When the city sleeps, I write. Each story here is born in that hush between exhaustion and peace — when the noise dies and imagination takes its shift.
The Quiet After
A short story by T. Salih Ramsey
900 words · Sci-Fi · Series: Chronicles of Commander Kyi Ramses
The storm had finally burned itself out. A copper silence hung over Orison’s Ruin, where the bones of a city slept half-buried beneath the sand. Commander Kyi Ramses sat against the rusted head of a fallen war-titan, the machine’s visor cracked open like an empty skull. Wind hissed through the desert’s teeth, and he listened—not for enemies, but for proof that the world was still breathing.
His wrist slate flickered, weak and stubborn:
Mission: Locate Beacon “MOTHER-SPINE 553.”
Objective: Recover the Seed Core.
Warning: Avoid Sable Crown patrols.
He could’ve quoted it by heart. Any cost. Those words were always written by people who’d never eaten dust or buried a friend before sunrise.
The titan’s hollow eyes stared toward the skyline where broken towers leaned like dying giants. Kyi brushed grit from his scar and muttered, “Still watching me, huh?”
Machines remembered things. Some whispered the last words of their pilots for decades after battle. If this one could still speak, it would tell stories no living soul should hear.
He rose, sand sighing beneath his boots, and started for the horizon. His mother used to say silence wasn’t peace—just the pause before something decided to scream again.
The first tower came into view, bent in half, its base chewed open. Scavengers had been here recently. Kyi crouched beside a trail of prints—wide unshod feet, crawler treads, and the delicate touch of scout boots. Crown patrols. Close.
Then came the sound: a cart rattling through a trench. Two figures. One steering, one wrapped head to toe in cloth. Nomads. Not Crown.
He stood tall in plain sight.
“Trade wind at my back!” he called—a desert greeting meaning I’m not hunting you.
The driver lifted their goggles, revealing sharp gray eyes. “Or dead in your lungs if you talk too long,” they shot back.
“I’m a courier,” Kyi said. “Looking for an address.”
“Aren’t we all.” The larger one laughed, voice rough as gravel. “Careful, city boy. My partner shoots first when she’s bored.”
“I’m looking for MOTHER-SPINE 553,” he said.
That earned a glance between them. “If it’s still breathing,” said the driver, “it’s buried deep. But we’ll take you close—for a price.”
Kyi showed four glass-thin power wafers. The gray eyes widened. “Fair trade. Hop in.”
They introduced themselves as Rook and Taver. Their cart hummed across the desert like it was skating on glass.
“You know what’s down there?” Rook asked.
“An old rain-listening station. The Collective says it holds a Seed Core—something that can bring back real weather.”
Taver snorted. “Rain in this graveyard? You’d need a god for that.”
“Maybe I found one,” Kyi said quietly.
By dusk, they reached the basin—a sea of ash and twisted steel, where wreckage lay half-melted into the ground. The air shimmered with heat. In the center, a funnel of glass sank into shadow.
“That’s your hole,” Rook said. “We’ll guard your cart. Two wafers now, two when you return.”
“If I’m not back by nightfall,” Kyi warned, “ride fast. Crown scouts use this place for games.”
Rook smirked. “Good advice, courier.”
Kyi slid down the basin wall until he reached the funnel’s rim—a perfect circle, like a trapdoor cut by precision. He dug his fingers in, found a latch, and pulled. A sigh of cool air rose—air that smelled faintly of rain.
“Hello, Spine,” he murmured.
The hatch opened onto a ladder tiled in white. He climbed down twelve meters into darkness. When he switched on his lamp, the corridor came alive—walls humming softly, cables twined like veins.
Then came the voice—mechanical but gentle:
“Commander Kyi Ramses. Authorization broken. Time since last visit: 9,384 hours.”
He froze. “What did you call me?”
“Commander Kyi Ramses,” the voice repeated.
That name belonged to a different life—back when he’d worn a stolen officer’s pass to smuggle refugees out of a doomed city. Somehow, this machine still remembered him.
“Beacon 553 active. How may I assist?”
“I need the Seed Core.”
“Extraction will alert Crown scanners. Scouts are near. Shall I proceed?”
“Do it.”
“Then take me with you.”
He blinked. “You can move?”
“My mind is portable. You carry a slate. I will fit there.”
“And this place?”
“I am already dying here,” said the Spine. “Let me see the sky again.”
A tremor rattled the floor—boots above. The scouts had found the hatch.
“Transfer now,” he ordered.
“Seventy-nine seconds.”
“I’ll give you fifty.”
Light pulsed through the cables like a heartbeat.
“Do you remember the monsoon of the Perigee year?” the Spine asked.
Kyi smiled despite himself. “I was nine. My mother laughed while it rained sideways.”
“The city tasted clean,” the Spine said. “I want that taste again.”
The slate chimed. Transfer complete.
He stuffed it into his chest rig and climbed fast. Five Sable Crown scouts waited above, their shadows against the light.
He moved first. Twisted an ankle, struck with his baton, rolled. Sparks burst blue. Rook’s voice echoed from the cart’s shadow; Taver’s coilgun barked once, sending a scout spinning.
Kyi faced the last one—their leader. A young woman with eyes like razors.
“Pretty courier,” she said. “Drop the pack.”
“If I do,” Kyi answered, “the whole desert dies slower.”
“Shoot his legs.”
The first round cracked—then the sky answered back. Thunder rolled without clouds, the sound of something ancient waking.
Kyi didn’t look up. He ran.
Because in his chest, the Spine whispered one word: Run.
And Commander Kyi Ramses did exactly that—carrying the last heartbeat of rain across the ruins of a dying world.
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About The Still Hour
Written by Tommy D. Ramsey, creator of The Climb.
This is where the stories live when the world goes quiet. Each post begins in the dark and walks toward light.
© 2025 Tommy D. Ramsey · The Climb Presents: The Still Hour
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