Midtown Slave City
A soft thunder rolled from afar through the night. The acid rain started again. John opened his umbrella. He grumbled to himself, "This district is the worst. The filthiest mining procedures. Constantly bombarded by sour rainstorms. Disgusting!"
John seemed a bit diminished today, an odd sight given his height and slim build. His hands were rather chilled and lacked any warmth, especially in the left hand that was tingling. The paleness of his skin made the birthmark on his left-hand standout, a triangle shape. For days he'd been experiencing a twitch in his left eye and the feeling of a speck of dirt or charcoal in his throat. His body felt tired and drawn out, like a piece of rubber that had been stretched far too long and wrapped around a bowl.
The glow of the chemical rain was vast and unearthly, and the loud drone of its passage was a sort of constant, distant thunder, like the roar of ships. John ducked behind his umbrella and averted his eyes from the storm. Lost in thought, he saw his early childhood in 2299 in Midtown. It didn't look much different than today. The sedimentary rock of the underground city glowed in the air tinged with a yellowish light. The glaring neon of the city above them painted the landscape a sickly orange below.
The buildings have rusted and the streets have cracks in them. The lights are dimmed as energy is needed elsewhere and the people have to scavenge for their own food.
The city stank and swarmed with lifeless flesh. Its buildings seemed to stretch on and on endlessly; you could look at it for hours and still not see all of it. The appearance was filled with an air of constant noise, the sounds of machinery, mining activity and slaves running through the streets. “This city is filthy. The people here have clothes that are in tatters, and their skin is charred and dull. Their expressions seem to be drained of any emotion," he said, filled with disdain.
Loud, rushed and nervous. The streets were constant. The hum of a suffering motor. The rumble of thunder was a constant drone and the constant buzz of energy was sometimes interrupted by the loud rumbling of a mining rig in the distance. Tonight, Midtown was particularly startled.
Miners bustled and scurried through the streets and odd carts and contraptions trundled down the rocky, uneven roads. Neon lights shone from some buildings and the metal carts whizzed past, as people and miners scurried to and fro.
One more block and I'm finally there. This disgusting rain here, John thought. On the corner he saw the bar. His destination for tonight. He went inside.
It was quiet. A few people were there, sitting in the back, drinking something that looked like sulfur. John hated this stuff. He hated bars too.
The people sitting in the back of the smokey bar were huddled together in the dimly lit room, speaking in hushed voices. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sulfur, making John's eyes water.
John walked up to the bar, ignoring the curious looks of the other patrons. "One sulfur-free drink, please," he said, stifling a cough from the thick smoke filling the air. The bartender gave him a sympathetic look, shaking his head as he poured his drink. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. John sighed and took a sip, grimacing at the acrid taste. At least it was clean, he thought. As he sat sipping his drink, John thought back to his last job. After a while he was snapped out of his thoughts.
"What's the matter with you tonight? You look really stressed." said the barman. John looked up and raised his glass. "Not sure if work is getting to me or not, but I'm just feeling worried about my new project. It's just not going well. Plus, I have to go back tomorrow and face the regiment of that god-awful place."
"It'll be fine, don't worry," the bartender said, a crooked grin on his face, pouring another drink for a customer at the other end of the bar. "I'm sure they treat you well there," he continued, eyeing John and his ragged clothes. "No offence, friend. But some people don't have the luxury of choosing where they work."
With a heavy sigh, John replied, "Yeah, you're right. I shouldn't be complaining." He drained his glass. "I'm just ready to get back." Just as John finished his drink, a familiar voice accosted him. "John! Over here!" His old friend Mike poked his head over the bar and waved him over. "Come join us, man!" He shouted.
John got up and walked over to where Mike and his friends were sitting. Mike looked like he had been there for a while. His hair was disheveled and he had a wild look in his eyes. And his friends were no better off. John raised an eyebrow. " Mike, what are you doing here?" John asked. "Aren't you supposed to be on assignment in the satellite districts? I thought you weren't due back for another few weeks."
"I know, I'm on leave," John replied. "Anyway, this is my friend Bill and his friend Karen. They are visiting from East District, and I thought I should give them a tour of Midtown. What better place than my favorite bar?" Mike said, grinning.
"Hey guys," John said with a wry smile.
Mike gestured to the bartender for another round of drinks. "Besides, Karen's never seen a town built like this before."
John reluctantly agreed and sat down with them at their table. As they toasted to their reunion, he felt a pang of guilt. How could he complain about his work when there were people enslaved in the depths of the city, working tirelessly around-the-clock. He knew that it wasn't fair to judge the whole city by his experience, but he couldn't help feeling disillusioned by Midtown. After all, he was just there for the paycheck. The only thing that mattered was producing results.
"To the gods," he toasted. "To the gods! May they watch over us forever!" the others agreed.
The drinks quickly went down and as the night progressed, John found himself relaxing and enjoying their company. He was beginning to feel more at home here than before, a thought that troubled him even more. John recognized Mike 's rambling gaze and turned to his friend "So, how is life Bill?"
Bill shrugged. "Same as always, I guess. It's kind of getting old, living in the colony." He sighed. "The work is tough, but we make do. We're not doing too badly, considering what a slum this place is," he said with a faint laugh.
John nodded. "Yeah, I can well imagine that." He took a sip of his drink and looked around the bar. Dark corners and an ominous atmosphere, with only the occasional flicker of light. This place was a far cry from the bright and bustling streets of the East District.
An uneasy feeling started creeping up his spine as he took in the darkened, dirty room around him. The city had taken on a dull and dingy atmosphere. The longer he stayed in the city, the darker and filthier it seemed. John realized this was not the place for him anymore. He paused for a moment, thinking of a way to escape the conversation and possibly leave the bar without making a scene. Just then, a loud shriek filled the air.
John whipped his head around, looking for the source of the scream. "What was that?" He asked, feeling panic rising in his chest.
"Don't worry," said Mike, chuckling. "It's just the acid rain again. There are holes in the bar's roof, so the acid rain sometimes seeps in when it rains heavily." He shrugged. "But it's just a drop in the bucket."
Relieved, John let out a sigh. But as he turned back to his drink, he felt his skin prickle and the hair on his neck stand up. He looked around uneasily, feeling like he was being watched.
John looked up from his drink and noticed a group of peculiar men watching Mike intently. Their faces hidden behind strange protective gear and tinted lenses. Mike's heart raced, so he got up quickly and moved towards the exit.
"Wait," the stranger said decisively, grabbing his sleeve as he rushed past their table. "Where are you going?"
"Home," said Mike hoarsely, breaking free from his grip. "I think I've had enough for one night." "No, no, no, you stay inside!" The stranger said. He looks like a military man. Mike thought. He must be a guard. Two stars on his shoulder, denoting his high rank.
"I don't care what you say, I'm leaving," said Mike, pushing past the man and heading towards the exit.
The guard yelled out, "Halt!" as he chased after Mike. "Don't move or I'll shoot!" Mike stood still. "Give me your identification!" the guard commanded.
Mike fumbled in his pockets, trying to find his ID card. The guard looked at him suspiciously, cocking his rifle and aiming it at him. "Show me your ID now!" he shouted.
Mike slowly pulled his ID out of his pocket. The guard snatched it from his hand and examined it closely. At that moment, John stepped forward, standing between the guard and Mike. He drew attention to his status as a supervisor by presenting his credentials, and gave the guard a wink as he softly spoke, trying to win him over.
"It's okay, it's okay, sir. He's not here to cause trouble. He's a friend of mine."
"He's not allowed to be here," said the guard, lowering his weapon. "This bar is for my slaves only."
"I know," said John. "But you've got to let him stay. He's my friend."
The guard hesitated, eyeing John suspiciously.
"You sure about this? You sure you want him here?"
John nodded. "I'm sure."
The guard let out a deep sigh and his body shook with nervous anticipation. It felt like it took forever.
"Sorry Sir, I did not realize it was you," the guard said to John, finally recognizing who he was and lowered his weapon. "How can I make this up to you? A fresh glass," called the stranger to the barman. "A fresh glass for John Capo!"
The man gave a thick, strong cough as he inhaled from his cigarette, sending the smoke into John’s face. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and puffed out a thin stream of smoke.
"Just had some trouble with the slaves today. A little stressed. Please forgive me, sir."
"I've heard talk of that down here," John said, as he settled back into his chair. "Slaves getting into trouble, and lazy guards who don't bother to do their job properly." John shook his head. "Don't these people realize what's at stake!?"
"Of course, they do," said the guard. "They just don't care." He gave a weary sigh. "But that's the way of things here. We can't change it; we just have to deal with it." The guard looked at John and took a long drag on his cigarette before speaking. "Hey, better lazy guards than none at all. Wouldn't want a slave revolt on our hands," he joked and smirked. "That would be a real catastrophe, wouldn't it?"
John managed a tight smile, not knowing how to reply. He was beginning to feel like this place was getting inside his head, and it was giving him a headache. He checked his watch and saw that it was well past midnight. "Guess it's time for me to turn in," he said, taking a final glance at the strange guards before heading back outside.
The guards were already preoccupied again, laughing at a thin man who had come to the bar.
John stepped outside, the air was thick, and the walkway was littered with dirt. It crunched under his feet. He couldn't help feeling restless, like something bad was about to happen. He felt like he was being watched by unseen eyes.