Chapter Text
Like many privileged children, Alabaster Torrington never knew a life other than the one he had been born into. Ring 3, his ring, was the life of luxury, never needing, only wanting more and more and more. They were chosen after all, they lived at the top. The Guides were there to remind them who to thank. All of this was made possible by XCV, their god-emperor.
Life was easy. He had his parents, his sister Lou, and everything he could possibly want. Any interest was fulfilled, he could fence, he could draw, he’d learned at an early age how to play the piano. He even had a wide knowledge of botany and had been gifted many plants to fill his room. For everything he was able to do, came the reminders. He’d been chosen to live this life. Those below weren’t worthy. If Alabaster and his family didn’t live like this, someone else would. Don’t worry about any guilt. They were the only ones that truly mattered.
As for the lower rings, his knowledge was rudimentary. He knew where his food came from, and that, really, covered it. That, he knew only because his father was the main head of agriculture, and regularly dealt with the shipment of food to their home ring. It had been drilled into his head since he was young – not all Rings were equal. However, he’d found out at the young age of thirteen, that not everyone in his own ring was equal, either.
Alabaster had been at a park with his sister, hiding from their tutor, when he’d witnessed the first cruel realization that his place in society was delicate. A man had rushed down the sidewalk, pursued and eventually surrounded by Patrol. It was hard to hear, but they’d both watched as he was shoved roughly to the ground, cuffed, and led off into the back of a Patrol truck. His young ears hadn’t been able to catch all of what was said, but he’d heard the echo of a new word.
Bio-pariah.
Alabaster didn’t know what that meant, but the word had stuck with him. How they’d said it. Like the word was a weapon, and the man had been the most grievous of enemies. It had stayed with him.
One year later, at fourteen, he’d learned. A boy his age had been taken from his family, shipped off to the lower ring. It was the talk of the classroom. Alabaster had learned that the term bio-pariah meant you were a boy who liked other boys, or a girl who liked other girls. If you were a bio-pariah, it meant you had no use to Ring 3. You couldn’t have a family, or reproduce like the Guides insisted they had to.
That was the beginning of the end of the peaceful, luxurious life Alabaster knew.
It took two years, poking and prodding from his parents, failed dates, and one friend to bring the rest of his world down around him. His parents had been encouraging him to date, but Alabaster couldn’t find a girl he liked, none of them were right, none of them. To avoid these dates, he began hanging out with his friend Ethan more, hiding around Ring 3, both avoiding parents and society. Alabaster found himself wishing that he could just be with Ethan, things were easier, why couldn’t it be this easy with girls? One week later he answered his own question, and he never saw Ethan Nakamura again.
The fear in Alabaster only began to grow, and he turned to the only person he could trust, his sister, who held him, and swore to take his secret to the grave. He was lucky, he wasn’t an only child, he could slide under the radar, for now.
That didn’t stop his fair share of crushes and yearning, wishing that one day that he could be with someone he really loved, but the more he witnessed the cruelty of the Patrol, the more he came to realize that would never be an option. He didn’t know anything about the lower Rings. Only that they promised pain, exile, and certain death.
He was in college now, the fine age of twenty-three. His knowledge of the lower rings had expanded just slightly – there was a gambling hall in Ring Five, a ring open to Luxury, should they choose to descend, and Alabaster descended frequently. It had started out as a dare from college friends – “Who wants to go down to Five and gamble?” That was the first time Alabaster was able to see beyond the gilded frame of the life he was born into, and since then, he’d been a regular.
----
The sun was low in the sky, and the work bell rang out, signifying the end of the work day. Ellis wiped the sweat from his forehead and headed towards the doors of the warehouse, wanting nothing more than to get home and change out of his clothes. If he hurried, there was a chance he'd catch some warmth in his shower.
He stepped through the doors, and sucked in a breath of fresh, thick, air. It was muggy out, the air filled with the hum of the machinery powering his workplace. Ellis could feel the simmering heat set into his bones, though he knew to cherish it, as cloying as it was - the sun would go down soon, and the temperature with it.
"Wakefield!"
He searched for the voice, recognizing it instantly, though it didn't stop him from going on his way, close to nothing would. "Connor."
And there he was, a tall, sandy haired man, approaching from seemingly nowhere. Ellis didn't know where he disappeared to every afternoon, and he knew not to care. His shift started after the sun went down, and his free time was his own. Connor fell into step with the taller man, heading towards the block of housing. "They work you to death yet?" He asked.
Ellis sniffed out a laugh. "Let me go just before my heart gave out, as they always do." He returned, giving him a playful elbow. "It's payday today, so work was a little harder, and a little longer. But four years in, you know I'm used to it."
"Payday!" Connor crowed, and began to walk backwards, blue eyes bright and smile ever-present. Ellis didn't know how he could be so cheery all the time. "Let me guess — you're heading for Five.”
"I'm not," Ellis countered, squinting at him perceptively. "I'm headed home, first. No one likes to gamble with a bio-pariah, so tonight"—
—"You're not one," Connor finished. "Right. Because nothing says 'middle class' like muscles you could only get in the industry district."
Ellis pushed at him, and Connor stumbled, narrowly regaining his balance after hopping twice. "You're really only proving my point, here," He pointed out, and happily dodged when Ellis tried to shove him again.
“I guess the best worst thing about this damned place is the fact I have regular exercise.” Ellis remarked, as Connor fell into step with him.
"They'll make a Meka-Nik of you yet," Connor teased, but Ellis wasn't laughing.
"They won't." He said, now stone cold. "They'll try their damndest, but it won't work."
Meka-niks.
He'd been on the 7th Ring for four years, and had seen others fall to it in less than one. Isolation from friends, no greetings on the street, only ever seen heading to and from the factories. The anger burned hot and red through him once his roommate had even fallen prey. It was as if he'd become a part of the very thing he was ordered to build: a machine.
Ellis had sworn he'd never let anyone force him into a box, and he'd held true to that. He was here, wasn't he?
The silence hung heavy between them, Connor's joking demeanor has dried up as Ellis' brows knit together into a scowl, just staring at the ground. "It was only a joke," He defended to no one.
Ellis just shook his head. "Jokes are the ticket to the train," came his short reply. "they want you to joke, until the punchline turns a chuckle into a promise."
Connor didn't have an answer to that, and Ellis had nothing more to say. "It's getting later. Ben'll be back soon, and I want to be gone when he gets home."
Taking the hint, Connor straightened, already heading towards the door. "Not sure if it's bad luck to with a gambler good luck or not," He chuckled, but there was the underlying aftertaste of discomfort from the joke gone awry. "Either way. I hope you win big this time, buddy. Maybe you'll get enough to fake your way outta here."
There wasn't time to unpack all the feelings that came with those words, but Ellis allowed himself a smile. "Yeah, maybe." It was all he could say.
---
Ellis made his way through Ring Seven, over the wall and skirting around the edges of Lotown. One hand always shoved into his pocket, holding the money slips as if they'd abandon him the first chance they got. Pickpocketing wasn't common - patrol was everywhere - but Ellis knew not to take any chances. Even on an empty road, he held them tightly.
The familiar sound of dice clinking against worn wooden tables greeted him like an old friend as he pushed open the doors of the gambling hall. Shuffling cards, low-pitched calls of bluffs and the barkeep filling glasses were next, but Ellis ignored them all, surveying the crowds, before he was stopped by a voice.
"How many chips?" The voice came from the right, and he turned.
"What's the maximum?" Ellis couldn't help himself this time, Connor's words spurred him on, against his better judgment.
'Maybe you'll get enough to fake your way outta here.'
He knew the odds of that ever happening, how low they were. No one ever got out of the Seventh Ring, and if they did, it was Eight, or death. But what better place to chance those odds than a gambling den?
"Hundred to start."
Maybe he felt lucky that night, that he cashed in seventy-five, a week's worth of earnings with overtime. Maybe it was fate.