I walk down the nearly empty street, returning from my shift at one of the countless factories scattered across the tower's lower levels. The tower, our home is a massive structure stretching almost endlessly upward, housing ten levels, each about 500 miles in diameter. The lower levels, where I live, are a far cry from the near paradise of the upper levels. Here, in the industrial heart of the tower, the air is thick with smoke, and the streets are filled with the weary faces of the working class. It’s a shit place to live, but it's not as if we get a choice in the matter.

I stick to the alleyways and darker paths, the less Enforcement sees me, the better. I’m only a couple of blocks from my apartment when a shadowy figure in a skull-like mask drops down in front of me. Instinctively, I pull back into a fighting stance, ready for an attack.

“They said you’d have good reactions,” scoffs a voice from within the skull.

“Who are you?” I growl, using the rough voice I’ve adopted when not wearing my mask. I change my tone every month or so to try and mess with Enforcement’s voice recognition systems.

“Just a friend's friend here with a message.” The skull clasps their hands together, intertwining their fingers—a common gesture among insurgents to signal loyalty. They then de-clasp their hands and slowly reach into their pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper while raising their other hand to show they’re unarmed.

I snatch the folded paper and slip it into my pocket. “What’s it about?”

“I was simply told to deliver the message,” they reply, nodding before turning and disappearing into the smoke-filled air.

As the skull vanishes, I continue toward my block, my pace brisk and rhythmic. The rundown streets of the outer sectors of level 4 are harsh. Living this low means Enforcement sees us as nothing more than resources, doing little to nothing to curb crime. This neglect works in favour of the Insurgency, or at least it used to. Recently, Enforcement has been cracking down, for seemingly the sole reason they can. After trudging through the streets, I arrive at my dilapidated apartment block. I tap a wafer-thin clear plastic card, against a scanner by the main door, which gives a small bleep. The door emits a faint green light and scrapes open, showering sparks onto the floor.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I ascend the apartment block, avoiding the elevator as usual and taking the stairs. Reaching my apartment door, I check the hair I placed in the doorframe—it’s still there, a primitive but effective security measure. Satisfied, I use the card again and enter my tiny two-room apartment. It’s cramped, with a bathroom the size of a fridge. Lower-level jobs pay almost nothing, no matter how gruelling they are, and most of my earnings go toward more important things than a fancy place to sleep.

I collapse into the cluttered desk that dwarfs the room, its surface littered with gadgets and messy notes. Tired, I swipe my hand across the table, pushing the scrap and gadgets into a growing pile of rubbish. Leaning down to turn on my rig, a sharp pain shoots up my back. Shit. I touch the long, deep gash from a recent run-in with Enforcers. They decided my running was suspicious enough to search me, which was out of the question. After “disarming” one of them, I ended up in a high-speed chase through what felt like the narrowest damn alleys in the level, in the end, I was forced to dive down a broken meat processing shute. Even broken the thing managed to give me a good scar, whoever designed those fuckers knew what they were doing, maybe a little too well.

Shaking my head, I lean down again, ignoring the pain, and hit the power button on the rig. It’s large and cumbersome, but with Enforcement's recent crackdowns, it’s all I could manage to get. The machine hums to life, and I place my hands on the rough screen, letting it run through its complex biological checks. Once I log in, I retrieve the folded paper from my pocket and transcribe its contents—random letters, numbers, and symbols—into a decryption program provided to us at menace rank. While the program works, I light a lighter, casting warm yellow light around the room as I hold the paper above the flame, watching it writhe and twist as it turns to ash.

My rig beeps softly, signalling the end of the decryption process. I turn to the screen, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. Guarding a member of Central? It’s against all menace protocols, but the situation is unique. I almost dismiss it as a hoax until I see the dark green snake coiled into a shield with its head in the centre, staring at me with one red eye.

I chuckle and shake my head, re-reading the information more seriously. After absorbing the details, I initiate a scrub protocol on the rig, a large ten-minute timer appearing on the display. I rush around the tiny apartment, gathering equipment for the mission. The red timer counts down as I haul a large bag over my shoulder and hurry down the stairs, not wanting to be caught in the impending explosion. The potential harm to other residents is a necessary evil, but an evil nonetheless.

As I leave the building, a low rumble echoes from within as the scrub program completes. I gaze ahead, clenching my jaw, anticipating the task ahead.