The Sanctuary

Bol

Sanctuary. That was what the quarantine dome was supposed to be, a place of refuge from the N-Gel and the deadly Neoplague they unleashed on the world. But we aren't safe here. Senna is uprooted from her rural life in the outer dome when her mother agrees to marry the President of Sanctuary. It was supposed to be a Cinderella story, but Senna can't stand the health and status obsessed city. Her only escape comes from repairing an antique piece of wireless tech, an endeavor that is seemingly hopeless due to the interference that reduced such tech useless after the invasion. Senna believes that if she can get the device to work, she can use it to contact the life she left behind. However, it isn't her old life she reaches when she gets the device to power on. Instead she catches the SOS of a little girl who claims to be held captive in the toxic world outside of the dome. The girl offers a reward for her rescue-the cure for the plague that forced humanity into quarantine and took Senna's father from her. Well the alternator was shot, that much she knew. The rough hole in the rusted casing kind of gave it away. It looked like part of the hole had collapsed inwards and damaged some of the copper wire, but she wouldn't know the extent of the damage until she got the part out and cracked it open. Senna dug a tool from her belt and set to work. She had the part removed and in her hands by the time her mentor, Wrench, came out to check on her."How's she looking?" Wrench asked. Senna quite literally jumped to answer her, banging the back of her head off the hood of the truck. She winced, cradling the alternator in one hand so she could rub the now sore back of her head."Alternator is shot," Senna replied, extending the part out towards Wrench. She took the part with a 'hmm', looking over the damaged outer casing.Wrench was a relatively small woman, shorter than Senna by at least a couple of inches despite being nearly twice the girl's age. At a glance she looked rather disheveled. Her frazzled brown hair was haphazardly knotted into a frayed braid, her coveralls were stained and ripped in more places than any one person could count, and grimy oil was so ever present on her hands that it had taken up permanent residence under her nails. Her brown eyes were sharp, though. There was an intelligence behind them that few people had.

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Pagina's: 300, Paperback, Ottavio Ferrante