Souls Below - Rebellion

A loud bang echoed through the workshop, followed by a sharp yelp and the unmistakable clatter of metal hitting the floor. Jerard didn’t even glance up from his workbench. Sparks jumped off the ancient tech he was trying—again—to revive, flickering across his weathered hands like impatient fireflies. A few seconds later, I stumbled in, rubbing the back of my head and glaring at the pile of scrap that had tried to kill me. “I thought I told you to clean that up yesterday,” Jerard muttered without looking at me. I made a face, muttering. “I didn’t have time." He finally glanced up, one of his bushy eyebrows arching in disapproval. “Choosing to spend your evening at the Crooked Wrench with Krane, and those friends of his, doesn’t excuse you from your chores, young lady.” I crossed my arms and sighed—loudly. “I’m either working, sleeping, or scrubbing grease out of every c***k in this place. I just wanted a few hours to feel normal, Jerard.” He stood with a grunt, setting his tools down and grabbing a cloth to wipe the grease off his fingers. “I wouldn’t mind if it were only Krane,” he said, voice rough with something unsaid. “But those other kids? They’re no good for you.” I rolled my eyes. “Please. According to you, even Krane’s bucket worm he found last week is no good.” “It’s not,” he grunted, trying to hide a smile. “It was just a couple hours of stickball-table, that’s all. I don’t get why I can’t hang out with other kids my age in the Makers District.” for a nineteen year old, I sounded like a brat. But honestly, I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept well, hadn’t eaten yet, and now I was sporting a fresh bruise on my temple and shin because I tripped over a heap of outdated processors, and tumbled down the stairs like a sack of bolts. ''Classic Mira.' So yeah, maybe I was a little cranky. Jerard didn’t respond. He didn’t have to, the look on his face said it all. If even one of those kids found out what I was—what I was hiding—it wouldn’t just be my secret unraveling. It would be everything. I blew out a breath and dropped my arms. “Fiiiiine. Next time I’ll tell you before heading to the Crooked Wrench. There. Happy?" the words spilled quickly from my mouth as I turned to leave "Okay—bye!” I called over my shoulder, slipping into the street before he could trap me in another lecture, my name followed by a curse spilling into the street. But I didn’t stop. I had a job to get to, water pipes to check, and a head full of noise I didn’t want to deal with. Time to start the day. ~*~ The Lower City sucked. There’s really no nicer way to say it. The Uppers hoarded everything—resources, power, clean air, even sunlight. They pulled the strings from their gleaming towers above while the rest of us rotted in the shadows, crammed into rusting alleyways and coughing on the smog that drifted down like poison rain. Down here, clean water was a privilege. A working heater? A miracle. And food that wasn’t half-mold or gray-processed protein bricks? Forget it. I kept running, weaving through the early-morning crowd until the foot traffic thinned and the stench of sewage thickened. Today’s work point was in Sector Twelve, near the outer drainage line. The calcium build-up was getting worse, choking the main pipeline like a clogged artery. If it cracked, half the Lower would flood with recycled waste. Again. My boots slapped the wet stone as I reached the access hatch. I dropped to my knees, popped the rusted bolts with a satisfying clunk, and slipped down into the dark. I work the pipes. Fixing, maintaining, crawling through narrow tunnels to clear blockages no one else could reach. Jerard said I was born for this job—small, quick, and apparently too stubborn to quit even after the rats started biting back. The truth? It was quiet. Isolated. I could vanish into the crawlspaces, surrounded by damp metal and humming valves, and pretend the world didn’t exist. No one watching. No one asking questions. Just me and the steady rhythm of tools against steel. Just the way I like it, I thought dryly, aiming my flashlight down the tunnel ahead. A thin mist hung in the air, and somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily—slow, measured, like the heartbeat of the City itself. I sighed and crawled forward, wiping calcium scale from the inside of the pipe with a wire brush, my fingers already aching. This was my life. Work to eat. Work to stay warm. Work just to live long enough to die in this pit. A cycle on repeat, no off switch, no escape. It hadn’t always been this way. Four years ago, Jerard found me wandering the Lower’s eastern edge, half-conscious and barely able to walk. I was bruised, bleeding, and covered in ash. No ID tag. No memory. Not even a name. The city was in chaos at the time—someone from the Lowers had tried to blow a hole in the dome ceiling, hoping to punch their way into the Upper City. It didn’t go well. Obviously. Dozens dead, security crackdowns, Curfews. Raids. Anyone without papers was fair game. Yeah, real dipshit. Jerard could’ve turned me in. Would’ve gotten a good few rations for it, too. Or worse—sold me to the Shadow Trade Markets like scrap metal. You got actual coins in those trades. But he didn’t. Instead, he carried me home, patched my scrawny ass up, gave me a job and a roof over my head. A name. Family. I owed him everything. But sometimes, especially in the cold quiet of the tunnels, I wondered if even he knew what I really was—or if he was just pretending not to see. Because something inside me didn’t feel normal. Something... wrong. And the more I tried to ignore it, the louder it seemed to grow. Downside of my whole quiet little paradise? I had no birth ID. No registration number. No chip. No papers. Nothing to prove I even existed in the Lower City—nothing to mark me as someone with the right to live here. Which meant, officially, I didn’t. I was a ghost. A c***k in the system. An error they didn’t like being reminded of. Everyone born down here got tagged at birth—an ID code implanted into your wrist and logged into the master database. So they could track every meal, every ration, every breath. That number was your whole life. Without it, you weren’t a person. You were a problem. And problems didn’t last long. Sure, people tried to fake papers. Bought forged ID chips off the black market. But without an actual birth code tied to the system? You were dead the second a scanner passed over you. The database didn’t make mistakes. It didn’t care if you cried or begged or bled. You didn’t exist. You never did. So I stayed low. Off-grid. Invisible. Taunting the Capital Guards was fine—fun, even—if you could outrun them. Krane and I made it a game at one point. Create mayhem, taunt the guards, then, slip through the cracks. Melt into the back alleys or disappear down a pipe shaft. But getting caught? Getting caught was a whole other story. If they scanned me, if they even looked too close… there wouldn’t be a trial. Wouldn’t be a holding cell. Just one sharp nod, one order barked through that faceless helmet, and I’d be gone. Bam. Another unsolved “incident” no one would ask about. Another name no one ever knew. Which meant once Jerard found out about our little "game", we were ordered to stop. My rubber suit squelched with each crawl as I inched deeper along the curve of the pipeline, torchlight flickering over layers of rust and condensation. The air grew thicker, heavier with the scent of mildew and something vaguely acidic. Probably from the runoff tank up the line. I kept moving, kept breathing, kept working. At least I was alive. I had a chance. Even with no memories, no past, and that yawning hole inside me that whispered questions I couldn’t answer, things down here could be worse. A lot worse. So, I grit my teeth, pressed forward into the dark, and reminded myself— 'This is still better than dying.' A long, high-pitched whistle shrieked through the pipes followed by a loud clang of the bell, bouncing off the metal with an echo that drilled into my skull. Break time. I let my hands fall to my sides, fingers stiff and red from scraping calcium buildup off the inner walls of the line. The edges had torn through my gloves again—third pair this month—and thin rivulets of blood oozed from the raw skin beneath. "f**k" I hissed as I flexed them. Jerard was going to kill me when he saw the state I’d left them in. Again. I shuffled forward, dragging my body the last few meters toward the next service hatch. My rubber suit groaned in protest, suctioning against my arms and legs as I wriggled through the tight curve of the pipe. Everything echoed—my breath, the soft clank of my work tools, the distant hum of industry below. Finally, I reached the edge. I pulled myself out and sat, catching my breath, legs dangling over the drop. Beneath me, the Lower City moved like a slow, tired machine. Lights buzzed dimly over cracked streets, steam hissed from pressure vents. A crowd of workers trudged toward the main cafeteria, uniforms stained with oil and rust, ration tickets clenched tight in grease-slick fingers. The line had already started to form. I watched them for a second, that tired parade of survival. Men, women, kids barely old enough to walk, all heading to get what counted as a meal—synthetic protein slop and a chunk of hard bread if the day was generous. Maybe, if some Upper politician gave a speech about unity or productivity, they’d throw in a cup of weak broth. That was a good day. But even to get that… you needed a ticket. No ticket, no food. No exceptions. I patted my side pocket. My own meal stub was still dry, still intact. Thank the wires. You only got one per work allocation. Lose it, and you went hungry until the next shift. The system was efficient like that. Some days I saw people sell their stubs for meds, for batteries, for a bottle of something to forget. Others just stood at the edge of the line with empty hands and eyes that had given up hoping. No one shared. No one could afford to. Down here, generosity got you killed just as fast as weakness. I swung my feet a little, staring out over the sector. Dull lights, metal bridges, and the endless sea of mismatched buildings sheltered beneath a solid metal dome. 'Home sweet home.' The cafeteria rang again—two sharp clangs this time. Forty-five minutes to eat. Forty-five minutes to pretend we were more than ghosts. I pushed off the edge and dropped the few feet to the grated walkway below, boots landing hard. The metal rattled beneath me, and someone in the crowd glanced up, squinting. Moving quickly, and quietly, I made my down the metal laddar, the cold biting my skin. A few people emerged from holes in the ground or withing industrial buildings, hands cleaned on old rags and eyes glued to the cafeteria. I ducked my head and slipped into the flow of workers, keeping my hood low and my mouth shut. Stay small, stay unnoticed. That was the trick to surviving down here. And I was very, very good at surviving. I tilted my head upward as I moved, sweat-damp hair sticking to my temples. The ceiling of our underground city loomed high above, a patchwork dome of steel beams and glass plates—thick, grimy, and just transparent enough to let in threads of sunlight. Narrow shafts cut through the smog, soft and golden, painting stripes across the metal walkways and fractured walls. Without the whistles, it was the only way we ever knew if it was day or night cycle. A nearby pipe let out a violent hiss of steam, and the cloud curled upward toward the ceiling like it was trying to escape. I watched it rise, mind drifting. What did real clouds look like? Not the greasy steam that clung to your skin, but the ones in the stories—white, soft, weightless. Did they float higher than our ceiling? Did they disappear into the sky when night came, swallowed by stars I’d never seen? Did they feel like anything when you touched them? The thought vanished as my stomach growled, low and painful. I began my descent to the cafeteria level, following the metal stairs bolted to the scaffold walls. My joints ached, muscles stiff from hours in the pipe, and the stale air stuck to my skin like glue. Peeling down the top half of my rubber suit, I tied the sleeves around my waist. My black singlet clung to me, soaked with sweat and clinging in all the wrong places, but I didn’t care. It was to f*****g hot too. The streets below were as familiar as they were chaotic—crooked pathways, uneven tiles, metal scrap shelters piled three high, all stitched together with cable wire and patchwork panels. Sparks danced from an open welding job near the corner, and the sharp scent of ozone made my nose wrinkle. I slipped between the crowds, keeping my pace quick, deliberate. No dawdling. No eye contact. Flashing a ticket in public was suicide—if the desperate caught even a glimpse, you became a target. And today, like a complete i***t, I’d tucked the stub too slowly, and too loosely into my hip pocket. Great job, Mira. A shuffle of footsteps behind me pulled me out of my thoughts, close and urgent. I glanced back, just a flick of my eyes, heart thumping, catching sight of a woman. Gaunt. Hollow cheeks, cracked lips, hair like straw. Her eyes were locked on me—no, not me. My hip. The stub. Her mouth twitched into a sick sort of smile. She’d seen it. Shit. Panic prickled down my spine like static. I turned sharply into a side path, pretending not to notice. But her footsteps followed—quicker now. Hungry. I could practically hear her breathing. The guards at the cafeteria entrance would check for tickets, make sure no one got through without one. But they wouldn’t lift a finger if I was attacked before reaching them—their job was order, not protection. They were Uppers, stationed here to make sure only the workers got to eat. Biggest pricks down here. Everyone else? They waited for Ration Day—if they lasted that long. The woman’s steps closed in. I didn’t think, I ran. Boots thudding against metal, lungs burning, I wove between market stalls, ducked under a tarp, vaulted a broken pipe with practiced ease. Someone shouted behind me, but I didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The cafeteria came into view—polished steel doors, flanked by two Capital Guards in black, blank masks, still as statues. I sprinted faster. “Ticket!” one of them barked as I approached. I didn’t stop, just yanked the stub from my pocket and held it up. The scanner on his wrist gave a dull beep—real, valid—and he stepped aside, allowing me to slip past, barely slowing. Behind me, the woman hit the barrier. “Let me through—please, I just need—” “Ticket,” the guard repeated flatly. “I don’t have one, I just need something—” “I said, Ticket.” I didn’t stay to listen. If she didn't leave, the best outcome was a beating. The door shut behind me with a mechanical hiss, sealing her desperation outside. Inside, the smell hit me—burnt protein, old grease, and cheap disinfectant. My stomach snarled again, louder this time. I pressed my back to the nearest wall, closed my eyes for a second, and tried to breathe. 'You're not dead. You're alive.' I made my way to the food station, standing in line like everyone else, silently grateful the food was at least decent—decent enough that some dared to call it Upper food. I scoffed at the idea. It was just their leftovers. Still, better than the tasteless mush handed out on ration day. Keep the workers fed, keep them working. Tray in hand, I made my way to a table near the back, careful not to trip over a sluggish worker bot sputtering across the floor. Its joints jerked with every movement, barely holding together as it tried to scoop up litter. Obsolete, but still dragging itself along. I sat alone, as always, hunching over my meal—not out of fear, but preference. I liked the quiet. It was one of the few reasons I didn’t mind the job. Scraping pipes meant solitude. As I ate, my gaze wandered across the cafeteria. It never changed—sterile, polished, efficient. I sometimes wondered who actually kept it that way. The bots were half-broken, and Lower workers weren’t exactly known for their attention to detail. If someone was getting paid to clean this place, they were damn good at hiding it. A job this close to Upper food? People would kill for it. I finished my meal, stood, dumped my tray in the bin, and walked out without a word. Welcome to another day in paradise.