The Year of Silence

prologue ;; cosmic

       The air duct had been locked. The vehicle was quiet, and the fuel gauge was not shifting dangerously. The starcraft had been fixed at last, and this marked the end to her stress.

She thanked the men quietly at the depot. She then clambered out of her seat and examined the perimeter of the fighter jet. No scratches were seen, nor were the traces of wear and tear. It looked good as new. She smiled, facing away from the workers at the repair shop. She made sure to leave no trace of emotion, for she could not. It was forbidden.

"Fighter pilot zero-three-seventeen." A voice called over the loudspeaker. She swiveled around, holding her helmet to her chest; it was a custom here. She closed her eyes, and bowed, knowing that the lowly space workers were keen to report any disturbances in her behavior. She then held her head up high, taking in a large breath of air. It smelled heavily of the gas provided by the Company: sharp, sticky, and pungent.

"Milord, fighter pilot zero-three-seventeen reporting at landing bay two hundred and seventeen." She replied flatly. There was a pause, in which she listened intently for any background shuffling behind the iron wall. There was nothing, until the robotic, monotonous voice replied to her.

"Fighter pilot zero-three-seventeen, has your starcraft been repaired?"

"Milord, yes it has."

"Then, you shall proceed to delivering supplies to depot three hundred fifty-nine on planet nine. Please remember to ration your fuel supply according to ZH guidelines, as we are sending many fighter pilots to planet nine and cannot afford for a single ounce to be wasted."

"Milord, I shall. Good day to you."

The loudspeaker stopped talking. She took a deep breath, before glancing back at the depot. It seemed to ignore the message that she was given, as this happened much of the time in depots; however, much of them looked up from their grueling work, and made eye contact with her. As if to send a humble "good luck", they glanced at her for several seconds, but without a blink, they were back to their work.

She knew that they were human. She was human; however, she was a newer human. Human N, as stated in the Book of Repair.

It reminded her faintly of something.

If one is to go back centuries and centuries, there is a faint reminder of human emotion.

When green grass was abundant, and children ran and played in the midst of clean air, and there was no plastic or disgusting waste polluting the oceans, everyone was innocent. In chapter one, Regeneration, humans were not corrupted beings, enjoying the pleasures and blessings of life on their former planet. Earth, as it went in the Book of Repair.

Humans grew more advanced, and knowledge of technology was acquired. From organism, to organ, to cell, to atom, the old human was able to discover the fascinating aspects of one's form and function. Here, the former human still loved and cared, yet a certain curiosity was piqued: could one change the old code of human creation? Was there a lock waiting to be unhinged that led to a perfect human? Sure, humans were not corrupt, yet this wanting to be whiter than an angel, or forever young, started the downward spiral for a certain group.

And thus, the Virus was released in year three-thousand. It was a catastrophic disaster, humans killing one another for food and survival, injecting themselves with inhumane materials, hoping to be cured. The Virus decimated almost everything living, which was the masterminded brainchild of somebody evil. In a matter of years, Earth was unable to live on, and the remaining, hardened population of humans fled to the planets outside the reach of Planet Earth.