hope is a choice • tlou

i. the cure

::

They call us the Fireflies because we're supposed to bring light to the darkness. We call ourselves the Fireflies because it's easier than admitting we're just people clawing at the edges of something we can't fix.

The light they talk about feels more like an ember—small, flickering, and burning anyone who gets too close.

I never believed in the name. I joined them because they offered structure, resources, and a roof over my head—not salvation. That's what they really were: a lifeline in a world where none existed. Yet, I took it because I knew better than to expect anything else.

The air in the hospital clings to you, thick with the tang of disinfectant and the metallic bite of blood. It smells like what we're fighting against—death. The generators hum constantly, their dull vibration sinking into the walls, into us. Sometimes, when they stutter, it feels like the whole building is holding its breath, waiting to see if the lights will come back on. They always do, but the waiting gnaws at you. Boots scrape against cracked tile, voices echo from distant halls, and somewhere, water drips into a rusted basin.

This is what I know of the world. It's all I've ever known.

I wasn't born into the old world. I've never seen the things I read about in books or heard in the stories the elders used to tell. Bright lights on city streets. People sitting shoulder to shoulder, laughing in theaters. Buildings stretching so high they disappeared into the clouds.

When I was a kid, I used to dream about it—those little scraps of a life that wasn't mine. But the older I got, the harder it became to imagine. Now, when I think about it, all I see are ruins.

Earlier, someone had called my name—Jonah.

"Orion." His voice was low and rough, like gravel scraping over concrete, worn thin by too many nights standing guard. He leaned against the doorframe of my quarters, his rifle slung over his shoulder. "They need you in the east wing," he'd said. "Patrol came in. Scrapes, gunshot wounds—the usual."

I nodded, slipping this notebook into my bag. Jonah lingered, his eyes darting like he was about to say something, but he didn't. Jonah never says much. He carries his silence the way he carries his rifle—close and steady, a part of him now.

I'd walked through the hospital's hollow halls, past peeling paint and flickering lights. The east wing was chaos by the time I arrived. A man sat slumped on a cot, blood pooling beneath his thigh. His breathing was shallow, his face pale. Someone yelled for more gauze, and the sharp smell of antiseptic stung my nose.

I tied on gloves and stepped into the fray, my hands moving on instinct. The day blurred into a series of motions—clean, stitch, wrap, repeat. The kind of work that leaves your body aching and your mind numb. But it wasn't the wounds or the shouting that stayed with me.

It was the words I overheard: "They brought her in this morning. Marlene says she's the one."

I didn't even have to ask who they meant. A girl. Immune to the Cordyceps. The cure we've been waiting for.

They didn't tell me much, but they didn't have to. The weight of those words settled over everything, thick and unshakable.

Marlene passed by me earlier in the east wing. She didn't say a word, but the look on her face stayed with me. Detached, focused, cold in a way that felt deliberate. Like she'd already made her decision.

It's the kind of look that haunts you later, when the world is quiet and your thoughts grow too loud.

::

When my shift ended, the east wing had quieted. Not completely, but enough to feel the ache of it, like the lull after a scream.

I went back to my room then, though room is a generous term. The walls are cracked, the bed creaks with every move, and the single window doesn't open. But it's mine, for now.

I grabbed my father's jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on. It doesn't smell like him anymore. It smells like me—like sweat, cigarette smoke, and rain. Like this place, this life I've built that feels more borrowed than earned.

When I think of him, it's mostly fragments. His hands knotting rope, the smell of pine smoke on his clothes, the sound of his boots crunching over gravel. But one memory stands out, clear and sharp like it happened yesterday. The night the walls of our settlement fell.

I remember the chaos—the screaming, the sound of gunfire, the smell of something burning. I was a kid, too small to carry much of anything, but he pulled his jacket off and wrapped it around my shoulders anyway. "Don't stop moving," he said, his voice steady even as everything else crumbled around us.

I didn't understand it then, but I clung to those words. I told myself they'd keep me alive.

And for years, they did. But now? Now I've stopped.

I'm not a nomad anymore, scavenging to stay ahead of the dark. I'm here, in this hospital, stitching people back together and watching others make the decisions. It's what I'm good at—what they tell me matters. But sometimes, when the nights stretch too long and the hum of the generators gets too loud, I wonder if I've broken his promise. If standing still is just another way of losing.

I sat by the window with this notebook in my lap, listening to the faint hum of the generators. The sky outside was the color of ash, a bruised gray and endless.

::

The girl they brought in today. Ellie.

I haven't seen her yet, but I can feel the way she's already taken root in this place. Like a stone dropped into water, sending ripples through everything we do.

She's too young, I keep telling myself. Too young to carry the weight of the world, but they've already laid it on her shoulders.

I was a kid when my world cracked open. Too small to carry much of anything, but I carried what I could—my father's words. His jacket. They kept me breathing then. But this girl? I don't know anything about her, not really. I don't know if she's ever had someone to hand her words to hold onto, or if all she's known is the weight of things too heavy to lift. Maybe she had someone once, maybe she didn't. Either way, it doesn't matter now. Whatever she had, it's gone, stripped away and replaced with this. She has whatever they've handed her: this weight, this certainty, this burden too big for her shoulders. She's too young for it, but so was I. It's never about what you're ready for—it's about what they leave you to carry.

I've told myself a lot of things over the years, and I've done even more. Some of it still lingers. Nights I don't talk about. Faces I can't forget. I've seen good people do terrible things, and I've seen terrible people try to be good. In the end, there's just people. I've told myself that the price of living in this world is doing what has to be done. And most of the time, I've believed it.

But this, this doesn't feel like survival—not the kind my father taught me. The Fireflies measure every step, calculate every loss, but this feels more like a gamble disguised as certainty. Maybe that's what stays with me—not that we're sacrificing the girl, but that we're pretending it will undo everything that's already gone. Fix something that's long past saving.

The nights here are cold, but the air feels heavier tonight. My jacket smells like ash and rain now, and I can't tell if the chill comes from the wind or somewhere deeper.

I wonder what my father would think if he saw me. I hope he'd be proud. I hope I'm not just making the shadows darker.