Something wet dribbled down my face, slimy and gooey. Slobber. Barking broke through the comfortable silence and pierced my sensitive eardrums. Within seconds, a heavyweight began clambering all over me, before situating itself right atop my belly. With a groggy groan, I peeked open one eye, then forced the other to unstick itself. I was met by the familiar sight of my personal alarm clock, drooling and panting down on my bedsheets.

With a heavy sigh, I heaved myself up on one elbow and attempted to rub away the sleep that glazed my eyes. Half-heartedly, I pushed one hand through my hair and tried to ease away the tangles and knots that adorned the coarse strands. Ignoring the stupid, clingy dog, which had not moved. I pushed the excessive weight off of me. Doing so I also fell off the comforts of my mattress, rolling onto the cold stone tiles with a heavy thud. I certainly was not 100% awake.

Peering through the tiny, semicircular window by my bedside, I came to a realisation. All the mole-makers around the Terrane had their lights on, which only meant one thing. Today was election day and the election did not stay where it was meant to linger, Lux. The election had travelled up North, to the Terrane. Bile rose up into my throat and I gagged. If rolling off the bed hadn't sobered me up, then this certainly had.  The election only happened once every year, during this time, a mole-maker, almost always from Lux is chosen. The chosen is treated as a national hero of sorts, except the glory never lasts. Once a citizen of Cibus, always a citizen of Cibus. After a few days of praising and adorning from the wealthy, they are sent on a mission. A critical mission. To collect information outside of Cibus, more specifically, to camouflage themselves as a soldier in Supra and to expose Supra's government information. These chosen ones, never last long. Their fates are notoriously cruel, always ending up dead. You see, the mole is never meant to live, with explosives tucked away in their belts, even if they weren't discovered and shot, they'd die. If you value your life and disagree with the bomb, then you come home, a coward and you will be publicly hung as a traitor.

Nudging Tucker, the annoying partner I was forever stuck with aside. I began to pull on my mole-maker uniform. I tugged on the layer of thermal wear which hugged my body tightly, giving me warmth, then I buttoned up the earth-coloured jumpsuit, which fell loose around my skin, finally, I pinned on my badge. Engraved in neat blocky, letters were: Private mole: Arcus Rain and sown across my chest was the emblem: 'monest ad Astra Mollis e terris via.'

Slinging my laser sniper upon one shoulder, I clasped my machine gun securely onto my belt. The sniper was clad for execution and as for the machine gun, it was a stature symbol, to promote fear. When I was fully dressed and refreshed, I headed for the door, with Tucker trailing behind, obnoxiously wagging his tail.

Stopping before the doorway, I felt a pair of dark eyes peering up at me, my eyes. I was staring into the large doorway mirror. Dark hair slick and neatly gelled, thin yet lean body clad in a neat uniform. I had the genetic look of people from the north, the people of the Terrane, with my coal eyes and ivory coloured skin.

Fixing up a strand of fallen hair, I reached for the doorknob, mentally preparing myself for whatever horror that awaits.