Hearing made life a lot harder in Pacifa. The constant dissonance of millions of people moving, talking, and living—the speeders and hovercrafts maneuvering a labyrinth of buildings and adjacent elevators—the hum of terrawatts of power running over, under, and through everything. Though most of it was metal, the city felt like it had its own heartbeat in the sky.

Ducking his head down to pass through the crowds, Mikah thanked every god he could think of that he couldn’t hear. Still, he felt the tide of people crash into him; a nudge in the arm here, an elbow to the face there. Walking the streets felt like a free speeder crash simulation. Despite it all, he moved forward with the current, a meter and a half of inconspicuousness drowned out by life, machines, and, loudest of all, power.

He was barely able to squeeze his way out of the human river and make it to his CM complex’s branch off. Mikah paused and let himself lay against the wall nearest him. He closed his eyes, feeling the vibrations of dozens of others passing him, but the residual neon purple, pink, and blues of city life lingered in the dark. Opening his eyes, Mikah stared up at the sky above him. Past the hovercrafts that he could never afford, and the speeders he could never see, to the stars that were never there.

Mikah, like most of the people in Pacifa, would never see the real stars. The city was layered like a cake, and the sweetest parts were at the top, coated in icing, while the core was left to rot. The stars he saw were only part of the artificial atmosphere Sutra Company was in charge of maintaining so that its hundred million workers wouldn’t forget the dream: work for the future.

He was only 14, but kids grew up fast in the Labyrinth. Mikah watched people, 60, 70, 80, all slave their last years away and still never see anything real. People could live until they’re 100 and they’d still drop dead no more than a mile from their CM complex.

 It didn’t matter how hard you worked, why you worked, who you worked for, or what kind of work you did, all that mattered was that you worked.

16 hours a day.

112 hours a week.

480 hours a month.

5,760 hours a year.

460,800 hours a life.

Mikah lost interest with the stars a long time ago anyways.

Jogging through the trash and peoples littering the branch, taking the elevator up, and evading his next-door neighbor who always found a way to get him to take care of her T-cat, Mikah finally made it home. The door slid shut behind him and he heard the magnetic seals click into place, and he let himself completely decompress.

The bed squeaked beneath his weight but the only indication he got of that was a face full of blankets. He groaned loudly and let himself lay on the cool bedding, his sweat, and probably the sweat of the thousand-other people who touched him, slowly coming off him. He rolled onto his side and felt himself wince from a cramp he didn’t know he had.

With another groan and a lengthy full body stretch, Mikah was back on his feet—only slightly worse for wear.

He made his way to the bedroom window as the chime of one of the many colorful devices in his room went off. He was there just in time to see the wide viewscreens on every building, which all displayed real time traffic congestion, pause. It was an instant silence that lingered against the physical hum of the city’s coursing blood.

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Mikah felt everything in the city stop, and he knew he’d never know, but this is what he imagined real silence to be like. No moving, no vibrations, just stillness. He took it in for the ten seconds it lasted, before the screens all changed to the daily Production report.

There was something surreal to the whole thing. A screen showed the statistics and data of every last person on Pacifa, but ocular implants imbedded at birth meant only you could see you. Everyone looked to the same thing but saw something different. Mikah read his information carefully.

He had managed the full 16 hours today, his vitals were steady, his temperature normal, and his mood designated content. He just wished that they would get rid of the green warning alert that always reminds him of how his hearing is deteriorating. You would think that after a childhood of being deaf he’d be able to gather that much himself.

Still he read through it all, the unnecessary reports on his bodily functions, the determinations of his mental health, all of it. Those numbers and words changed day to day. The one number that didn’t change was his calculated life expectancy.

76 years.

Or in Pacific speak, 437,760 hours.

Running his hands through his hair, Mikah felt how sweaty his forehead really was. He turned from the large street monitors to a smaller one in his room. It was nestled on a desk cluttered with paper figurines and objects. Brushing them aside, Mikah sat down on a chair in front of the monitor and stared into the dark screen.

For a moment, nothing happened, but then the screen lit up in a grid of the same neon patterns as the city around him.  Mikah didn’t blink or turn away and the grid eventually changed to a warm hue of red that instantly felt easier on his eyes.

Hello, Master Mikah.

Text appeared across the screen beneath a mouth that looked eerily real. The grid flipped several times a second to create the realistic movements of the image along with the text, all the while fluctuating through different but close shades of red.

Congratulations on completing your 14th year under the employ of Sutra Engineering. We are happy to have you as a valued employee working towards a better future together.

The mouth stopped moving and immediately curled into a smile as fake as Ms. Mettie’s T-cat.

I promise the joy and pleasure I derive from serving and congratulating you, Master Mikah, is not fake.

There was the smile again…

Mikah took a moment to breathe and clear his thoughts so that he could have a basic conversation with Delien without it reading his other thoughts.

(Hello, Delien, thank you for the congratulations.)

No, thank you, Master Mikah.

(Delien, do you think you could show me one of the livefeeds?)

A livefeed of what exactly, Master Mikah?

Mikah huffed in exasperation. He only ever watched one thing.

(Of the fucking Towers, you dumbass.)

I wish you wouldn’t insult me so, Master Mikah. There is currently only one livefeed from the Towers, would you like me to redirect you there now?

Mikah winced, he hadn’t meant to insult Delien but he had gotten too frustrated to moderate his thoughts. He wanted to apologize but wouldn’t that be a waste of time? Delien was just a program anyways…

(Sorry… yes, please redirect me now. Thank you, Delien.)

Happy to serve, Master Mikah.

The grid reset from the array of varying red to the neon light show again.

Mikah felt like an ass but he didn’t dwell on it for too long. He could feel the anticipation building in him. He had worked all day to see this. To see one of the towers holding Pacifa in the sky. To see his heroes. He could only hope that it was the South Tower this time. It had been so long since they saw any action, and in general that’d be a good thing, but not when your only form of entertainment is watching this and only this.

Slowly the grid recalibrated itself, the panels changing faster than Mikah could even perceive. It took a total of 30 seconds for the Sutra Company logo, a large S within a heart, to show on the screen. The view changed and finally, Mikah saw it.

Livefeed…

Livefeed of the South Tower.

Mikah leaned in closer to the monitor, a goofy smile growing on his face as he saw his heroes get ready to put on one hell of a show.