One.

Crier is introduced, as well as the world she lives in.

The central station was Atmos, the epicentre of the urban underground collectively known as Core.

If there were holes in the groaning, tube-like Helios that travelled through the weaving tunnels, she wondered what she would see. The girl lacked imagination, and all that she could think of were layers of earth upon deep earth, the only world she knew.

She leaned her head on the thin curve of metal walls, wincing at the precarious screech of halting ungreased metal wheels ringing in her head. Her body was sore from being tossed around.

Crier wasn’t sure if she could call herself a fugitive, but a freak accident in Trash: Cluster-Septa �" her home �" had set her free from a chaotic gaol she would well turn her back upon.

She gingerly massaged her neck, but her hands could not bring much relief. Her left eye was swollen shut, her right cheek was bruised, and blood welled where she had picked at the wound on her lower lip, leaving a fine collection of burgundy under her nail.

She ignored the throbbing in her temples, and rubbed the thin layer of sweat on her forehead and nose with the neckline of her well-worn shirt. She lifted the backpack off the metal seat over her shoulders, gritting teeth at the sharp stab to her left ribs. She took slow breaths to ease the pain.

Sensing space in a single file of disembarking impatient people, Crier squeezed in.  

 

The passengers moved as slowly as she breathed, the clink of rusty metal rings hanging from bars signalling their every step forward. The exit lane was far too narrow in the cheap seats, a compartment full of uncomfortable metal seats welded to the walls, where the strong stench of sweat and piss perpetually permeated. The drivers never seemed to care enough to regulate humidity or clean the compartments, as long as recycled air continued to flow through the Helios.

Crier ducked her head as she hopped off, hoping no one had seen the disfiguration to her face. That would surely arouse anyone’s suspicions, especially the Ologists that were stepping off a different Helios and working their way towards the little Carriers that jetted them directly into Atmos.

She was a wiry young woman with long legs, pushing past people in the dimly lit underpass. The biochip in her right wrist buzzed noiselessly as she drew close to the exit of the Helios tunnels.
Once outside, the bright rotating torches of Atmos nearly burnt a hole through her skull. She reflexively covered her eyes and had to take time adjusting while others cursed at her to move out of their way. Her steps were offbeat as she stepped away, caught in the roving traffic of humans.

In Trash, everything was dark. The slum was mostly lit by glowing cave-ferns that Trashers had foraged from the cavernous Abyss and cultivated in long clay troughs, or by phosphorus juices small children squeezed out of frail palm-sized insects and kept in tall jars.

Despite the growth in inhabitants over the decades, the Founders had not deemed the minor ward valuable enough to configure a condense network of light and energy throughout, preferring to build beams directed upon the main structures of iron-fenced geothermal Cisterns, Zones and gaols.

 

Crier tentatively tilted her head up towards the vibrating dome that shielded Atmos, squinting her eyes. The vast difference between Trash and Atmos never ceased to amaze her. It was like foolishly comparing humans before the Nuclear Winter, to humans that presently lived in Core.

She spied some Carriers flying through and attempted to figure out why these specific vehicles were the only way to gain entry inside. Not once in her whole nineteen years had she seen a person simply walk in. She watched on as the dome swallowed and spat out vehicles from every side.

It was as if the whole Encasement �" so aptly named �" was a front gate.

Crier had heard so many grim tales in Trash, of rebels against the Founders attempting illegal entry by hijacking Carriers, doomed to die in a blaze of flames when the vehicles collided the Encasement.

If it isn’t the vehicle itself granting access into Atmos, what is?

Trashers had claimed the Encasement was made out of laser that vibrated at a wavelength people could see, but was too dangerous to touch. Others said the biochips on Ologists buzzed, deactivating the lasers as the Carriers entered Atmos.

Crier was not sure. She was never sure if the Encasement protected the people inside, or if the people outside were protected from those inside.

The cube offices were clearly visible yet ironically hidden away, with so many tiers that she did not even bother to count, forming a circle around a yolk that she could not see.

She had never seen the so-called Sun, but she reckoned that if it existed, it would be like Atmos.

So much light and brightness that she could pick out individual shades of coloured clothes Ologists and Bees wore, of the shiny grey dominating the buildings, the slight haze of the Encasement.

She could even see how starkly white her hair was, from the fringe that fell onto her face.

Corers would never find that sort of light in nature, of that she was certain.

 

The air around her grew heavy with exhaust from Carriers, burnt metal from Helios, and the sheer pollution of humans rolling into another day of gruelling work, making her dizzy. 

Crier moved hesitantly, guarding her ribs from people that hustled her along, edging her way towards the left. Here was another underpass that led to the underworld of the Cage where people were safe from those who hid secrets, where hierarchy meant nothing, where crimes committed within were of a different kind, where youths infested the streets, where human sex and sensuality was the driving force. Crier was looking for someone there.

The passage to the Cage was a pulsating intestine, contracted and crooked. She supposed it made sense, considering all the structures of Core heavily relied upon Mother Nature’s crude pathways.

Some teenagers cut her way, walking in reverse as they faced her, tugging at her bag, desperate for attention. She shoved them roughly, prepared to boot their knees. The boys called her names.

The only information in their brains was �" female. If they could see her wounds, they wouldn’t dare to approach her. Crier slowed down abruptly, biting her lip and clutching her side.

That shove had brought back pain.

 

The tunnel was barely lit with some ancient globes that she had to watch her head for, as they were hooked onto random crevices. She grimaced at the pungent odour of urine and the glimpses of a soiled environment, bringing her neckline up to her nose, holding it firmly there.

This underpass is filthier than Trash.

The floor felt sticky under her heavy boots. Once in a while, she felt as if she might slip, although it was too dark to identify from what. Her eyes were still stinging from Atmos.

Strange plants grew in clumps against the wall, and in her head they screamed Danger!

They could’ve been anything, from drugs to poison. Well, there was a fine line between drugs and poison anyway. Crier chuckled to herself softly.

Her speed wasn’t fast enough for many though, as once again, she experienced getting pushed along with the throng. She crossed her arms over her chest, hurriedly picking up her pace.

Finally, she spilled out to the other side. The Cage was a place distinct from any other ward.

Crier smiled. She understood why she would find him here.

Author's Note

Does it capture readers interests at all? Is it a boring or slow read?

Reviews

[colleen Drippe']

I've been looking at a lot of stuff in the sf section and yours is the first one I find promising. Weaving in background is tricky and of course you will have to do it smoothly. One thing that will help with this chapter is to make your sentences say more by being more economical with words. As it is, they seem a bit short and choppy. Then, a nice backstory interview with Crier -- this isn't stuff you put in the chapter but merely a reference for your own use. I always interview my characters and make notes on their memories, early traumas, family background etc. Then you can refer to what's there in order to tell more about the background while keeping up your present pace. Frinstance, as you record her observations, it would help to link them with flashes of memory. Or with emotion -- reactions to things past. Your series of sentences do not reflect feelings -- they are just information.
Hopes this helps --