Sabbath

[Geno]

As predicted from my holographic weather forecast on my wall, ticking information away next to my digital clock, today the fog rose from the sea.

A common occurrence on Los Angeles.

The fog is safety. The fog is clarity. The fog is a mother's linen, ruvid veil which blankets and abates the crying of her weeping children.

Under these conditions, the twisted creatures cannot see me, and the solar radiation isn't as strong while such atmospheric conditions persist.

This thin blanket of hydrogen-rich nebulized sea water can allow me to safely walk around without having my skin twisted and repurposed into a mess of inchoate flesh. This grim symptom manifesting on everyone appears to have been caused by single cause, a truth which shook me to my core.

The sun in this solar system has gone wrong. Something within it has caused these mutations to occur to the people around me. They have all been infected and turned into monsters, ruined and twisted beyond repair, doomed to wander without reason until their biomass will wither and die, as all things do. Leaving nothing but ruin and fear and splotches of blood in their wake.

I've recently come to notice how the oceanic fog appears to abate the raging bloodlust in the creatures. They don't seem to enjoy the low quality index of the foul air, but they appear to be clever and with enough mental faculties to still wear LA's standard rebreathing apparatus, a common marketed stable of this planet, popular and well received, before the fall of man. It is worth noting that LA's oceanic fog air is not toxic, but it certainly leaves a rancid feeling in one's mouth, enough to want to wear a rebreather which prevents the senses from entering in contact with it.

Nevertheless, this repulsive omen from the sea is incentive enough to make the creatures flee and stay within their nests, a prime opportunity for me to leave for an expedition.

My synth paste reserves are dwindling and they are becoming rather rancid. While I grew tired of consuming synthesized single-celled organic proteins, I had to adapt and accept these harsh conditions.

A dilemma.

I turned to the whispering thing in the corner of my kitchen for advice.

A dizzying eye emerged from the corner, surrounded by fantastical shapes and forms, shimmering all around it.

"Hello, Diana... what... bringsssssssss you to... me on thissssss... fine day."

"I'm hungry. Thirsty. I can't ration my supplies much longer."

"Then... go out, my dear... go, and... ssssseek what you... need."

"..."

My palms became sweaty. The thought of the outside, it...

...

"Ohhh, dearie... don't... be ssssssso... sssscared. They won't... notisssssse you at all..."

"They can catch the scent of my fear. They know I haven't been turned into one of them yet."

"Well, then it isssssss... quite... sssssimple, really. Jusssssst... don't... be afraid..."

My friend was correct. I must not be stopped, lest my survival is impeded...

"Well... thank you very much for the advice. I... I'll go now."

"Don't... forget your... credit chipsssssssss."

I packed a few hundred credits inside my satchel bag, and stuffed the rebreather in my satchel.

This was going to be a simple task. Purchase water, and acquire more synth paste consumables.

I steeled myself, and opened the door.