Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Three.

Jerard disappeared into the hall, and I was left alone again, staring out the window at the fractured sprawl of the Lower City. Lights flickering like dying stars across the endless metal skeleton. Maybe I didn’t know who I used to be, but here, now, with Jerard… I wasn’t nothing.

I lay back, staring up at the ceiling again.

The pipes overhead groaned—old, rusted metal shifting in the walls as pressure pulsed through the arteries of the Lower City. It was a sound I’d grown used to, like a second heartbeat thrumming above me. Still, it kept me grounded, reminded me of where I was. What I was.

I wanted to change things. To give the Lowers a chance at something better, not just scraps, not just survival. Something real.

Fucking Uppers.

Who made them so mighty? Who gave them the right to build their towers of glass and gold while the rest of us drowned in soot and rust? Certainly not the Makers, who had built both cities and given us life, the Makers we paid homage to whenever we could.

But power holds the highest hand. And the Uppers held all the power. They decided who lived and who disappeared. Who ate and who starved. They smiled in their clean, sterilized palaces while we clawed for ration slips and stitched our wounds with copper wire. And for what? Because they could?

I worked, til I f*****g bled. I provided for myself and earned every scrap of food I ate, every patch on my clothes. I didn’t burden Jerard, didn’t ask him to carry me, not when he risked everything just to keep me hidden.

So what gave them the right to play Maker with my life? To declare I was less than nothing, just because I didn’t have a string of numbers stamped into my skin? They didn’t know me.

Hell, I didn’t even know me.

But even with the gaps in my memory, even with the emptiness where my past should’ve been… something deep inside stirred. A quiet certainty that I was meant for more. Meant to do something that mattered. Like a thread pulling taut in my chest—thin, invisible, but unbreakable.

Was that normal? Probably not. Was it what I wanted? Honestly, no. Like Jerard said—talk like that got you erased. But it didn't stop the insatiable knaw something big was coming.

I rolled onto my side, curling slightly, the coarse blanket pulling around my shoulders as the cold settled deeper into the room. The metal of the walls seemed to hum faintly beneath me, a lullaby only the Lowers knew.

I let my eyes slip shut, letting the thoughts scatter into darkness, letting exhaustion finally take me over.

~*~

I woke before the morning whistle.

The city still slept, people silent and still, wrapped in that strange pre-day cycle hush where even the chaos held its breath. I moved through it like a shadow, slipping down rust-bitten ladders and across narrow catwalks slick with condensation. My boots made no sound on the worn metal as I climbed down to the base of the city, were metal met stone, forming streets and roads.

I headed toward the trade market where this week’s rations would be handed out. If I was lucky, I’d get close enough to snag one of the better portions—maybe even protein strips that hadn’t been soaked in brine for too long. Getting lucky was rare, but I hadn’t stopped hoping yet. Not entirely.

I whispered a silent plea to the Makers to borrow a sliver of luck for today.

A few early risers moved like ghosts along the cracked pavement. Most kept their heads down, shoulders hunched against the cold lingering in the air. Two older women pushed a squeaky cart of boiled roots, a boy no older than seven darted past me, barefoot, carrying an empty canister. A couple of clunky old cleaner bots trundled by, their stiff limbs clicking with every step, sweeping grime into neat, hopeless piles that would be back by noon.

Otherwise, the streets were empty. Hollow. Waiting.

I liked this part of the rotation cycle—when the pipes hadn’t started screaming yet, when the machines were still waking, when there was still a thin, trembling line between silence and survival. The air stayed cold longer when no one was around, chilled from the lack of bodies, unspoiled by breath or sweat or smog. The only sounds were the low hiss of pipes and the soft, electrical buzz which thrummed through the city’s bones.

In its own strange way, it was peaceful.

I tilted my head upward, squinting past the mess of wires and jagged support beams until I caught sight of a rare glass panel high above. It was smudged and clouded, but light still bled through.

A pale, golden shimmer. The sun was rising.

I wondered, as I always did, what it would feel like to stand in the open and let that light touch my skin. Would it be warm, like the firelight in Jerard’s furnace room? Or would it burn, like the acid rain that sometimes slipped through the cracks? Did the Uppers feel it differently? Did they walk in it without blinking, without shielding their eyes?

I guess I would never know. Down here, the light was something to chase, not something you ever caught. And for now, it would have to be enough just to see the slips of rays that filtered through.

Lost in thought, I didn’t see the figure rounding the corner.

Our shoulders collided hard, I staggered back a step before my heel caught on a loose bolt, and I hit the ground with a muted grunt, landing squarely on my backside. The other figure toppled to his knees with a startled cry, palms slapping the pavement.

“Damn it,” I muttered, wincing as I rolled onto my side, rubbing the dull throb blooming across my hip. I looked up, half-ready to snap at whoever had ploughed into me, but the words caught in my throat.

He wore a hood, pulled low, but as he pushed himself upright, the fabric slipped back just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his face. Black hair curled gently at the ends, tousled and clean—too clean. His eyes locked with mine, and I froze.

They were a strange, luminous ice-blue, glowing faintly in the dim light seeping through the ceiling panels and half-assed street lighting. Not the dull, city-burnt brown most of us shared. Not even the soft gray of old age. These were vivid, unnatural, and far too clear. And his face... holy s**t. It was like the makers had carved him with the literal definition of perfect.

His eyes widened when he realized he’d knocked me down, quickly scrambling to his feet and offered a hand. I stared at it, hesitating before slowly slipping mine in his. Unexpectedly, his skin was warm. Not soft, exactly, but... untouched. The kind of warmth that hadn’t been leeched out by endless shifts near the vents or sleeping in cold, damp corners. His grip was firm, but gentle, and uncalloused—I let go the moment I was up, nerves now tingling.

He stepped back, and I glance him once over with a more critical eye. He seems around twenty, give or take. Tall, lean, Strong jaw, but no sharp angles. His clothes were simple—dark jeans, a navy hoodie, and Lower-issued boots. But the boots were spotless, no grime around the soles, no creases in the leather. No tears or patched seams. His hoodie didn’t have a single smudge. And his face, his skin—it didn’t look like it had ever seen a day of soot or engine oil.

He didn’t belong here. The stranger cleared his throat, his voice careful.

“My apologies. I didn’t see you.” I raised an eyebrow. His speech was clipped, polished, not the kind of slang-stained talk you picked up down here. “I was on my way to the... ah... trade market,” he added, glancing down the street like he wasn’t sure which way that was, “but I seem to have been turned around. Could you help me?” A laugh escaped me before I could catch it.

“Any Lower knows the way to the trade market by the time they can walk. 'Specially on ration day.” He winced, scratching the back of his neck.

“Right. I, uh... hit my head last week. Lost some memory. A silly accident, really. Quite embarrassing on my part.” I stared at him, remaining silent. He was lucky he’d wandered into this sector this early, any later in the day cycle someone would’ve slit his throat and traded his boots for three days' worth of protein squares. He shifted, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of my silence.

“That way,” I said finally, nodding toward the corridor veering left. My tone was flat, but my eyes stayed on him.

“Thank you. I appreciate your help.” He started to turn. I should’ve let him go, should’ve walked away. But some part of me—the reckless, stupid and i***t part I could never fully shut down—spoke instead.

“I’d suggest you find some dirt first and roll it in,” I clipped casually, righting my jacket and rolling my shoulders. “Poke a hole or two in the hoodie—pants too, maybe cuff the boots. And don't talk so good. Dead giveaway.” He blinked, eyes darting back to mine, trying to act confused, like I hadn’t just seen straight through him. But I saw the flinch. The way his cheeks flushed, the subtle tension in his jaw. “If you’re wanting to appear like a Lower, that is.”

Silence hung for a beat too long. My eyes linger on his pretty-boy face a moment longer before I brushed past him, shoulder catching his just enough to make him stumble—which was hard for a girl five foot to do—and didn’t look back. If he had half a brain, he’d be in a gutter rolling around before the next group turned the corner.

If he didn’t? Well. The Lowers had a way of dealing with strangers from above. And it wasn’t pretty.

The market was beginning to stir. Faint orange light filtered through the cracked ceiling panes, catching on metal sheets and dust-choked banners. Stall signs spluttering to life, the faint buzzing starting. A few early vendors had already opened their stalls, spreading out worn goods on battered tables. I moved fast, my hood pulled low, trading a spare set of Jerard’s old work clothes and a few saved meal tickets—extras from my emergency shifts at the pipe vaults. I’d been holding on to most of them for something special. Something useful.

The ration line had already begun to form when I reached the distribution station. Two people stood ahead of me, their shoulders hunched, eyes darting down the street. I cursed under my breath—close to the front, but not first. Still, close enough.

I slipped into the line and kept my head down, staying small, invisible. Jerard hated when I came here alone. Said too many things could go wrong in a crowd. But he couldn’t make every trip. And besides, I needed to learn to do this myself. If I couldn’t survive a ration haul alone, what was the point?

The morning whistle shrieked across the district, a long, shrill cry that echoed down the steel-lined streets. The city came alive in its wake. The crush of bodies thickened around the stalls, voices rising in groggy complaints and sharp barks as bartering began. Behind me, the line stretched down the block, more people, more eyes. Thankfully the guards didn’t even glance my way. I was just another girl in the Lowers—skinny, hooded, and forgettable.

When my turn came, I stepped forward quickly, the station worker didn’t even meet my gaze. Just scanned my address card, dropped the supplies into a battered bin, and waved me on.

I stuffed the rations into my pack—protein squares, vitamin pills, powdered broth. A decent haul. Jerard would be thrilled. Maybe even proud, especially with the addition surprise I found stashed at the bottom. I made my way back through the stalls, the comforting sounds of people shouting wares and the hum of the city washing over me.

On my way back through the stalls, something tugged my attention—a flicker of clean color in the corner of my eye. I turned sharply to a table near the edge of the market, slightly apart from the chaos. Laid out on top were items that didn’t belong here. Boots without holes, a coat newer than anything I’d seen in years. And a pair of gloves—dark leather, reinforced knuckles, clean stitching.

I stepped closer. Behind the table stood a broad man with a thick, wiry beard and eyes like burnt coals. His arms were crossed, and as I reached for one of the gloves, his gaze snapped to mine.

“No sticky fingers, kid,” he growled. Greaves. I knew the name. He’d stopped by Jerard’s shop a few times, always acting like the whole place smelled like rust and disappointment. He didn’t like me, made it well known with every look, grunt and disapproving opinion.

I held up the gloves. “These new?” He scoffed, insulted.

“Newest you’ll find here.” They were durable, reinforced. The kind of gloves which could last through a winter sweep or a pressure drop near the vents.

“I’ll give you two meal tickets.” He raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Four.” Damn. I only had four left, and needed one for later.

“Three, and a pressure stone.” His eyes sharpened. He rubbed at his beard, suspicious—but curious.

“Quality?” Bingo. I lifted my pack flap and pulled out the stone, holding it between my fingers. It was small but clean—glowing faintly even in the light. Deep gray with a streak of dark light down its middle. Not perfect, but rare enough.

“Well-formed. Clean. Got a bit of dark light.” His gaze fixed on it. The corner of his mouth twitched—interest, definitely. Pressure stones were valuable, but ones with dark-light veins? Nearly impossible to get your hands on for cheap. When used correctly they could power a small burner rig or sell for ten times a meal ticket to the right trader.

When used incorrectly? The dark spaces in the back alleys were filled with those who dabbled in the incorrect use. Phizanite, or as the druggies call it, Phiz.

“Deal,” he said, snatching the stone as I dropped the tickets onto the table, quickly collecting the gloves and tucked them into my coat. As he held the stone up to the light, his tone shifted. “Where’d you find this?” he asked slowly, turning it between thick fingers.

“Back boilers. Old quarter. Shut down years ago. Pressure’s still good, though.” His gaze flicked to mine.

“Bit hard to get to, ain’t it?” I shrugged, keeping my face still.

“Got there before the patrols picked up.” He grunted, but didn’t press further. Smart. The old boiler quarter was off-limits for a reason, some outbreak a few years back—something that messed with the body, the mind. Flesh bloated, bones cracked open, people turned violent, and twisted. Some say they still live in there. Others say they died screaming.

I didn’t care much for the stories. I just knew how to get in and out without being seen. There was never anything living, aside from the rodents, when I wondered through anyways. Before he could ask more, I turned and disappeared back into the crowd, weaving my way back towards home.