Chapter 2
Echoes of the Red Cross
Memories of Kael's past work resurface, a stark contrast to his current state. He grapples with the trauma that led him to become a clone and his profound distrust of all systems.
The stale air of his cramped hab-unit tasted like yesterday's regret, a familiar metallic tang that clung to Kael's tongue. Sunlight, filtered through the perpetually grimy cityscape, did little to dispel the gloom that had settled deep within his bones. Twenty years. Twenty years since he’d last felt the sun on his skin without the intermediary layer of sterile, recycled air. Twenty years since the Red Cross had been more than a phantom limb, a ghost of a purpose he’d long since discarded.
He traced the faint, raised lines on his left temple, a phantom itch that mirrored the actual prickle of the cybernetic chip nestled beneath his scalp. The Star. The damned, glistening Star. It was a mockery, a cruel cosmic joke etched onto his very being, a symbol of a faith he’d never held, a people he’d only ever encountered through the lens of humanitarian crisis. And now, it was the epicenter of his unraveling.
His mind, a tangled knot of neuroses and fragmented memories, flickered back. The dust of a collapsed village, the acrid scent of burning fuel, the hollow echo of children’s cries. He saw the faces, not as individuals, but as a blur of suffering, a testament to the endless, Sisyphean task of patching up a world determined to break itself. He’d been good at it, once. Efficient. Unflinching. Or so he told