The scent of rancid grease and frozen exhaust clung to Oletta’s threadbare shawl, a familiar perfume of Velmoth’s market district. Ash swirled like phantom snow, kicked up by the shuffling, desperate crowds. Her smile, bright as a freshly polished cog, felt a little too wide as she haggled with the bread vendor, a scowling woman named Klyra who guarded her dwindling loaves like dragon’s gold. “Just this one, Klyra,” Oletta chirped, pointing a gloved finger at a crusty, half-burnt rye. “For Bex. She’s growing, needs her sustenance, bless her tiny stomach.” Bex, a wisp of a girl bundled in layers, tugged on Oletta’s sleeve. “It’s too much, Otta. We still have half a ration token.” “Nonsense, pipsqueak!” Oletta ruffled Bex’s ash-dusted hair. “A growing girl needs her carbs. Besides, I just charmed Klyra into giving us a discount.” Her wink was audacious, even as Klyra merely grunted, her eyes flat and wary. Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek ripped through the market’s usual din. “Rations are cut! They’re bleeding us dry!” The murmur swelled into a roar. Panic, a swift, brutal current, surged through the narrow lanes. Oletta’s smile faltered, replaced by a strained tightness around her mouth. She grabbed Bex, pulling her close, her gaze sweeping the shifting mass of bodies. “Riot! Riot in the Provisions Ward!” Before Oletta could process the words, the crowd erupted. The pack of bodies crashed forward, desperate hands reaching, grabbing. A burly man, face contorted with hunger, lunged for Klyra’s cart, his eyes fixed on the remaining loaves. Klyra screamed, but he simply shoved her aside. Oletta moved. She didn’t think; it was a pure, cold instinct, a dance of muscle memory that bypassed conscious thought. Her hand shot out, not to block, but to redirect. Her fingers found the man’s elbow, twisting with impossible precision. A wet, sickening pop echoed faintly over the chaos. The man’s arm hung at an unnatural angle, his face contorting in a silent scream of agony before he collapsed to the cobblestones. She snatched the rye bread from the falling cart, clutching Bex tighter. “Run, Bex! Now!” They sprinted through the thickening riot, the smell of burning refuse mixing with diesel fumes and the acrid tang of fear. Oletta didn’t look back at the moaning man, nor at the other looters now tearing apart Klyra’s stall. Her lungs burned, but a different kind of fire scorched her insides. That move. It was too fast, too efficient, too… lethal. A tremor ran through her, not from exertion, but from the chilling clarity of what she had done, how easily she had done it. “Are you alright, Otta?” Bex panted, her small hand clutching Oletta’s calloused one. “Your face looks funny.” Oletta forced a laugh, a slightly too-high sound. “Just the ash, pipsqueak! Makes everyone look like a coal miner’s ghost! Come on, home for warm broth!” She maintained the cheerful facade all the way back to the Rustblock Tenements, a towering, soot-stained monstrosity that leaned precariously into the grey Velmoth sky. Their apartment, a cramped space on the seventh floor of Sector Gamma, was a haven from the chaos outside. As Oletta wrestled open the heavy, creaking door, a glint of brass on the worn floorboards caught her eye. A delivery tube. Not the usual pneumatic capsules from the Wardens or the Ration Commissariat, but an old, brass-riveted contraption, too heavy for routine messages. It hummed faintly, a tiny indicator light blinking green. “What’s that, Otta?” Bex peered at it, her eyes wide. Oletta knelt, a prickle of unease creeping up her spine. She twisted the cap. A tightly rolled scroll of parchment, tied with rough twine, slid out. Along with it, a small, folded paper. She unrolled the larger parchment first. It was a marriage certificate, emblazoned with the official seal of the Velmoth City Civil Bureau, but the paper felt slightly too thin, the ink too fresh. Her eyes skimmed the names: Oletta Farrow, and… Haldon Volkov. Haldon Volkov. The name was unfamiliar, a blank space in her hazy memory. She opened the smaller, folded paper. It was a note, written in a confident, looping script. Her own handwriting. ‘Oletta,’ the lines began, stark and direct. ‘If you are reading this, you’ve lost your past. Again. Don’t panic. There’s a plan. You need to marry Haldon. He’s a factory mechanic, quiet, reliable. He needs a two-parent household for his orphaned nephew, Perrin, to keep him out of the camps. You need an apartment in a Family Ward, and a husband who won’t ask questions. Our safety depends on this. Trust yourself. Trust me. The Munitions Front will be sending an inspector soon. Don’t hesitate.’ Her own words, from a past she couldn’t recall, spoke of a chilling calculation. Again? How many times had her mind gone blank? The lethality in the market, the forged papers, this cryptic message… a cold knot tightened in her stomach. This bubbly persona, this airheaded older sister act, felt like a thin mask over something far more dangerous. A sharp rap sounded on the door, startling Oletta so violently she nearly dropped the papers. Bex jumped, startled. “Oletta Farrow?” A deep voice rumbled through the worn wood. “It’s Haldon Volkov.” Oletta exchanged a quick, bewildered glance with Bex before plastering on her brightest, most innocent smile. She shoved the marriage papers and the sheet into her pocket, her pulse hammering against her ribs. She pulled open the door. Haldon Volkov was taller than she expected, a mountain of a man with broad shoulders dusted with a fine layer of soot. His grim face was etched with exhaustion, his eyes the color of old iron. He held a small, wary boy by the hand, who peered around his leg with wide, solemn eyes. “You received my… package?” Haldon’s voice was low, devoid of warmth. He gestured vaguely to the brass tube now lying innocuously on the floor. “The instructions stated you would understand.” Oletta fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, the brass tube! Such a clever little contraption! And yes, a note! My, my, what a surprise! You must be… Haldon! And this little sprout is… Perrin?” She aimed a dazzling smile at the boy, who merely blinked. Haldon’s expression didn’t change. “The note also mentioned urgency. The Wardens are tightening the Family Ward regulations. Perrin needs a two-parent household to avoid the child labor drafts.” His gaze was unblinking, direct, cutting through her practiced frivolity. “I need a wife. You need a stable apartment. A functional arrangement, as the lines stated.” “Oh, absolutely practical!” Oletta clapped her hands together, the sound jarringly bright. “Efficiency is key, isn’t it? Especially in these trying times! Come in, come in! Don’t just stand there letting the cold seep in!” Haldon stepped inside, bringing with him the scent of machine oil and cold metal. Perrin shuffled after him, clutching Haldon’s hand tightly. Oletta closed the door, her smile still fixed, but her mind raced. This was it. A cold alliance. A contract of survival. Later, after she’d made them all a meager broth and settled Perrin and Bex with a worn deck of cards, Oletta retreated to the tiny sleeping alcove. She pulled out the sheet, her own handwriting staring back at her. ‘If you are reading this, you’ve lost your past. Again.’ The words echoed, a chilling whisper from a forgotten past. This wasn't just a convenient marriage; it was a contingency, meticulously planned by a version of herself she didn't recognize. The casual mention of losing her memory ‘again’ felt like a gut punch, a second jolt that hit harder than the riot. Who was she before? What kind of life necessitated such elaborate, dangerous preparations? A loud, insistent pounding echoed through the corridor. Heavy, rhythmic. Not the neighborly knock of Matron Gorm. This was official. This was the Munitions Front. They had arrived for an inspection.

The Brass Tube