She doesn't flinch. "It’s singing to me, Vale."
Flowers made of metal . Soft, breathing, iron petals that turned the wasteland into a garden of oxidized light. anya oxi
"The horizon is rusting," she says to the void. "Let me show you how to bloom instead." She doesn't flinch
"Oxi, get back from the glass," comes the voice of Commander Vale over the intercom. "The horizon is rusting," she says to the void
Anya Oxi doesn’t run from the storm; she breathes it in. At twenty-eight, she is a climatologist for the last habitable arcology in the Northern Sinks, but her colleagues call her "The Barometer" because the pressure in the room always drops when she enters. She has silver-threaded hair tied in a loose braid and eyes the color of rust—permanently stained from staring at oxidizing skies.