The dome looms over us, a vast expanse of cold, unfeeling metal that encapsulates our city. The barrier hums with electricity, white arcs of static dancing erratically across the surface. The walls’ uniform curvature, meticulously crafted, offers us a reassuring sense of security. However, there is one exception to this: a single point that broke the uniformity of its surface.
The gate, in truth, is a misnomer. No gate stands there–only an archway that gives way to a broad tunnel. The tunnel jutted out from the dome, reaching out to the world beyond. Dim, intermittently placed lights line its walls. The sparse illumination leaves the tunnel mostly shrouded in a deep-gray fog that seems almost alive as it seeps in, only to dissipate unnaturally as it nears the gate.
A guard post stood entwined with the archway, emitting a faint scent of ozone. Its outer frame vibrates in a muted harmony with the dome, warding off the invasive fog. Dozens of people—some fearful, others wrapped in an air of resigned acceptance—pass by this post daily. I watch as they trudge along, observing them from the confines of the guard post.
"When the fog turns black, don't think. Just shoot."
My job as a gatekeeper, armed with only a scanner and handgun, is simple. If it scans positive, let them in; if not, shoot them. Beyond the basic rules, however, was an eerie, unpredictable factor—the fog.
Most days, the fog lingered like a dense shroud outside the dome, forever casting the world in its impenetrable ash-gray haze. However, ever so rarely, its nature would shift. It would start with a subtle deepening of its hue–the grays growing darker, more intense. Before long, the mist becomes devoid of light, congealing into an inky black veil that blankets the world.
During these times, the rules became chillingly clear: Don't let anyone pass. Not a soul. I remember chuckling nervously, thinking it was some cruel initiation joke. But my supervisor's grim, unwavering expression told me otherwise.
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