Chapter Text
The building creaks. The deadbolt on the back door rattles as the walls and foundation shift under heavy gusts of wind. An iron gate can be heard outside, clanging again and again into a rusty chain link fence, held together only by one padlock. The padlock, shinier and newer than anything else in the scrapyard, rightly befits its owner; the man who holds its key is similarly out of place with his surroundings.
Inside, an old box television set supplies the only light in the stark room, illuminating a lone figure; lean folded legs knelt against a threadbare pillow on the concrete floor, watching the screen with rapt attention like he does every night. The emitted light bathes tired, pale skin in an otherworldly blue and deep brown eyes track a woman, early 30s perhaps, in a bright pink suit with perfectly curled blonde hair. She is speaking animatedly into the off-screen camera like she does every day at this time—and every other hour around the clock, too. It's always the same speaker, this same woman, looking well-kept and chipper as always no matter the hour. "Krystal with a K," as she's known, delivers her routine message. Each public service announcement starts the same. Krystal sits impossibly still, holding her rigid pose with hands folded on a white desk with nails sharply manicured, as an automated voice introduces the broadcast sponsor.
"This message was brought to you by the Department of Revenue and Layer Endowment," the smooth, robotic voice chimes, then beeps like an old answering machine, prompting the woman to start her own script. She speaks into a microphone that peeks just barely into the corner of the frame. Her voice is upbeat. Her eyes shine, unblinking.
"Have you contributed to Dentonic's cause? Donations from citizens like you help keep Steeplechase strong. Make the suggested donation of 75% of your income to show your support for our beloved state of Steeplechase." She smiles. The television flickers, and the man on the floor perks up, leaning in toward the box. His eyes scan the stream for fuzz, for interference…for a message. He strains his ears and mind for static, for another voice to come through—for anything, but the audio remains clear. Well, as clear as it can be through his archaic device. His shoulders slouch in his beat-to-shit brown leather jacket as he listens to the rest of the message, but he stays, eyes glued to the screen.
"Or, apply to be a part of the Citizen Satisfaction Team and make your community proud! And remember: never know when to stop dreaming!" The television goes bright blue with the all-too-familiar message "Channel not Available" in the top left corner. God, what he'd do for just one normal channel—anything to balance out the lifeless propaganda circuit. He eyes the antenna he crafted a few months ago from a wire hanger and tin foil. Yeah, he's probably lucky to even get that. The man switches the device off, leaving him in complete darkness. The television is the only power he has tonight—the rest of the building, or what’s left of it, is without power, courtesy of the wind. The wind that is currently whistling through holes in the roof, threatening to rip the whole thing off.
He stands, knees popping painfully, and hauls himself into an uncomfortable loveseat against the wall with ripped cushions and springs that threaten to burst from the upholstery lining. It's cold tonight. He pulls down an ugly brown knitted blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over himself, staring blankly at the exposed pipes in the warehouse ceiling.
Fuck. He thought he'd catch something. The first time wasn't a fluke; he's sure of it. There was a message—it was short but clear.
“Do you hear me, travelers?”
An unapproved message, the first seed of resistance. That was three days ago. He's made up his mind. He's going to find out where that signal came from at any cost.
He sleeps through the next few broadcasts, which is normal. The one that wakes him is jarring at first before he remembers what the day is. Trumpeting fanfare blares through his tinny speakers, and the scene is different from Krystal's usual corporate setup. The television shows a brightly decorated scene at Ephemera's town square, in front of the beautiful tiered fountain there, decorated with ribbons and flowers and the occasional balloon. Krystal is not on this broadcast, it seems. Rather, a tall, dark-skinned woman with stiff Hollywood waves in her hair smiles at the screen in a straight-neck black dress. This is a different Crystal, Crystal Howl, a representative of Dentonic that anyone from any layer would recognize as the official spokesperson for special events, not unlike today's festival. She holds a microphone emblazoned with "150 Years" on the front and stands like an anchor atop a small stage. It's roped off to spectators who stand in droves around the velvet partitions, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever is on a pedestal behind her. She is finishing up a long-winded speech.
"-and thank you for joining us for the 150th anniversary pin unveiling! Replica pins will be available in stores and online starting today at 12pm. Only one pin per checkout will be permitted. Next, we'll hear from our very own Mayor of Ephemera: let's give it up for Mayor Gerrick!"
An olive-skinned man of about 80 years, adorned in light, sweeping traditional wear that contrasts heavily against crisp navy and white Dentonic uniforms, takes the stage, staring outwards stoically. The broadcast only shows some citizens, the glamorous ones, the Passion’s Cove residents no doubt, lucky enough to be right up against the ropes. Some wrinkle their noses and roll their eyes as the elder steps up to speak. The citizens of…less fortuitous cities, the working folk of Ephemera and visitors from Ustaben and Gutter City, are further back in the crowd, making up the majority. There is a ripple of polite applause for the man as Crystal hands Mayor Gerrick the microphone, which he accepts with hesitation before giving her a small nod of thanks and taking a breath in.
"Citizens. I stand here today not as a dynaste...but as a reminder that we can persist." His words sound carefully planned, and he grimaces after this sentiment, glancing off stage, then wetting his lips nervously before continuing. "Today, let us celebrate and be...grateful. You are essential to the success of Steeplechase. I..." He falters. His eyes flick once again to the side, and he clears his throat. "Your loyalty is a great gift. Through your work…your cooperation…your diligence…peace is preserved.”
All eyes turn past the mayor. Along with two security details in navy suits, three new people are ushered onto the stage. Those watching on television can only see nice shoes, legs, and anniversary pin-laden torsos of these three new figures, but it is easy to guess, even before the cameras zoom out, that the Dentons have arrived for their moment of personal glory. Or gloating.
Devon Denton, a 6’4’ man in his late 30s with linebacker’s shoulders crammed into a no-doubt custom-tailored suit, sandy blonde hair, and an oval-shaped face, is the first. He is the spitting, although brutish, image of his mother, who stands beside him, a foot shorter than her son. She is gaunt and wears plenty of makeup and a stiff white jacket with gold buttons over a smart pleated navy dress. To her left is her nephew, Kenchall, standing an inch or two shorter than Devon, with pale skin, slicked-back black hair, an angular jaw, and dazzlingly white teeth. Mayor Gerrick sticks out sorely. He looks grim as three striking blue pairs of eyes bore into the back of his head.
“Dentonic, for 150 years, has been watching, rewarding, and protecting our layers. Let this festival represent a new chapter of…progress…ehm—" He shifts, visibly uncomfortable. "—sponsored by the great leadership seen before you." He says quickly. He thanks citizens from further layers for coming so far to the festival then exits hurriedly, brushing through the crowd and disappearing out of shot. He doesn’t introduce the Dentons, so Crystal does so in his stead.
It’s quick, but the keen eye would notice that just out of focus, to each side of the stage, are tidy rows of folks stationed in nice business wear, all crisp navy suits and sunglasses—distinctly different from the normal Dentonic uniforms. No doubt armed, but subtly, just behind the camera shot, because guns, of course, are not festive in the slightest. Crystal takes up the mantle once more, beaming.
The television flickers again in the once-abandoned warehouse, the colors shifting and the quality becoming grainy—turning the crowd into small square particles behind the glass. The man sits straight up, zeroing in once more. His heart skips. Is he reading too much into every tiny interruption now? Not everything is a sign, he reminds himself. It could just be his ancient TV or his shoddy electricity, for fuck's sake. Maybe he really is losing it.
A whirring noise from the other side of the room startles the man on the couch out of his spiral. The power to the rest of his hideout is back on after last night's storm. A light, a single bulb hanging from a wire, is on in the "kitchen." He jumps up, dumping the blanket on the floor.
"Monnn-t- ty?" Calls a shuddering voice. When the man approaches the dinner table, something he'd pulled from the junkyard along with some wooden chairs in rough shape, he's met by familiar faces. A group of robots in varying states of disarray greet him. "Pa" is a well-dressed, though decayed-looking bot in a green v-neck sweater with a tie. He tips a brown hat off of his head in a jerky manner that looks like his elbow joints could stand to be greased. The mortal man frowns. He'll have to look at finding some oil for him later.
"Goo-ood morning-ing, son. Sleep well-ell?" The automaton bellows. The other animatronics whir to life in his presence, too. The facsimile of a young girl in a blue shirt and a long skirt looks up from the table at him with round, unblinking eyes, and her younger brother, in shorts and a rusty striped shirt, waves up at him. A metal dog, covered in shaggy artificial grey fur, barks at him from the girl's feet, but his voice box sounds strange and sharp, pitched up so that the bark sounds more like a squawk.
The human sighs and plops down in the closest empty chair, exhaling sharply, slumping against the table with his elbows against the wood. "Mama" from a few feet away, a thick metal pole protruding from a frilly magenta skirt where legs should be, is braced against some crates. She raises an accusing finger to scold him.
"You know how I feel about elbows on the table, you-nnng man."
"Sorry, Mama," he chuckles. "I'm just glad to see you're all okay after the power went out. Had me worried." He says, tiredly.
“It will take more-ore-ore…” Pa leans back in his chair and wobbles, off balance. He over-corrects, then goes reeling forward into the table with a thud. "Monty" frantically reaches out to steady him before he breaks something.
“Woah! Easy there, Pa!”
The mechanical man rights himself slowly, sitting up with a creak that almost sounds like a sigh. His eyelids are stuck halfway closed, and his neck is cocked at an odd angle. “—more than a rust storm to take us… out.” He finishes, struggling to get the last word out. Immediately, a high-pitched voice cuts in.
"Can I watch Teeee-veeee?" Asks the robotic boy, rotating his head 180° to settle his eyes on the receiver. "Ple-eeeeeeee-ease?"
"Oh, you don't wanna watch that garbage, Timmy. Promise. How about I fix that arm so we can play catch? Those legs workin’ today?”
He busies himself, drowning out the chatter and pageantry on the television as he gets to work fixing his family.
Just a mile and a half away from the center of Ephemera, the hubbub of the festival doesn't seem to reach the ears of those in Dentonic’s Research and Development: New Glenville Branch. This particular suburb of Ephemera is quiet; most who live here are employees. And employees aren’t paid to celebrate. No, in this case, they are paid to…animate.
Down a clean white corridor, through many twists and turns and flights of stairs, down and down and down, three people stand in a sterile room on the observing side of a one-way viewing window. One woman is skinny and tall, with pale freckled skin and mousy brown hair in a bun. Her glasses are thick-rimmed and fall down her nose as she writes on a clipboard. The man beside her is older, with black hair and salt-and-pepper stubble. He’s shorter than average and stocky, with a square jaw that is quite prominent when he frowns, which is his go-to expression. He types away at the console before him, making precise adjustments and communicating them to the woman to be noted in detail.
“Dreadway, how much longer?” he calls, looking halfway over his shoulder at a third researcher across the room. The third team member is tall, but his black and grey coily hair, styled to stick straight up in points, makes him appear taller. He has dark skin and is 50% bone and 50% mustache and goatee, and he wears grey and black coveralls. He is at his own console and is surrounded on two sides by a large L-shaped workbench with all manner of technologies laid out upon it. He is fiddling with a contraption that resembles an armband of sorts, with a screen, a keypad, and a small lens on the side of the hand. He smacks it with the flat of his palm unceremoniously.
“Damned thing! Hold on, Hank—“
He rummages around in a drawer full of dimly lit spheres—the drawer gives off a slight hum when opened. Each orb in the drawer varies in size, anywhere from the size of a small bead on a necklace to a marble to a golf ball. He picks up a small core about the size of the pad of his thumb and shuts the drawer. He fights with the wrist device, jiggling what can only be described as the battery compartment until the metal there gives and a similar sphere flies out. It isn’t at all luminescent and is visibly scratched. He pops the new one in and closes the hatch, pleased when the interface greets him. He chuckles.
“Ah, these old prisms—you know how it is.” He sighs and plods over to his colleagues, handing the device to Hank.
“There she is! All patched up and ready for her maiden voyage.” He hands it over, long, twitchy fingers hesitating as he lets the other man take it. Just before he fully lets go, he starts to sputter nervously, keeping himself and Hank locked in an awkward shared hold.
“I—ah…just…promise to be careful with it, okay?” His voice is pleading, and he looks sheepish. Hank lifts an eyebrow, tugging a little, but the engineer doesn’t let go, which makes him grit his teeth. “Cause, like, we’ve been working years on this technology, and it’s just hard to let go, you know? I-“
“Emerich.” Hank looks almost entirely annoyed with the familiar rambling but also somewhat amused. He tightens his grip.
“Let go.”
He finally yanks it out of the scientist’s grip, much to Emerich’s dismay, who sucks in a breath through his teeth and tries to exhale slowly as he watches his prized invention get marched away by his coworker.
Hank exits out a door to the right of the lab and enters the observation room, which is technically a subfloor of the lab, leaving observers looking downwards. The lights flicker on, revealing a handsome, muscular man with dark surfer-esque hair sitting in a chair, semi-reclined. Mimicking a hospital setup, his vitals are shown on a screen, and some cathodes and pulse oximeter-looking devices are connected with wires hanging from his fingers and some spots on his chest. Hank unhooks these from him, and the man thanks him graciously. As they banter, Emerich realizes why this particular man looks so familiar.
“Hey! You’re Scott Boldflex!” He can’t stop himself from touching the intercom button and exclaiming directly into the microphone. This startles both the researcher and the subject, and they both jump. The man in the chair grins lazily and swats a hand nonchalantly at the entirely opaque window. Right, he forgot the subject can’t see him. Oops.
“Ah geez, not anymore. That was me in my old life, man.” Both of the scientists topside watch Hank punch something into the wrist device. The man continues.
“You can call me Jerry.” He fidgets, looking down. “I’m not really doing the TV thing anymore. Got a real job here in Dentonic marketing, and now I’m just doing this survey ‘cause I’m strapped for cash, y’know?”
“O-oh. Well, thank you for participating, Sco- er, Jerry.” The lanky man still looks a little starstruck. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Looks like we’re about ready. Hart, how’s it going?”
Hank checks a reading from the machine and nods. “We’re clear.”The gruff scientist nods blindly into the window where he knows his peers sit. For the first time, the lady of the lab speaks up, nudging Emerich away from the intercom.
“Hello, Mr. Fisher, it’s Harriett. From earlier? So now, for the liability reasons outlined in your contract, we’re going to have some security personnel come in and observe the experiment. Your session will be recorded, of course, for legal compliance. You will feel absolutely no discomfort and should be out of here in less than five minutes. That sound alright?”
Jerry nods and waits patiently as two security guards join Hank in the crowded room, stationing themselves in either corner. Hank and Jerry exchange a few more affirmations before Harriet clicks the record button on the cameras, and Hank points the wristband at the man, who has just been instructed to stand from the chair, hands above his head and legs shoulder-width apart. A beam of light from the lens seems to scan its subject from head to toe. From above, Emerich watches with bated breath, inadvertently clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails leave indents in his sweaty palms. He’s buzzing, unable to stay still. He bites his bottom lip as he watches the scene in front of him. Jerry is standing still the way he was instructed, and Hank has pointed the lens toward the ground next to him, waiting for a little green bar on the screen to fill up. He can’t see that right now, actually, since the screen is small and far away, but Emerich knows that’s the procedure since he’s tested it out so many times before with various objects. But never before a human. The few minutes it takes for the bar to load feel like a millennium. Finally, the machine beeps, and Hank grins. Harriett and Emerich grin, too. It’s happening.
“Thank you, Jerry. You are dismissed.”
Emerich doesn’t fully comprehend what happens next. The security staff members from the corners of the room encroach on the test subject, each grabbing a wrist, which startles Jerry.
“Agh! Hey, um, is this supposed to happen? Sorry, I, ah, wasn’t expecting to be arrested today…” He chuckles anxiously, whipping his head left and right to try and look at his captors. He gapes at Hank, gazing pleadingly for answers, but his practitioner is focused on the ground, where a thin beam of concentrated light is moving methodically back and forth on the tile like a 3-D printer. With a sound like clinking glass or perhaps ice cubes crackling in water, the beam outlines shoes. Then ankles clad in cuffed jeans.
“Oh my god,” whispers Jerry, momentarily forgetting his struggle. He stares.
“Oh…my god.” Emerich turns to the woman beside him. “It’s working! Yes!” He cackles in glee. She looks at him with a half smile. He turns back to the glass, nearly pressing himself against it, watching as that muscular torso is built up by nanoscopic crystalline particles. The intercom chimes in with Harriett’s voice.
“Test subject 1, Jerry S. Fisher has completed his trial. Thank you, Mr. Fisher, and have a good day.”
Hank nods nonchalantly backward toward the guards without looking back.
“Please, as discussed.”
Emerich tears his eyes away from the creation of man. He freezes. Jerry is handcuffed behind his back, looking like a caged animal as he’s led away by the security personnel. There’s a click of the recording ending as he’s dragged away. The willowy engineer sits, dumbfounded, staring at the brown-haired woman beside him. He acts impulsively, pushing her out of the way of the intercom mic and gripping his hands on the console. He slams the push-to-talk.
“Hank! What the hell was that? What—“ He whirls around to Harriet now, looking frantically back and forth between his two labmates with wide eyes. “What are you doing with him?”
Harriett puts a hand on his shoulder, baiting his eyes away from the observation room.
“It doesn’t concern you now—“
“Rhiner! Dreadway!” Hank calls, his voice bursting with excitement.
Before him stands Jerry Fisher, as he was minutes ago. Hank lowers the projector. His hands tremble.
“We did it.”
Emerich blinks. He puts a hand to the glass, staring at the second coming of Jerry Fisher, who is talking casually to Hank Hart below. He notices now that his own hands tremble, too. He takes steps back, almost tripping and falling but catching himself on a desk. Harriet looks at him, concerned, but turns to the door, presumably to join Hank in celebration. She shoots him a warning stare.
“Emerich. I know what you’re thinking. It’s going to be okay, okay?” She sighs, faltering before making her exit. “Do not make me report you. You can continue to help us or leave quietly. It’s the best ultimatum I can offer you.” She disappears through the door.
Emerich stands still, feeling the weight of everything crashing in on him in an anxious panic. It feels like he’s in a vacuum; his sense of reality and everything around him is warping, and he feels like he’s being sucked through a wormhole. Everything is too much and too heavy, and the consequences too dire to comprehend. He knows he doesn’t have much time to make a decision. Harriett has left her clipboard. He looks around quickly before stashing the papers, crumpled up in balls, in his pockets. He jogs to his workstation, stuffing blueprints in a shoulder bag and grabbing as many hard light prisms as he can. Finally, he takes a deep breath before securely wiping personal files from his hard drive. As quickly as he can in his current nervous state, he runs a program to delete as many mentions of his name as possible that exist in the Dentonic Cloud. Then, with one last look through the window at his newest creation, he covers his head with his cowl, tightens the strap on his very full bag, and turns tail, running out of the complex.
The 150th celebration rages on in Ephemera, one of the few corporate holidays on the calendar where regular old people get to share in the joy of gifts, entertainment, and food, without the inflated Dentonic price tag. Though the main celebration centers around Dentonic’s HQ at the Gallspire, this doesn’t stop the other layers from having their own get-togethers. In Ustaben, Mayor Paul Pantry organizes a prize raffle; in Gutter City, the Dusk Hotel holds a cocktail event; and only God with a capital G knows what sort of after party Passion’s Cove will be hosting.
Emerich knows he can’t return to his apartment that night. He knows the Citizen Experience team is probably already looking for him, which is not great, to say the least. He scuttles out of the building through a back entrance and manages to hop the bi-rail without being stopped. He pours over the paperwork from his seat. Luckily, he’s one of very few passengers on the rail this afternoon, but he hunches over so that no cameras or prying eyes can catch what he’s reading. The crumpled papers he’d lifted from Harriett are a step-by-step process of the work to be completed that day. He scans the documents with wild eyes. Jerry, Test Subject 1, was to be “Terminated from Dentonic.”
“Terminated? Holy shit…” The man whispers, crumpling the papers back into his pockets and rocking back and forth.
“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck shit…”
After 30 grueling, anxiety-filled minutes on the train, he leaves behind New Glenville and exits at Ephemera. He knows security will be tight here, but he will likely be able to blend in with the crowd while the festival is going on.
He should be able to make something useful to aid his journey out of the cores he brought along, some sort of Hardlight locator, he’s thinking— but first, he’s going to need some scrap. And he happens to know just where Dentonic’s old dumping ground used to be.