Chapter Text
SMOKE FILLED HER VISION. Her mouth was parched, the acrid taste of ash clinging to her tongue. Strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead as she struggled to breathe, her chest heaving. Her trembling hands clawed at the air, and her eyes teared up, stinging as the smoke enveloped her.
What just happened? Where was she?
She coughed into her arm, the sound harsh and raw, her throat burning with every breath. Heat licked at her legs as she squinted at the blurred mess of red, orange, and black around her. Then, through the haze, clarity struck—fire. Flames crept up the wall, inching closer, hungry and relentless.
With a startled yelp, she stumbled backward, her legs sluggish and heavy. She willed herself to move, forcing her shaky arms to push her upright. Turning toward the door, she staggered forward but faltered again, doubling over as another coughing fit wracked her body. Each cough tore at her throat, the pain sharp and unforgiving as smoke filled her lungs.
Instinctively, she raised her arm to block the invasion of ash and embers. Then she turned back, her gaze locking on her room. Her books—her precious books—were being consumed by the flames. She could see the fire devouring them, page by page, until they were nothing but ash. A part of her felt like it was burning too.
She knew she had to flee, to find her father, to check on her mother. But something held her back. Desperation, maybe. She darted into the room, grabbing at whatever her hands could reach. Her journal—it had to be here. She spotted it, lunging forward, but cried out as the fire singed her hand. Swatting at the pain, she snatched the journal and clutched it tightly to her chest before sprinting toward the door.
Her mind raced as she stumbled toward her parents’ room. She kicked the door open without hesitation. "Mom? Dad!" she shouted, her voice hoarse and cracking. The smoke thickened, wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud. She coughed violently, her knees nearly buckling, but she pressed on. The room was empty.
Panic surged through her veins as she turned and bolted down the stairs—only to freeze. A wall of fire roared in front of her, blocking her path. She gasped, her eyes wide with terror. Clutching her journal tighter, she tucked it into the pocket of her hoodie and spun around, her mind racing for another way out.
The windows!
She sprinted back to her room, pulling her hood up as she leapt over the chest at the foot of her bed. Without pausing, she drew her arm back and punched through the glass, shards scattering as she braced herself. With no time to hesitate, she climbed through and jumped.
It was a two-story drop. A wrong landing could mean broken bones—or worse, her neck.
She hit the ground hard, pain jolting through her body, but luck—or perhaps sheer adrenaline—kept her intact. She groaned as she slowly pushed herself up, realizing she’d landed in the flower bed her mother always tended. Thank gods for small mercies, she thought, wincing as she stood.
Then she froze.
Screams. Wailing. The sounds clawed at her ears, sending icy fear racing through her veins. Her head snapped toward the commotion. Mom? she thought, her heart pounding as she moved closer, flinching at a loud, deafening bang.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
A gunshot. That was a gunshot, her mind whispered, cold and unhelpful. Her chest felt like it might burst as her pulse thundered in her ears. She staggered toward the source of the sound, legs trembling, her breath shallow and shaky.
And then she saw them.
Men in uniforms. Guns raised. They were shooting—shooting down people. Her people.
Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat as her mind struggled to comprehend the chaos. Oh gods. Oh my god, she thought, stumbling backward in horror. Her legs felt like they might give out, but instinct took over. She retreated, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling as the reality of what she had seen sank in.
"Colonizers—oh god, colonizers. I have to find Mom and Dad," she muttered under her breath, sprinting to the back of their house, praying her parents were waiting for her at the shore.
Sponge skidded to a stop. They weren’t there.
In fact, no one was there.
“Where—where are they?” she whispered, running a trembling hand through her hair as she turned back toward the house. Flames licked at the roof, ash swirling in the air. Then—she heard it. A familiar voice. A familiar shout.
She spun on her heel and ran, ignoring the voice in her head that begged her to flee, to sail away, to stop trying to be a hero.
I can’t leave them. Mom… Dad.
Sponge bolted toward the shed, shoving the door open with a resounding slam. Her eyes locked on the axes hanging on the wall.
She grabbed one—a training axe, one the children used for practice. It wasn’t meant for combat, but it was still a weapon. And Sponge wasn’t about to face the chaos empty-handed.
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she grabbed another axe, fumbling to holster it on her leg. It was a clumsy, uneven job, the kind her father would have scolded her for. But today wasn’t a normal day.
That would’ve been an understatement.
She burst out of the shed, heading toward the clamor—the bangs, the screams, the chaos.
“Sponge! What are you doing here?”
A hand seized her shoulder, spinning her around. Her father.
“Dad!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. His grip was firm, grounding her in a way that made her forget, for just a moment, the smoke, the screams, the ash coating her tongue.
But then he pushed her back, his hands gripping her shoulders. She froze, taking in his pale face, the sweat dripping down his brow—and the blood trickling down the side of his head.
“Where’s Mom?” she demanded, her voice cracking as she pulled out her axes, her hands trembling. She gripped them so tightly she was sure the wooden handles would splinter. Then she paused.
Her father grabbed her hand, forcing her fingers to tighten around the weapon.
“You must hold it tighter, Sponge,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his eyes. “Your mother—she’s here somewhere. I’ve lost her. Head to the shore. Prepare the boat.”
Her expression crumbled.
“What? No! Let me come with you!” she shouted, shoving him back as she unsheathed the second axe, this time gripping it firmly.
“No.” His voice was sharp now, unyielding. He cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. The firelight danced in his eyes, and his hand was warm against her cold, shaking skin.
“Go to the shore,” he said.
“I can’t—”
“Sponge, GO!” he bellowed, shoving her away.
Her feet stumbled beneath her, but she turned and ran, her body moving on instinct as her mind screamed at her to stop. She glanced back once, catching sight of him standing in the smoke.
Then she froze.
A man in uniform raised a rifle, its barrel aimed at her father’s head.
“No… No,” she whispered, her legs trembling as she took a step forward, then another, willing herself to move faster. She saw her father kneel, speaking to the soldier.
No, no, no, no, no—
The gunshot rang out.
Sponge stopped.
Blood splattered the grass. Her father’s body crumpled to the ground, limp and lifeless.
The man sneered, kicking her father’s corpse as he laughed.
Sponge couldn’t recall what happened next.
When she came to, she was standing over the same man. Her axe was coated in blood. His head—his severed head—was clutched in her other hand. His lifeless body lay at her feet, blood pooling on the earth.
The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. It must’ve splattered on her face, though she couldn’t remember how.
Her fingers went slack, and the head dropped to the ground with a sickening thud. Slowly, she turned toward her father. Her hand reached out—
“One more over here!”
The shout startled her. A bullet whizzed past her foot, and she flinched, stumbling back.
“Get that boy!”
Sponge ran. Her legs burned, each step agony as her chest heaved, her breath growing shallow.
Then a bang.
Searing pain lanced through her leg, and she collapsed with a scream. The axe slipped from her grasp as she clutched at her thigh, gasping, trying to will her body to move.
Footsteps thundered closer. Voices jeered, sharp and cruel.
Anger surged through her veins, but she knew—she knew these breaths might be her last.
"We got them all. Good job," a voice announced. She refused to turn her head, to acknowledge them, not until a heavy boot pressed down on her wounded leg.
She shrieked, her howl ripping through the air as she seized her other axe—the one trapped under her thigh, buried between the grass and her body. With a burst of pain-fueled fury, she drove it upward. The man standing over her screamed as the blade sank into his thigh, his legs faltering.
Sponge cackled, a wild, unhinged sound echoing in the chaos, her eyes wide with manic energy as she watched him collapse. The axe remained embedded in his leg, his cries filling the air. But before she could savor the moment, a sharp blow struck her head. The butt of a rifle slammed into her temple, shattering her glasses. She grunted as her head snapped to the side, shards of glass scattering into the dirt.
"We should tie this bastard up and use him as target practice. Shoot him, you know," someone sneered.
Sponge clenched the grass beneath her fingers, grinding her teeth as fury swelled in her chest. Her vision blurred, a chaotic swirl of black and shadows. The pounding in her skull drowned out their voices until she felt a hand in her hair, yanking it back violently. Her neck strained, and she tried to meet the gaze of her captor, but her eyes refused to focus.
"Oh... Oh? This one's a female!" a voice exclaimed with mocking surprise.
"Damn, did we just hit the jackpot? All we've seen were old men and women. This might be the first girl we've come across!" another chimed in, followed by the sound of laughter—sharp, cruel.
She could hear the slap of knees, the chuckles, and the groans of the man she'd wounded. The grip on her hair loosened, her head falling back and thudding against the ground. She gritted her teeth, eyelids squeezing shut.
Please, if you can hear me, God... save me. Please—help me.
Numbness crept through her wounded leg, though the ache still throbbed faintly. Her head swam with dizziness, her vision spinning into nothingness whenever she tried to open her eyes. Am I going to die here? she wondered, a bitter thread of amusement curling through the thought.
A sound broke through the haze—rustling. Close, near her cheek. She lifted her head weakly. Is someone here? Hope flickered briefly in the darkness.
"Did you hear that?" one of the voices asked, sharp with unease.
A boot pressed against her head, forcing it back down. "It's just this bitch. She's still moving," another voice said, dismissive.
"No, man—I thought I saw—" The speaker’s words cut off abruptly, replaced by a strangled scream.
The pressure on her head vanished as the boot was lifted.
"Shit! Someone's still here! Get—"
Another scream. The voice was silenced mid-sentence.
Sponge groaned, struggling to push herself up. Her arms trembled, but her strength gave out, her body collapsing back into the dirt. Pain pulsed through her chest, her breathing ragged.
The ground trembled faintly beneath her, light footsteps approaching. Was that the sound of a blade? Silence followed.
Now all she could hear was the crackling of flames from the house behind her, distant gunfire, and her own labored breaths.
"Hello?" she croaked, her voice hoarse and broken. She tried to rise again, her arms shaking violently. Her wounded leg refused to respond, no longer obeying her commands.
Footsteps. Closer now. She caught the faint blur of black boots as her head lolled forward.
"Don't move," a calm voice instructed. A hand covered her eyes, gently pressing them shut. Sponge flinched but obeyed, her body too weak to resist. The hand shifted to her leg, inspecting the wound. Their touch was careful but firm, worn with experience.
Sponge exhaled shakily, her head dropping back.
"Rest," the voice said softly.
A god has saved me, she thought deliriously, the edges of her consciousness fraying. Her prayer had been answered. The blood loss dulled her senses, and as the world faded, she slipped into darkness.