At first, it was assumed that the hurricane was an act of god. The only one who could direct that much rage at an island full of degenerates unfit for the British Isles was God. But then they learned that wasn’t the case. The only one who could direct that much rage at an island full of degenerates unfit for the British Isle’s was a little slave girl who had seen her mother whipped for the first time.
The island was a mess after the Hurricane, so many homes destroyed, so many people dead, so many lost at sea, and a little girl’s head displayed on the spiked fence at the fort. There had been no saving her; mutation was illegal in the Empire (unless you were in the military) and turning her power against the white slavers (however accidentally) was considered an act of rebellion. All rebels died. It was a mercy that they killed her quickly.
Like all free men on the island Hamilton had to report to the fort every morning for militia drills, in case of insurrection. Now they went there to organize the clean up effort. The first time he passed by the head bloated from the humidity and sun, he vomited into the bushes. He made up a lie about being ill (as he often was) because he couldn’t afford to being seen as a sympathizer.
That night he wrote about the destruction, about the hurricane that destroyed his town, every sentence a metaphor for the needless taking of an innocent life. He thought that maybe his heart would ache less if he got his feelings down on paper. He thought that maybe he would be less scared if he didn’t mention mutation in his essay, if he didn’t hint at the way every sick malevolent thought of the people around him twisted in his gut like dysentery. He was wrong.
But his writing did buy his way out of hell. Those twisted malevolent people paid his way to America. It was part of the Empire, but he had heard rumors of a school there, for people like him. Maybe he would finally find home; he hadn’t had one of his own since his mother died.