The First Chapter

             He woke, sweat pressing against the sheets of his bed, and raised himself from the comfort of the pillow. His wet body pulsed against the cold of the dark room, his breath calming as he raised both his hands to his head and ran his fingers through his hair. He breathed silently in the dark, his eyes adjusting and scanning the room. He felt a stink of hollow indifference, the dreams always leaving him as soon as he woke, another dream forgotten.

He knew the room because it was his room after all. Without looking, he reached out with is right hand to the side and placed it upon a familiar feeling – his clock glowing red with the time. He did not bother looking at the time, but instead felt happy that the clock was there to begin with.

He pushed the covers off and got out of the bed. His warm feet ignoring the cold of the metal floor, and he walked to a thrown away stack of clothing in front of his closet. He put on a pair of black sweatpants and a worn plain grey shirt, and then walked to the door of his room. He placed his hand to the right of the door, a small rectangular panel large enough for the palm of his hand quickly traced, then the metal door slid open. The dark hallway led into a small kitchen; a refrigerator set to his immediate right with a sink to the furthest. Between the two was a simple food heater, or a microwave. Above the sink rested a block of metal, and with the swipe of his hand – it opened to reveal a small array of plates and glasses. He reached in and took out one of the glasses, then turned on the sink for a cold glass of water. He conservatively filled the glass - only filling it to a third.

As he finished the glass, he saw a stream of light pressed against the hallway from the living room. He did not need to guess what it was. He put the glass down, and walked down the hall, pushing his right hand up his shirt and against his damp chest hair. The small living room beamed in splotchy light patterns, the TV silently broadcasting Colony Outlaw – A series based on colony vigilantes. Inside the room set a worn dark green couch next to the door leading outside at his right, and a worn patchy blue easy chair. His grandfather was fast asleep in the chair among an assortment of alcohol. He walked over to the chair and used the remote to turn off the TV. His grandfather reeked of alcohol, the smell penetrating every smell close to him. He rested his right hand on his grandfather’s shoulder and shook lightly.

“Pap. Get up and go to bed. C’mon.” His voice hoarsely said, even with the help of the water it still needed to recover.

Pap did not respond, so he shook more intensely and finally snapped him out of the drunken slumber.

“Oh, it’s you, Rhoa. I was having this wonderful dream. You were in it, and I was in it. But I can’t seem to remember what we were doing.”

Pap’s green eyes glistened as if he was more aware drunk than he ever was awake. Age settled beneath his eyes and in his white hair. Rhoa took his hand from Pap’s shoulder and held it out in front of him.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed.” Rhoa said.

Pap simply nodded at his request and took his hand. Rhoa helped him to his feet, the chair rocking, and his Pap stopped a moment.

“Your hands are wet.” Pap looked him over and his glistening eyes narrowed. His voice becoming clearer through the haze of near-sleep and being awake. “Bad dream again?”

Rhoa shook his head, with a smirk that was nearly invisible in the dark. “You know I can’t tell if they’re bad.”

Rhoa led Pap back to the hallway and turned right. He swiped his hand, and the door opened to Pap’s room. Their rooms were similar in look, completely made of metal. Beside Pap’s bed, however, rested an old radio and two picture frames. One frame from his days of military service and the unit he served in, the other - a picture of Rhoa’s parents and himself as a child. The room had a haze about it - Pap an avid cigar smoker, and in the left corner sat a worn red leather seat. Some days Pap would sit in the corner of the room and listen to the radio while smoking a cigar.

Pap sat himself down onto the bed with a grunt, pressing his leather fingers against his head for a moment.

“How’s work, by the way? I haven’t gotten the chance to ask you with your work schedule. Everyone being fair to you?”

“It’s going alright. It’s simple like that, not many bad days and when there are – you hardly notice.” Rhoa said, then turned to leave.

“I know,” Pap’s voice seemed to trail for a moment, as he thought of what he was going to say next, “I know it’s a simple job, but you’re not a simple person. You could be managing that site, you’re patient and attentive. Much more patient than I ever was, they must have seen that in you by now.”

Rhoa stopped in the open-door way, turning his body slightly. “I like it when it’s simple.”

Rhoa then walked away, the door closing behind him.

“I know.” Pap said in the passing dark, and his eyes turning to the pictures. “Maybe, just one cigar and then bed.”

 

There never was any sunlight when he woke for work because they did not have windows, but under the metal ceiling no one had a window. He had to rely upon his alarm clock to tell him morning had arrived. He got out of bed and went to the door, instead of going to the panel to the right of the door, this time he went to the left. The left panel was slightly bigger and had a menu from which he could open various sections of the room. The room was small and compact, but everything had its place and it all fit. Scrolling through the menu he found his query and pressed on the pad. To his left, the wall opened displaying a small toilet which had its own door that could be closed and opened for privacy, further left was a small walk-in shower. After using both, he scrolled through the menu and opened the closet to his right. Rhoa looked through his vast array of clothes, which was virtually non-existent, and put on his work clothes for the day - a simple long-sleeved grey shirt, a pair of black sweatpants, and a one-piece dark blue jump suit. He put on a pair of worn brown weather-proof and steel tip boots, and to finish the look: a black hat.

            Before stepping out, he pressed on the wall between the shower and the toilet. The wall opened and revealed a metallic sink, and above it a mirror. A single ray of light flickered to life above the sink. He examined himself in the mirror, his solemn face staring back at him. The bristling brown beard, neither too long nor too short; in some lights glistening somewhat reddish. A product of unkemptness, yet he trimmed it to tidiness. His face neither one of perfection nor one of ugliness, though he tended to sway toward thinking of the ugly. He suspected, however, that the thought of self-ugliness was simply a haunt of the past – something that would truly never leave him. In all accounts, Rhoa is simply normal looking. A pair of dark blue eyes, a tint of green in some lights, rest beneath his shadowing cap. Light red lines clawed at his irises and the skin beneath his eyes dark. Products of work, or age. He isn’t that old, he thought to himself, he’s only twenty-seven.

            Rhoa shook his head, the shadows shifting beneath the light, and proceeded with his routine. He stepped out of the door and the wall that housed his self-maintenance closed itself. Walking into the dark hallway he felt comfortable, knowing the hallway in its entirety from memory. Rhoa passed Pap’s room and became aware of the darkness that lingered around him. He stood in the living room, the darkness twisting and bending against the walls as if beckoning him, then walked to the door leading outside. The darkness of the room curled and clawed at the edges of the door as if pleading and fighting against it. He pressed upon the pad to the left of the door, and it opened. A rush of cool air blasted its way into the room and against him, yet no light entered. He stepped outside into the cool street, and the door slid close behind him.

            A row of streetlamps lined the pathway, their yellowish glow hueing all the surrounding buildings, in uniformed spacing. The morning air was cool enough to chill him, his breath clearly visible against the light of the lamps. The buildings brandished no color, and no windows giving him sign of other people – just the cold dark metal. His own home, a small section of a line of homes that went on for miles, made uniformly metal and given no attention other than the essentials; all is metal, aging metal, and rot. The building complexes stretched to the metal ceiling, which cast shadows to the metal ground, and became walls rather than buildings. Above him were more pathways that connected more homes to the street he walked upon.

Rhoa missed the sun, and even the sky. When he was younger, he saw both often, but he had to forget them – a metal sun and sky replacing such breezy memories. He wondered when Pap would get up, when all the other residents would. The street was barren, but he knew the barrenness an illusion – for he could not be alone. He could hear distant noises, especially those of freighters. When he used to see the sky, he could see the stars shining brightly, but like they were reflections. Rhoa was told once that the sky was manufactured.

Rhoa turned to his right and began walking towards the noise of metal and alarms, passing beneath the yellow lamps. A shadow stalked behind him attempting to frighten him, but he knew its origin walked within his very own boots. The air smelled of burnt metal shavings and urine, the urine probably burning as well.

Someone told Rhoa it rained on the surface, that the sun rarely peeked through the clouds at the people of the world. The rain itself a product, manufactured for the pleasure, or melancholy, of the rich. The very air he breathed, a product. He wondered if people on the surface ever sneered out of their window just watching people breath, wasting it. Rhoa would pay for some rain if he could, instead of stagnant urine filled air any day.

Rhoa’s vision lingered on the ground, the thudding of his boots scuffing along the street. He wondered if Pap would be alright, they had not had a real conversation in months. Pap would spend his day either drinking or watching television, but Rhoa did not know if he did anything else. Pap told him once that he used to read books, real books made of paper. Pap even used to write, but Rhoa did not know if he ever published or what Pap even wrote. Perhaps, Pap still wrote in his smoke-filled room sitting in his chair.

The clanging of the metal was nearly deafening now, and the street led directly to a huge opening along the metal wall. The Dock, or specifically Docking Bay 1623, for freight movement. The freighters arrive and they unload cargo, then load more cargo. The metal beasts then fly down the gigantic hole of metal a few levels down and unload the cargo at another dock, then fly back up to who knows where with more cargo.

The opening came quickly, its metal face meshing with the rest of the wall, and inside a large assortment of containers from large red containers to small orange ones. All shaped as cubes of tailored metal, tinted in dirt and grime from years of use. They stretched on for yards from his left and right, the opening only revealing a small portion of the Dock. The containers seemed to stretch the most to the left, all the way to the dark metal wall.

Gaping the area between the containers and the opening, he walked beside the containers. Tall lamps dimly lit his way, the metal floor polished in grimy dirt. A red line ran along the edges indicating the invisible electric fence that protected the containers, and another yellow line ran along the red. Following the yellow line to the end of the containers, the area opened into a large space; the yellow line leading into the area stayed along the wall. He deviated, walking toward a rectangular building in front of him. The darkness returned as he left the safety of the lamps, coiling and roiling around his feet. They call it HQ, maybe it once had another name, but HQ made the most sense. A structure of metal, its rectangular shape in line with the shapes of the world.

Rhoa could feel the breeze of the Dock intensify as he neared HQ, the main loading area nearby. The lights of HQ swatted away the darkness, and he pressed on the door. The room inside brightly lit, the white tiled floor reflecting specs of dirt from boots, and the beige walls ignoring the color it held. The white ceiling only a few feet taller than he, close enough that he could almost touch it if he stood on his toes. The illusion of the room, that it could pass as other material, but all was metal. Metal tables lined with metal benches scattered the room in rows - a small cafeteria for people to eat. To his left sat a tall grey cylinder machine, and he grabbed a white ceramic cup from its dispenser. He pressed the cup against the nozzle, and it activated with a whine. A dark steaming liquid poured out, coffee, he filled the cup to just below the top and stopped, then sipped it. Rhoa sat at the nearest metal table facing the door, the room quiet as he was accustomed to. He is typically early, and today was not any different.

The simple bearing of the room gave Rhoa comfort, as did the job. He liked the simple routine, and he is lucky to have it. Pap had previously held the job, but one day decided to retire. Rhoa applied to replace him, and with help from Pap’s recommendation - got the job. Not many people had a consistent job like him, they had to find other ways to make their money. Ranging from selling every drug possibly known to humankind, a litter of new drugs, and selling your body. Typically, he ran into the latter in the mornings, trying to sell their wares. Today, strangely, he did not run into anyone. Something was different today.

The door slid open, and a wild older looking man entered. His hair a matted mess, but his face clean shaven. Their eyes met, and the man gave a wry smile.

“Hey, Pup.” The man said and cleared his throat.

Pap is Pap, and so Rhoa is Pup according to the crew. Rhoa felt his brows furrow in response.

“Hey, Luke.” Rhoa replied.

Luke, his shift manager. Typically, the two would grunt at each other in unified grogginess in the morning, but Luke seemed more awake than he ever had in the past. Rhoa sipped the coffee, its warmth breaking away the chill of the walk. Luke sat across from him.

“What’s up, Luke?” Rhoa said as he drank from the cup.

Something was different about today, and Rhoa did not like it. Luke would always walk into the office spaces down the hall to his left, getting ready for the day’s shift.

“Pup.” Luke’s eyes squinted for a second. “Rhoa. I did some preliminary checks today before coming in, the new loading bots.”

“Yeah, I heard about them. They’re faster right? Better systems management. Should make it easier on us keeping track of them when we’re all loading. What’s up?” He seemed to complete Luke’s sentence in response.

“Exactly. Because of the systems update to the bots, management is asking that I cut down some unnecessary assets.” Luke said folding his leather like hands together.

“Unnecessary assets?” Rhoa asked nearly spitting out his coffee.

“Yes. Look, I wanted to make another decision but management-”

“Are you firing me?” Rhoa questioned, a steady fume of steam emanating from the coffee cup.

“I’m sorry. If it was my decision…” Luke’s voice trailed off but steadily met his eyes, the message conveyed.

Silence, a moment passing between them. Rhoa could not believe it. He gave everything to The Docks for five years, to the simple routine. It was over, just like that.

“What am I going to do?” Rhoa whispered to himself.

Luke stood up, excusing himself. An impulse spread through Rhoa’s body like wildfire, an impulse he had not felt before. He looked at the cup, the delicious coffee. He wanted to throw it across the room, paint the walls brown in coffee. But Rhoa just stared at the cup, his hands curling around its form. He drank the rest of the coffee, and then set the cup inside the drop off slot of the machine. Rhoa stumbled outside to the sharp biting air of the Docks, several other workers were arriving. They were familiar faces, but none of them seemed to be recalled from Rhoa’s distant memory.

“Hey, Pup!” One called out to him, but Rhoa walked by them as if passing through them.

The rest looked on, watching him walk away.

Rhoa walked through the opening, back towards home – the streetlamps lighting his way. He felt sick, ready to fall on his knees and lay down in the urine smelling street. Yet, he kept walking. The sellers were all there now, kneeling in alleys or walking up and down the streets. A few solicited him for a good time, but he ignored them. The silence was gone, now it was filled with the noise of everything around him. Like they had been there, a routine, but invisible, and now an object of annoyance.

Rhoa walked home, the door now a dreaded and welcome sight. What would he tell Pap? He heard laughing behind him and crying in the distance. The door slid open, and Pap stood in front of him; his white hair seeming to light the darkness.

“Rhoa? What are you doing home so early?” Pap asked startled by Rhoa’s appearance.

“They laid me off. Said, they didn’t need unnecessary assets.” Rhoa stammered out.

Pap’s eyes narrowed, and he sighed.

“Oh no. Alright, c’mon in.” Pap wrapped an arm around his shoulders, the warmth welcomed aside from the alcoholic breath. “Let’s have a drink.”

They drank, the darkness of the living room now sheathed from the static of the tv. Gulping down the rough liquid, Rhoa never asked what it was or where it came from. They did not speak, just sitting in each other’s presence. Pap, Rhoa believed, was attempting to think of something to say – yet could not find the words. Rhoa simply nodded, giving his approval for the state of being. The afternoon came, just as the morning did, with no warning. Pap had fallen asleep, resting among his empty bottles. Sleep began to find Rhoa until a flourish of taps knocked upon the door.

Rhoa opened the door, and there a woman stood. Her violet dress stood vibrantly against the street, accompanied by a black shawl and black heels. Her eyes, however, something he could never forget: a bright violet, glowing as if becoming everything he could see. Her brunette hair trimmed to her ears, and bangs shadowing her violet eyes. Kay, he knew immediately, someone he had grown up with. She made her living in the last category of humanity’s work.

“Hey.” Kay’s expression filled with concern as she looked upon him. “Are you alright? You don’t look good.”

Rhoa could tell that she smelled the alcohol, but she seemed to be ignoring it; her violet eyes vibrating hypnotically against the dark background.

“Yeah, just got laid off from work.” Rhoa said barely audible.

“Oh, I’m sorry. What are you going to do?” Kay asked concerned.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Looking at her brought Rhoa comfort, seeming like the only person he truly had left. Her violet eyes seemed to beckon him as if that were all there was in the world.

“I’m coming in.” Kay finally said, walking past him.

“Okay.” He said, closing the door. The darkness waited for him amongst the shadows of the street, knowing not what occurred inside but understanding its muffled moans. Banished from its home temporarily, until it could return in the morning.