Part 1 of chapter 1 of "The Sun in the Shadows"

Chapter 1 of "The Sun in the Shadows"

When I inhale the air tastes flat and cold as it moves through me, filling my lungs. It always does. My rib-cage expands as I breathe, letting the oxygen flow through my body, taking its course. I attempt to calm my breathing, slowing the quick rasps to deep motions. I can feel my heart racing, banging against my chest like a trapped animal. Feral. Wild. Desperate to get free. I slow from my run, dropping to a walk. Sweat trickles down my forehead along my hairline where a few hairs have gone astray, clinging to my skin and sticking to my mask. Crinkling my nose, I try to ignore it. I can't take my mask off. I won't and as difficult as it seems that will be the least of my problems. The air here is considered toxic; rich, dark poison running through your veins. It eats away at your being like a parasite. If it's inhaled then it causes suffocation, illness, hysteria, and always death. I cannot afford to die. Not today. I have mouths to feed.

It's not just poisonous here, in the poor fraction of the empire. It stretches throughout the entire legion. No one can breathe outside without an oxygen mask. The doors to all the buildings must be sealed, tubes pumping the oxygen inside to ensure our survival. I assure you, beyond that, there is no help for those lacking a high status. No food. No money. Not even sympathy. We fend for ourselves. The government just wanted to stop the spread of illness and limit fatalities. After all, we are cheap labor. Some of us tend greenhouses for crops and livestock. Anything out in the open can't be consumed. However, even with suffocation out of the question, disease still runs rampant though it's mostly through poorer areas like this. Just those reeking of poverty, but there are still are some cases in the wealthier areas. Everyday everyone must pass through the scanners. If an infected person is detected they are taken by authorities and never heard from again. Maybe they die of natural causes. Maybe not. It helps stop the spread as cruel and nauseating as it sounds. No questions are asked. The legion isn't exactly the tolerating type. Laws are enforced with a stern, brutal hand and if you want to live to see another day you accept the terms.

My feet crunch against the gravel, worn leather boots scuffing against the dirt road that leads to my destination. Fragments of asphalt lay scattered along the pathway, half submerged in layers of dirt and grime that have accumulated over the years. I couldn't even tell you if this road was paved at one time. If it was, it would have to have been a long time ago.

I stop to adjust the thick, rough canvas straps digging into my shoulders as they hold my oxygen tank in place. It weighs nearly 12 pounds, but we're all accustomed to the burden. We've grown up with it. All of us. I'm not a very big girl, but I'm not a small one either. At shorter than 5'6'', I have broad shoulders for my stature, about the same size as the width of my hips. I'm not skinny, as I should be with lack of food and the fear of starvation looming over the whole dang place. Then again, I'm not heavy either. My flesh isn't bursting with muscles, but it certainly isn't bony. Everything in moderation. My skin is not quite pale and my hair is a deep chestnut, long straight locks trailing down to my low back.

It's unadvised to walk around with flesh exposed due to the state of the air, but people in my parts tend to ignore the warning. It makes it easier to work, freeing our movements and letting our skin breathe. I can't imagine never feeling the sun on my skin. Besides, it is unlikely we will live long enough to let it catch up to us. Life expectancy here isn't all too high. People of higher status cover their skin, wrapping it with long elegant gloves of satin or velvety fabrics and necklines extend all the way to their throats. All you can see is their shadowy form, hair billowing out the backs of their masks, eyes and the bridge of their nose peeking out from behind the glass. I've only seen them from a distance. Why would they come to a place like this?

A loose shirt clings to me, legs clad in black jeans, old boots molded to my calves from years of abuse. Good thing I haven't grown too much. Next to my right calf is a sharpened kitchen knife, concealed in my boot. It's illegal to carry any sort of weapon, but you never know around here. Like I said, I can't afford to die.