Shiver

*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.❞

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1. P r o l o g u e

These days, I don’t know what to do with myself. I tire of eating but not tasting, touching but not feeling, of looking but not seeing. I wish I could live every day like tomorrow doesn’t exist, but in a city like this, it’s an impossible thing to do. Standing out is something I prefer to avoid. Don’t waste your energy bothering to question why that is; you're going to need that energy, believe me. Besides, how many people do you know who would like to be pointed out all the time? Be grateful, at least, that I’m telling you this. And do try to remember that this is about my world and me, not you? Alright? Good. Now, let’s start this.

Imagine everything around you frozen, coated in snow and ice and winter. Don’t be ignorant and think ‘yippee, Christmas,’ because that’s not going to do you any good. Have you pictured it all, yet? The whole entire world  covered in snow. Lamplights flickering on and off before giving in to the cold, dying, just like the majority of the human race. Buildings caved in; rubble strewn across the streets; cold limbs browned with frozen blood sticking out grotesquely from underneath collapsed skyscrapers. They had been too late, couldn't open the doors to escape, windows frozen shut, facades wet and slippery. Power lines crackle. Savour the sight of the sparks the wires emit before the system explodes; it’s the last of real fire you’ll be seeing for quite a while. That is, if you don’t die first and go to wherever you think you’ll go, depending on wether you believe in that sort of thing or not. I don’t. 

Have you ever been to Prague before? Apparently it used to be a complete and utter wreck after a nuclear disaster in 2015. I don’t know if that’s true, you can’t really trust the history books today. So they re-built it before the storm of 2087. I live there, now. The city itself is ringed by walls of titanium, and there is not a single building there which doesn't rise to over forty floors in height and that isn't made of glass. It’s really quite boring sometimes but there’s nowhere else to go. Nobody leaves Prague, and nobody enters it. You should be somewhat relieved to know that about three million of your kind survived the storm. And every single one of those three million people form the average population of Prague. Obviously, you’re still dying of age and all that, but Prague’s population is held around a stable, fixed number. 

I know that three million compared to the eight billion you once were is quite a disappointment as a percentage (which is 0.0000375%, in case you were wondering), but honestly, don’t act like you weren’t expecting it. Humans are fragile, weak, are they not? One small collision and already blood capillaries burst underneath your skin and you’re left with something called a bruise. Does that hurt? I wouldn’t know. Then there’s that phrase that keeps on popping up everywhere: “sticks and stones can break my bones.” That’s pretty self explanatory. Sticks are quite flimsy, if you ask me. Twigs are blades of grass, though, to me. Then there’s your thermoregulation issues. Why is it 37℃? Now don’t go on about enzymes, optimum temperature and what-not, I know that already. Honestly, no wonder half of you died from hypothermia. Now, those are just the basics, but your physical abilities and range of thinking most certainly do very, very little to impress me. Thank goodness that’s clear now.

I’d like you to imagine yourself for one brief minute in an isolated hospital ward, waiting for something, but you don’t know what that something is. The walls around you are painted a pure white. You lie there, tied to a sickbed, unable to move. You’re barely breathing, but you’re still alive, and as much as you want to, you can’t shut yourself off. You are a machine, your life is a routine, your brain constantly processing information. You want to scream, but your mouth is sewn shut. It hurts whenever you try to move your lips, so you don’t, lest you want to feel the thread cutting at the needle piercings in your lips. Screaming will only attract attention anyways, so you are half glad that your mouth is sealed. Your mind keeps you awake constantly. You can’t sleep; you’ve forgotten how to lie down and just forget it all for a few hours, to block the very thrum of life out of your ears. People avoid you. They’re afraid of you; you can smell their fear, you can almost hold it in your cupped palms; it hangs so thick in the air around them, like a blanket of dark viscosity. You’re considered a threat to their ‘safety.’ You’re different, and people don’t like those who stand out.

Do you understand, now, why I don’t like to drag attention to myself, to stick apart from society, an anomaly in the graph of the social norm? I hope you do, because put that one minute in the hospital ward into a timeframe of multiple years, and that is the surface of my  life. I can’t move freely, less so than the people around me. I’m the wolf amongst the pack of sheep: smarter, more cunning, different, and above all else, dangerous. Now, I’m not ill. I don’t spend my days bed-bound in the ward of an institute or a hospital. No, no, no, no, no, I just have to be careful. One false move, and I’ve lost everything. Unlike you lot, I know how to take off a S.I.P.T-branded blindfold. I can think. That’s why they believe I’m a threat. Of course, there are some other factors contributing to it, but people fear what’s unknown. Oh, and one last tip: once you’re in Prague, Tetrahmon, ask no questions and follow what everyone else is doing. That way, you’re more likely to stay alive.

You’re probably wondering, by now, who I am. My name is Evanna Frior. I was created before the storm; I survived. But I’m not human. I’m a genetic experiment.

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