The garden of the orphanage "L'Espoir de Demain" was a microcosm of resistance. Here, the earth, enriched with compost and tiny recycled ether crystals, produced vigorous vegetables and brightly colored flowers, defying the general pallor of the city. It was in this sanctuary that Hakime found his peace, the smell of the damp land reminding him of fragments of a vanished world he had never known.
His hands, already callous for his young age, were busy weeding a square of tuberous roots. At sixteen, he was taller than average, with a build that promised that of a fighter. His eyes, so dark brown that they seemed to absorb the light, scanned the horizon over the low walls of the garden, staring at the indistinct line where the energetic dome met the northern haze. He didn't dream; he was soaking up the threat. Every day, this show strengthened his determination.
"Are you still here to fix nothingness?"
Mother Elara's voice, the director, was worn out but firm, like granite polished by the years. She approached, her modest but clean scarf covering shoulders that had carried too many burdens.
"I'm soaking up the context, Mother," Hakime replied without turning around. "To find out what I'm fighting against."
A sad smile stretched the old woman's lips. Hakime had always been different. More thoughtful, more intense. While the other children were playing war, he studied the declassified tactical reports that teachers could obtain. He knew the presumed weaknesses of the Laziness Monsters and the attack patterns of Gourmandise better than his multiplication tables.
"The convoy is coming in an hour," she announced, putting a light hand on her arm. "Are you ready?"
"Being ready assumes that you know what to expect," he says, finally turning to her. His look was serious. "No one can be ready. But I am resolute."
They went back inside the orphanage. The atmosphere was strange, between excitement and apprehension. The younger ones looked at him with a mixture of fear and admiration. Today, he was one of them. Tomorrow, he could be an Awakened One, a protector, or... he could remain a mere human, doomed to watch others fight for his survival.
In the dorm he shared with five other boys, his belongings were already folded into a sturdy canvas bag. The little he owned: clothes, a sharp knife, and an old manual on the basic principles of spear fighting, offered by an anonymous benefactor. His fingers touched the worn-out cover of the book. It was his most precious treasure.
The moment of farewell was brief and full of contained emotions. The hugs of the little ones, the firm handshakes of others, the look full of a painful pride of Mother Elara. No words of bombastic, just "Good luck" and "Come back to us." That was all that mattered.
When the armored shuttle of the Army of Protectors, an angular and severe vehicle in the gray and blue colors of the city, stopped in front of the portal, Hakime felt his heart racing. It was real.
He boarded, the cold metal of the vehicle contrasting with the warmth of the orphanage. Through the window with its thick windows, he watched "The Hope of Tomorrow" disappear at the turn of a street. He didn't squeeze his bag harder, didn't let any emotion appear. He sat upright with his hands on his knees, and took the silent oath that had been burning inside him for as long as he could remember.
It doesn't matter what the outcome of the awakening is. It doesn't matter what his grade is. He would find a way to become strong. Strong enough that no one ever has to look at the energy dome again with this mute fear in their eyes. The deaf rumble of the ether engine seemed to seal his promise as the shuttle carried him to his destiny.