Gods Under The Dome

18.1

《ELOHIM》

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The gun feels heavy tucked into my waistband as we approach the glistening Community Hall. Like the one from Homestead One, prior to when Matthew's homemade bomb had blown one of its walls to bits, it sits on a hill, white pillars on either side of the entrance, the wide, double doors etched with a small depiction of the Aviary.

No effort's been made to landscape the area around the Hall however. No grass, artificial or real blows in the duplicated breeze. It's void of all that flowery preamble that might make one sit and linger for too long. The air stinks of city smells - recycled sewer water and grease traps, smoke, sweat. There's no disguising the thick odor behind scents of citrus and cut grass.

Militia stand guard at the Hall's entrance, as still and imposing as the pillars they lean against, guns cradled in their arms, muscles tense. Visors mask their eyes. I gulp when I notice the distinct blue of Accuracy-Assist pooling in the sunken hollows of their cheeks. 

There's a noticeable thickness to the air, as the burgeoning crowd exchanges whispers and sideways glances among one another as they spy the guards. Such meetings at a Sector's local Community Hall typically weren't monitored and for good reason - disruptions to the flow of foot traffic, delays in the Tram's scheduled routes or emergency maintenance usually were the only reason citizens were forced to wait in the Community Hall. But there was no team inspecting plate stability or unclogging the major sewage drains that snaked beneath our feet. This was the exception - we were the exception - given that we were fugitives hiding among their ranks. 

"Shit," Keran mumbles.

It'd been the third time the word had slipped from her lips. Although, for variety, she'd managed to pepper in a slew of other swears between sharp inhales, spearing glances, and ever-worsening frowns. 

For some reason -- a Sect-wide scheduled rainfall, perhaps?-- the air had cooled drastically as we huddled in front of the Hall, the wind forceful in its attempt to knock my wig off kilter. Another breeze sweeps through our group and manages to worm its fingers under the wig's netting and push it to the left. I hurry to adjust it, and then pull my coat collar up in an attempt to defend against the biting cold.

Despite the chill now clinging to the air and frosting our breaths, Keran's skin shines with a slick of sweat. Her face is chafed, cheeks and earlobes a bright, almost neon red, so she resembles a greasy ham, though with a lot more menace. Her fingers continue to twitch at her sides, reaching for those invisible guns she's dying to hold. "Shit." Good old number four. She presses a foot into the concrete sidewalk as if punishing it for simply existing which was something I could relate to. 

"So," I say, sidling up to her. I shove my hands into my pockets.  "You look as though you have everything under control."

At my words, much as they'd always done since I'd first become acquainted with the Titav Lieutenant, Keran whips around and snarls. She raises a hand, like she might strike me, her nails clipped short and straight across. To my surprise, a clear polish reflected the overhead light. I never pegged Keran for a nail-polish type girl, but then again, I'd barely known much about her at all.

In front of us, more people crowd around the entrance, mothers cradling their  sleeping children, business men all in a huff at being sent here instead of going to some 'meeting' at a seedy V-cafe, fat fingers tapping their visor headsets on and off as though the repetitive act would spur time to move faster. Keran, looking to have resigned herself to a fate worse than death, steps forward. Without thinking, I reach out and grab the sleeve of her jacket.