Stage 5 - Acceptance

Posted on Fri Mar 14th, 2025 @ 4:59pm by Niyah Monroe

1,241 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Towers of the Void (Series Premiere)
Location: D.C. Metropolitan Area

Niyah had spent the night curled up in the corner of an abandoned dry cleaner’s, wedged between a fallen rack of ruined suits and the counter where a cash register had been looted. She had chosen the place because it was small, enclosed, a space where she could keep her back to the wall and listen for anything approaching.

She barely slept.

Her body had long since passed exhaustion and moved into something worse, a dull, aching stiffness, a constant protest from every joint and muscle. Her lower back throbbed, the old injury screaming against the abuse she had put it through. Her legs felt swollen and sore, her shoulders stiff from carrying the weight of the duffle bag across miles of devastation.

She hadn’t dared to make a fire, even as the cold crept into her bones. The city’s silence felt too predatory, too unnatural. She couldn’t risk drawing attention. Not from survivors, and especially not from whatever those machines out there were. She barely dared to breathe.

She didn’t turn on her radio. She didn’t turn on her flashlight. She didn't check her sattelite phone. She didn't boot up the laptop she had pulled from the safe.

Instead, she sat in the dark, listening to nothing, thinking about everything.

When the dawn finally arrived it was barely visible through the thick smoke and ash still permeating the sky. Niyah forced herself to move.

She dug through her bag, pulled out a small plastic bottle, and shook out a single painkiller. She dry-swallowed it, wincing as the pill dragged down her parched throat. It wouldn’t erase the pain, but it would dull it. She needed to keep moving.

With a grunt, she stood, stretched her aching limbs, and slung the duffle bag over her shoulder.

There was only one place she could think of going. Fort Myer.

The walk was agonizing.

Every step sent a dull throb up her spine, every movement a reminder that her body wasn’t built for this anymore—not without rest, not without time to heal.

But time didn’t exist in this world anymore. Only forward.

The roads leading out of the city were quiet, littered with the remains of the dead. Some cars had been burned beyond recognition, their insides charred black. Others still had shattered windshields, bullet holes punched through the doors, reminders that not everyone had been killed by the bombs alone.

Then she saw it—half-hidden beneath the wreckage of a collapsed highway sign. A drone.

It lay there like a gutted animal, its sleek frame dented, its sensors cracked and flickering weakly. Skynet’s work. Advanced. Precise. Merciless.

And broken.

She approached slowly, scanning the area. No movement. No sound.

Still dead.

Crouching beside it, she set the duffle bag down and pulled a screwdriver from the side pouch. Her hands shook, they hadn't stopped shaking since that first machine showed up in her street. First from fear, then from exhaustion, finally from the pain, but as soon as she made contact with the drone’s metal shell, as soon as she started prying open an access panel, the tremors stopped.

This was something she knew. Something she understood.

The plating gave way, revealing a mess of circuits and wires, tangled like veins beneath its metallic skin. She worked quickly, pulling apart a sensor module, detaching a processor unit, extracting anything that wasn’t too fried to be useful.

Her fingers ghosted over a small power cell, but she hesitated. The last thing she needed was something going off in her bag while she walked.

Satisfied, she stuffed the stolen tech into her bag, wiped her hands on her pants, and stood.

It was something she understood. It was the first time in days she had done something that felt like control. With that she continued her trek across the wasteland that was now D.C..

The base came into view at the edge of the ruined city, tall, fortified. As she edged closer it was clear it wasn't completely unscathed. Unlike everything else, however, it still stood.

For the first time in days, hope scratched at the edges of her exhaustion.

She adjusted the strap on her bag, quickening her pace, already picturing what came next. Shelter. Food. A bed. Maybe even—God, maybe even answers.

She reached the gate and lifted a fist to knock—but stopped.

Something felt wrong.

She scanned the perimeter, waiting for the usual signs of life—guards patrolling, movement behind the barricades.

Nothing.

A sinking feeling settled in her gut.

She knocked once. Twice. Pounded the metal.

The sound echoed.

And then—

“Turn back.”

A voice crackled over an unseen intercom. Flat. Final.

She froze.

“I’m not infected,” she called, stepping closer. “I have supplies. I—”

“No one in. No one out.”

A pause. Then, more firmly:

“Orders.”

The intercom cut out.

Silence.

Niyah tensed, pressing a hand against the cold metal gate.

No. No, no, no. I didn’t come all this way for nothing.

Her mind scrambled for options. Hack into the system? No, the lock was mechanical. Climb the fence? Not with her back in this condition.

She turned, scanning the structure for weaknesses—a side entrance, a keypad, a maintenance tunnel. Something.

She walked the length of the wall, searching. Nothing.

She circled back, pressing her forehead against the gate, gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

I should have gotten here sooner.

I should have been faster.

"No." Slowly, her shoulders sagged.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything.

No one is coming to save you, Niyah.

She stepped back.

Let go.

The gate wasn’t opening. So she’d find another way. She slowly walked slightly off to the side and found a soft patch of grass to sit down on. The pain was creeping back in. The painkillers had done their job for a while, but she could feel the ache returning, a slow, pulsing throb in her spine.

Niyah slung the bag off her shoulder, kneeling beside it. She dug into a small side pouch, fingers brushing past tools and salvaged tech before finding a familiar case. She looked at the intricate dragon pattern etched into it. Olivia had gotten it for her. She flicked it open. Pulled out a single, tightly rolled joint.

Medical marijuana had been a necessity before all this. But now? She exhaled sharply through her nose. Maybe it was just a crutch.

Still, she sat down right there, leaning against the thick wall she couldn’t pass. She rolled the joint between her fingers for a moment, then sparked it with a cheap plastic lighter that somehow survived the apocalypse.

She took a slow, measured drag, letting the smoke settle in her lungs before exhaling. A familliar sensation quickly crept into her body. Into her aching muscles and bones. Into her brain.

Her eyes lifted to the horizon.

She wasn’t lost.

She wasn’t saved.

She was just here.

And she had a choice.

And she choose not to leave.

Tomorrow, she would figure out what came next.

Tonight, she would breathe in and the ache in her muscles would dissipate. She would breathe in, and her overclocked brain would slow down. She would breathe in, and it would be enough for her to simply sit there.

 

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