Chapter 3

The outer doors cycled open with only 30 seconds to spare, flooding a blast of bitterly cold air into the small enclosure in a frigid punch that took my breath away.

Having never gone through or witnessed a a Writ of Seizure before, I didn’t really know what to expect; five minutes to vacate when it took four minutes to cycle a door seemed a bit...not lenient. I couldn’t help but feel morose as, harsh and bleating, the inner lock screen cycled a lock-down and finalized whatever steps were necessary to change the Pod’s status from Occupied, to Tossed Out Into The Frigid Wind.

I let out a huge sigh of defeat as I turned, then froze in place.

A contingent of uniformed Corp-Security members, escorting a short, rat-faced man dressed in their riot best, stood at the ready. My poorly augmented vision flashed between the burly figures. Concussion sticks were gripped tightly in impact-resistant gloves as several sets of gleefully expectant eyes were uniformly directed my way like a gaze of bio-chem-altered raccoons. Standing separately from the group and the rat-faced man, looking cool and collected like he’d just stepped off a fashion runway in his fancy long coat and perfect haircut, was my supervisor, McCreed.

The same man who had told me to go home. The same man who had signed off on the reports implicated me as the cause of the events leading to my co-worker's death. His face was neutral, like it was carved out of granite. Steely eyes took in the world around him with an impersonal air as if he did this sort of thing every day—superciliously aloof.

“He’s still in possession of Corporate Issued Equipment,” Mr. Ratface said from the right, pointing an almost too-long finger, an indication of a limb-enhanced short-range chip scanner.

“Outerall, Jacket, Boots,” he stated, continuing to wave his finger around as if scrying for water. His face formed another scowl as he found something else and pointed to my back, “The bag. The bag too. Take them all.”

Without further instruction, one of the Security Goons grasped the strap of the bag and pulled. The unexpected shift in weight caused me to take an involuntary step back as I was jerked and slung around. The cold, lightly frost-covered surface of the lower rail hit my left shoulder a millisecond before the rear of my skull rebounded with a muted clang off the top railing.

My heart began to race as I caught myself, amping up from the combined sensations of sudden contact and a growing fear of the Security Goons as they began to huddle menacingly on both sides; it wouldn't take much to pitch me over the railing and onto the ground below. I pulled myself to my feet as cold sweat began to pool at the small of my back. The Goon Squad pressed closer, moving where I didn’t look and leering with barely held malicious glee where I did. My mind tumbled chaotically as I tried to strategize, weighing the very short list of obvious options as I tried to keep enemies in view.

The most lethal option, jumping over the railing and plummeting down fifteen levels rather than being tossed, was quickly ruled out. As my eyes darted to and fro, looking for any kind of opening and desperately attempting to keep track of the quickly compacting line, I knew I was in trouble. With the low temps and rain as they were now, there was no way I was going to survive more than a few hours without the extra layers the Port Uniform provided me.

If I can at least keep the Outer Jacket and Boots I might still be able to—

My train of thought was interrupted as the closest Goon, a snaggle-toothed-looking fellow with a squashed nose showing all signs of having been broken and badly set a few times, managed to reach grappling distance. His thick, mitt-like hands clenched his concussion stick as he licked his cracked lips in anticipation. I felt penned in as I dug my feet into the gangway, boot soles squeaking as they nestled into a groove meant to let rain and condensation pass through.

Knees slightly bent, coiled like a spring and ready to dart, I crouched. Though uncertain on what to do next, I was entirely unwilling to just let them tear into me if I could help it. I waited for the rush, except—the rush never came.

Instead, McCreed had raised one, perfectly manicured hand: a signal.

The goons jerkily stopped as one, as if pulled back by a tethered leash. The seemingly soft, non-calloused palm remained in view as he continued waiting. His dogs were restrained, the extended hand keeping them from tearing me into frozen pieces mere footsteps from the entryway of my former home, making it absolutely clear who was in control.

“Now now, Golrich.” McCreed said. His voice, imperialistic and imposing with a hint of playfulness in an almost posh accent, was a brassy rumble originating from deep within his chest.

He lowered his arm slowly.

“It’s to my understanding the Writ of Seizure stated the accused may have leave along with any items on his person provided he successfully exits within the five minutes notice; is that not correct?” He turned, one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows rising into an arch of challenge.

Ratface began to sweat visibly, his mouth forming an ‘O’ shape in a perfect example of Rattish shock, sans whiskers. “Uh, but, Sir! What about the Company Property on his person?!”

He had squeaked it out before managing to slam his mouth shut.

McCreed did not answer immediately as I glanced nervously between them, still crouched and wary, but happy for the brief halt as the goons stood in disciplined silence.

Striking quite the impressive figure, McCreed turned slightly to face away from me, expression placid as he approached the rail. His movements were smooth and calculated: statuesque artwork in motion. Every gesture, position, and pose, like a still-framed series of photographs, perfectly transitioned. Sliding his palm along the rail to collect moisture on his fingertips, he rose them toward his steely eyes like an inspector, unhappy to discover a filthy, debased mote of dust on an otherwise pristine and white-gloved hand.

“Be that as it may, Golrich,” he said, rubbing his fingers together distastefully, “There is a proviso for leeway. Removal of clothing and safety equipment in times of need is at the discretion of supervisory staff, is it not?”

Ratface began to visibly tremble. He was entirely uncertain what was being asked of him.

“The harsh environment,” McCreed continued, the look of revulsion now pointedly directed at the melted frost and water on the rail as his eyes flashed dangerously, ”...should perhaps let us exercise such discretion now.

After all, we wouldn’t want Mr. Price to be unable to meet his defense date should he choose to fund such an option.”

This last part he directed to me as if it was a question. His eyes shone with an ethereal light as his implants did something. My optics served up a dim warning of an attempted active scan, which I could do nothing about; whatever he was doing was way beyond the limited options my mods provided.

I looked around, and judging by the collective grouping of expressions, I wasn’t the only one confused by the current turn of events. Ratface looked like he was about to puke, and different Goons were glancing around at each other as if looking for guidance but were unable to find it within their own ranks.

No one dared move.

McCreed broke the moment. “I would like to speak with him in private about this if you would,” he said suddenly, turning to face away from us before folding his arms behind his back. He looked every part the commanding dictator, standing before his holding with little fear of retaliation, remorse, or danger.

Ratface quickly snapped into a low bow—one low enough to almost bang his forehead into the iced rail despite McCreed not even looking at him. He began taking micro-shuffling steps backward in a show of supplication.

“Oh...of...of course, Sir.” Golrich said hastily, “Many apologies! I will...that is, we...uhhhhh...”

He stopped groveling, having finally come to the realization that action was likely a better option. Snapping out of the bow, he flashed a jerking hand signal and vermin-like hiss before shuffling off. The security personnel tromped along, leaving me alone with my former Supervisor as their clanking steps grew fainter.

Still unmoving, McCreed stood, his back toward me as he continued to stare outward. From my vantage, his shadowed form took on the appearance of a lonely monolith, nearly equal in height to the greatness of the Spire and its three towers.

I took a tentative step forward, enough to get away from the railing and the frost forming on its face, but not enough to appear like I was creeping. As a gust of frigid wind blew, everything resumed its normal late-night levels of near silence. The occasional mechanical whir of loader servos from The Port and timely rumbles of thunder acted as ambient noise.

McCreed continued to tower, still silently challenging.

We just stood there waiting for a spell, long enough for me to begin shivering and for my knees to begin aching. Even with the layers, it was bitterly cold. I warily eyed the storm clouds marching steadily toward us from the horizon. Different sections were alight like asynchronous strobes as thunder rumbled. As if challenging the heavens, my stomach seemed to answer.

“Unfortunate business we have here, Mr. Price,” McCreed said, as if he had been waiting for me to break first and my stomach had betrayed me. Stupid stomach.

The flashbulb effect became more frequent as the clouds approached. A blast of cold moisture flowed over us, covering everything in a slight mist as I shivered. It was a stark reminder of the need for not only food but also a warm place to take shelter and ride out the storm.

“It’s a pity you were caught in the middle of all of this,” McCreed finally said, almost wearily. “It was never my true intention.”

Pity? A pity?!

Part of me wanted to rage. The other part, the part shivering, cold and wet, was simply tired of everything. The whole ordeal was a taxing experience. Everything had happened so rapidly and in so short a time the rage just felt like it wanted to…drain away. I knew from past experience: trying to do anything differently would lead to me only feeling worse. It didn't always happen, but when it did, it usually worked out better for me to just...go along.

I remained silent.

“Do you need to say anything?” He inquired, as if I’d needed permission to do so. His eyes were locked onto mine.

A strange, vague sensation of nervousness and uncertainty began to grow inside me as I felt...unbalanced. The dim warnings from my optics had silenced themselves. It was a feeling of being unsteady, like I had suddenly developed trouble keeping my mental train of thought on track. Trying to say words but being unable to, I struggled to try to identify why I suddenly couldn’t say what I wanted to...

I opened my mouth to say something but physically couldn’t seem to talk.

I tried again, except this time words I hadn’t meant to speak came out, sounding odd, even to my own ears.

“I... don't know what you want me to say."

Man, that didn’t feel right.

Taking a step forward, I joined him near the rail, a sudden urge to at least see part of his face coming over me. The feeling...the need to get closer for some purpose I didn’t fully understand was a weird one.

He had turned his body to point rightward, giving me another strong urge to stand to his right. The kind of thing my Father would have done. It was all a game of throwing someone off balance to subconsciously lead them to where he wanted them rather than where they wanted to go in order to lock eyes with them; a Power Move, as he called it.

Thinking of my father made a streak of rebellion rear up as my mind, and foot, decided to take a defiant step left—opposing the inclined direction.

The maneuver forced McCreed to turn, and I felt a tiny surge of satisfaction as a flash of annoyance traversed like a ripple across his perfectly poised face.

The wind caressed my cheek as it drifted by, tousling his hair as the breeze continued to the East. McCreed’s face was now an impassive mask as he stared out toward the Spires, and slowly, marginally, I began to feel better. Feeling like I had just stepped out of a murky haze, I began to feel more grounded, metaphorical feet planted and in control of my thoughts.

We stood like this for a moment as I primarily focused on breathing through my nose. McCreed still refused to react, and I had no clue what he wanted to even talk about as I resumed inhaling and exhaling quietly, my brain feeling less and less fogged as we stood.

The clouds were now very close, not exactly on top of us, but closer than I would’ve wanted without shelter. The telltale sign of a thick haze indicated heavy rains. I could smell moisture as I continued to breathe, in and out. Like arrows sent from the heavens to spear themselves into the ground beneath, the rains fell, landing where they would. A blanket of mist partially obscured the neon glow of the Spire towers as the clouds encroached onward to surround it.

As if aware of the coming front, the neon signery faded and dimmed. Not completely going dark, but dully glowing with a much reduced output. Even with the Low-Light Collection from cheap Optical Implants, the cluster of towers stood dark and foreboding, a striking difference from the bright beacon of hope only moments before.

Feeling no longer unsteady and nervous, I pressed on.

“Maybe,” I said, weather and breeze having somehow cleared my head and given me a new wind, “Maybe I’d ask why you were the one to sign off on the reports. The false ones.”

McCreed’s mouth formed a thin line. His lips changed color as they pressed together tightly. It was clear I had said something he hadn’t planned for, and it hadn’t pleased him. He spoke his next words slowly, voice neutral and measured as the storm raged on in the distance.

“Sometimes, Mr. Price?” He said, enunciating specific words, “Some people simply don’t have choices.”

He turned his head. He locked me in his gaze again. Like a physical strike, I felt the next breath catch in my throat as I began to choke. I couldn’t break away from his piercing, stormy gray eyes—Optical Implants matching the skies behind him in their intensity and looked so surprisingly real and organic.

So, so real.

He continued to speak, not breaking eye contact in the slightest as I remained silent, gurgling slightly as I continued to choke. Feeling a burning pain in my chest, I realized I'd been unable to work my lungs too.

“Sometimes?” he said, “Those lording over from above, in their high-rise positions above...above the anthill.” He waved his hand across the area where the Port and majority of The Stacks lay before us, “Positions of Power. Positions of... Influence.”

He gripped the rail, and I heard a groaning squeal as his fingers tightened. Those nearly perfect and soft-looking fingers, which barely reacted as the metal deformed like putty or molded clay.

“Sometimes? Those lords need only Deign...NOT request.”

As if on cue, lightning flashed. Bright enough to temporarily overload my optics. At first, all I could feel was a sharp spike of pain, driven straight to my brain like a spear of jagged ice. My implants ground themselves to a halt in protest as an overwhelming wave of vertigo overcame me, and I keeled over, leaning into the rail precariously. As the optical implants struggled to compensate for the sudden changes in luminous conditions, they toggled rapidly between low-light and protective modes.

I became disoriented.

My head spun even worse as slideshow images messily flashed before my view in a parade line of impressions, and I tried to feel for the walkway beneath me.

A rush of air from a gust of wind felt perilous. I ended up planted on my rear, reaching out with my right hand to grasp loosely on the railing as my left leg dangled dangerously into nothingness.

A sudden, white-knuckled fear of falling overrode all other instincts or thoughts as I clung like a drowning man in a maelstrom. I was still unable to breathe or speak. The railing acted as a single tiny piece of flotsam in an ocean of fear, barely keeping myself from diving into the fathoms of despair below.

I had to mentally push...No. Shove.

I shoved as hard as I could against the single inexplicable and spine-tingling urge to just...Fall Forward. Forward into the inky blackness ahead.

Such a Simple Action to End All of My Worries.

All of my Loss.

All my Pain.

My limbs felt cold as I sluggishly pulled myself up, clutching the topmost rail to stare downward.

It would be So Easy.

So.

So.

Easy.

McCreed smiled.

A splendid smile.

I lifted a foot and climbed.

Chapter 2

I stepped further into the room to see the sheet more clearly in the harsh lighting.

The Outer Door cycled closed behind me, cutting off the chill from the exterior again as my eyes skimmed the Corpo Legalese infesting the top third of the page. My jaw dropped open when I eventually landed on the official notice section, and I stood dumbfounded for the full cycle period, blinking at the sheet.

The inner door eventually clunked open as the heat wafted into the lock. Rather than feeling welcoming, the room now felt cramped and enclosed, like a prison: they’d blamed me.

Official Termination Notice
Subject: [Price, O.C.], CC10
Code Protocol: Lack of Safety and Oversight
Evidence: Multiple Reports Filed by Supervisory Party
Supervisory Party: [McCreed, M.R.], CC115
Supervisory Input: “Multiple documented occurrences of unsafe practices and failure to report dangerous existing environmental, conditions which led to the loss of a valuable TxCorp Asset [See Attached Personnel File of Deceased].”
Issuer: [McCreed, M.R.], CC115
Result: IMMEDIATE TERMINATION. FURTHER LEGAL ACTION PENDING.

I turned the filisheet over, futilely wishing what I’d read was simply some sick joke. Something to haze me, or maybe freak me out for...whatever purpose. I continued to stall as I rotated, flipped, and fluttered the filisheet within my hands, but nothing changed; the notice was still the same. I was forced to finally surrender and admit to myself it was real. As real as the holo stamp on the bottom right corner could make it in the eyes of the Corporate Courts, I was in for some real trouble.

Despite being a falsified accounting of the actual events, the semi-transparent sheet listed me as the sole reason for the death of the kid. Clear as day in black and red, and stated as truthful; it was damning. Worse? It also claimed there was previous history leading up to the event. All backed up by a digital trail.

Striding across the room to the workbench, I slumped onto the seat. All the energy drained out of my limbs as I stared out the slit of a rear viewport.

Now fully visible without anything to block them, the triple cluster of the Spire towered over the landscape as the lights and moving machinery of the Port struck an eerily beautiful backdrop, silently dancing across the horizon and non-visible shore.

The entire view felt like some alien landscape in a science fiction novel as lightning struck something in the distance. I winced a little as it did so, motes of electricity dancing along the rightmost tower, the TxCorp tower, which absorbed the impact stoically. Unaffected.

It felt more than a little symbolic: Lightning and a Tower. A mythical representation of unexpected and sudden change.

Before all of it. Before I’d seen the kid throw himself happily to his own demise. I’d gone to McCreed directly and asked for a way to prove my willingness for TxCorp and my chances for advancement. The insistence of Dora to push for as much leverage as possible to reach the next Class Rating was intense, and my lack of progress had been the source of...a lot of our arguments.

McCreed, for his part, had been ecstatic and had told me so, often giving me little nuggets of wisdom and advice along the way. I’d mistaken it as gaining a mentor. A guiding hand. Someone older and who might already have a lot of it figured out.

Instead, my future, and Dora’s by association, had been derailed. Our thread of fate cut because I'd tried, and failed, to help some third kid of an Exec Family I hadn't even bothered to know while working a shift rotation I wasn't supposed to be assigned to. I’d already passed disbelief and was now moving into acceptance.

It was clear: I was a Patsy.

But the kid?

I subconsciously swallowed, feeling the sting.

Harnessed, hanging fifty feet in the air, I’d tried to help him.

I'd been perfectly positioned, busy unclogging an air intake when I spotted him running in the direction of the loader.

My throat still felt ragged from trying to get his attention as I’d screamed continuously to make him stop...hell, to get anyone else to at least see him.

Except—no one had.

He’d been smiling. A wild kind of smile, which haunted me even now.

He hadn’t hesitated. He ran like there was a race, and he'd kept that smile plastered across his face, right up to the exact second he dove head-first in the way of the heavy loader, still singing that damn dumpling jingle to the gristly end.

His had been a cut-and-dried case of Corporate nepotism. Nearing wash-out age and needing to stay in the system, he'd taken the job. Someone, somehow, had managed to pull the right strings to ensure he got it. Since day one of his arrival, he'd been our shift rotation's problem child.

Lazy, slovenly, and skating by on just the bare minimum with all the persistence of a boil needing to be lanced, he was more often than not blitzed out of his mind before being absolutely useless on shift. Despite it all? I still wouldn't have wished him dead. Especially not like that...

It was the kind of thing which stuck with you.

Glancing back down to the sheet, I let my eyes wander. More for something to do so I wouldn't keep imagining that wild, nearly insane smile than anything else.

My eyes halted, spotting the section just above the much more attention-getting Termination Notice I'd previously mistaken as a legal disclaimer, and felt my stomach plummet as I came to grips with what else was in store for my bedraggled mind.

I, Owen Price, was now in process for Writ of Seizure in accordance with previously authorized security rights as a Former Employee of TxCorp. Rights including the ability to freeze my Corporate Accounts and facilitate the physical removal of any Registered Assets within my Corporate Issued Domicile. Effective Immediately.

Oh.

Crap.

The sinking pit in my stomach grew larger as questions hammer-fired in rapid succession through my mind as I flittingly looked around, free hand gripping my head in frustration, not really sure where to go, or what to do in the moment.

Had they already come?! What happened to Dora?! Did she know yet?!

That was when I spotted it—a filisheet section shorn off from a much larger piece. It was lying near the incinerator unit in the kitchen. The internal barrage of questions halted as I picked it up, comparing it to the Termination Notice already in my other hand. Side by side.

It matched.

Frowning, I looked around in bewilderment. How had a Termination Notice made it here before I did? Had they already taken everything and left a copy? I began a new visual search of the room, my focus priority now going toward anything out of place and ignoring the missing items and features.

There. Lying just within the inner door, partially covered by my bag, sat a holocard. I approached and picked it up, the metallic font flashing with embossed gold as the light hit the words just right:

Forrest T. Fillington, III
TxCorp, Section SubManager
[Division 3, Section 10]
Corporate Rating: CC68

What the hell?

Through the semi-transparent front of the holocard were parts of another message, scrawled on the back and illegible from the front. I flipped it over and almost wished I hadn't.

“Owen. I’m not letting you take me down with you. It’s over - Pandora”

As the message settled into my brain, I felt a sharp jab just behind my rib cage, like a stiletto blade slipping straight into my heart. The pit in my stomach became a leaden weight as I sat heavily onto the floor.

I held the card aloft, staring at the words in shock as the more analytical part of my mind took over. The message held a sort of plainness I'd never attributed to her communications with me before, and it was noticeable. Her neat handwriting lacked the small personal touches she was so fond of.

The little hearts, stars, and swoops? Gone. The ink was a custom blend, one I recognized from where she worked: an upscale club on the other side of the Glow called InCorporeal. The lines stood out in a swirl of iridescent colors, seeming to pop off the surface as if daring to be touched.

I did. Running a gloved thumb over the lines temporarily broke the illusionary effect, causing a mild sensation of dizziness and thrill to wash over me as designed. The digital wizardry and chemical science combined to act as a mark of legitimacy. The iridescence and curiously tantalizing mental effect were a hallmark of the club’s brand, and, like all things involved with InCorporeal, very expensive.

So expensive, it had been used on purpose, just like the choice to use the back of this particular holocard to deliver a message.

She wasn’t missing. She’d left me.

I could feel the tears as they reached the back of my optical implants. They pooled toward the edges of my eyes before leaking down my cheeks and onto the floor.

A harsh buzz snapped me back to reality, and I had to tear my gaze away from the holocard. The door's multi-function display was now a bright red, flashing three times before being replaced with a new message stylized in the same vein as the filisheet Termination Notice.

Wiping my eyes, I hastily stood to read the screen.

LEGAL NOTICE
Writ Of Corporate Asset Seizure Initiated.
Occupants Failing To Vacate Risk Threat Of Action By Neutralization.
All Occupants Have 5 Minutes To Comply.

The clock began an ominous countdown in flashing red and white text.

The inner door forced itself open in accordance with the notice and remained open as the panic began to overtake me.

I snagged my bag, looking around frantically before wasting a final half second to wonder how the card had even ended up pinned to the floor underneath it.

Staring at the wall, the answer was obvious. I gaped in shock at the hooks...or rather the lack of them; they were gone.

Wow.

The oddly sobering effect of this sudden realization found me able to think and act.

Turning my attention toward what to take, the new "open" floor plan aided me as I rushed to the rear of the Pod. Vaulting over a small partition in a rush to claim the few scattered parts remaining on the workbench, I scooped the parts into the bag in one fell swoop before casting a final critical eye to the rest of the room. Of all the things I could’ve said about Dora in the moment, the word "thorough” sat at the forefront as it became clearly obvious everything else had already been taken.

She’d done a marvelous job of it.

Turning to exit, I rushed through the inner lock and slapped the cycle control.

Leaning my forehead against an inner bulkhead, I closed my eyes, letting out a deep sigh as I waited for the cycle to process.

The cold metal on my skin felt relieving as, in the background, the clock continued ticking. The angry, red characters were tallying the final seconds until I'd abandon the last vestiges of my old life.

You know what, Owen? I thought to myself.

Worst. Night. Ever.

Chapter 1

I’d seen him die.

I’d seen him die right below me, and there was nothing I could’ve done about it.

I’d yelled.

I’d screamed.

Nobody would listen. He still died.

I wanted to feel something. Anything. Sometimes you just sit there, wondering what you’re supposed to be feeling when something as surreal as a co-worker diving himself headfirst under a heavy loader happens. You also wonder why he’d been singing a jingle. It had been about dumplings, a common advert for cantina food. Advertisement even in a time of death.

Man...was it weird to be craving food at a time like this?

I dunno. Maybe I was still processing.

Our direct Supervisor had seemed understanding, even taking the time to come out of The Offices to personally tell me to take the rest of the night off. His symmetrically perfect face, white teeth, and impossible smile had been shifted to an expression of empathy and kindness. He'd watched me struggle to get out of the harness, angling to guide me with a firm hand toward the exit and away from the scene with a few soft-spoken words.

It seemed like a blessing at the time. I was nowhere near being in the right mindset to continue for the next minute, let alone the remainder of our extended shift. So, on his insistence, I’d logged out and turned in my work board before trudging homeward, still wearing the bulky Outeralls. Bravado aside, that had been the first time I’d ever personally seen someone die—at least directly. Even the fact it had been someone like...

Well. I didn’t want to think about it.

Not really.

It was cold. Bitterly so, which was normal for this time of year. City 17 was fortunate to be near the southernmost tip of the peninsula. I’ve heard rumors of the cities far north of us requiring breathing masks to keep the moisture from freezing in their lungs. Thinking about it, I felt a sudden chill and began to shiver violently. The next breath came out more forcefully.

I watched this time as the vapor formed and condensed into a wispy cloud, which rose into the harsh glare of the overheads, temporarily turning opaque and muting out the neon lights of the Spire’s exterior. The trio of towers formed the core of City 17, corporate centers for a Global War Project, “destined to save the best and brightest humanity had to offer.” That’s what the decades-old advertisements used to say anyway.

The Port was one of the few locations where any of the Glow residents even had a shot at working for Corp-Scrit in hopes of eventually getting a living visa. A Visa meant the right to live inside. Inside meant Better, with a capital B: Better Food, Better Water, Better Heat, Better Power, and Better Peace of Mind. Deeper meant safe. Higher? Higher meant The Executive Elite. A membership to an exclusive club. Less security since it wasn't underground, but better views and, “...oh so much personal space you’d wonder if you’d died and gone to heaven.” At least that’s what my supervisor used to brag about as he mingled with the downcast and hopefuls like me. On the rare occasion he ever graced our presence like he had today, I suppose he wasn’t all that bad.

The neon lights of the three corporate logos of the Spire’s Sponsoring Three shone like a ray of hope, their shapes fading in and out slowly due to the late shift low-power modes.

From where I was standing, the Spires still seemed impossibly tall despite the hundreds of thousands of souls calling them Home. For most people? They end up somewhere in the middle, exactly where anyone with logic could see people like myself needed to aim. The closer to the ground, the lower the class. "Stuck in the muck,” as my dear old dad used to say. I often wondered what he’d think about my lofty kingdom right now.

In my case, Home meant Non-Spire Housing for transient workers, or “The Pod People Village,” as I’d heard the higher-ups say when they forgot we were hanging above them on shift. After six long years, I had finally been graded into a Class Ten position. One step away from finally being out of the cramped, disrepaired, and low-powered NS-Housing Pods, which, if I were totally honest, were still leaps and bounds better than where I had grown up in the Capsule Bays.

The Pods were originally meant to be stacked and used as emergency housing in low-atmosphere environments—before the Colonization Ban was put into effect. The squat, faded, and cheaply made units were like six-meter-sized PlayCrete building blocks. Uniform in size and designed to snap together so connections for heat, power, and light could be more easily managed with metal walkways connecting the entryways and various levels. From the outside they looked everything like the shipping containers I’d been busy scanning and labeling before...the event. It was an odd realization I’d never made a connection before now; they were practically identical.

Huh.

Keying the outer door, I tapped the small recessed multi-function panel, which acted as the Pod's exterior interface. The display shifted to a data screen of the cycle process as it accepted my Ident. A set of gauges representing the internal, inner lock, and external ambient conditions slid around each other as the lock processed the environmental states between inside and outside. From the outside, the system was near silent. It worked the magic of letting me in as red glows became green glimmers, and a tone sounded.

The entire process served an important purpose: efficiency, keeping internal conditions from being wasted. Less Space? Less Waste.

As the outer door opened, I was presented with a somewhat cramped vestibule, only marginally big enough for two people to squeeze into.

Shaking off old thoughts, I stepped inside and keyed the inner door process as the outer door closed. The gauges did their balancing act as frigid air was pumped out to equalize the Pod living conditions, and warm, damp air pressed against my face.

The inner door opened.

The smell of clean moisture and lavender surrounded me, intermingling with a whiff of my scarf, which I'd unraveled subconsciously upon arriving home, and I was then reminded how much I wanted to wash off the daily crud from working the docks before...the event.

The smell of clean moisture and lavender surrounded me, intermingling with a whiff of my scarf, which I'd unraveled subconsciously upon arriving home, and I was then reminded how much I wanted to wash off the daily crud from working the docks before...the event.I let out a soft sigh as I took a deep breath, feeling the tension melt from my shoulders as I began to relax from the lavender smell of her soap. The scent meant comfort and home. The moisture in the air and the lack of lights meant the likelihood of Dora, having returned early from work, had taken a shower and gone to sleep was very high. While Dora might hate the thought of us calling the sanitation unit a “shower,” since it was more of a warm, very weak spray than anything, turning in early was a common occurrence when things were going well. If the cycling of the lock hadn’t stirred her, she had to be as tired as I felt.

Habitually, I scooped off my bag, extending my arm outward. My aim was to be quiet: better to tell her everything in the day rather than wake and bother her tonight.

All chances of being quiet failed.Fully expecting the hook by the doorway to catch the strap as normal, I let go. A thunk echoed throughout the Pod with all the subtlety of a brick hitting a drone. The bag landed in a pile on the floor at the speed of gravity, and I froze in shocked surprise as my brain caught up to the bag being the source of the noise.

An apology was already on my lips in anticipation of the sleepy murmurs or shocked yell I'd expected from Dora. Instead, the room remained mostly silent. The environment cycler clicked slowly on, filling the small space with a steady hiss of warm air being pumped in. I began to sweat.

It remained eerily silent.

Odd... I thought to myself.

“Hab-E...lights?” I said quietly to the automated environmental controller.

The lights, opposite their normal pre-programmed behavior of gradually increasing to 20% in increments, snapped on. Instantly.

I yelped, stumbling in surprise as I slipped in a puddle and went down hard. My elbow banged into the kitchen counter as I tried desperately to cover my eyes with both hands and to block out the sudden illumination. The full 100% output overloaded my cheap ocular implants and hit my cortex like an icy spike of pain.

“Hab-E! Lights to Twenty Percent!” I shouted from the ground.

The environment system acknowledged with a trill and lowered the lighting. I sat there for a moment, a sliver of worry beginning to slowly grow in the pit of my stomach to the size of a small boulder. I hadn’t heard Dora say anything. The Pod was still silent.

The room slowly came into view in patches as my vision returned. I sat up too quickly, banging my head again, but choosing to ignore it. Now lit by a cold and harsh bluish tint the room was somehow much more gray than I’d anticipated and that was concerning.

For a fleeting moment, I had the bewildered sense I’d mixed up unit blocks, challenged by my Ident-Code, which was displayed in green on the upper right-hand corner of the entry display. Lacking any additional warning messages about intrusion, alarms, or emergencies, all systems appeared to be normal.

Sqwincing up at the display, I confirmed the unit number was the correct one and blinked a few times to ensure my vision was working correctly.

I turned my attention back to the rest of the room, still feeling so many things weren’t adding up. The first and most notable thing became apparent: a distinct lack of anything on the walls to cover the exposed piping, conduit, and electrical lines in the utilitarian pod.

Now that definitely WASN’T normal.

The Pod design was meant to be universal, allowing a pod to convert from one mode to another quickly with the right tools, materials and modules. Dora, never the fan of utilitarianism in anything, had made it her life’s mission to shape our pod into a homely environment. A standard living Pod’s layout had areas with all the spatial qualities of a booth connected to other booths and she'd taken it as a personal affront on her womanly sensibilities.

The primary issue with the Pod’s Modular design: There was only ONE module configuration designated for housing.

Rather than engineer methods of sealing off sections with accompanying methods for ensuring environmental controls and functions, the designers simply implemented height dividers between the kitchen, sanitation, and co-functional sleeping/working modules. The units all had a specific orientation for hook-ups, a few small areas for utilitarian customization and...little else. The partitions, specifically, annoyed the ever-living hell out of Dora. Her biggest gripe had always been the lack of coverage, as they only covered three quarters of the space from floor to roof. With our height, it meant everyone could and would be visible from where we stood anywhere in the unit, and I'd laughed about it a few times until she'd made it clear she didn't find it funny.

“Soulless” had been the term she had used for it. On a mission of comfort, she had pushed every spare Corp-scrit we managed to scrape together into outfitting every flat and exposed surface with cloths, silks and textiles to make for a more homey feel. Utilizing an array of hooks, magnets and polyline acting as guy-lines between the sections, she'd succeeded in forming the illusion of walls and privacy.

"Small things; Large payoffs, Owen!" She'd teasingly said to me in her mischievously cute way. Her green eyes would flash in amusement. Right now? Everything those green eyes had seen were missing.

Hooks, Lines...(my stomach) was Sinkers.

Without the usual mix of coverings to block the head-height emptiness, I had a straight view through an oddly placed, thin-lined view port which took up the top portion of the back wall. I’d only ever seen the room look like this twice: Once when we moved in, and before that when we moved out of our older, smaller block unit.

The lack of the cloths, silks and artwork meant the exposed piping, conduit and duct working which normally would be hidden, were now laid bare. The harshness of the reset lighting, also didn’t help the look any either. “Soulless” was right. It did seem rather drab and more than a little depressing from where I was seated. The entire room had the feeling of someone preparing it for a new occupant, only I hadn't gotten the memo.

I stood, examining the different areas around me for further clues, trying to fight down the trill of panic which risked taking over.

Several puddles like the one I’d slipped in, as my throbbing elbow reminded me, were still pooled in different places around the locker-like shower/sanitation combo unit. Also missing was the synthsheet we’d placed there to act as a barrier and curtain to limit such instances. The sole power output port positioned above a rickety slide-out table and seat in the kitchenette was notably also bare as the rattling combo food cooler/protein pack dispenser buzzed and wheezed, reminding me we hadn’t had anyone to look at it yet.

I moved onto the sleeping area as my mind lingered on the thoughts of food. The sleeping bunk was just large enough for two and stowed when not in use. It was packed away right now and only made the emptiness of the modular Clothing Storage Cubes and small recessed closet more apparent.

Uh...

The worried feeling grew as I checked the desk and work area: a small section with just a seat, a slide-out tabletop, and a few storage bins. It was all mostly gone, the majority of the remaining clutter just the pieces and parts from upgrading my Cortex Rig.

The Rig itself was missing.

...Well, shit.

Frankly, I was having issues making sense of what I'd found since returning home. Everything so far felt a bit too much for my sluggish brain to handle. I extended the desk seat and sat down, trying to give myself time to think. Ignoring the fact my Cortex rig might have been stolen, and right AFTER I'd finished upgrading it, nothing else taken would've served much value to anyone outside Dora and myself. Perhaps...

I paused as a chirp interrupted my train of thought. The lines, "Incoming Messenger: Mandatory Receipt Required," blinked slowly across the lock screen as the inner door opened on its own accord. A mandatory receipt meant I'd need to accept the official message personally. Ignoring it would only lead to more problems I couldn't afford to deal with right now.

I sighed wearily as I stood, trying not to think of worst-case scenarios or my missing Cortex Rig as I walked into the lock. The outer doors opened after only a minute, and the coldness in the air hit me like a knife unexpectedly as I struggled to cover my face with my scarf.

I immediately regretted it. The musty scarf had been dangling around my neck like a crusty noodle, the smell fast reminding me I'd yet to change out of my Outerall as I cast the scarf aside. I wasted a few seconds attempting to blow the lingering scent out of my lungs and sinuses, but it didn't help.

I stepped outside to wait.

A palm-sized drone eventually rose to meet me. With a buzzing warble, it cast a green glow as it scanned the Overall's Ident-Chip, and I had time to glance up before it ejected a semi-transparent Filiscrit sheet directly into the wind.

The sheet began to flap away as I dove, nearly spilling over the railing. The tips of my glove-encased fingers snatched the sheet out of the air as the drone departed, having met its requirement for proof of receipt. I quietly cursed the drone as I managed to clatter back over the railing.

Wondering what message would justify sending a messenger drone this late at night, I sighed, regretting the action as my nose was again assaulted by the pungent scent coming out of the neck of my suit as I stepped back into the lock and began the closing cycle.

Flipping over the sheet with my hand, I froze as my eyes read the words Termination Notice written in bold red letters across the top.

I had been fired, and worse? Pandora was missing.

Now what?