The air inside the food processing plant was thick with the metallic tang of machinery and the faint, cloying scent of preserved produce. The rhythmic hum of conveyor belts filled the cavernous space, broken occasionally by the hiss of steam or the clang of metal parts.

Mira stood at her station; her hands encased in dull, beige gloves that stretched up past her wrists. She wore a standard-issue white jumpsuit and a matching cap that covered most of her head, though her dark brown hair, hastily tied into a messy bun, escaped in wisps around her face.

Her station was one of many along a long, unending conveyor belt. A series of translucent, vacuum-sealed packets of synthetic food rolled toward her in neat rows. Each packet bore the Rook Enterprises logo, a constant reminder of Rooks iron grip on every aspect of life in this section of the undercity.

Mira's job was monotonously simple, inspect each packet, ensure the seal was intact, and optionally discard any that didn't meet quality standards into a nearby chute. Mira's hands moved mechanically as she adjusted the settings on the large industrial machine in front of her, the hum of machinery filling the air around her. The food processing plant was a sprawling, noisy place, its vast concrete walls lined with rows of metal counters, conveyor belts, and hulking machines that never seemed to stop.

A constant rhythmic pounding echoed through the space; the sound of raw ingredients being processed into the packaged goods that would soon fill the shelves of stores. The air was thick with the scent of oil, salt, and the metallic tang of the machines themselves. With strands of hair escaping from Mira’s cap in frayed wisps that clung to the back of her neck, damp with sweat.

Her jumpsuit clung to her skin, the fabric a dark shade of gray, a uniform she'd worn so many times it felt like a second skin. Despite the factory's grueling pace, she moved with a practiced fluidity, her eyes darting between the control panels and the conveyor belts as she monitored the flow of products.

She moved mechanically, her gloved hands flipping and turning the packets with practiced ease. Her eyes darted Over the printed expiration dates and barcode stamps, scanning for any irregularities. It was a routine she'd performed so many times that her body worked almost independently of her mind. She could feel the heat radiating from the machines, the warmth of the work environment and the tension it brought.

Mira's work at the plant was relentless, there was never a moment of rest. It was a place where time blurred into itself, where minutes felt like hours as the repetitive tasks stretched out before her. Yet, there was a strange comfort in this monotony. She didn't have to think too hard. The machinery took care of the technical details, and Mira simply followed the rhythm.

It was a rhythm she had long since memorized. Her brow furrowed as a mechanical arm began to sputter. The product output slowed, and the conveyor belt groaned in protest. Mira's fingers tightened on the controls; her knuckles white against the smooth metal of the console. A few other workers glanced her way, but no one moved to help.

This was part of the deal; they were all responsible for their own stations. The sense of camaraderie that might have existed once had long since been replaced with the cold reality of survival in the plant. She muttered to herself under her breath, adjusting the dials with swift, efficient movements, the gears clicking into place.

A soft beep signaled that the problem had been fixed, and the conveyor belt hummed to life once more. Mira exhaled, her shoulders dropping slightly as the weight of the moment lifted. She wiped a few beads of sweat from her brow and continued with her task, but the nagging thought that had been with her all day lingered in the back of her mind.

Mira sighed, wiping the back of her hand against her forehead, though it did little to dispel the faint sheen of sweat that clung to her skin. The old jumpsuit, supposedly breathable, felt stifling in the plant's heat. She glanced at the old clock mounted high on one of the walls, its digits glowing faintly through a layer of grime. Three more hours.

Nearby, her coworker Reina, an older woman with graying hair peeking from beneath her cap, let out a chuckle. "Another day in paradise, huh, Mira?" she called over the noise, her voice tinged with dry humor. Mira smirked faintly, not looking up from the packet in her hands. "Yeah, living the dream.

Don't know what I'd do without all this glamour." Reina laughed, though it quickly turned into a cough, the air's particulate grit catching in her throat.

She waved it off, returning to her own inspection station. The plant's overhead lights cast a harsh, orangish glow over everything, making the Workers' skin appear dirtier and lifeless. Mira's eyes stung slightly from the constant brightness, but she ignored it, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of her work.

Her thoughts wandered, though, as they often did during these long shifts. She thought of Kite, her son, her light in the oppressive undercity gloom. Was he still at school? Had he eaten anything today?

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She hated being away from him for so many hours, hated the way her shifts kept her from being the kind of mother she wanted to be. But this job, soul-crushing as it was, helped keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. The conveyor belt lurched back to life with a jolt, and Mira snapped out of her thoughts.

A packet tumbled onto her station; the seal partially torn. She sighed, tossing it into the reject chute. Her motions became sharper, more deliberate, as frustration built inside her. It wasn't just the work or the heat or the endless hours. It was the weight of everything, the system that kept them trapped, the corporations that bled them dry, the ever-present fear of what might happen if she stumbled, even once.

A loudspeaker crackled overhead, the plant supervisor's voice cutting through the din. "Attention, all shifts: we're increasing output quotas by 15% effective immediately. Adjust your pace accordingly:" Groans rippled through the plant floor, a collective sigh of exhaustion and resignation.

Mira's jaw tightened, gloved hands gripping the edge of the conveyor belt for a moment. She glanced toward Reina, who shook her head with a grimace. "Fifteen percent? Do they think we're machines?" Reina muttered.

"They don't think about us at all" Mira replied, her voice low and bitter. She straightened; her movements brisk as she returned to her task. There was no use complaining; they both knew it.

The plant supervisors didn't care about their struggles. To them, the workers were just cogs in a vast, profit-driven machine. The hours dragged on, each minute a small battle against the numbing repetition and the ache in her back and legs.

Yet Mira pressed forward, her hands steady, her resolve unbroken. As the conveyor belt rattled on and the packets kept coming, she thought of Kite again. For him, she told herself, setting another defective packet into the chute. For him, keep going.

The breakroom was a cramped, fluorescent-lit space tucked away at the edge of the processing plant, offering little reprieve from the chaos outside. The hum of machinery was faint here but still ever-present, a reminder that the work never truly stopped. Metal benches and plastic tables were bolted to the floor, scratched and worn from years of use. Mira sat at one of the tables with Reina, their lunches in front of them, a bland assortment of ration packs and reheated leftovers. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale food.

Mira tore open a foil packet, releasing a puff of steam that carried the synthetic aroma of a chicken-flavored protein mash. She stirred it with a small, plastic spork, her dark eyes flicking over to Reina, who was carefully unwrapping a sandwich she’d brought from home.

"What's on the menu today?" Mira asked with a faint smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

Reina chuckled, holding up her sandwich. “Peanut butter and jelly. Classic. What about you? Gourmet plant special?” “Chicken mush, as always.” Mira grimaced but managed a weak laugh. “At least it’s warm.”

The two women ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the rhythmic clatter of utensils filling the quiet. Mira leaned back slightly, letting out a sigh as she finally relaxed, if only for a short while.

“So, how’s your granddaughter?” Mira asked, her tone softening. She knew Reina cherished any opportunity to talk about her family.

“Oh, she’s a handful,” Reina replied, her eyes lighting up as she smiled. “Sophie’s learning to walk now, keeps trying to pull herself up on everything. Fell right into the coffee table the other day, scared us half to death, but she just laughed like it was a game. Kids are tougher than we think.”

Mira smiled genuinely at that. “That’s adorable. I can just imagine her little face, all determined and stubborn.” “She’s got her mother’s fire, that’s for sure,” Reina said proudly. “What about Kite? How’s he doing?”

Mira’s expression softened further, her tired eyes brightening a bit. “He’s... he’s good. Smart as ever. He’s been messing around with little gadgets he finds. The other day, he showed me this busted drone he salvaged. It didn’t even have all its parts, but somehow, he got the thing to hover. Just for a second, but still. I don’t even know where Dorian had the time to teach him that.”

“Sounds like a genius in the making,” Reina said warmly. “You must be so proud.” “I am,” Mira admitted, her voice quieter. “But... it’s hard, you know? I work all these hours, and I feel like I’m missing so much of his life. I hate leaving him alone so much, but I can’t afford to do anything else.”

Reina nodded knowingly, her smile fading as the weight of their realities settled over the conversation. “Yeah, I get it. My daughter used to say the same thing when Sophie was born. We do what we have to, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

Mira sighed, her fingers idly stirring her protein mash. “It’s not just that. This place, it grinds you down. Every day feels harder than the last, and they just keep piling on more. Fifteen percent more today. Do they even realize how impossible that is? Or do they just not care?”

Reina scoffed, setting her sandwich down. “You already know the answer to that. We’re numbers to them, Mira. Nothing more. As long as we hit their quotas, they couldn’t care less about what it costs us.”

“I know,” Mira murmured. “But it still gets to me. Every time I hear that damn announcement, I feel like I’m suffocating. Like no matter how hard I work, it’ll never be enough.”

Reina reached across the table and gave Mira’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not fair, but you’re not alone in this. We’re all stuck in the same mess, and somehow, we’ll get through it. You’ve got Kite and Dorian, and they are worth every sacrifice.”

Mira looked down at their joined hands and nodded, forcing a small smile. “Thanks, Reina. I needed that.” The breakroom door creaked open, and a supervisor poked his head in, his expression neutral but impatient. “Break’s over in five, ladies. Don’t be late.”

Reina rolled her eyes as he left, muttering under her breath, “Five minutes to pretend we’re human before they turn us back into machines.” Mira chuckled weakly, packing up her uneaten food. “Back to the slog, huh?”

“Back to the slog,” Reina echoed with a resigned sigh. They stood together, the brief respite over, and headed back to the plant floor. The noise of the machines rose to greet them, swallowing them whole once more.