December 24, 2058 –
Abandoned church basement, South Side Chicago
Snow falls thick outside, muffling the city like a hand over its mouth.
Inside, the basement is warmer than it has any right to be. Maya's light glows steady in the rafters, golden and soft. Someone strung Christmas lights scavenged from a dollar store—red, green, blue flickering against concrete walls.
The kids cluster around a makeshift tree: a metal coat rack wrapped in tinsel and topped with a paper star Amara colored gold.
Malik floats ornaments into place, gravity gentle, careful not to crush the fragile plastic balls.
Aisha sits on an overturned crate, new prosthetic leg stretched out—still clunky, but painted purple now. She watches Malik with something close to a smile.
Jonah passes around hot chocolate made from powdered packets and melted snow. Real marshmallows float like tiny life rafts.
Kenji and Kayden share a quiet corner, trading stories in low voices—rez winters, sheep lost in blizzards, the way snow quiets even anger.
Elijah stands near the door, shadows pooled at his feet, listening for boots that haven't come yet.
Amara tugs his hand. "It's Christmas Eve. Miss Delphine said you have to open one present early."
She hands him a small package wrapped in newspaper comics.
Inside: a new hoodie. Black, soft, sleeves intact. Sewn on the chest in careful stitches: a small golden flame intertwined with black threads.
Maya's work. Amara's design.
Elijah's throat closes.
He pulls it on over the old one. It fits perfect.
Malik floats over, offering a mug. "You drink this stuff black, right?"
Elijah takes it. "Yeah."
Malik hesitates. "I've been here two months. Feels like longer."
Elijah nods.
Malik lowers his voice. "They're still looking for me. Prime upped the bounty. My face is on every screen from here to Texas."
Aisha overhears. "Then we keep you off screens."
Jonah joins them. "I can spoof the facial recognition nets for a while. But not forever."
Kayden looks up from the corner. "We could make them forget. One big illusion—"
"No," Kenji cuts in, gentle but firm.
Kayden subsides.
Maya dims the lights a little, golden glow turning the basement into something almost sacred.
"Tonight," she says, "we're just people."
The kids start singing—off-key, half-remembered carols mixed with old protest songs. Amara's voice rises clear above the rest.
Elijah stands in the doorway between cold and warmth, new hoodie soft against his skin.
Outside, snow keeps falling.
Inside, for one night, the war forgets their address.