“Victor, it’s Toria,” the girl said, knocking three times on the door of the room, very lightly, as if the metallic sound of the knocks could barely be heard. “Can I come in?”

  It was 7:07 p.m. Victor was organizing his luggage. At that moment he was folding his clothes to place them inside his duffel bag. They were among the last things he had to arrange before leaving for the new military base the following morning.

  The boy stood up and turned around as soon as he heard the knocks on the door. When he heard the girl’s voice, a small smile appeared on his face. He opened the door more slowly than usual, so much so that the creaking sound was far more pronounced and prolonged. It was as if he were preserving some kind of surprise effect.

  Once the door opened, Victor was immediately struck by the non-military clothes the girl was wearing: the perfect combination of a white tank top tucked into very light ripped baggy jeans, with a blue shirt with lighter stripes worn over it. For some reason, to the boy that outfit seemed to match the girl’s emerald-green eyes and also suited her dark brown hair, perfectly straight, falling just to her shoulders.

  “There you are! I thought you weren’t here. You weren’t answering me.”

  Victor stood there dazed for a few seconds too long, staring intensely at her face. A moment later, blinking repeatedly and muttering an “oh…,” he snapped out of it and began gently scratching the back of his neck.

  “I know, sorry…” he then said, turning toward the room and looking at the nearly full duffel bags, the messy bed, and the desk, whose lamp was turned off. “I’m really disorganized… and when I concentrate, I completely tune out the world.”

  “Tell me about it…” the girl said, chuckling. “With everything I do during the day—patients of every kind—sometimes I just want to lock myself in my room, put on a pair of headphones, and collapse on the bed.”

  Victor laughed softly. They were more sincere laughs than usual.

  “Did you finish packing?” the boy asked.

  “Yes, I did…” Toria said with a slight tone of fatigue, glancing briefly to her right for no particular reason while leaning against the doorframe. A moment later she noticed some figures at the intersection at the end of the hallway who seemed to be spying on her. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions right away, but the faces looked very familiar. More precisely, a boy and a girl who, judging by their hair and facial features, seemed to be Duncan and Raiko. As soon as they realized they had been spotted, they hid behind the wall.

  “But aren’t those—?”

  “Who?” Victor replied, stepping closer to look.

  “No, no! Never mind,” Toria answered impulsively, almost stopping the boy, who looked confused for a moment.

  “Anyway, yes, I finished packing…” Looking again at the boy’s bags, Toria made a mock expression of despair, slightly squinting her eyes. “But how can you be this organized?!” she then said jokingly, pretending to cry and lightly hopping in place. Victor laughed at the scene, and shortly after, Toria herself laughed too.

  Once the laughter ended, a brief silence followed. The girl took on a rather serious expression, staring down toward the boy’s stomach, still with a small remnant of a smile that slowly became more visible and pronounced. When she raised her gaze to Victor, it had already returned fully to her face, completed by bright, glossy eyes.

  “I’m used to handling things on my own, not depending on anyone… but I think that without your support I would’ve struggled twice as much to feel okay.”

  Those words almost stunned the boy, who became extremely puzzled and confused, yet gratified by what she had said. He didn’t know which emotion to show first, settling into a fairly neutral expression, widening only his eyes.

  “What did I really do, after all?” the boy said. “I think everyone has willpower, and you’re a girl who has plenty of it. But I’m glad to know I’ve been supportive to you, and it’s been nice for me to stay close to you as well.”

  Toria looked at the boy, smiling. She knew he had a very reserved personality, so those words seemed like the most she could expect from him in that moment.

  “…And it’s thanks to you that I’m doing well too. The only good part of this whole great odyssey, besides seeing my friends again, has been meeting you.”

  Toria laughed awkwardly when she heard those words. She seemed extremely moved; her eyes became very bright, almost as if she were about to cry.

  “Are you about to cry?” Victor asked, confused.

  The girl didn’t answer. She quickly stepped forward and hugged him. Toria’s arms wrapped around Victor like a sheet, holding him by the shoulders and upper back, while her face rested against his collarbone, letting him feel the gentle pressure of her lips and the warm breath from her nose.

  Victor did the same, without saying a word. He wrapped his arms around the girl’s waist. At first he felt embarrassed placing his hands there, because he didn’t want to seem too heavy or even inappropriate. At that moment Toria pulled away slightly, took his hands, and quickly placed them just above her lower back before returning to the same position as before, hugging him even tighter.

  Victor tightened his hold as well. As the seconds passed, his grip became firmer, the embrace stronger.

  Suddenly, he sensed a strong scent. Pungent and persistent, yet pleasant—so much so that Victor was shocked, though he chose not to react. He liked that sensation; it completed the moment. He didn’t know what it was, nor had he ever known it.

  In fact, it was almost as if he didn’t want to know it.

  As if he were pushing that memory away, already blurred and distorted.

  Victor closed his eyes, relaxed by that sensation.

  Immediately, beams of light alternated with scenes from his childhood, experienced in first person. The most beautiful moments, serene and perfect. His father lifting him into his arms, joking with his sister, the affection of his mother. Everything was silent. Everything was beautiful.

  Finally, the silhouette and radiant smile of a girl.

  Victor suddenly opened his eyes. In front of him, Toria was looking at him strangely, yet happily.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Of course. Everything’s fine,” the boy replied.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “I have to go now…” The girl held Victor’s hands, squeezing them and gently massaging his fingers with her thumb. Her eyes were full of life, almost radiating an intense light that Victor let himself be blinded by with immense pleasure.

  “See you tomorrow. Bye!”

  Finally the girl let go of his hands, letting them slide between hers and creating a delicate friction as she walked to the left. Only a few moments later she turned around, smiling at the boy and waving with her right hand, which the boy returned. He watched her walk farther and farther away, becoming smaller and smaller in the corridor as she moved with a cheerful and carefree stride, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

  ***

  5:46 a.m., June 25, 2054. Victor walked beside his companions, positioned between Duncan and Nikita. All of them, including him, wore neutral expressions, their gazes fixed toward the end of the long, wide corridor that led to the base airport’s landing strip. The place was crowded, and the heavy, hurried footsteps—together with a few murmured voices in the background—were the only sounds dominating the scene.

  Victor was practically at the front of the crowd and was among the first to cross the exit threshold. Ahead of him were Lieutenant Abner, General Cannizzaro, and Major Ranieri, leading the group.

  The first lights of dawn, although they almost blinded Victor due to the sudden change in brightness, were beautiful. The sky stood halfway between darkness and light. In the fading night, a few faint stars were still visible, and one of them, as everyone knew, had to be the Remnant. The Moon was about to disappear, suspended between night and day, only partially visible, though still luminous. And finally, the sun itself—the manifestation of human hope and rebirth since ancient times. The representation of the perfect force that balances darkness and keeps it contained. The awareness that, even though the world seemed to be on the brink of collapse, another day had in fact passed—another day to mark on the calendar.

  “Wow…” Duncan exclaimed, looking up at the sky.

  The gigantic spacecraft, the UNS Virgilio—its name written large and in white along the side of the bow, which appeared wider than it was long—was equipped with a double prow. Its outer hull looked worn and aged. Rust streaks ran visibly from the edges downward, dents scattered between one mounted rifle turret and another, and the portholes were opaque and dirty.

  It was escorted by at least four Agusta AW388 helicopters from 2039, heavy and armed to the teeth, equipped with two lateral rotors powered by energy propulsion systems, as well as two Lockheed F-73 H Malthus jets—older aircraft created through Italian-American cooperation during the African War of 2031, yet still effective and fast, with smooth, almost alien shapes and large wings powered by powerful reactors.

  The Virgilio slowly descended to land. The power of its engines made not only the ground tremble but the very air itself. Its majestic roar—metal sizzling and vibrating, smoke swirling through turbines spinning at tremendous speed, bending the air to its will—almost sounded like a celestial trombone, a glorious melody, as if a salvific creature were descending from heaven.

  The heat, already present in the sunlight spreading across the area, intensified because of that flying ark, whose silver metal shone in the sky, casting a gigantic shadow that seemed to bring anyone who looked upon it to their knees—not out of fear or anguish, but out of reverence and sacred awe. As it descended further, it covered more and more of the sky, emitting robotic sounds that echoed through the trembling, disturbed air. The sunlight refracted around it like a halo, a divine aura emanating from a vessel of God—an ark of salvation—heading toward a new world.

  And from the moment Victor stood there on the ground, admiring the magnificence of that ship together with the others, he soon found himself abruptly inside it. After a rather rapid boarding once the Virgilio had landed, he was walking through its corridors—darker and narrower—accompanied by the metallic echo of footsteps against the gray floor covered with grates. Beneath them ran unseen systems that produced a second electronic sound, a kind of “ruan… ruan…”, a spiraling noise repeating at regular intervals, accompanied by faint electric crackles whose intensity could be felt with every step.

  Later, after placing his belongings in his cabin, Victor stepped out for a walk. He found himself on the ship’s mid-deck, completely covered in marble-white surfaces, shining and gleaming under the light of the late afternoon that streamed through the immense window on the left—tall and thick—overlooking the blue sky, blanketed with endless fields of clouds.

  The deck was almost empty at that moment; only a few people passed by, mostly members of the crew. An ethereal calm filled the space. The only sound accompanying the young man was a faint, occasional rustle, probably from the air beyond the massive window.

  The light also radiated considerable warmth. Victor removed the glossy black jacket he was wearing, remaining in his sleeveless black shirt, his arms and shoulders slightly damp with sweat from the heat trapped inside the jacket.

  He continued walking slowly, hands in his pockets, holding the jacket tucked between his right arm and his side, watching the sky outside. At first he was irritated by the sun shining directly in front of him, shielding his eyes with his left hand and tightening his fingers. Despite the burning glare, Victor did not look away. He was mesmerized, as if looking at it made him happy—made him feel at peace.

  “It’s beautiful…”

  Toria seemed to arrive almost by chance.

  Victor turned almost abruptly to his left and saw the girl. She was dressed very similarly to the previous evening, except she was no longer wearing the shirt. Her hair was gathered into a large bun at the back of her head, though a few strands hung loose—some stiff, others softer and wavier along her forehead. Much to Victor’s surprise, Toria was wearing large black-lensed glasses.

  She had just entered the corridor. She, too, had been looking at the view for several minutes already.

  “Sorry we didn’t see each other this morning,” Victor said, his tone slightly melancholic.

  “Don’t worry about it!” the girl replied as she approached him. “This morning was absolute chaos. I almost got lost.”

  Victor simply looked at her and smiled.

  “But did you eat?” she asked.

  “Actually, no. I didn’t even go to the mess hall. I’m not hungry at all.”

  “I see,” the girl said, slightly concerned. “But you should eat something later. Even tonight. Skipping meals isn’t good for you.”

  “If you say so, doctor!” he replied jokingly, causing the girl to laugh.

  Suddenly, a loud rushing sound swept past the window. Out of the corner of their eyes, the two noticed a streak of shadow pass over them for a brief moment. Startled, they both turned their gazes outside.

  It was one of the two F-73s, graceful and majestic, gliding through the sky as if dancing among the clouds—a free spirit, even though in reality it was anything but free. It was most likely conducting a surveillance flight, passing from one side of the Virgilio to the other, which was now about four or five kilometers away from Palermo.

  It eventually positioned itself in front of the sun, allowing only a few rays to pass through, creating a bright aura and reducing the aircraft to a simple black silhouette.

  Victor and Toria watched in amazement.

  “What did you feel?” Toria suddenly asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her gaze fixed on the plane.

  “When?” Victor asked, also staring at the silhouette.

  “When you were called to arms,” Toria replied, turning her gaze back to him.

  “I wanted to die,” Victor answered, trying to sound as ironic as possible. Yet it was clear from his eyes, from his forced smile, from the false amusement on his face, that he was telling the truth.

  Toria responded with a quiet “mh,” as if to say I understand. On the outside she seemed indifferent. Inside, it meant something else entirely: I’m sorry… poor soul… God has stopped protecting you.

  “When they enlisted me,” she said, “I felt like my world had collapsed. I’ll be honest… I don’t like what I do. I save lives, it’s true…”

  “And that’s more than enough,” the boy replied. “No one asks you to love what you do—only to do it. What you do is a great sacrifice. After the attack of the two Ijo, I saw you while you were… dismantling those bodies to replace their parts with mechanical ones. You were suffering. You felt like you were killing a person. And yes, Toria, the Cyberhumans and the Automatons are bodies kept alive to fight—people who would rather die but can’t afford to yet. But it’s not your fault. You only followed orders, and they’re doing the same…”

  The girl kept the same expression as she looked at him. She tried to smile because of his words of comfort. But the more she tried, the more she felt like crying, and tears began to gather in her eyes. One of them finally escaped, running down her left cheek.

  “Victor…” Her voice grew much thinner than before, almost hoarse, as she slowly lowered her gaze. “…Do you believe in this war? Be honest.”

  “Yes.”

  The boy answered almost before she had finished speaking. He stepped closer to her, gently touching her arm. The girl raised her eyes toward him again. He looked at her with determination and seriousness.

  “I have to believe in it, Toria. My life—and everyone else’s—depends on it.”

  The girl wiped the tear from her cheek, lightly brushing her hand across her eye.

  “What about you?” the boy asked. “Do you believe in it?”

  “I think it’s wrong to imitate the enemy in order to fight them.”

  Victor continued looking into her eyes.

  “I understand.”

  Then silence fell between them.

  ***

  8:52 PM, Mega-Class Military Base “Franca Florio,” Palermo.

  The Virgilio descended slowly onto the runway at Punta Raisi, almost at the same time as the sun, which was slowly drowning in the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  More than ten armored buses were stationed at the airport, waiting for the members of the Axel and the Borromini, each with a maximum capacity of about 60 people. Those large vehicles reeked of diesel and were worn on the outside, dented and scratched. The interior was suffocating and extremely dusty, so much so that Victor initially had difficulty breathing, having taken a seat at the back of the fourth bus. It was not possible to lower the windows, which were sealed and disgustingly worn and yellowish.

  As soon as everyone had boarded, the buses departed almost immediately, escorted by three Leopard DH44 V tanks, equipped with massive, elongated bodies and metal wheels that, as they rotated, made a tremendous racket, the iron growling as if it were a scream. They were also armed with three cannons arranged evenly across the surface, each of which had two muzzles, firing a double projectile—heavy and lethal.

  After crossing the desolate and devastated landscapes of Carini and Palermo, characterized by the degraded environment of large broken buildings—once symbols of progress and technology—collapsed and reduced to rubble that merged with the debris already covering the ground, among destroyed cars, technological wreckage, and, hidden among them, the corpses now reduced to nothing more than broken and worn bones, the buses arrived at the base about an hour later, at 9:39 PM. They passed through a belt of walls—namely the original walls of the city—rebuilt with metal plating and reinforced and armed with every kind of automatic firearm, featuring, for example, as Hansen—who was aboard the first bus—noticed, the latest model KBW submachine guns.