Fresh Air

The gas mask is uncomfortable at best and outright insulting at worst.

I think about every single edge of this mask as we walk through the abandoned and yet so lively streets of Abarathia.

They call it a plant but it is more of an algae or yes, a tumour.

It’s skin is brown-yellowish and constantly seems to pump something through its

“veins”.

It can be seen entangling every house and it slithers through the streets.

Fire combats it well enough but it grows back so fast we could do nothing to help the locals but kill almost all of them.

The rest was made to leave the city under the now greenish sky.

This is the end of their world.

Although tight, I feel safe and warm in my suit. It’s thin barrier is the only thing stopping me from being warped and changed by the tumour.

It corrupts the waters and the seas.

The city itself seems to be what we would call early medieval. I have no idea how old their kind is, we burned too much.

The slaves carry the last hope of this world.

When their gods called us, they should have expected us to be pragmatic.

We walk further down the city, all in all we are 20-50 fools. I do not know the precise number as we are prone to losing people.

Everyone is tense but we are almost at the core of the city. We will never come closer to the tumour, everything beyond is grown too dense.

Someone further behind screams and is dragged off into the shadows.

We throw some fire behind but we do not care about the loss.

I am informed, it was Pierre.

Shame. I thought he was better than that.

We reach the golden square of the city, the paved floor is made out of their equivalent to gold.

In the middle, a gigantic statue stands, we expected it to be in a cocoon of tumour but no.

The statue is clean, this world trembles before it’s beauty.

The slaves put the cores down.

1-2-3-4-5. All of them are there.

Our surviving technicians prepare the purification.

I get handed the remote, my hands start to shiver.

All 5 of them work and start to glow in a blinding blue light.

Everything but the statue is illuminated.

For my destiny ends here. Not one of us is worth saving, for the risk is too great.

We all salute to each other, I turn around again and find new determination.

These bombs will burn the continent and dry the seas around it.

Hundreds of millions will die, but potentially, enough will survive.

They should have expected us to be pragmatic.

Click