't believe it," she said at last. "They've spent their whole lives like this—scavenging, fighting, surviving. It's all they know."
Rain frowned. "But don't you think they deserve better? Living like carrion feeders, picking at the scraps of a dead world… it's not a life. It's just… survival."
Snow's gaze dropped to the dirt. She thought of the Niners—their endless search for ruins, their crude tools and patched clothes, their weary faces worn down by years of struggle. She thought of the bandits who had raided their camp last month, leaving them with even fewer supplies. And she thought of Bricks, doing his best to keep the group together, even as morale frayed like old rope.
"They believe struggle makes them strong," Snow said quietly. "That's what Nine taught them. It's his motto, remember? 'Nine is fine, Nine is shine.'" Her voice hardened. "That's why they won't listen to you. They don't want to live a 'normal' life. They think this is normal."
Rain sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Maybe they won't listen. Maybe they'll keep ignoring me, or laughing at me, or burning my books." She looked up at Snow, her eyes full of quiet determination. "But I don't care what happens to me. As long as the world gets a second chance, that's all that matters."
Snow's chest tightened at Rain's words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. She didn't share Rain's hope—not entirely—but she couldn't deny the girl's conviction.
"You're too stubborn for your own good," Snow said, her voice soft.
Rain smiled faintly. "Takes one to know one."
Snow let out a breath, shaking her head. "Get some sleep," she said, standing up. "We've got a long day tomorrow."
Rain nodded, curling up against the rusted car with her books piled around her like a makeshift fortress. Snow sat nearby, her rifle resting across her knees, keeping watch as the camp settled into an uneasy sleep.