The metal weighs on your head under the scorching Sumar sun. Now more than ever, the thought of a gentle breeze meeting your skin — skin that has never met the light of day — feels intoxicating. Your hand runs up to the Chtara, the titanium alloy feels smooth and paradoxically cold to the touch. Underneath its surface, your skull blisters.
A group of children watch you from behind a chain link fence, the youngest stares at you with a mix of awe and fear in her demeanor. You raise a friendly hand to greet her, but she runs away, startled. She has probably never met a Spark before. The other younglings actively avoid your gaze, they way one would avoid staring for long at a scar or disfigurement. They know you’re sinful.
The breeze picks up, hazing the atmosphere with dust.
It would take such a gentle nudge to disengage the Chtara. To fill your lungs with fresh air for the first time since you were a child. To feel human.
A fellow Spark shakes its head at you from a distance, while it loads scrap onto the caravan for melding. The extinguishers observe it stoically, their eyes hidden behind a Chtara very much like yours. They know what you’re thinking. But it is against the law, warned your father, just like its father had passed down the decree — the unbending rules of the Fyat. A Spark must never show its face to the world.
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