I always thought that you had to be thirty before you started complaining about how much cheaper and simpler things were back in your day. But staring at the $83 price tag for used baby shoes in a seller’s stall at Pike Place Market, it was hard to believe I was only nineteen. Just two years ago—in 2024—that money could’ve bought poor teenagers three months of Netflix and a box of condoms. Now, rich people shopped at Pike Place Market for used baby clothing. How times change.
“It’s pretty depressing here these days,” my date said, looking at the soldiers posted up on every wall and exit. “They don’t even have coffee.”
My eyes glazed over, and I suppressed a sigh. If sparks ignited relationships, I’d be rubbing wet sticks together in a blizzard with this one. Her name was Maggie, and she was what the soldiers called a pre-rifter, someone who lived with 2024 expectations as if the rifters (“chimera-saurs,” or whatever the kids were calling them nowadays) didn’t shoot out of spatial rifts and skull fuck the love of Jesus into humanity. She wore a bright and cheery blouse and a designer purse that screamed “rob me” in the middle of a war zone, complaining about single-serve coffee in the present tense. If I was actually her date instead of her military escort, I’d be thinking about how much money I could save without insulting her. But I was her escort, or ‘date’ as she insisted, and for reasons only hormones and male stupidity could explain, I still spent the entire time berating myself for not being able to hold a conversation.
Just say something, you idiot, I thought.
“Um, yeah, it’s pretty lame,” I said.
“Yeah….” Maggie trailed off, examining a box of Sharpies (just $6.99) as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
You’re pathetic, I sighed.
Maggie put down the box and led the way through the market. Flower stalls were replaced with car parts, pasta makers with raw rice—scooped and sold by the pound. Aquatic rifters devastated the ocean ecosystem, so there were no raw fish for sale—let alone flying ones. The maws also disrupted shipping routes, so Sosio’s Produce had to drop its iconic rainbow carrots and custard apples in favor of Washington-grown produce. With fish, flowers, and produce in short supply, Pike Place was a high-class flea market-grocery store combo that Amazon babies felt edgy for going to.
“You’re an enlisted, right?” Maggie asked abruptly.
I felt my Adam’s apple bob, and my pulse quickened. “Enlisted” meant “unbitten soldier” since Sickles—those bitten by rifters—were forced into military service. So she was bluntly asking if I was a Sickle, and that was a question I wanted to avoid at any cost.
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“I do~n’t know,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back and whirling around with a bright smile. “You look, act, and talk like one.”
Damn she was cute.
“What do enlisted soldiers act like?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing really. Just kinda…. Oblivious, I guess. It’s like you only see the world in front of you.”
I was speechless. Maggie was walking backward in one of the most dangerous locations in North America, bumping into armed men who were staring at her a bit too long, and she was calling me oblivious.
“What are enlisted’s ‘oblivious’ of?” I asked dryly.
Maggie didn’t take the hint. Instead, her expression changed, turning dark.
“Come with me,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the south exit. I instantly yanked my hand free.
“Wait!”
“Come on!” Maggie yelled, pushing through the crowd. Things went from awkward to lethal in twenty seconds, and I didn’t have time to lose. I weaved through the crowd, calling out for her.
“Watch it, buddy!” a soldier yelled as I bumped into him.
“Sorry!” I said, pushing past him. Maggie was getting further and further away, appearing and disappearing in the chaotic maze of people, and I had to hurry. “Maggie!” I yelled.
“Come on!” Maggie yelled in the distance, calling out from an area surrounded by signs that read, “Military Personnel Only.”
She’s going to Post… My heart stopped. Fuck!
Post Alley, right under Pike Place, was once famous for its Gum Wall and comedy scene. Now, it was the entrance to hell, and Maggie was running right toward it, dragging me with her.
It was just as bad as I thought. My heart felt like it was wrapped in glass when I saw her running down the steel staircase toward the alley. If the guards caught her before I did, I’d be fucked. So I skipped the stairs, vaulted over the railing, and crashed down beside her.
2
The area just below Pike Place Market—Post Alley—had a wall that was layered with thousands of art pieces, posters, stickers, flyers, and graffiti, giving it a thick topography like rolling hills. I heard it had been like that since before I was born, a life-long magnet for anti-capitalism statements. Now, the wall was dedicated almost exclusively to Lepidosclerosis Cutanea, a disease where the skin around rifter bites hardens and cracks into scales, and the unfair laws suffered by those who were infected. It was a fascinating snapshot of history that I loved to examine—
—but I didn’t have time to study it.
I was about to die.
Maggie turned around in surprise. “Wow, did you really just jump that?”
“Maggie…” I whispered, putting up my hands. “You’re about to get me killed. I’m not joking with you.”
Maggie turned to me with wide eyes. “Killed? Aren’t you allowed to be here?” She looked at the military access signs.
“Yeah, I am.” I pointed to my chest, then at hers. “You’re not. And to be perfectly frank, I’m not even supposed to be here with you.”
There wasn’t technically anything wrong with me being Maggie’s escort. But if we were confronted, people would ask how a Sickle (someone completely segregated from the citizen population) even ended up in contact with her—and that was a question I definitely didn’t want to answer.
“I-I….” Maggie looked into the tunnel. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. Now please….” I started climbing back up the stairs slowly.
Maggie swallowed and nodded, walking to the stairs. But before she even took the first step, a booming voice echoed through Post Alley.
“Hey!” A guard emerged from the tunnel with an M-16. “State your business!”
3
A void developed in my stomach when I heard the soldier call out, leaving my other organs hanging like an abandoned swing.
“Forgive us,” I said, “she just wanted to see the gum wall. We’ll leave.”
“No you won’t.” He looked up at the surveillance cameras and signs warning civilians not to enter. “Where’s your escort?” he asked, eyeing my button-up shirt. I looked like a civilian, but my Beretta M9 stood up conspicuously against my slacks, painting a strange story about my identity.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“I am,” I said nervously.
“Then give me your badge,” he said. “I’m reporting this.”
Maggie panicked. “It’s not his fault. I dragged him down here.”
“Doesn’t matter. Badge.”
I hesitantly complied. Once he saw the badge that denoted me as a Sickle, his nose scrunched in. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m just her military escort,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m here upon request.”
“Whose request?”
“Mine!” Maggie’s face flushed with anger. “What does it matter, anyway?”
He stared at Maggie as if she was putting orange juice in her car’s radiator. “What does it what?” he asked in confusion. “Listen, lady. I’m not sure how you ended up in—” he whirled his finger to indicate all of us, “—this. But you don’t belong here, let alone with—“
“Why don’t I belong here?” Maggie asked hotly. “Because I’m a Breather?”
“Because of wha?” His face turned from appalled to perplexed. Breather was the name Sickles gave to “uninfected citizens,” a pun on the term “sickle cells,” which don’t get enough oxygen. So Maggie asking if she wasn’t allowed around Sickles—as if that was the only thing that mattered and there weren’t military regulations, a bay filled with aquatic beasts larger than sharks, or live ammo training on the other side of that tunnel—was insane. Moreover, Maggie was talking to a Breather who “belonged there” and was standing next to a Sickle. Nothing about what she said made sense.
He turned to me. “Did you not tell her that—“
“I’m not stupid,” Maggie interrupted, proving she wasn’t particularly smart, either. “I know how dangerous it is, how often it’s attacked, about the Marriott and Cheron’s fucking Ferry. Okay?”
I closed my eyes. If I survive this, I’m going to kill that fucking asshole, I thought, thinking about the soldier who paid me to be Maggie’s escort.
The soldier’s eyes turned cold as he looked at me. “You seedin’ this shit in her mind?”
“No sir, I assure you that I have not.”
“Then how’d she start gettin’ these crazy ideas?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Crazy?” Maggie asked, face flushing red with anger. “Crazy? You’re sending humans on suicide missions and making them live by the water. That’s not a conspiracy—that’s a cold hard fact!”
He looked at me with fury in his eyes.
“It wasn’t me,” I repeated.
Maggie put her fingers in front of the soldier’s face and snapped them. “Eyes on me!”
His lip curled. “Who the hell do you think you—“
“Thank you for ask~ing,” Maggie chimed. “My name is Maggie Hart, and my father runs the Hart Corporation. Look at him wrong again, and I’ll have you crucified by week’s end.”
“Whoa,” he said nervously, lowering his rifle. “Hold on. I’m just doin’ my job.”
“No, you’re just being a prick,” Maggie declared. “Now fuck off and keep your mouth shut because hoh…” she chuckled murderously, slowly shaking her head, “if you so much as whisper this happened, I’ll show you less mercy than you give Sickles, you prejudiced fuck.”
Right then, watching the soldier’s breaths become shallow as his eyes flit around… I felt really fucking good. But just when I thought this business titan’s rich ass daughter saved me from certain death, she pulled a grenade’s pin, put it in my breast pocket, and patted it twice:
“Let’s go, Kei!” Maggie grabbed my arm. “Back to our DATE!”
4
I was dead. There was no doubt about it. By week’s end, news would spread, and I’d be a double-toasted Pop-Tart without frosting. The only thing standing between me and total annihilation was this hothead’s rich father, and that meant that if she wanted me to bark, I’d do it and wag my tail, too. And what Maggie wanted was some food, so she dragged me down Pike Place Market toward Victor Steinbrueck Park, now walled off by a steel wall topped with razor wire, and pulled me into Cutters Crabhouse at the end.
“Table for two,” Maggie said to the host.
I panicked. “I can’t afford—“
“I’m buying,” Maggie hissed.
The host glanced between us nervously. “Not to question you, but you understand that it’s yellow pricing, correct?” Green, yellow, orange, and red were forecasts on how likely it was for a riftbreak to happen. The more likely, the higher the prices—as was the case with hazard pay.
“I’m okay with that,” Maggie said.
“Then right this way,” he said.
I glanced at all the cameras nervously as we entered. Inside, there was a single table of business people—all without escorts—proof that they were thrill-riding regulars. It was much like skydiving—you start with instructors, and then you can do it alone. And for the same reason that people get high off gambling, regulars loved the thrill of eating in a dangerous location. Their lives didn’t concern me—but I didn’t like that I was the only soldier in the place.
Maggie was silent for another reason. Cutters Crabhouse’s walls were made of eight inches of bulletproof, hurricane-proof, double-sided laminated glass, providing a bleak panoramic view of Elliot Bay, Harbor Island (an artificial island used for shipping operations and stationing warships), and Pier Zero—previously Waterfront Park—in all their apocalyptic glory.
There was nothing natural about the sight. Three years before, Seattle had blue water that washed onto rocky beaches, turning the gray sand obsidian with a single pass of the waves. Now, the water was purple, contrasting against the bright orange Supramax bulk carrier ship that was moving out of the bay, cutting the water like butter as it left slow, thick waves instead of foamy bubbles. There, right in front of all of it, was a massive hotel right on the waterfront that Maggie had briefly mentioned as part of her Sickles rights rant. When she saw it, her body turned rigid. “Wait, is that….”
“Yeah,” I said. “Not as terrible as you thought, is it?”
The Marriott Waterfront was a hotel on Pier 66 that was notorious for housing Sickles. Despite the hotel’s grand appearance, the interior had been gutted and renovated into a shoddy space for two thousand people. The Bell Harbor Conference Center and Edge Water Hotel were also renovated into living quarters, with multiple office spaces in Belltown added to the mix to accommodate over 5,000 people suffering from Lepidosclerosis Cutanea—or Dark Scale. Since the Marriot was right next to the water if a major maw break did occur, they would be the people to die first. That said, there was a 50-foot turret-lined wall separating the hotel from the water, and fish don’t leave the ocean, so its location was simply sensational. It would’ve been better for Maggie to be outraged at the food and housing situation because you can trust me—it sucked.
Maggie pouted. “It’s still on the waterfront.”
“It is indeed,” I said, looking around. “You satisfied?”
“Huh?” she whispered. “Um. No. Let’s eat.”
“Listen, Maggie. This place….” I looked around at the glass walls. “It’s not safe.”
“Come on, Kei,” Maggie said. “If it wasn’t safe, would they let rich people eat here?”
“Obviously.” I scoffed, presenting my hand to Eliott Bay and the soldiers stationed there. “Anything you can see down there can see you. That’s why there’s a wall separating us from you.”
“Hmmm, this looks good,” Maggie said before she picked up the smart tablet menu. “What do you want?”
I exhaled deeply, sitting down. When I looked at the menu, my arms prickled with gooseflesh.
—
Shrimp and Crab Risotto
Parmesan | white wine | fresh herbs | truffle oil
G: $520,50
Y: $1520.50
O $2520.50
-
Blackened Tuna Steak
Sautéed spinach | mango salsa | citrus beurre blanc
G: $1,000
Y: $2,000
O: $3,000
-
Crab-Stuffed Lobster Tail
Garlic butter | roasted asparagus | lemon aioli
G: $1,500
Y: $2,500
O: $3,500
-
Note: Menu subject to change or substitution in response to availability. Refund requests on yellow days and above are non-refundable, even in the event of a raid. Order at your own risk.
—
“Are you sure about this?” I asked. It bothered me that there were only three options, and they were outrageously priced.
Maggie studied the menu and sighed. “Well, it’ll leave a dent.”
I stood up. “I agree! Let’s—“
“Sit down,” she growled. “We’re not done.”
“Look, Maggie. I know you think that I’m oblivious, but I’m down there. I’m in that hellish zone every day. If you want to learn the theories about Sickles, read the posters in Post Alley. If you want to know about them, you don’t have to spend rent for a meal. I’ll tell you for free.”
Maggie looked at me with doe eyes as the host walked up.
“Excuse me,” he said. “If you wish to order, you are welcome. But please be respectful to the patrons or leave.”
I looked around nervously, finding a business party staring at us. “My apologies,” I said, sitting down slowly.
“We’re ordering,” Maggie said. “Please get us the Shrimp and Crab Risotto to share…. And a coke. To share.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When the host left, Maggie lifted her eyebrows and let them drop. “You agreed to a date, right?”
I sighed. “Please don’t take this the wrong way….”
“Anytime someone says that, something heinous follows.”
“Okay…. Take this the wrong way.”
“Better.”
“I agreed to be your free escort—not a date.” That was technically true.
Maggie’s eyes glided to the left. “Yeah. That is what happened. Which is confusing, honestly. You were such a pushover, and now you’re not.”
I leaned forward. “And you’re into that?”
She shrugged.
“Damn, you’ve got issues.”
Maggie puffed out her cheeks, and I burst into laughter. And that’s how the real “date” began. I didn't see it as a romantic date—but it was fun. For the first time in in three years, I felt like I a normal nineteen year old instead of a dog of the military. Maggie was a pre-rifter and somehow made me remember the days before the Rapture and military fucked up my life.
It was nice—until it suddenly wasn’t.
Maggie suddenly made a move on me, flashing me a pearly smile and giggling as she glided her fingertips across the tablecloth toward mine. I was flattered—but things had gone way too far. Platonic or not, being friends with Maggie was a fantasy, and fantasies aren't real. If I were to hold hands with a Breather on camera, I was done for.
I watched the hand with a pounding heart, wondering what to do. I refused to hold her hand on camera—but I didn’t want to piss off the woman providing me with her Daddy’s protection. I was in a terrible lose-lose situation, but I was saved in the most disturbing and fateful and lucky way imaginable:
Sirens went off in the distance.
Riftbreak.