The sky above Miradome was covered in dark clouds, heavy rain pouring down and obscuring the view of the cityscape. The domes, which served as protection for the residents, stood tall and imposing in the midst of the storm. Distant flashes of lightning illuminated the sky.
The air was thick with the scent of ozone and rain. A metallic tang lingered, signaling the presence of heavy metals. The smell of damp earth and decaying concrete mingled in the air, a reminder of nature’s fury held at bay by the city’s synthetic shell.
Thunder rumbled beyond the Dome’s barrier, a distant roar of nature’s unrest. Rain lashed the transparent shell above, its fury muffled but insistent, creating a hollow percussion that underscored the artificial calm within.
The words swirled like a storm, whipping and churning with urgency and foreboding. Each sentence felt like a warning, a call to action, a reminder of the danger lurking just outside the safety of the city walls.
At the farthest edge of the Miradome—where few lived by choice and fewer lingered—one could glimpse the raw sprawl of poisoned earth through the dome’s boundary. A barren, glistening expanse stretched out under the weight of constant rain. The terrain, scoured by months of toxic downpour and stripped of vegetation, churned into a shifting mire. On calmer days, the bravest (or most desperate) might venture outside with a survival kit: gas mask, spare filters, and enough resolve to outlast the wind.
Within the Dome’s Outermost Ring, buildings curved in a perfect circle, encasing the perimeter like vertebrae around a spine. Driving through them felt like drifting through a recursive dream—one block echoing the next, shadows repeating in measured rhythm. After a time, only the hum of the electric engine and the pulse in one’s ears remained. The Outer Ring was a quiet place. During daylight hours, most of its inhabitants dispersed across the Dome, laboring in logistics, repair, or sanitation. By night, while the rest of Miradome slept, they were already en route to the distant Agricultural Domes—ghosts of industry.
Meanwhile, Downtown basked beneath a programmed sun, its Artificial Dome bathing the core in perfect blue. Light streamed down over tiered parks and the vertical gardens of soaring skyscrapers. Here, morning arrived by algorithm. Bakeries and cafés opened first, drawing in the early tide of bleary-eyed workers ascending to high-rise offices. Stores followed soon after, beckoning with automated signage to anyone still carrying credits before the ration cycle reset. Restaurants opened last, offering their curated illusions of joy and abundance at day’s end.
Between this cultivated urban heart and the utilitarian ring beyond floated a buffer of privilege: the Private Domes. Each contained a villa, a manicured lawn, perhaps a pool—and its own bespoke weather. In one, Dome 078, simulated spring spilled over a cherry blossom barbecue. Just next door, children in Dome 077 built snowmen, their laughter rising into a sky that changed on command.
A sliver of sunlight crept past the edges of the self-dimming smart glass, sneaking its way into the half-lit apartment. It sliced through the gloom, tracing a whisper across Luna's eyelids as if daring her to wake. The faint warmth of it stirred her senses, and she twitched at its intrusion, her mind unwilling to surface from precious sleep. Clenching her eyes tighter, she shifted to the far side of the bed, seeking refuge from the day. She cocooned deeper into the covers, wrapping them around her like the dense embrace of armor. Her copper-orange hair spilled across the pillow, coiling around her head like a slow current of seaweed drifting in lazy water.
Rest did not come easy, even here, even now. She turned, then turned again, thoughts like static in her brain. Each restless minute was a reminder of everything left undone—work hanging like a half-built scaffold. She buried herself under the blankets, but they couldn’t muffle the deadlines buzzing at the edge of her mind. When had she last given herself the luxury of a full night's rest? She couldn’t recall. The hum of the apartment, the distant rumble of the city's buzz, the persistent needle of sunlight—they all conspired against her.
It hadn’t always been this way. Sleep, once a faithful companion, had become elusive. Since founding her own design agency, Luna had lost the habit of saying no. Every pitch, every client demand, every looming deadline bled into the next, blurring dawn into dusk. Her once-neat calendar now looked like a tangled circuit, sparking unpredictably.
She’d earned her degree back in the gentler rhythms of Revir, spending four years crafting logos for regional firms. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid just enough for dreams. With her savings locked in an encrypted bank ring, she’d moved to Miradome, sure its towering skyline and vast networks would offer more. Mornings like this one tested that conviction.
“...be yourself! Our new model now comes in twelve fresh color shades…”
“Off,” she muttered, her voice thick with sleep. “Tint glass: eighty percent.”
Instantly, the windows darkened to charcoal. The sun retreated, and silence settled in.
She almost slipped back into slumber, the weight of sleep tugging at her, soft and silken. But a sharp clatter snapped the thread. It wasn’t loud—just insistent. Familiar.
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A plastic bowl skittered across the composite floor, tapping rhythmically like a metronome. Zak was already up. Judging by the determined scraping and delicate crunching, he was well into his breakfast, savoring each bite with the reverence of ritual.
Luna exhaled through her nose, not annoyed—just defeated by the day’s early call. Zak, as always, had his priorities in perfect order: food, silence, and no unnecessary movement.
He was an imposing creature, compact and thick with muscle, with short, dark-brown fur and a white patch on his chest shaped unmistakably like an anchor. Luna used to joke that it must be weighing him down, given his slow, ponderous way of moving. His squared jaw and blocky snout made strangers avoid eye contact, but Zak was a creature of patience and melancholy.
Sometimes, she wondered if he truly enjoyed affection or if he simply lacked the energy to shift away. Still, he never missed a meal. It was as if he wore an internal timepiece, ticking along with mechanical precision. When meals were delayed, he'd simply wag his tail in firm annoyance, his gaze following her every motion until she complied. And once served, he'd eat with methodical grace, as if dining were ritual. “You're welcome,” she often muttered dryly as he crunched away.
To avoid the drama of missed breakfasts, they had visited a small ZooTech shop near their apartment on his last birthday. They returned with an automatic feeder. Now, every morning Zak chose from chicken, beef, or pork. Despite the variety, chicken—conveniently placed first—remained his favorite.
For Zak, tail-wagging was the peak of aggression.
Their relationship was simple, rooted in shared silences. Especially in the evenings, when they’d lie on the floor watching old movies and silent serials. Zak would sleep through most of them, never leaving her side.
Sleep was beyond her now. Still drowsy, Luna rolled onto her back and let her head dangle off the bed’s edge, her copper hair spilling to the floor like molten thread. One eye cracked open—Zak was upside down in her vision, but wholly absorbed in his poultry feast.
Luna’s dark green eyes shimmered in the low light, deepened by her prominent cheekbones. The outer corners of her eyes tilted slightly upward, giving her an elegant, fox-like appearance. Her nose was short and upturned; her lips, full and expressive, sat beneath a softly rounded chin. Her beauty wasn’t symmetrical or polished—it was fierce in its quiet defiance.
Though work consumed her, Luna always carved out time for long walks beneath the moonlight with Zak. Her true passion, however, lay in martial arts. She never settled on a single discipline, but Aikido lit the first spark. Its philosophy—let others fall by their own momentum rather than striking—resonated with something deep within her. She had no black belts to show, but her movements carried a rare and dangerous grace.
When the world became too loud, she vanished into what passed for nature—a designated Archery Range, fifty by a hundred meters, its green grass the closest approximation to wilderness inside the Dome. With bow and arrow in hand, she would disappear into imagined old-growth forests or silent riverbanks, not aiming for precision, but for peace.
Aikido and archery complemented each other beautifully, blending into a style of motion that bled into everything else she did—fluid, alert, exact.
Her body mirrored that philosophy—lean, supple, not overly muscular but strong and responsive, like something designed for pure, effortless movement.
That morning, it was easier to tumble to the floor than sit up. Zak paused mid-crunch to glance her way. For a moment, she swore he rolled his eyes—then returned to his meal with the same unwavering precision. It was probably just her sleep-starved imagination, but she surrendered to the thought and smiled.
"You're one to talk," she muttered, smirking at him.
With no reply, Luna stretched and added, her voice thick with drowsiness:
“Good morning to you too. Another week beneath the City Domes. At least today’s a ‘free’ day, right, Zak?”
Hair tousled, limbs loose, and eyes half-lidded, Luna shuffled toward the bathroom. A trail of pajama cloth marked her passing.
In the shower pod, she gripped the side handle and muttered, “Morning boost.”
A jet of water—barely lukewarm—struck her bare shoulders. Gel, scented like the Arctic Ocean, followed in a silky wave, and then came the final burst: a powerful blast of cold water that forced her emerald eyes wide open. A stream of warm air flowed from the walls, drying her in seconds. Her orange hair floated in every direction, like it had taken flight.
"Hair color setting: eight." There were dozens of options, but all except eight remained a mystery.
"Would you like to try one of the new makeup presets designed for bright and sunny mornings?" the synthetic voice inquired.
"I still didn’t get that clown job at the Grand Circus, you know," Luna said with a wicked smirk.
"Better luck next time," the voice replied, oblivious.
She stepped from the pod to a seamless cabinet embedded in the wall. “Sunday—look two.”
Three shelves rotated with mechanical whirs, settling into position:
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A dark crimson top, asymmetrical and form-fitting, wrapped her torso like armor stitched from rebellion. One sleeve was completely laced from wrist to shoulder, the other sliced open at the collarbone, crossing into a high choker that framed her throat like a blade. Cutouts traced geometric paths across her chest and ribs—neither delicate nor exposed, but deliberate, like circuitry on living skin.
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Black tactical cargo pants wrapped around her legs in angular folds, traced with crimson straps and encrypted symbols that shimmered when she moved. One thigh bore a diagonal slash of fabric stitched over with printed warnings and looping data tags. Utility zippers and asymmetric pockets bulged slightly, like hidden compartments meant for secrets. Woven straps hung loose from her calves — not ornamental, but kinetic, like they were waiting for orders.
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Her sneakers were biomech beasts—layered foam and flex-plate molding into a chunky silhouette, like something grown in zero gravity. The color scheme shifted from bone-white to crimson red in curved panels, with exaggerated tread that clung to the floor like it might climb walls if asked.
A final touch waited beside them: a gear-shaped artifact, aged bronze, like a cog from a forgotten clock—unattached to any fabric, as if once part of something ancient and now worn for what it remembered. Luna picked it up with a familiar tenderness, her fingers tracing the faint, almost imperceptible runes etched along its inner ring. With a soft click, she fastened it to the strap of her choker, aligning it just off-center below her jawline. There, it rested—not ornamental, but purposeful, as if it belonged close to her pulse.
Aesthetics mattered in this world. But function... function could mean survival.
And the storm outside was nothing compared to what waited within.