[ WP ] The year is 2170 . The air is no longer safe to breathe , courtesy of hundreds of genetically engineered CRISPR viruses all capable of altering human DNA within seconds . A cult of clean air worshippers decides to venture out into the open and remove all their masks at once

I did n't really notice anything until my second breath. By then, Acolyte Melvin already had his hands around his throat, gripping the way we were all taught he would grip, we would grip. Acolyte Andrea died instantly— the skin on her corpse took on a light blue tinge. She glowed on the ground; little interstices of light shone through even as the bodies continued to pile on top of her. She was always a pretty girl, and smart, and cool: my first crush. 
 The Decision came early, way earlier than the Tomes suggested. No `` Cleansing'' came to pass, whatever that meant. No wars were fought. No `` Grand Evil.'' The Council simply decided— `` Decided'' — and students and professors, and Sanitation Officers and Discipline Officers, all the officers, and mothers and fathers with babies in their arms, everyone, everyone, took to the Elevators like moths to a light. I guess we all had `` It'' in mind. It's coming plastered the walls of all the Mess Halls, the Classrooms, even the Council Chambers. Those cheery posters all withered and yellowed long before I was born. Those golden faces; those golden smiles, on the cusp of Rapture, of Redemption— 
 but, still. I expected some discourse, at least from my mother, who takes responsibility, I suppose, for that inkling. She fell soon after Andrea, all those thoughts of hers along with her, about the Cataclysm, about the Fallout— my earliest memories are of her lap, of watching her frown as she typed and typed and every so often exclaimed— `` Yes! `` — `` Of course! `` — `` Fuck'em!'' But she and Father marched with the rest of them. Her color never changed. 
 She fell right after Andrea, among all the rest. Among almost all, I guess, except for me. We all knew the science of it: of the Crisper viruses our ancestors wrought, of how those took to the air and quashed all the arguments that begat them within just Seven Beautiful Days. It, It, It. Acolyte Melvin had a unique take on the whole affair. He illuminated me in whispers after Curfew, from the top bunk: `` Call us an evolutionary misstep. We were always too smart.'' 
 `` Especially you, right?'' Ha ha ha. 
 `` Nathan, I'm serious. Too smart, way too smart. And way too mean. You ever read about jaguars?'' 
 `` What is that?'' 
 `` They were a different kind of animal, on the Surface. Before the Cataclysm. They were big cats— you ever read about cats?'' 
 `` Like the pets?'' 
 `` Yeah, but these were big— as big as us, bigger. But they lived in trees and hunted other animals for food.'' 
 `` Trees?'' 
 `` Dude, have you even read the Tomes? Any part of them?'' 
 I was kidding, Melvin, kidding. It. Some light sleeper across the Barracks shushed us. We ignored him. It, Nathan, It. 
 `` Alright. Well, they hunted other animals, and they did it in a very interesting way. They had long, sharp, teeth, you know, and they came up behind these animals, real quiet, and they jumped up behind them and bit them on the head so hard that their teeth went right through the skull, to the brain. Their prey always died instantly.'' 
 `` That sounds pretty mean.'' 
 `` But that's what I'm saying, Nathan. It was n't mean at all. It was instant. And then look at us.'' 
 I do n't think soylent even has brains, Melvin. Somebody giggled at that, a light brief crescendo from across the Barracks. A girl's voice, verging on a woman's: Andrea, Andrea. 
 `` Forget it. I'm being stupid,'' he said, and I could hear his body turn up there, as if away from me. He took to the Elevator, too, of course, when the time came; a few extra limbs sprouted from him by the time he finally fell. They were mostly useless and strange, but one of them boasted pink little fingers that hooked around his throat just like the rest of them. And I, and I, and I. By my third breath, I sprouted fur, and claw on the tips of my fingers— why not? — and a pair of wings, and life. I pretend to spot him among the skeletons, every few migrations, every few years. And Mother, and her. 

