The Eight of Earth

5: Leo Abernathy- *Paradise*

I loathe recycled oxygen.

My suit's air-pump cycles in a steady rhythm, contracting then releasing. I've heard that maddening mechanical hissing so many times, it's been seared into my mind. The beat follows me into my nightmares.

Few things make me feel less human than the taste of repurposed air. Russa is certainly one... Paradise is another.

We reach the outer limit of the quarantine zone and push open the rusted barricade.

It moans a haunting melody that reminds me of the sorrowful chorus played at Emoss's funeral. Each harsh note of Dykamo's world-renowned quartet, scratching against our hearts.

I'd expect nothing less from a place that's witnessed such atrocities.

Time seems to crawl as we creep through the outer zone. My mind continually drifting back to the lab and the last images of that failed experiment. It was right there. My entire life's purpose, just at the edge of my grasp. Some would've crumbled under disappointment so catamount. But my father endured sixty years of failure to bring us life. The least I can do is show a fraction of that perseverance through my adversity.

We move in a diamond formation, Patawa and Spri trail me on either side, and Bryl itches for action in the rear.

The world is a shaken snow globe, the glass on the outside smudged with oil. Crystalline flakes spew from swollen grey masses hanging in the sky that stare down on us with venomous wrath. I wish they were clouds. I'd much prefer the torrential storms of the Opora Sea to this. This is something far more... abhorrent.

Light desperately tries to squeeze its way between the looming formations in the sky, but they're too dense. The dimness sneers at us.

Flakes land on Patawa's visor, and the vents on the top of her helmet activate and blow them off before they coagulate. She sticks out her hand, catching a few, bringing them closer to her face.

"Leo... what is this?" She asks over her comms, her tone not confident she wants the answer.

I don't turn around.

Words aren't meant for all moments. Some things must be seen. Or better yet, never seen at all.

Are they prepared for what lays beyond the outer ring?... I know I wasn't.

Past the mutilated military rigs and temporary barracks of the outer ring, we can vaguely make out the entrance to the town.

"Sharpen up. We're here," I say. Our formation tightens.

"Boss..." Bryl calls out as he kneels down and wipes the grey ash from a metal plate on the ground. Scarred and scorched, but still legible, the sign reads: