Chapter Text
The energy cuffs that buzzed around her wrists stung, and Sif tried not to wince. Her hands were trembling, so she twined her fingers together, a desperate, false hope to conceal the truth between her palms. As the elevator rushed past floor after floor, something different would threaten to give her away: the rustling of her gown as she fidgeted, the all-but-silent knocking together of her knees, the uneasy rumble of her stomach, the furious thrum of her heart in her chest. Outside the elevator’s window, the lights of the other skyrises whooshed by until they were just a series of white lines criss-crossing against the dark cityscape, and Sif averted her eyes. Even though the introduction of speedlifts such as this had been a life-altering change for everyone in the Verve (drastically cutting down the time it took to travel between a skyrise’s multitude of floors), the slightly sick feeling she would experience whenever she rode in one always seemed to make her question their usefulness… but she would never do so aloud. Her other wry observation--how much the lights of the city looked like the bars of a cage when travelling at such fast intervals--she also kept to herself. Such things just weren’t talked about in the capitol, at least not loud enough for the Industry to hear. Like most governments, the Industry had eyes and ears everywhere. Within seconds, they could appear at the slightest hint of trouble, swooping down and swallowing up suspected agitators like black-coated spectrals would a soul. The disturber, whether guilty or not, would never be heard from, or talked about, again. True to its name, only pleasure and zeal occurred in the Verve; ask any citizen and that was what they would say.
Floors 420 to 475 flew by in a blink, and Sif bit her lip. By now the panic welling in her chest was so strong, she didn't care if she ruined her lipstick or not. More floors rushed by, 737, 798, 822... They were almost to the top. She took a deep breath, letting the air out slowly. “Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint ” was the mantra running circles in her head. She had never fainted in her life, and she had no plans to do so now… even if being offered up to the President of the Verve like a sacrificial virgin to a terrifying Volcano God would seem an acceptable time.
Whether real or faked, Sif couldn't faint or try some other means of escape. She had a job to do. She had to concentrate, and the Agent twitching excitedly next to her, his breath hot on her arm, wasn't helping.
“This is it, this is it, Dreckle,” the man said, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain, “you’ve done it. You’ve finally found one.”
He had been talking to himself like this for the better part of the hour-long ride.
“A Pink, a real one, in the flesh.” He giggled and jabbed an elbow into Sif’s side. “‘In the flesh’--get it?”
Sif’s eyes rolled to the ceiling, and the rest of the air she had been holding in expelled from her nose in a resigned huff. Of all the Agents who could have caught her, it had to be this idiot, Dreckle Pike, or “Major Andre,” as he liked to be called professionally for reasons unknown (and probably stupid). If she was to be caught and dragged to the President like some inane prize, at the very least it could have been by an Agent of caliber. But she had no such luck, and if there was one thing Sif had learned from growing up within this massive city, it was to “follow the groove,” “go with the flow,” “eat everything on your plate,” and any of the other argot plastered on posterboard around the capitol. Against the dirt and grime of the city, these propaganda posters were a welcome sight, easing tired eyes with their lavish colors and dream-like beauty. Anything outside of the “regularly scheduled program” was seen by the populace as ill-advised at best and a crime at worst. When a new job was offered to you, you took it. Unfairly evicted from your apartment flat? Well, it must have been your time to move, for something better was sure to pop up for you over the horizon. Relationship fallout? Well now, it couldn’t have been worse than the fallout that wiped the world clean so many years ago, so it wouldn’t do to worry or complain--and on and on it went. Sif had learned at an early age not to question things, no matter how unnerving or strange, so when a black-clad Dreckle had rung her doorbell earlier this morning, she didn’t think much of it… even when he had doused her with a face full of sleeping gas and she had awoken in the back of his car, hands chained. Upon seeing her awake, Dreckle had gleefully announced where he was taking her, but Sif had already known: to the top floor of the Poppermost.
The Poppermost, or “Pops” as it was frequently called by the locals, was the “skyrise supreme”--the tallest and most grand of all the buildings in the city. Home of the Industry, it stood in the very middle of the Verve, connecting ground to sky and acting like physical proof of the President’s ordination, “a rule blessed by the gods.” The first five hundred floors had so many amenities, a tenant would never need to leave the building (and most didn’t). The next hundred floors housed the most luxurious apartments that the wasteland could offer. These were typically reserved for the President’s favorites: elite members of the Industry along with its current artist roster. Closest to the top were the Autolabs, the best (and most expensive) research facilities found in the Verve and beyond. Finally, there was floor 1000, home of the President.
The majority of citizens, Sif included, had never seen the inside. All that was known about it was from the holovids put out by the Industry’s publicity team. When she was younger, she had loved them. Her favorite vid had been one featuring a kaleidoscope of colors and things she had only ever seen the ghosts of: a spinning Ferris wheel lit with a thousand lights, cherub-faced children climbing up a helter skelter instead of going down it, a beautiful woman sitting astride a rocket shooting to the moon. “To the Toppermost of the Poppermost!” cried a group of smiling people, eyes filled with wonder and excitement, and in that moment, Sif had wanted to go there, too. For the majority of citizens, the dream of going to the top of the Pops was a lifeline, something shiny to look at when your eyes needed a break from the endless toil and sorrow. The top of the Pops was where the beautiful people were, a magical place where there was no toil, no hardship, where everything you ever wanted was at your fingertips, and where bliss-filled parties hosted by the President went on day and night. Who wouldn’t want to go there?
Dreckle certainly wanted to go there.
Sif shifted in her heels. She could feel Dreckle’s gaze on her like a slimy film and she suppressed a shudder. All Agents were rotten, but at least most of them had skills, a knack for spotting talent or just enough charisma to keep the public interested. Dreckle had… not much. He was shorter than her by several inches and usually wore an ill-fitting black suit, the style of which was typically several years behind. He had small eyes whose whites were barely perceptible through a sea of red veins, and his expression was permanently dull-eyed, as if he was constantly trying to think of the answer to a question that had no answer. His face was pointy (yet also strangely sunken), and the only hair on his head was a wide strip of blonde running down the middle of his skull. It was an image that was all rather ordinary, so much so that he could have been mistaken for a Pink himself if he hadn’t cut the left sleeve off of his jacket to display his lone enhancement, a cybernetic arm. For an Industry elite, it was shoddy work--Agents typically were some of the first to sport whatever “tune up” the Industry was promoting. Everyone in the Verve who could afford it was tuned in some way. The President himself was said to have the most current and sophisticated enhancements, though exactly what remained a mystery (and a popular topic of speculation for the nightly gossip vids). But Dreckle wasn’t a good Agent. The highest chart position one of his artists had ever gone was number 98, so he couldn’t afford the top-of-the-line work provided by the exclusively closed doors of the Autolabs. But that didn’t stop him from constantly trying to push his way to the top. He was highly derided by most of the other members of the Industry, with many openly asking the President why he was still around.
But, as he kept excitedly reminding Sif as floor after floor whizzed by, that was all about to change.
“A-Pink, a-Pink, which one’s a-Pink?” he said, his voice annoyingly sing-song, and Sif grimaced, recognizing the children’s rhyme that had chased her down the streets of her childhood until she had finally silenced the offending voices with a few well-timed punches and kicks to the groin. Oh, if only she could do that to the babbling fool beside her.
Sadly, Dreckle wasn’t just raving. Sif was a “Pink,” slang for the unenhanced, people who, for reasons unknown, were unable to augment themselves without their bodies rejecting the foreign tech. Thus, they were human, completely, and (due to the popularity of cybernetic enhancement) very rare. Given the unwanted attention that being a Pink could cause, most tried to conceal their identities by faking some sort of tune up. For the majority of her adult life, Sif’s had been a (hollow) prosthetic over her left ear. She had frequently worn her hair in a ponytail to display it, and declared to anyone who asked that it was the reason why she had such good pitch. But with the Industy’s reach extending to more and more things, Sif knew that it would only be a matter of time until she was found out. And that was why she was perfect for this job.
Dreckle’s breath was back on her arm. “I just knew you were one. I knew it. I’ve been watching you for so long.”
Liar, Sif thought. You were told.
“This will surely get me to the top now. The President really likes Pinks. He’s always wanted one, he told me himself.”
Sif swallowed, her throat dry. The President really likes Pinks. It was what she, and the others, were counting on, the one chance the resistance had, and it was all up to her. She shouldn’t have been nervous. It was what she had trained for, what her mind had focused on for so long, a light of truth in a city of darkness and lies. She carried the hopes and dreams of millions on her back--she shouldn’t have been feeling anything but pride. Here she was, the dark-haired “wild child” of Soul City Hollow; the unwanted orphan, one of thousands spit out by the wasteland, born penniless, whose only recourse was to live, suffer, and die--about to be the savior of the world.
There was a shift beneath her feet: the elevator was slowing. A disembodied voice sounded above her, Floor one thousand. You have reached your destination. At her side, Dreckle started twitching again (whether from nerves or excitement she couldn’t tell), and as the elevator doors slowly spread open and she followed Dreckle onto the floor, Sif realized that all the training in the world couldn’t have prepared her for what she was stepping into.