Citizen 1176 Oma

The second the gangplank hit the dock, a fanfare of trumpets sounded and sparkling magic illusions flew above the heads of the gathered rexals. The few ships in the fledgling Posian Isles Navy had returned home.

Lining the ships’ railings were new neighbours and old friends. The Isles sponsored the navy to collect and protect its new citizens on their way through the unstable waters to their new home. The assurance of safe passage was frequently the biggest need of the dome citizens being coaxed to the surface, and as such, these designated ferry days became the biggest influx of new citizens. A large welcoming party tradition was springing up quickly around this event, celebrating the navy’s return and the immigrants' arrival.

Peering over the deck railing was a young persha rexal, coming with her family to the surface, following the promise of wide swathes of farmland that would be unattainable in the busy dome, where land has been in families for generations and lays stagnant. It had been a long journey for the little one, hours of swimming with the group, her parents encouraging her not to fall behind as she travelled the farthest she ever had in her entire life. All thoughts of her exhaustion were banished in the face of the raucous celebration awaiting her on the shore. Oma dashed out before the rest of her family, following the self-assured navy men down to the dock and into the crowd.

“Newcomers! Newcomers! Taste what your new home has to offer: pastries, sweets, meat pies. I have them all!”

“Special deal to all service members! 2-for-1 grilled skewers!”

The entire wharf was crowded with rexals hawking their wares, navy men embracing their land locked family, and ahead, a large sparkling sign, “Welcome Home”. It was overwhelming and Oma found herself standing in the middle of it all looking around with wide eyes. 

“Don’t go too far Oma. We can’t get lost now,” Mom called after Oma, hauling a large bag behind her. “Your cousins have found they have set up some carnival games for you younglings to play while we sort out the last of our paperwork. Why don’t you join them?”

Oma was shepherded away from the bustling crowds that would easily sweep her away and guided to where her two cousins were playing with some of the other young rexals that travelled with them. 

“Oma! They have a game where you throw weighted bags into a small hole. The person who sinks their set of  bags first wins!” 

Oma immediately ran over and picked up a bag, “I am going to smoke all of you!”

She did not, her older cousins indulged her, but not enough to let her win. As a consolation they visited these interesting stalls where you could play games for prizes. There was the largest stuffed animal Oma had ever seen hanging in the corner, enticing all to try their hand.

It was easy to be swept up in the excitement of it all. Oma’s family hadn’t been well off in the Dome and this promise of a fresh start, funded in part by the Isles, tempting people just like them to its shores. While the Dome has festivals, none that Oma had visited held this level of exuberance. Maybe Atlas held wonderful events like this, but the outskirts where the Vindalos family carved their living offered no such luxury. 

The shine inspired by this welcome never quite tarnished for Oma, for as long as she lived on the isles, though her initial wonder turned to an uneasy curiosity. She didn’t know it when she first stepped foot on these islands, while the previous inhabitants of these lands might no longer live here, they did leave behind evidence of their presence. The isles endeavoured to hide the creeping feeling of intrusion by throwing sparkling celebrations and offers of land with no strings attached, hoping to dazzle newcomers into accepting this home and ignoring that it once belonged to someone else, who’s fate you might never know.

For all she grew up on these shores, Oma never settled here. When she went back to the dome for her apprenticeship, it was hard to pretend that she wasn’t running away from that mounting unease. The brightest spot in her memories of the isles was that first bright spot of confounding brilliance, blinding and unbelievable, a magician’s assistant distracting you from what you were walking into.