After Slip was content with the amount of sulking he’d allowed himself, when glimpsing his slow-moving workmates step over scraps to make their way back to headquarters, he realized it was time to scope out a piece of junk worth enough to feed him and be done with it.

“Alright, Tammy, here we go.” He sighed, willing his bead to enhance his optic nerve so he could easily color-code items ‘worth their salt.’

Feeling his left eye strain ever so slightly by the unnatural intrusion, Slip blinked until his vision adjusted. Most scraps surrounding his mucked-up boots were greyed out – deemed worthless – which he honestly could’ve told anyone given the amount of rust and corrosion degrading them, but still, color-coding made it easier to sift through the pile. A mix of experience and Tammy’s programming allowed Slip to identify items faster than his peers. Though, he’d never tell anyone that. He figured their sluggishness was due to how lazy Fieldys had grown to become.

Un-ranked Voids. Was there anything more demoralizing? In a world of gamified strive, they went nowhere day after day. No focus on primary stat increases, no competitive races, duels, hikes. Nothing to advance. Just find scraps and move on.

He didn’t blame his mates for being so lazy, really. How could he? They were discarded in every sense. Gul seemed to be the only Fieldy content with the point zero, zero, zero, one percent chance of finding a golden egg worth enough to earn shipment out of the Fields. But everyone else? They wore their disdain on their sleeves. Rough body language, bad attitudes, or in Slip’s case, bitter sarcasm.

Oh lucky me. Look at all this treasure, he told himself, sifting through light-blue shaded garbage, then dark green. Such shit. He dug deeper, seeing a glimpse of red outline – a critical find – buried deep in the trench. The skin on his finger split as he carelessly slapped away a jagged metal scrap. Damn it. He sucked on the wound while using his good hand to scoop up the desired item by its frayed lacing. He dangled it overhead as if it were a caught fish.

“Pewter and iron, untarnished. Worth three days’ rations, easy.” He scoffed. “Which means I’ll only get one,” he spoke low to himself, or to Tammy… or whoever would listen to his complaining while trudging over hills on his way back.

One look at the scorched sky confirmed another day’s work was behind him. The orange glow peeking through gloom was no longer, telling him the sun had set, for sure. Now the dark matter swirling overhead blotted out the moon and stars instead.

A tingling sensation ran through his fingertips. A reminder that once the blinding stadium lights switched off for the day, it would be time to lie flat on the dirt and enjoy the beautiful sight – like eels slithering feverishly back and forth, giving the tiniest glimpses of the galaxies beyond. He enjoyed that hour before bed. It couldn’t be long now.

“Sorry for procrastinating, Tammy. I could feel your jitters, but thanks to you, we get to eat tonight.” He felt the tingle of ink blotches forming on his palm. He glanced at the drawing of a smiling face with a drip of sweat on the side, and laughed. “Cute.”

The walk back to headquarters was about half a mile of trudging through what felt like deep snow. Miniature sinkholes repacked with dirt were hollow in certain spots – remnants of the sido bomb, of course. Even though the primary purpose was to disable Tech in the messiest way possible, there were side-effects. Random matter sucked into itself and Slip had to be careful not to fall waist deep. But he knew the way.

Headquarters was growing in sight now. A ready-made trailer of dark metals, hunkered down into the dirt by large three-pronged claws shooting from all four corners. Long oddly shaped antennas craned in every direction from the round roof. It was a shallow, yet long hunk of steel, built so the Fieldys could drink at the oversized bar and drown their sorrows until the next day.

Slip swung open the door, walked past a few Fieldys waiting to be acknowledged – whom he ignored – and slapped the laced strap of welded iron onto the counter, staring knowingly at the Quartermaster with half-closed eyes.

The grotesque man sticking out his slimy belly through a ripped shirt stared back at Slip with a held back smirk. Slip couldn’t help but notice the rusted bead in place of a belly-button, like it was trying its hardest to flee but was stuck in his lard.

“Proud, aren’t you, Slip?” The man chuckled, causing his whole body to jiggle. “Think you’re on your way to that golden goose, huh?” He pulled an advanced inspection monocle and coded it to zoom into his scrap. “Must be that lanky frame allowin’ you to squirm deep to find one of these. But it ain’t going to win you a patch to cover the sparks flying outt’a that leg, boy.”

The others enjoying a drink at a rickety high-top table laughed, acting as the Quartermaster’s audience.

Predictable. But Slip didn’t care, nor did he take it personally anymore. Ulch played this game with everybody. Perhaps it helped him mask how awfully he was swindling his workers out of nourishment. Slip didn’t know why he did it. It’s not like any of them had the power to argue. Ulch was the gatekeeper to food, after all. There was no higher position in the Fields.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

But today, something came over him…

“And I ain’t going to find a patch big enough to cover that belly.” Slip snorted, making fun of Ulch’s speech. “But I’ll keep lookin’.”

One of the drinkers slapped the table and cackled, leaving Slip to look smugly up at Ulch. But his smile soon faded when the Quartermaster slammed one portion on the ledge separating them, dragged a hand across his slimy belly, and slapped Slip’s wrapped food with it.

“One portion for the mangy, slippery little twerp.” Ulch watched on haughtily, waiting for him to take it.

Slip gulped and grabbed the portion by two fingers, watching as slime dripped from it. “Love the extra flavor, Ulch, really.”

“Keep ‘em comin’, boy.”

Slip turned away and readied to leave headquarters so he could enjoy that hour he was dreaming about before, but the sudden spark of a lit flame startled him.

“Oh,” he breathed, “it’s just you.” He looked at the sorry sight of a man sitting in a dark corner near the door.

“Just me,” the man spoke through a lit cigar. His rusted, Tech-infused legs dangled off the chair. They were covered by ripped pants that were obviously for show, because his entire lower half was metallic.

Slip lingered at the door, waiting for the man to puff on his cigar.

“Careful, Slip,” a hearty woman called from the bar. “Stand near old Roman for too long, and he’ll chew your ears off slowly, one at a time.”

Roman was unhurried in his actions, like a spectator watching a play from the shadows. Unfazed by bar banter, and one who earned his right as the Field’s eccentric hermit from years of babble, he was where he belonged. Stashed away.

He blotted the cigar on one of his legs, leaving Slip to understand how his pants got all those holes in the first place. “Find anything interesting today, out there?” Roman spoke lowly so only the boy could hear.

Slip thumbed toward the Quartermaster. “You saw it. A pewter-laced scrap that should be feeding me for three whole days, by normal price standards.”

“Ey, ey. What you know about normal price?” Ulch lifted his chin. “Claiming I’m not givin’ you your fair share?”

Slip rolled his eyes and ignored him, including the threats that followed.

“This stupid kid tries to tarnish my good name, he does.” Ulch waddled slowly away, finding the effort to shake his big head. “Might send you deep in the trenches to find a new HQ if you don’t watch that mouth. That’ll teach yeh.”

Roman blew out smoke with a wide smile. “He’s right. Maybe it would be good for you, Slip,” he spoke facetiously. “Culture is lost here anyway. History… extends as far back as yesterday for these fish-brained Fieldys.”

“Here we go.” The woman banged her mug on the table. “I’m ringing the bell for you, Slip. I’m ringing the bell as warning. You’re going to be stuck there for hours if you don’t leave now.”

“Naw. Naw.” Roman leaned back in his seat, shaking his finger. “I’m not going to lecture you. What’s the point?” He shrugged. “You wouldn’t listen anyway. What do you care about how we got here?”

“Sci-gods, poison, and bombs. What else is there to know?” Slip shrugged back.

Roman snorted. “Ah! A defeatist, I see. Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you do belong over there, drowning your sorrows with the rest of them. You would’ve done just right in the Age of Simulation – mindless and moldable. Just another zombie ambling to nowhere.” Roman snorted to himself.

Slip furrowed his brow as he reached for the door.

“Right, off you go. The coliseum would never suit you anyway. No. You’re nothing like the Red Ferrari.”

The mention made Slip stall for a moment, palm flat on the door. What are the chances? he asked himself, and then pushed his way out of Headquarters.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets while limping toward a path opposite the Fields. The loud chnks of stadium lights being turned down lifted a weight off his shoulders, same as every other evening. His day was officially done. Finally. No more moseying around or procrastinating, no more having to deal with his exhausting mates. He could simply pay his respects to his late family on their anniversary, eat, and be done with it.

But did that jaded mentality give credence to Roman’s accusation?

Am I just a zombie like the rest of them, lazily waiting for it to end?

The road traveled was framed with granite rocks. He liked how they reflected slivers of moonlight peeking past the shadowy sky. It felt like a runway lit for landing. But there were no rescue crafts here. Just a broken Tech Slip kicking up dust after every step, wondering where his place was in the world.

Wind began to pick up, throwing his unkempt hair in every direction, making him inhale heavily to take in the smell of campfire coming from the Burrows up ahead. But then, eerily, a sense of movement made him turn his head sharply to the side. A shadow.

“What was that?” he spoke to the air. “Who’s there?”

He spun completely around, seeing nothing with his natural eyes. “Tammy.” He willed his bead to enhance his optic nerves. Still nothing. Just grey outlines for benign rocks and ground, and red outlines far ahead for hatch entrances to the Burrows. No shadows. No one following him.

“Hm.” He dismissed Tammy from his sight. “I guess Roman made me paranoid. He’s weird, don’t you think? Never said a word to me for years… until today.” He looked at his hand and saw a shrugging stick figure inked into his palm. “Yeah. You’re right. I really didn’t give him enough time to make a judgement.”

He hobbled on another mile toward his hatch, waving at the other relaxing Fieldys gathered around their individual campfires.

“Hey, ey, Slip. What do ya say?” One of them leaned back in his frayed lawn chair and waved.

“Hey Nuxy.” He nodded, walking past. “Shae.” He waved in the other direction to greet her. He felt a slight warmth around his heart whenever seeing them, not sure if Tammy was causing it or his own emotions. But either way, they were like his family now, even if he didn’t do much beside greet them on a day-to-day.

Feeling restless after the conversation with Roman, he skipped his nightly ritual of staring at the sky and bent down, wrapping his fist around a latch leading into his underground home. He waited for it to register his bead, and then flung it open once unlocked. Lights flickered on as he climbed down the ladder.