SIXTEEN, padding down the hallway, dark green paint. Ulysses green, though a shade darker, two darker than my eyes. Lights infrequent, all the doors open, never locked. Krey and I sneak past them into the pillars of the atrium. Odd place, Ulysses’ headquarters. Too tall for the Vents. Too thin to be comfortable, you always gotta wait in a door for people to pass, except the atrium, which is a giant waste of space. He didn’t change it much when he took over.

“Bollocks if I know why,” Krey mutters, staring up into the darkness behind the pillars. “Everything feels wrong, don’t it? Like it’s… ah… you know…”

“Like it’s upside down,” I finish.

Half true, knowing the history. When we were young enough that ghost stories still spooked us- not that they don’t now, no one’s dumb enough to brave places like the Shocks- Ulysses used to take us around the secret hallways and tell us about his base. Different story every time. Sometimes it was a workshop that belonged to rogue maschines, before they got outlawed. Sometimes it was a temple made by Creator cultists, worshippers of the enigmas who made the JOYs. Once, he even tried to convince us the tower was scrap from the overcity that got flipped upside down and welded to the crust.

That one, we did call him out on.

None of the stories are true, but all of them have a little truth in them. All sorts of weird nooks, unusual spots; hallways that don’t have an entrance and doors that go to nowhere. Krey and I figured out a few of the cool ones. What else were we gonna do while Sarah and Dax were out on jobs?

There’s an old water drain somewhere up in the atrium ceiling, fifth pillar from the back door. Grooves in the wall shaped like circuitry, easy to climb. We used to fit in easy. Fifteen years old now, it’s a lot harder than it used to be. For Krey, at least. His shoulders are coming in big. My hips haven’t decided if they’re gonna grow yet.

Vega and Cross, two boxers ten years our senior, walk out of the same hallway we just left. They never look up as they start sweeping the atrium, searching for us. Krey and I watch them just long enough to confirm our escape, nod, and wiggle the rest of the way through.

Tunnels, inside the wall. Square, tall enough to crouch in, ancient concrete grating letting little slats of light through. We creep along stealthy as sparkrats. Counting the grates. One, two, three-

-Bump. I run headfirst into Krey when he stops to look back at something. In the washroom below, prime view into one of the shitters, lid down, two sweating fighters getting it on top.

Krey squints in disgust. “Who fucks in a bathroom?”

“Not you, apparently.”

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“You saying you would?” Glances up, grins at me. “Ah, who am I kidding. You’re a slob. You totally would.”

Freckles wrinkling, I shove him forward with both hands. “Just fucken go already, dude. We’re gonna miss them.”

Krey rolls his eyes. But he does go. I shuffle along behind. Eight grates, a left and a right, five more grates. More light up ahead, a channel where the bottom of the tunnel drops out, lukewarm air stirring a small current. Voices drift along on it. Both older, mature. One woman, one man, two clinking glasses, the telltale sizzle of Sarah’s favorite brand of lighter striking up. I squeeze past Krey to get the first look.

Ulysses’ office is more tall than wide. Big wooden desk on one end beneath a triangle window, real glass, looking out over the chasm that separates his territory from the heart of the Vents. It’s a cozy view. Plenty of bridges, plenty of neon, plenty of people, everyone doing something. At night, when you look up at the crust, it’s almost like we’re on the surface. Nostalgia for a place I’ve never been shivers through my stomach.

The rest is a simple room. Dented metal door you’d never think belonged to one of the Eight. Small bunk in the window by the view, huge soft chair in front of the desk, a simple wood stool behind. Big shelves on one wall, mostly holotexts and Electric Town knickknacks, a couple real books and old tournament trophies close to his desk. Other wall’s a street art mural. Every kid he’s ever helped has a handprint on it somewhere. Mine’s right in the middle. Bright green, one of the leaves of the apple tree. Krey’s is in the corner, fingers split in a peace sign.

Sarah’s lighter strikes again, catches this time. A long, needy drag.

“I worry about them. The kids.”

Her drink shivers as she picks it up. Ulysses puts a hand on her wrist to stop the vibrations. Sitting on the same couch astride the little coffee table, they’re late in their thirties, comfortable around each other in a way only lifelong friends could be. Like parents who loved, but split because they both had people counting on them, and they knew it could never work in this life. Maybe in another. If she were an Electric Town hotshot, and he had made it big in the pro leagues. Maybe.

“They look up to us,” Sarah says, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. “I see it in Mori every day. She wants to be me, Ulysses. But she doesn’t even know. She’s never known any life but this one. She shouldn’t want to be me.” She chokes up and pauses for another hit, letting Ulysses take the drink away. “She’s too good to turn out like me. There’s another life out there where she was born somewhere else. Where her deadbeat mom didn’t drop her on a bridge for drug money. She’d meet cute with some smiling guy at a university and fucking live laugh love, man.”

She sobers, the drug already fading.

“You know, just like I do, that’s not how it works down here. Sooner or later, there’s going to be a day where she won’t smile anymore. And it’ll be my fault.”

“You’re doing what you can, Sarah,” Ulysses says. “Some day, Emilia will grow up to be her own woman. And if that woman wants to be like you, that’s not a bad thing. You’re not evil for raising her.”

“But I am a scumbag for giving her a gun.” Sarah takes in a deep breath. “I’m a woman who makes choices. Who has made choices. Not the good choices, not the right choices, not the easy choices. The ones that get things done,” she says, voice tearing on the words. “Promise me. Uly, promise me. If I… if… if I’m not around… don’t let her turn out like me. Don’t fucking let her.”

Her mouth wrinkles. Wetness in the corners of her eyes, as I realize how wrong I was for wanting to snoop. I pull away, shrinking into the darkness, biting back the tears. Krey watches me go, looks down one last time, and curls up with his head between his knees, listening to the last word.

I only hear the echoes.