CAIA

One

Above me, hundreds of thousands of stars dot the sky, pinpricks of dust resting in the absolute blackness of space. The light of Iro's one moon illuminates a thin cloud, sparking indigo in a sea of monochrome.

There used to be another moon. But it vanished before I arrived. It's disappearance didn't matter; whatever had happened, it no longer looked over the world. An omniscient, scrutinizing eye, awash with disapprovement. Now there's only one.

A slight peppery-mint aroma envelops me, carried by the slight breeze raking the spice fields, and I rest my chin on my arms, which are crossed over legs tucked against my chest.

There're entire worlds up there, full of people and places and things beyond my comprehension. Scattered millions upon millions of miles away.

And I'm stuck here. Trapped. . .

There's dirt under my fingernails. All of them. I begin the long process of scraping it all away, flicking it out into the darkness of the night.

But there's no point in it, and I pause. Tomorrow will be the same thing. And the next day, and the next day after that. Just more dirt. A never ending sea of dirt and plants and water.

Another scented breeze winds its way by; I crinkle up my nose, trying to avoid the smell of sharp mint. It hadn't dulled since my first day here. It probably never would.

At least spice is a better smell than. . . other things.

I return to watching the stars, seeing them flicker slightly. Just slightly. Light waves aren't perfect, but they are beautiful. Inspiring, the kind of inspiration that forces you to stand still and just. . . watch. Silently, the closest anything could ever come to achieving perfection.

Matron Verona lectures me about how I am always tired each morning. If she only knew I was sneaking onto the roof to glance at stars, she would go berserk. I'd be punished for sure.

But it just happens. I find myself on the roof. Calm. Alone. Away from the sweat and grime and heat of a typical Iroan day.

With nothing but the stars and moon to light the world, things seem much smaller. Space seems that much closer. As if I could reach an arm out and. . .

My arm is extended, hand mid-reach towards the sky. Perhaps because of the sudden rush of feeling I have within me. My skin is painted in grey, a dash of silver in the moonlight. Just like my eyes. Odd how everything that makes me different is the same in darkness.

I am about to get off of the roof when the wind picks up, spraying me in a misty array of spice and musk, curling strands of hair across my face.

A sudden, sharp glare of light streaks across the rim of the atmosphere.

What is --

And then, the sound reaches me. A grinding whir, a whoosh of superheated air traveling at the speed of hundreds of miles. So deafeningly loud. Shattering the silence. As if the thing that is creating the noise is right in front of my face.

Night remains in a shell of darkness for only a moment more. The object sailing through space lands on the horizon, crashing in a horrifying burst of light and fire and debris.

Looking down, I'm suddenly standing. The expanse of the Reforming School for Nonconformity drops out below me, in sharp angles of looming black. It resembles more of a prison than a school.

Skidding down a ladder, I shiver at the sudden, deep silence that coats the night. Whatever had crashed-landed is either burned up or worse by now.

Fire? But how is there fire? Iro is 99% water, consisting of over millions of crater lakes, the only land barely 500-foot wide stretches of dirt ringing around them at the widest.