While the Wind Has Not Died Down

A hole—what a backwater place. There’s no dome here; from the low yellow-gray sky, sometimes acid rain pours down. Out of a muddy river, speckled with smears of gasoline, which runs beyond the perimeter, someone is taken out of it now and then. But you know—I’m almost glad I ended up here. Maybe the air is poisoned with who-knows-what, but it still breathes easier than it does among the glossy walls of the Central Base. And there’s also wind here.

Things weren’t going so badly until the local smart ones decided to unleash a war. A war against the creatures.