I. The Incident
It had been a few weeks since The Incident when one of the Unmarked stormed the Echelon Lounge and was shot sixteen times for breaching The Code of Affairs. As stated in Chapter B, Article 1, Directive 2:
“Any disruptions of the Few are strictly prohibited and will result in immediate execution of the offending party. Furthermore, such actions may trigger escalated measures, up to and including the potential extinction of the transgressor’s designated population group.”
The member of the Unmarked had made it up the escalator, the closest anyone had ever come to making eye contact with the Few, before the Forces gunned him down—sixteen bullets shredding into his frame.
His body fissured and gyrated at the top of the escalator, crimson spray erupting from his chest, spine, and brain. A fragment of his lung hung suspended in midair, frozen for what seemed an eternity. For a moment, he hovered there, caught in the grotesque theatrics of his own death, before tumbling down the sixty-foot escalator. His slow-motion descent was absurd. His skin snagged on the grinding metal stairs, peeling away in strips, until his limp form finally crumpled at the base. A final tremor ran through his body before he exhaled a last, ragged breath.
“Could you please get someone to clean this up?” said a member of the Few, her voice clipped and impatient as she stepped over the Unmarked’s body. She strode forward to scan her eye, eager to reach her ForgetItAll drink waiting in the Exclusive Echelon Lounge reserved for the Select Few at the top of the escalator.
II. Containment
The Exclusive Lounge hummed with subdued luxury, an insulated world engineered for detachment. Therapists for the Few noticed a troubling trend in the latest biometric reports—stress markers spiked whenever the Lower Levels gained incremental privileges like water breaks during their shifts. Concerned for their clients’ well-being, a coalition of therapists proposed a new intervention that was both therapeutic and financially lucrative: Exclusive Lounges designed for intentional escape.
This was not dissociation, they clarified in their marketing materials: This is a form of self-care.
Leather seating molded seamlessly to the precise stress points of each occupant, calibrated to biometric tension thresholds. Ambient lighting adjusted dynamically, shifting in hue and warmth to sustain an optimal relaxation index. Screens flickered softly, financial tickers climbing, glowing ads for ClarityEnhancers promising cognitive purification. A sleek announcement scrolled across the glass:
“The Solar Colony is now accepting exclusive applications for fourth-dimensional roundtrip orbitals to scout for new habitability zones.”
A louder-than-acceptable vibration diffused through the space as sanitation drones handled the last of the remains below. The escalator stuttered, then resumed its smooth, automated climb. A gentle hum followed, interrupted by a warm artificial voice overhead:
“Disruption contained. Resuming optimal service. We apologize for the interruption and, in exchange, will be depositing 22 additional units of ApathyJoules into your accounts. As a reminder, please keep your eye shields on at all times when exiting The Lounge. Avoiding eye contact with the Unmarked remains of the utmost importance.”
A faint chime followed as notifications blinked across the lounge. The units had been added.
One of the Few exhaled lazily, stretching. “Sixteen bullets,” he murmured, voice thick with the fog of ForgetItAll. “Bit excessive.”
Across from him, another sipped her drink, swirling the violet liquid in her hand-blown crystal glass. “That’s what I said. Eight would’ve been enough.”
A chuckle. A sip. A flick of a manicured hand, nails painted in a color that shifted under the lounge’s light.
Someone entering the lounge paused, adjusting his amber lapels, squinting at the escalator. “You’d think they’d improve the body containment protocols. The mess is so… vivid.”
Another nodded absently, running a fingertip over the rim of his glass. “The spray on the glass was particularly garish, I thought.”
A sigh. “I do hope it doesn’t leave a stain. This place is already losing its refinement.”
The man in the lapels took a measured sip of his drink before shaking his head. “I’ve been saying for years—the barriers aren’t enough. Surveillance grids, repulsion fields, reflective checkpoints. And yet, here we are.” He exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with precision. “I’ll be making an emergency request for perimeter expansion and enhanced deterrents.”
Several heads nodded in agreement. One of the Few glanced at the screen displaying market trends and murmured, “Reasonable. Costs shouldn’t be too high, considering last quarter’s surplus.”
The conversation shifted. One person mentioned a new theater production, and another mentioned a fresh shipment of imported luxuries from a location near the Stratosphere.
The escalator buzzed on, gleaming, spotless once again.
III. The Whisper
Word spread quickly through the Lower Levels. The story traveled through ventilation ducts, across flickering terminals, and was whispered between workers huddled over malfunctioning assembly lines. He had nearly made eye contact.
“What do you mean, almost?” a mechanic murmured, wiping oil from his fingers.
“They shot him before it could happen,” someone replied, voice low.
“But he was close,” another added. “Closer than anyone’s ever been.”
In a dimly lit communal kitchen, a group of the Unmarked gathered around a table made of reinforced scrap metal, picking at ration bars as their eyes darted toward a stolen news feed.
“What happens if they see us?” a young girl asked, her fingers drumming nervously on the table.
Silence. Then, an older man, his face lined with years of unspoken truths, leaned forward.
“They see us, and everything falls apart,” he said. “The towers. The escalators. And then the lounges. It all starts to come crashing down.”
A sharp laugh from the corner. “You expect me to believe that?”
“You ever notice how they never look at us?” the old man shot back. “Not really? Not directly?”
A pause.
“I thought it was just—”
“Just what?” The old man leaned in. “Policy? Custom? No. It’s design. They don’t see us because they can’t. Their whole world, their whole illusion. It only works if we remain invisible.”
The kitchen went quiet. A rusted fan spun lazily above them.
“And he nearly did it,” the young girl murmured.
Heads nodded. The stolen news feed flickered. The Few were given a new advisory:
“Eye shields must remain on at all times. Direct contact with Unmarked disrupts neural harmony and endangers societal order.”
“They’re scared,” someone muttered.
A worker set his drink down hard. “So, what now?”
Now? No one had an answer. Not yet. But for the first time in memory, something was happening.
Not just whispers. Not just rumors.
Something real.
IV. Rupture
The crowd in the Exclusive Lounge, wrapped in the lull of ForgetItAll, rose slowly, their movements ungraceful, unmoored. Moments earlier, they had received yet another advisory from the slightly less warm Voice from above:
“Due to recent disruptions, all members of the Few must undergo Neural Recalibration. Any individuals experiencing symptoms of Perceptual Contamination should report immediately for cognitive realignment.”
In the Lower Levels, the story was still spreading. The young girl in the Understructures crouched beside a sewer grate, where members of the Forces conducted their routine sweeps through the city. She watched as above her, white boots moved in perfect rhythm across the grates. Adult boots, adult boots, steady, deliberate. But then—
A smaller boot.
It moved slightly offbeat, the steps hesitant and unsure. The white pants of the Force continued marching forward, but for a moment, she saw it.
Through the visor, beneath the sterile armor, a jawline too soft, too small.
A child.
Looking.
The girl remained still. So did the smaller Force hovering above her. A breath. A pause. A crack in the rhythm.
The step resumed, and the boots kept marching. But further up, where the glass corridors of the Few overlooked the city, the coterie had stopped, too.
They stood at the railing, their drinks half-raised, their bodies still. One by one, they turned. A silent row of them, motionless. Watching.
Their biometric scanners blinked erratically. Error warnings cascaded across their personal displays.
“Perceptual Contamination detected. Cognitive realignment required. Recalibration initiating in 10… 9…”
One of them gripped the railing, their knuckles turning pale. Another’s lips parted slightly, as if about to speak. A third took an involuntary step back.
“What now?” one of them whispered.
None of them moved to silence the countdown. They did not blink.
The girl in the sewer exhaled. She had seen. And now, so had they.
#