Judge awoke to the taste of sunlight in his dreams.
The warm feel of a fire, the crisp crunch of roasted fish, the weightless presence of a flux core nearby. In his dream, he was clean. His hair didn't feel like twigs matted with blood and dirt, and his stomach wasn't clawing its way up his spine in a hunger-fueled rebellion.
Then the cold bit into him like a jealous ghost.
His eyes cracked open like dry bark. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His arms trembled as he sat up on the damp cave floor.
"No... go back," he croaked, clawing at the warmth of memory like a child reaching for a dream ripped away. "That was warm. There were potatoes. There were actual gods-damned potatoes."
The forest answered with a sighing wind that might have been laughter.
His fire had died, leaving behind cold ashes and a sour smell. Hunger punched him in the gut with the precision of a trained assassin. Not just a growl. Not a complaint. It was a rebellion.
