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In the depths of Monopolis, on the northern side, two boys stand on an underground bridge. These bridges connect paths drilled through by boreholes that stretch the city downward into a seemingly endless pit. From here, workers pull stone, iron, and gold to build the skyscrapers up on the Surface. The air’s damp, cold, and dusty, but the boys don’t mind. It’s the only life they’ve ever known.
The two boys are at the bridge’s railing, the younger one, around eight years old, is perched on a metal bar between two posts, straining to get a better look below; the older one, in his early teens, is tugging at his arm, trying to pull him down.
“Johnny, get down already,” he says, irritation sharp in his voice. “We gotta get home, momma’s gonna chew me out big time.”
Johnny ignores him and continues staring into the abyss where the lower bridges drop out of sight, and nothing but darkness remains.
“Simon, do you think there’s monsters down there?” he asks, his voice a mix of awe and nerves.
Simon rolls his eyes and gives Johnny’s sleeve another yank.
“No. It’s just rocks and machines. Come on, I’m not getting yelled at because of you.”
He glances around — there’s no one else in sight.
“Let’s move, it’s late already.”
“Can I have five more minutes?” Johnny asks, his voice annoyingly whiny and babyish.
Simon sighs and throws his hands up in the air.
“You’ve already had five more minutes! Twice!”
Johnny sniffles and scrunches his nose as if he’s about to burst into tears like a toddler.
“Fine!” Simon snaps. “Five more minutes, and then we’re outta here!”
Johnny flashes a mischievous grin and turns back to the abyss. His eyes are locked on the darkness, because, for him, it feels like looking at the sky. Not that he’s ever seen the real thing — nobody from down here has been to the Surface. But he’s seen those old movies, the ones showing a night sky that Monopolis hasn’t seen in decades: a vast black canvas sprinkled with tiny crystalline stars. That image is burned into his mind. Gazing into the borehole, he wonders if you could go so deep that you’d somehow end up there, up top, in that endless sky.
Simon, already resigned, leans against the railing next to Johnny. He digs into his jacket pocket, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes he’d swiped from their dad’s stash earlier today. The pack’s worn, its edges are frayed, but it’s a piece of adulthood, and that’s what matters. Simon pulls one out, sticks it between his lips, and lights it with a lighter. It takes him several attempts, as the lighter is almost empty, but the flare briefly lights up his and Johnny’s faces. He inhales deeply and then breathes out, letting the smoke pour out from his lungs.
Johnny glances over.
“You stole his cigarettes?”
Simon shrugs, taking another drag.
“Momma’s gonna kill me for being late anyway. Might as well get a proper beating from them both.”
He leans forward and, mimicking their father’s old habit, spits into the darkness below. The glob disappears into the void, swallowed by the borehole. Simon feels good about it, like he’s tossing out a piece of his frustration.
Johnny tenses up for a second. He wants to go home even lessl now, knowing what probably awaits his brother. He senses that Simon is upset, but doesn’t see a good way of cheering him up. Johnny thinks about it for a few seconds, and then scoots closer to Simon on the railing.
“Lemme try!”
He purses his lips, works up a wad of spit, and lets it fly. It’s a weak effort, barely making it past the edge, but Johnny’s eyes light up.
“Did you see that?”
Simon snorts and flicks ash into the abyss.
“That was pathetic. Watch this.”
He hawks back, loud and dramatic, and launches a thick, glistening spit, which arcs out and manages to catch the faint light before vanishing.
“Beat that, kid.”
Johnny’s eyes narrow.
“Oh, you…”
He scrunches his face, summoning every bit of saliva he can muster, and spits with all the might that can be found in the eight-year-old’s weak little body. This time, his attempt a lot better.
“Ha!”
Simon smirks, takes another drag, and launches forward, as Johnny sees it, a colossus of a spit. It flies far, heavy and perfect.
“That, Johnny, is how you do it.”
The boys go back and forth, laughing and hacking, looking more and more disgusting with each round. The bridge echoes with their hollers, they are lost in their own immaturity. This moment is theirs. Not the Underground’s, not their parents’ — fully theirs.
Though Johnny, as usual, gets caught up in the thrill. He leans too far out, aiming for a record-breaker, and lets loose a massive, messy spit, but his aim’s off. It doesn’t arc into the abyss — it plummets straight down.
A faint, outraged yelp suddenly cuts through the air. The boys freeze as they peer over the edge. Far below, on a lower bridge, a woman in an Underground worker’s jumpsuit is wiping furiously at her shoulder, squinting up into the dark. Her curses, muttered under the breath, echo faintly.
“Oh,” Johnny whispers, his face pale.
Simon grabs his arm, yanking him off the railing.
“Run, moron!”
They bolt, their boots clanging against the metal bridge. Their laughter mixes with panic as they dodge through the narrow tunnels. Behind them, the woman’s voice fades, swallowed by the lifeless hum of Monopolis’s depths.