I’ve known these faces for as long as I can remember, some I have grown up with, others were on this train before my time: the old man with his eyes toward the ceiling, glazed with blindness; the woman in the stained, ragged ruby coat that always gave me a toothless grin; a man, around my age, limping along with a leg broken beyond fully healing from a fall when he was a toddler; a tired woman absently trying to smooth the frayed brown hair lying across her shoulders. Our movements came from memory; each step was the same as the last we had set here.

We had all been on this train for years. It looped us from the depths of the mile-high city to the squalid little town that provided the income to continue to live in this mundane existence, and then back to whatever dwelling we called “home”. It was dependable, albeit rank with decades of untold things I did not want to think of.

York: a simple name for a town that used to be vibrant and full of life. One of the few remaining habitable areas outside of the city, York housed a mine deep enough to swallow the massive city just a few miles from its borders. Too deep, of course, for a living person to explore fully. The mouth of the mine opened into the center of the town, a gaping maw that continuously steamed. Covered by a dome several centuries ago, York no longer saw much true daylight through its dingy shield. Machinery had replaced the miners before I started working there, leaving workers to the safer areas to clean and sort their findings. Having depleted the precious metals and gems before the last Uprising, the officials of the city found that there was another resource in the depths of the earth: Sicatta eggs. Deemed a delicacy, the eggs became highly valued after their discovery during the excavation of a collapsed tunnel. Mining them was dangerous as the Sicatta, a monstrously large lizard similar in shape to a monitor, would sometimes follow the scent to our sorting tables and enjoyed a quick snack or two. Having witnessed such a meal today, I was ready to be out of the damp earth for good.

Closing my eyes against visions of lizards did nothing to break the familiar heartbeat of the ride. There was the rattle as we passed the power station. We would be dropping under the old power lines soon; the sudden decline of the tracks was unmistakable. Electricity in this area became virtually nonexistent, leaving the hanging lines dead. The tracks lifted again and the train settled on its plane with a distinct groan. We would spend a short time speeding along tracks above the ground, the dim haze of the city piercing through the crusted windows. The next section had every new rider holding their breath – a five-foot section of track jumped by the train, speeding up as it approached. We would feel the wheels catch every once in a while but none of us paid it much attention. Not long after would be a short sweep to the left, followed by a long curve back to the right as we made our way around the coal terminal, its black mountains swallowing the light on the brightest days.

Occasionally, the train’s brakes hissed and squealed their rejection to our stopping, throwing us to the front of the car. A quick glance through the crusted glass would tell us that another beam had fallen across the track. Being suspended thirty feet in the air, on centuries old rails, we had little to do but wait as the debris cleared. Most passengers would fall asleep in their seat, their age allowing for such comforts. The rest of us stared at each other, emotionless. With a groan, the train would begin to move again. As we passed the outer wall of the city, never leaving the dome that covered the remnants of the outside civilization, the car darkened and the familiar smell of the city filled the air.

The flickering lights did little to illuminate the ancient car, emphasizing instead its decrepit state. The sickly green vinyl of the seating, whose foam stuffing was flattened or missing, appeared almost brown. The handrails were once gleaming, now pitted with rust. The few remaining shelves were broken, barely able to hold a bag without giving out. Perhaps this was once a clean mode of transportation, conveying its passengers from the suburbs of life into the neon temptations of the big city. That, however, was long before the time of our grandparents. The city had since fallen prey to its own vices, decaying from the inside. Eventually, it had eaten its way to the outlying areas. The trees had become few, flowers barely grew, and grass became nearly extinct. Crime and concrete became commonplace. Smoke and smog became thick as fog. It was not a place to raise families – then again, I was not sure if there was such a place suitable for procreation.

The hissing of a door broke us out of whatever trance we had slipped. The sound was unusual as travel between cars was rare. The man standing on our side of the vestibule looked around but never met our eyes. Recognizing him as one of the workers who fled the mine with me, I watched him. Silently, he sank slowly into the worn out springs of the seat next to the brown haired woman. The train whistle vibrated the windows, quickly erasing the man from my mind.

“Doc- -ive: Pa- -mer –ation.” The computerized voice, crackling and distorted, came across the speakers. This was my stop. My body moved, without thought, toward the door. Stepping onto the platform was automated; my feet knew where they needed to go. Trudging through the station, not bothering to dodge people or look around, I could recall the details that surrounded me. The faded sign that hung above the crowd: Dock Five: Palmer Station. Missing and broken bricks from the columns holding the canopy. The tiles on the walls were once white, but time turned them yellow or stole them altogether. A woman sat along the wall of the station, the same location she always sat, holding her hand out to passersby, weakly begging for anything they could spare. I usually dropped a credit or two, making it look as though it fell out of worn pockets. Her spidery arms would scoop the credits up as if they were sweet flies lured into her trap. We were all the same: weary faces living in this section of town, mindlessly trudging through the dark, rank depths of this level.

The path home lay just off the main road. A line of dirt pointed the way through mounds of refuse and scrap to the tarnished hull of a Dolphin class submarine. Relief swept over me, as I knew I would soon find my bed. The metal of the hollowed war machine had held up quite well to the decades of abuse it had endured, not only during its life under the water but also after it had been decommissioned and cut apart. Splitting the length of the torpedo-shaped sub gave it a level floor. Long ago, scrappers had cut the tail and propellers off, creating the entry door that opened out. Recessed lights flickered on as I entered the stripped control room. What once housed the equipment to control the engines was now furnished with a few rudimentary tables and sitting areas. Blindly passing through the cooking area, I was making my way to the old crew quarters, stepping over each bulkhead as I went. It was not much but it allowed me to relax. Slipping off my boots, I crawled under the wool blanket on my low bed. A multi-colored kitten mewed from the floor and attempted to jump up. After a few failed landings, she proceeded to cry louder. Knowing she would not stop until she was with me, I picked up the scrawny feline. My reward was a wet nose smearing across my face, several pieces of fur stuck to my lip, and a purring ball curled up under my chin. It was not long before we were both asleep.

Shots rang out, followed by the screams of several people. Anya, awakened from her restless sleep, instinctively rolled from her cot to the cold metal floor. She held her breath, listening to the commotion outside her quarters. The fury of the muffled voices filtered through her mind, unrecognizable. Anya let her breath out, slowly, and continued to listen as the keypad to her home started to beep. She slid her hand across the floor to the sheath on her hip. Pushing herself off the floor, she opened the snap on the sheath and drew her blade as the heavy metal door began to open. Moving swiftly and silently, she made her way forward over the bulkheads then pressed herself against the wall, ready to strike.

“You don’t need to attack me.” Came a deep, rumbling voice. Anya let out a sigh of relief as a tall man stepped through the door.

“One of these days, you’re going to get hurt,” Anya slid the knife back into her belt. She motioned toward the corridor. “What was that about?”

The man picked up the tiny calico kitten rubbing along his legs then sat in one of the two chairs in the room, his long legs propped on the low table in front of him. He shrugged. “What is any of it about? Food, territory, drugs. If you can name it, that’s what it was about.” Anya closed the door, the metal grinding against itself as she set the lock. “I see that you are vigilant as ever,” he said with a slight smile as he rubbed the kitten’s neck.

“I have to be,” Anya sat heavily in the chair next to her companion. “Who knows what will come through that door.” She pushed her auburn hair behind her ears as she stared at the dark man before her. They were opposites in many ways: her light complexion was a sharp contrast to his ebony skin; his dark brown eyes versus her deep green. Although her height was average, the man’s large muscular frame dwarfed Anya’s smaller lean build. His demeanor was usually cheerier than hers was as well. Finding her when she was fourteen, Tyrone N’Gali considered himself responsible for her well-being. She had pickpocketed him, though not being very stealthy. This young woman, with piercing eyes, brought back a memory. Following her to the building she called home, he decided to learn more about her. Twelve years her senior, he watched over her, taught her to defend herself, provided for her until she was able to.

“Well,” he sighed, “are you ready to get this over with?” Setting the kitten on the floor, he dropped his feet from the table. He punched a code in the keypad of Anya’s door and opened.

“Explain to me again, Ty, why this involves me?” Anya slid her feet into her leather boots. Dropping a handful of food in a bowl, she followed her friend, locking the door behind her.

“I’m not sure,” Ty answered as the pair walked along. “All I know is you were picked to go to the NCC. I hear there are medical exams. Official rumor is that they are looking for disease.”

“Well, they don’t have to worry about me, then.” Anya said with a sneer. “I’ve never been higher than Seventeen.”

Ty glanced at his friend. “At least you’ve never been lower than Eight, either.” Living in the middle levels of the city offered refuge from a majority of the pollution that reportedly deformed the inhabitants below. Rumors of grotesque creatures roaming the bottom levels kept even the most hardened citizens away from the gates that lead down.

Ty and Anya walked along the crowded streets of the city. Once, long ago, this was a bustling town, full of prosperity. Like most things, it had outlived its usefulness as it became too small to house the ever-growing population. Buildings grew and lower levels forgotten. Bridges and walkways connected the buildings above and garish signs on the storefronts replaced sunlight. Merchants had begun to use orphaned children to sell their wares after the last war. Anya’s scattered memories replayed scenes of beatings and nights of endless hunger, caused by the merchant that she served. Anya, like so many others, learned the ways of the streets at too young an age. She found out, quickly, who could be stolen from, when to run, and the treasured few that could be trusted. Tyrone had become one of the few people she learned to trust.

The busy street opened up like the mouth of a river. Swarms of people flooded the courtyard surrounding the elevators. Garden beds, once lush and beautiful, lay as desolate reminders of the splendor this area once held and garbage sat in piles along the walkways. Anya’s hand rested on the handle of her blade as they walked. She had spent most of her free time in this courtyard as a child. From watching the myriad of thieves that plagued these areas, she had learned behaviors that enabled her to avoid losing the possessions she carried on her person. The knife she wore was one of the few treasures she had and she was not going to let it go easily.

A young woman cried out as a man pushed her against a gate, his face, flushed with intoxication, close to hers. A few incoherent words and his hand landed squarely across her cheek. Anya began to push through the crowd, anger rising in her after witnessing the strike. The man raised his hand a second time. As the woman braced herself for the blow, the man dropped his hand and took a step back. The faint light piercing the gate had landed upon a broken respirator, its owner pulling haggard breaths through the filter. The broken faceplate revealed someone’s right eye, deep gray in color. The woman scrambled away as the masked figure approached the gate, reaching through the bars to her. Clothing hung loosely across its arm, preventing any skin to show. Its hand, with long outstretched fingers, hid inside a well-made, yet worn, leather glove.

“Safe?” Its low voice gurgled through the respirator.

“Stay away from her!” The man stood between the gate and the woman he had just slapped. “Stay away from her, you freak.”

The gray eye looked from the man to the woman. The creature pointed at the man. “Dangerous.” A bushy eyebrow angled over the eye in what seemed like a glare.

“Shut up!” The man lunged forward, grabbing the arm of the stranger before it could recoil. A growl rumbled in the chest of the man as he pulled the masked figure against the iron bars. “I’ll show you dangerous.”

The creature slammed against the gate as it came forward. As the man holding it drew close, Anya watched as it reached up, grabbing the man’s hair with its free hand. A quick jerk reversed the hold, bringing the red-faced man against the barrier.

“Bad man!” The respirator hissed as the figure spoke.

Ty leapt forward, grabbing the man’s shirt from against the gate. Anya followed. Bracing herself against the gate, she attempted to pry the figure’s gloved hand from its hold. With the crowd shouting and the woman crying out, Anya and Ty struggled to free the man from his captor. Slipping her arms through the bars, Anya grabbed the filter of the respirator. She felt the grip of leather on her wrist as the drunk man moved.

“Not yours!” Came a hiss. “Let go!” Anya pulled down on the mask, its bearer forced to follow. Regaining its foothold, the figure glared up at Anya but quickly released its grip and simply stared at the blue-eyed woman. The voice crackled as it made its way through the filter of the mask. “Is it you?” It reached out to touch Anya’s face.

Ty, after removing the intoxicated man from the gate, returned to assist his comrade. A quick swoop of his massive arms brought Anya to her feet.

“No! Wait!” She wrestled herself from Ty’s grip but the figure had slinked into the darkness of the corridor. Confused, Ty stood beside her at the gate, a questioning look on his face. Anya sighed lightly at the emptiness before her.

The cleanliness of their clothing made them stand out against the filthy rabble that gave them a wide berth. They talked to each other in hushed tones, ignoring the stares of those around them. I knew immediately who they were, and I did not want to cross their path. The Brotherhood had been law keepers of the city for centuries. Their methods may have been effective but they were also brutal, often leaving “suspects” broken and unrecognizable. Rumors circulated recently that members were using their ranking to obtain favors from subordinates or citizens. The once proud occupation had devolved into nothing more than a mafia.

Ty, seemingly humored by Anya’s hesitation, approached the men. Unable to hear their conversation, she waited impatiently. One of the men seemed to nod beneath his hood and the men moved aside. Ty bowed his head slightly then waved her forward.

“I thought they’d never move. Where to?” The woman behind the counter asked gruffly. She was much shorter than Anya, with wild red hair that was in desperate need of tending. Her fingernails, inordinately long, boasted paint that rivaled the color of her hair. Her clothing clung tight to her apple shaped torso and adorned with the insignia of her position. For being from the middle of the City, her uniform was in excellent condition, causing her to stand out amongst her filthy surroundings.

“Level 18.” Anya answered, keeping the hooded men in her peripheral.

As the woman poked at her computer screen, Anya dared a glance. Their thick clothing seemed odd to her; the temperature in the middle levels never dropped below seventy degrees. Black cloaks, quite efficient at hiding most of their body, were adorned with a silver insignia reflected the ticket counter’s neon light. Feeling a sneer begin, as she looked them over, Anya studied the intricately embroidered hoods, becoming aware that one of the men was watching her. He nodded silently, his own blue eyes flashing in the glare of the light. Anya stiffened, turning her attention back to the woman who had begun to growl at her computer.

Ty leaned close. “Do you know him?”

“Of course not.” She snapped in a harsh, hushed tone.

The clerk yanked a ticket from the printer with a triumphant howl, startling those surrounding her. “That’s two hundred sixty-two credits.” She said as she smiled. Thrusting her empty hand out to me, she waved the ticket in the other.

“Are you crazy?” Anya practically shrieked. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

The woman’s grin fell. “Then your broke butt isn’t going anywhere.” Slamming the ticket on the counter, she poked at her computer again then stood back with her arms crossed.

Already annoyed, Anya took a piece of vellum from her pocket. “Look, I need to get up there.” Her fingers refused to cooperate as she tried to unfold it. “I have this summons, and if I don’t go…” She looked up and fell silent. The woman’s face had turned a deep red. “What?”

“If you had started with that, I wouldn’t have wasted my time with this piece of junk.” The woman’s red hair seemed on fire as she bustled around her station. With a huff, she tossed an orange wristband at me. “This will give you access to floors six through twenty.” She stated in monotone, the red draining from her face as she fell into her memorized routine. “This pass is valid for one week. If you lose your pass, you will not get a second one. If your pass is stolen, you will not get a second one. Please sign here.” She thrust a paper across the counter toward Anya, who simply stared at it, lost in confusion over the change of attitude. “Please sign here.” She said, stabbing her stubby finger at the paper with each word. As the clerk snapped the band to Anya’s wrist, a hooded man stepped forward.

“Excuse me. May I see your summons?” The man’s voice was gentle and clear. He extended his hand to receive the vellum writ. “Perhaps I can give direction.”

Ty pulled me away as she stared blankly at the man. “Thank you, Sir. I’ve got her.”

Anya turned to Ty as they approached the elevator. “Okay, what was that?”

“I’m not sure.” Ty watched the hooded men. “Must be important. You’ve got their attention.” He said. The men had turned toward them, mumbling to each other as the elevator hissed as it engaged its brakes. “And this is where I leave you.” Ty placed his hands heavily on Anya’s shoulders. “Now, don’t talk to strangers. Do not eat it if it is still moving. Watch where you step.” With a snicker, she rolled her eyes at her friend’s attempt at humor. His voice dropped as he lifted her chin. “Seriously, kid. Be careful.”

“Going to tell me to wash my hands too?” Anya stepped onto the lift. The platform was nothing more than a large computerized disc, carried between levels by a combination of pistons, chains and cables. Easily twenty feet in diameter, it was capable of holding large groups of people. Anya stood near the center of the elevator. The movement of the other passengers coming and going threatened to make her nauseous. A tone sounded, signaling the loading and unloading of passengers was to halt. As people continued to hurry back and forth, the railing began to raise from the edge of the elevator. A sickly transparent yellow, the railing rose nearly five feet. Anya swallowed hard. It was, after all, the first time she had been between levels in a long time.

The lift gave a slight shudder as it started toward the next level. Anya’s friend shrank as she ascended. His dark skin stood out, even among the throng of dirty passersby. Tyrone’s somber expression made her uneasy. Perhaps he knew something; perhaps she was just paranoid because it has been so long since she went up-city. Ty’s shape started to blend with the mass now, indiscernible from the rest. Concern began to grow in Anya; while she was fairly versed in self-defense, she was certain she would be no match for the soldiers or mercenaries that were on the higher levels. Her hand went to her silver blade, its cold steel giving her some relief.

The angled incline of the elevator gave Anya the opportunity to view much of the city before it disappeared in the nether region between levels. From above, the city was full of life and color. Neon lights blinked and flooded areas with reds, yellows, and blues. The occasional screen flickered an advertisement or news.

A young redheaded child pushed past her, eager to watch the buildings ooze by us. She had been that age the first time she traveled between levels. Costina Bergera: a loud woman living on little, wanting everyone to think she lived on much, owned Anya at the time. Usually dressed garishly, Costina viewed herself as more than the poor huddled masses with whom she lived. She had heard of a bachelor looking for a woman to take care of his household. The man was willing to leave his massive estate to this woman if he found her capable of satisfying his needs. Costina, not well versed in how a Lady should truly behave, soon realized his needs did not end in the bedroom. After failing his tests, she returned to her slum house, none the better. In her anger, she had beaten Anya badly, causing the child to be unable to walk without a limp for several months. Shortly after that episode, Costina was removed from her home and forced to sell her wares from a wagon, which frequently found itself involuntarily stripped of its contents. Anya was taken from her and moved into a group home for orphaned children.

Soon after settling in at the orphanage, Anya went exploring without fear of repercussion. Knowing her way around the streets at that time held quite a few advantages: not only did she know places to hide for the night but also who was sympathetic to her situation. Several days had passed before she had found my first gate. The heavy iron grate kept the level’s inhabitants and those that dwelled below separate. A slight fascination kept Anya from venturing far from the hidden alcove close to the barrier. Soft sounds would emanate from the depths though nothing could be seen. At that memory, Anya began to wonder at the masked figure. He, or she, seemed to know her, though she could not imagine how.