Chapter 57
AMY
The studio smells of stale coffee, polished steel, and tension when I arrive.
Underfoot the floorboards hum; lights hum overhead.
I pass the control room—alarms muted. Darun waits in a side hallway, hands clasped, shoulders squared.
Dark circles under his eyes, but resolute.
He gives me a small nod, like an anchor.
My heart flutters—fear, pride, purpose all mingling.
I pause a moment, breath in the air: ink, polish, human voices diffused through walls. This is the moment. I step on stage.
“Good evening,” I begin, voice firm. The holonet’s red lights flare. The segment title blooms behind me: War Without Heroes.
“Tonight, we present stories the headlines bury.” I glance at Darun just off camera. He’s steady. I press on.
We open with the voice of a woman from a shattered frontier town: her home bombed, children lost, her plea ignored by commanders. I read her letter, unvarnished, raw. The camera sweeps over her photo, the ruins, the furnace of loss. My throat thickens.
Darun’s voice whispers into the earpiece. “Make sure we name the year, correct the location.” His fingers brush the kick of a tablet screen. I straighten. I go on.
We move to a village captured and used as a front line by both forces. A child’s testimony: “They told us to run—but when we ran, they shot us.” I stifle a sob in my throat. The studio is quiet, dark. I taste metal regret.
Darun’s hand slides into mine backstage for a moment. I squeeze it. His silence speaks.
We air others—journalists who were buried under orders, doctors forced to choose which lives to save, refugees forced into corridors of terror. The weave is grim, a tapestry of fallout.
Midway, I catch sponsor heads in the room. Their faces tense. The colors of their logos seem faint. The ads flicker. I feel the shift in air: profit breathing out fear.
After we close the segment, lights dim. The control room crackles. The staff exchange glances. The screen collapses to regular feed.
Backstage, I lean against a wall. My legs tremble. The hum of the studio fills me. Darun approaches.
“You were… fierce,” he says. His eyes burn.
I exhale, voice soft. “We have to be.”
Later, at home, I open the mailbox. Hate mail floods the bottom slot. “Ataxian Amy” slanders. Death threats. Rancid pleas, razor words. I read a few. My stomach churns. My skin flushes. Rage wants to rise. But I swallow it down.
I show Darun. He stands beside me, broad in the doorframe. His jaw tight. His face gravely. He doesn’t blink.
“Let them scream,” I say, lips set. “We’re louder.”
He nods. He reaches for my hand.
That night, Darun sits in the studio with me.
Not on camera, but visible in a side frame.
The screens cut to him when we talk transitions.
His silhouette is muscle and patience. In his silence, there’s strength.
Viewers notice. Comments light up: “Look at Darun supporting her.” “She has him.” “He’s her shield now. ”
The sponsors mutter. The board frowns. But the audience watches. The voices buried are now heard. The noise outside grows. But inside the studio, in that quiet frame, our resolve is visible: two people against the gale.
After broadcast, when the lights go down, I find him in the hall.
“You held up better than I did,” I admit, voice raw.
He steps closer. “Because I believe you deserve this fight.”
I meet his gaze. “Because you believe in truth.”
We lean in, foreheads touching, ears murmuring promises. The night after War Without Heroes, the world rages. But in that moment between us, the air is soft, the ground is ours.
Tomorrow the storm returns. The backlash will tear. Sponsors pulling, nations seething. But for now, I let the lies crumble, let the wounded speak, let the silent roar. And I lean against the wind—not alone. Not silent. Not defeated.
We have no illusions of victory yet. But we have each other. And on that foundation, we build.