*NANOWRIMO15* ❝Cʟᴀssɪғɪᴇᴅ_: Dᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs_❞ ▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂♙||⚛∙⚗||♟▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂
Get ready for a frosty dystopia. ANNO_2079_ Evanna Frior lives in a world coated in frost and ice; Tetrahmona. She was born in Prague, a city-silhouette in the north of Tetrahmona. Its skyscrapers rise tall and proud above the frost lands. The only city believed to have survived the greatest snowfall ever experienced by mankind, Prague is sheltered from the 'wildlings,' by its city walls. Nobody leaves the city; nobody enters it. Prague's inhabitants must follow a code that builds them to follow instinct to turn over any outsiders and anybody who is different. Most people do so. But not everyone.

Evanna does not live like everybody around her. She is a tetrahon, a native of the world she was born in. A daughter of frost. And that means only one thing. DANGER. ▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂ ❝Wʜᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ʜ ᴀ ᴛ ᴇ s ʏᴏᴜ, ɪᴛ's ʜ ᴀ ʀ ᴅ. Bᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ғ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ s ʏᴏᴜ, ɪᴛ's ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜ ᴀ ʀ ᴅ ᴇ ʀ.❞


5. F o u r



I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on my footsteps, which is strange, since normally, I’m supposed to be good at concentrating. I run, though, out into the open white plains, my feet hammering down upon snow and ice and all things cold. At last, I slow down, my breath coming out in faint plumes of wispy condensation. And then, I laugh.


I tilt my head up to the white sky and laugh. I’ve just killed a man, and it feels good.


It’s like my body is filled with endorphins and other hormones one might feel after winning something, or hugging someone they like. I remember that feeling. It’s a vague and distant memory, stuffed right in the back of my mind, but the feeling is resurfacing.

Gradually, the laughter dies out in my chest, like the embers of a dying fire, and I look around me. Everything is the same. Everything is so new, and yet a civilisation has already built itself up. Prague lies at my naked feet, curving along the snow to land right at my toes, if I take a step forward. I follow the shadow into the near distance, and there it is, that splendid new city, shards of glass stuck in the ice, thriving off of the ruins of an ancient world. I take in a long breath. Prague is where I must stay, now. While I may not be completely human, I know I still have to eat, find shelter, all those things humans do to stay alive. Slowly, I begin my walk towards the city.


I’m a slim little figure across a wasteland, flickering in and out of sight along with my shadow. I know I can never go to the city and live in the open; they’d hunt me down, and kill me. I don’t know my body well enough. It’s new, it’s metal and glass and plastic, just like Prague. I don’t know what I can do, not yet, at least.


One must first know themselves in order to defeat one’s enemy.


Before I confront them, I must know my limits. And I must know their limits, too. As the city approaches, I begin working things out. There has to be someone else I can kill- but someone they won’t miss, this time. 


I saw the expression on that dark-haired man’s face, as I shot that solider. I heard the ‘oh my god’ roll off his lips, I heard the pain in his voice. It didn’t move me, but now I know to choose my victims more carefully. I want to avoid the killing as much as possible- contrary to what they might think of me, I do not seek to end humanity.


My skin feels heavy and wet, dripping with blood, dripping with my sin.


A hand rises to my cheek, and I give it a prod. There isn’t a single trace of the bullet wound there. I can’t even feel pain- perhaps there aren’t neurons in the cheeks, and perhaps that’s why I felt nothing- and yet I remember crying after a woman slapped me because I’d done something wrong, or stupid. Perhaps it had been because of the accusation, not of the blow.


These visions, memories- almost, of a weaker me frighten me. 


I’ve just bought myself a one-way ticket to the place where all of the demons go.


What is it they used to say, in mass? When one stood at the throne of the Redeemer and was granted forgiveness for all their sins, He would cleanse them and send them up to heaven, where they would be white as snow, purged of all that is bad.


But the line for me is blurred- there is no evil and good, not black and white, no hell or heaven. For me, it is grey, it is the middle- and the middle is where I stand, right now, on the frozen remains of civilisation.

I do not want to be redeemed. I do not fear the unknown, for I, to them, am the unknown, I, compared to them, am superiority.


Simply put, I am better.


The blood will stay on my hands, settling into the folds of skin in my fingertips, where it will coagulate and then dry, and it will mark me. I do not want to be pure and white, like snow. I will not be a part of this world. I will not belong to the winter; I will not belong to them.


I'll stand at this Redeemer's throne and spit in his face.

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