Life was good on the Sphere. You lived with your parents on the City side, you had money, you had everything you wanted. It didn’t feel like enough, you felt like you never fit in. It could be because of your heterochromic eyes, or it could be because of your prosthetic arm.

You were born with one arm, but that didn’t stop your parents from loving you. You just felt that you never fit in. Never had the same interests as the Cityfolk, always wandering to the Tribefolks’ side of the Sphere on the other side of the wall. Never liked the fashion, too fancy for your liking. You didn’t appear to like anything.

From the time your mother, a respected doctor, fell sick, it wasn’t considered suspicious. Your father pressed until the Apostles finally caved, the autopsy discovering traces of poison in her system. Immediately, your father pointed your finger at you.

The accusation stung, and you didn’t have time to argue as two Apostles grabbed your shoulders and let you away. Since you were part of the Cityfolk, your death sentence was not made public and you were dropped into the Pit without an audience.

You let out a loud grunt as your back hit something and rolled down a pile, landing face first on the ground. You were out cold for a while, then slowly woke up, realizing you managed to survive.

You sat up, finding yourself surrounded by piles upon piles of trash. Your prosthetic arm, which has already been feeling odd lately the past few days, felt tingly, like something invisible was brushing against it.

After a moment of looking around from your position sitting on the ground, you realized something.

The air here is so bad it feels toxic.