1. History

Tryxtan, one of the main characters is introduced, along with some backstory on the world in which he lives.

TRYXTAN

My name is Tryxtan Lyon, and my parents were probably babies when the world ended. They didn’t tell me anything about it really, which is kind of a shame. Living through something like that without sharing perspective. My mother was too doped up while she was alive, and my father was never anything to me other than a sperm donor.

Luckily, my wards remember it just fine. They’ve told me the story so many times I feel like it’s mine now anyway. 

I monitor the elderly who refuse the life-extension operations, I make them comfortable. It’s not my only job, but it’s my better job.

My safe job.

One woman, Rayla, always tells it dazedly, like she’s being spirited back to the exact moment in time that she’s speaking of. 

Another man, stubborn old Felix, tells it from the point of view of a jaded teenager, being that he was just 14 when it happened.

I try to marry the many tellings as best I can, on those rare occasions which I’m the yarn-spinner. The only people who ask, funnily enough, are the clients at my other job; rich citizens from the pulsating, shining Cityland, located smack in the middle of what used to be the U.S.A. Co. 

These people, these frivolous bacchanalian revelers seem to devour any bits of the decidedly heartbreaking yet tacky history of the common folk from which I descend. And because it is my job to keep them entertained, to keep them bubbling and squealing, I oblige with the tale passed to me by wrinkled and pale lips. 

It’s a story full of blood and fire, but also of hope and renewal. Basically it’s about how one man, Barnabas Drexel, was clever enough to corral enough people to build himself an empire. Also, it’s about how another man, Dr. Ira Freedman, helped his colonists to escape to an uncharted planet now known as Novatrix. 

No one from Earth is allowed to visit Novatrix without a million permits and visas, since they don’t want to be tainted by the way we live. 

I tell this story often enough, perhaps two to three times a month, and every time I do I get a little bit more pissed off. We should have just left well enough alone.

By the time I finish, most of the guests will be misty-eyed or flushed with drunken pride at the tale of their world’s birth. Sometimes they’ll start a cheer, or a toast. It’s been nearly 60 years since the fall of the Old World, but it seems like a century. Things are so different than they seem in the stories from the history scans on schoolchildren’s digitabs. Digitabs are just one of many things you won’t see people in Cityland without; crystal-screened and thin as paper, flexible and the size of an Old World book, digitabs can hold and display thousands of gigabytes of information and media. They’re issued to children in primary school and carry on to secondary and college, and then onto the workforce. They keep you linked in, with feeds that update by the millisecond, two cameras, and enough modifications and extras to keep you entertained for the rest of your life. 

Entertainment is a big thing here in Cityland, especially in the upper layer where I work. People live in lavish apartments and everything is made of cool, smooth smart plastic; an unnatural blue-white that looks strange and cartoonish at times. There are cafes, clubs with any theme imaginable, spas and banquet halls, boutiques and high-rise condos with penthouse suites that cost a fortune. The Seraphic Theatre & Concert Hall is a huge, gaudy thing modeled after theaters from the Old World days, with ornate molding and rich color schemes where you can see films or plays or symphonies. There are pleasure grottos where citizens can have their fantasies fulfilled by simulations or real humans, no matter how simple or bizarre. Sims are a little bit more predictable, though so real-looking you would think it wouldn’t matter, and the Skins (real humans) cost quite a bit more. Only the wealthiest can afford to go to Skin-Only grottos more than once or twice a year. 

The lower level of Cityland, nicknamed the Belly, can only be reached by the great glass transportation tubes which I take to and from work each day. The Belly is seedy and dark, a layer of grime covering its structures, and lives up to its name. There are sleazy sex joints and bars by the dozen, empty warehouses from Pre-Drexel days used now by criminals and dealers. There are plenty of recreational drugs in Cityland’s upper-crust, safely developed by scientists to create euphoria or relaxation or pleasant fantasy-like hallucinations, but those are only readily available to people who live in the gleaming bubble that is the top layer. 

Down in the Belly there is only one drug, and it is highly addictive and very illegal. It’s sort of like the now-extinct drug heroin combined with the strange visions of PCP, with all the crippling side-effects of methamphetamines. It is known only as Dust, and the white-blue-green shimmering powder is certainly reminiscent of fairies’ wings.

The poorest of the poor and rich slummers from upstairs alike all fall prey to this compound. You can get it in powder or pill-form; snort it, smoke it, inject it, or swallow it. The tell-tale signs of a Dust user (called Dusters, or Dust Dolls if they’re prostitutes who are hooked) are moon-pale complexion with a faint emanating glow from the phosphor in the Dust, with glassy eyes and pupils that nearly eclipse the iris. A typical Duster will have tracks or will be missing teeth if they smoke it, and they are often painfully thin. 

My mother was a Dust Doll when she was still alive, and I am the product of a Dust-fueled tryst with a john. She always said he was some businessman come down from Upstairs in his fancy suit with his voice full of money and champagne bubbles. 

She died when I was just six, her body lying in the alley outside our dingy apartment complex in a puddle of her own vomit and piss. Someone had laced the batch, I heard the neighbors saying. Cops took her body away in a standard-issue pearly blue bag, and I was sent to live in the Cityland orphanage uptown. 

The altitude sickness got me the first day, but after that I couldn’t believe my luck; I was fed three meals a day, I made friends, I went to school. When I was twelve, a man came and adopted me under the the agreement that I would work for him as soon as I was of age. 

That man was Markus Cornelius, and I didn’t need his bright smiling introduction to recognize him. Everyone in Cityland knows Markus; he is Barnabas Drexel’s youngest son, and the President of Cityland. Why he chose me out of so many children, after five years I still don’t know. 

Maybe I pretend not to know. 

I’m strong, and though not pretty like others in my field, no one would deny that I am handsome. Quick-witted and strong is a good combination. 

I protect Markus, I’m his confidant, raised as the son he would never have. I act as host for the many events he funds, keeping his guests entertained, making sure no one loses that giddy feeling they all seem to love so much. They chase pleasure like a poacher hunts the last of a rare species. 

I monitor the people who come and go from the Luxe (the palatial mansion-cum-highrise which Markus inhabits), making sure they are all on the list, that they all have ID tattoos. 

The top two floors 10-24, and the Penthouse, are Markus’ private quarters. Floors 3-9 are residential and cost an exorbitant amount to rent. 1 and 2 are a pleasure grotto and a nightclub, which are enough to keep me up to my eyeballs in work to do. 

On the weekday mornings that I visit the Barnabas Drexel Memorial Home for the Elderly, or just the Home for short, I feel almost normal. I am free to dress comfortably and to relax my posture. I feed and bathe the wrinkled elders, sit with them, keep them company. They have no one but each other and me. 

When I finish at the Home, I like to leave the confines of the towering City and let my mind calm by visiting the Arbordome. The Arbordome is a giant glass bubble, many acres, filled with plants and trees and lakes made to mimic the botanic gardens and forests of yesteryear. Of course, since it is City-made, some of the flowers are too exotic, the grasses too lush, the waters too crystal. 

When I visit the Arbordome, I like to veer off the manmade paths and run. Sure, Markus lets me use top training facilities whenever I like, but it’s different in a forest. I dodge branches and work to make my steps as noiseless as I can, taking into consideration my weight and height. 

Markus offers me rooms in the Luxe almost daily, but every time I politely decline; it’s become something of an amusing ritual for us. Instead, he pays for my humble apartment in the Belly, and makes sure my transit card never runs out of money. He would be in trouble if I couldn’t show up to work. My apartment has one bathroom and one bedroom, a small kitchen and living area; it’s sparse, but it doesn’t really matter. No one I know from Upstairs would want to visit me here, and I certainly wouldn’t want them to. I like to be alone. 

Today, though, I will be surrounded by buzzing swarms of people. Tonight is Markus’ annual Spring Gala, and I am expected to work the room as usual. 

Guests will come to the Luxe dressed all in pastels, twinkling lights will hang all around the club. It will look like a fairy garden for the space age. 

I know, because I approved the final designs with Markus a week ago. Sometimes I feel so old for being just seventeen, with all the jobs I do, with all the situations I must handle. Planning and overseeing events is a headache, especially when I know that all the guests will be the vapid, hedonistic members of Cityland’s social elite. 

My eyes open at the sound of my alarm clock’s digital chirps. My muscles are sore from lifting crate after crate of champagne and honey wine yesterday in preparation for Markus’ party.

I roll out of my bed with a groan before programming the closet for my clothing; black shirt, black pants, black boots. I’m nothing if not consistent. 

The bathroom sink polishes my teeth and attempts to comb my light brown hair, but I power it down before it can finish. If my hair is a mess, why should I change it? Sometimes it bothers me how everyone wants to force their bodies against the natural grain. 

The mirror shows me someone who is between boy and man, with the prominent jaw and worried brow, the hazel eyes so familiar. 

“Still here,” I say to my reflection before grabbing my pack and heading out the door. The streets of the Belly don’t see much sun, so though it’s midmorning the street lamps are still casting an orangey glow in the perpetual night. 

I have to cover my eye with my hands on the way up in the tube so the shock of brightness won’t sting so much. 

It barely works. 

The line for the tubes up are never very long, nor are they for the down tubes; no one really wants to mingle classes. The only person who ever goes up or down at the same time as me is the closest thing I have to a best friend besides Markus, a boy of my age named Larkin Lanz who goes Upstairs to work in a pleasure grotto called Ganymede. Ganymede is known for its exceptionally beautiful boys and men ranging in age from 16 to 25, and is mostly frequented by gentlemen. The occasional woman will come in, but women tend not to visit pleasure grottos on their own. Many seem frightened by their own desires. 

Today, Larkin steps out of the tube next to mine when we reach the top, dressed all in white with his fair hair curling softly to his chin. He’s so pretty, it’s no surprise he’s a pleasure worker. He got snapped up by Ganymede’s “talent” scout about a year ago when he was just barely sixteen. I met him shortly after when he and a few of the prettiest boys were working a private party in Markus’s club. 

“G’Morning Tryx,” he says, adjusting the strap of the bag he has slung over his shoulder. “Nice weather for April, isn’t it?” 

I give him the lopsided smirk that passes for one of my smiles. 

“Oh definitely. Are you going to be at the gala tonight?” I am always careful with Larkin, unsure which subjects I can broach without caution. What I’m really asking is whether he is assigned to be there. 

He understands, rolls his blue eyes heavenward and says 

“As a matter of fact, I am. A few of my high roller regulars are going to be there, and I certainly wouldn’t miss the opportunity for a little overtime.”

If Larkin works parties, he is free to keep all of whatever money he makes in private transactions. Many of his ‘high rollers’ have cash to spare for their favorite playthings. I am suddenly uncomfortable and eager to be on my way. 

“Well, I’ll see you later then. Gotta go,” and I’ve turned my back before he can reply, making my way through the clean, near-empty terminal to the the street outside. My mind is going a mile a minute, and I feel my brows knit in frustration. 

Why should I be lucky enough to work for a rich man without having to sell my body? It could just as easily be me in Larkin’s place. He and I, we’re not so different.

But I’m stronger, smarter, more capable. 

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. 

Rather than take a hovertaxi to the Luxe, I walk the whole way. It’s probably less than 3 miles, and the sun feels good on my skin. 

By the time I walk in through the main entrance, scan myself in with the hand that my ID-chip is implanted in, the purple-haired girl at the desk informs me that Markus is waiting. 

Markus is always waiting. 

“Tryxtan, come in, come in! Took you long enough,” he beams, clearly in a jovial mood, though I’ve no clue as to why. His graying black hair is mussed, and I notice without comment that his shirttails are untucked. My first guess is that he’s drunk. 

“I got up a little late,” I say as I plunk myself down on the sleek black couch. “Too much exercise yesterday, not enough stretching.” 

It’s a lame excuse, I know. 

If he knew that I’d walked the whole way, though, I’d get a lecture about how he gives me a stipend (his fancy way of saying ‘allowance’ so I don’t feel like a kid) specifically so that I can afford everyday luxuries. I’m just not up for it. 

“I’ll get you a relaxation pill, should ease all that tension.” he offers, but I wave him away. I don’t like taking medicines much; I feel like it just makes everyone weaker. Destroying our immune systems and our tolerance. 

“Should we go over the final checklist for tonight?” I suggest, hoping it will make him snap out of the very un-Markus-like giddiness that seems to be clouding his brain. I prefer to see his not-quite middle-aged good looks in their usual mask of cool assessment. 

He looks a bit wrong, looking so happy. 

Markus sits down on the love-seat adjacent to the couch I’m sitting on, looking like he’s got a secret and he’s ready to burst. 

“I’m waiting until tonight to publicly announce it, but I wanted you to know before all those busybody social climbers.” 

I’m on the edge of my seat as it is, wondering what he could be about to tell me. 

Is he stepping down from the Presidency? Planning to escape to Novatrix? Decided on a sex-change operation? 

None of these are as absurd as what he tells me in a conspiratorial whisper. 

“I’m getting married!” he manages, before slapping his knee uncharacteristically. I lean back into the couch, not sure how he expects me to react. 

I’m sure my face is a comical mix of surprise and confusion. 

“But, sir, who. . .?” I can’t bring myself to ask where he met this person, or who this person is. Luckily, I don’t have to. 

“Issa! Issa! Come into the sitting room, meet Tryxtan!”

I’m about to ask what kind of name Issa is, but before I can get the words out, a girl about my age steps timidly into the room. 

She’s tall, dressed in a gauzy white thing, and her impossibly long hair is so blonde it’s almost white. As she approaches, I see that she’s younger than at first glance. No more than fifteen. 

She’s delicate with slight curves and willowy limbs, and her skin is the only thing paler than her hair. She sits down on Markus’s knee without saying a word. 

Though her actions are practiced and subservient, she isn’t as polished as a grotto girl. There is an almost imperceptible line between her pale eyebrows, and her eyes flash full of hateful fire. They are the silvery violet-blue of lightning in a dark sky. 

I am taken aback by the raw fury in her eyes, and wonder how Markus doesn’t notice it. 

“Where’s she from?” I ask finally, figuring it’s the safest thing I can ask. Markus is rarely without a beautiful female companion on his arm, in his bed. They’ve ranged from young pleasure workers to fierce businesswomen to sweetly vapid models. A few of them have been Novatrixian. 

This Issa seems different, like she’s something entirely separate from the denizens of Cityland. 

“She’s, uh, she’s an import.” he says sheepishly. Sheepish does not look good on Markus. 

An import could mean that she’s from the other remaining Nations; the British Republic, Australia, New Africa, or United Europe. Somehow, I don’t think so. 

I try to keep my expression impassive, focus on Markus’s mother-of-pearl cufflinks rather than his eyes. 

“She’s not from a Nation, is she?” I say evenly, as evenly as I can. 

Issa has not moved a tick since perching on Markus’s lap, statue-still. I see her back tense, though, as he rests his hand on her waist. 

“If I tell you this, Tryxtan, you have to swear to me you will not tell a soul, am I clear?” he’s trying to use his stern-father voice, which he knows works better on me than his stoney-politician voice. His voice cracks on ‘clear’, ruining the desired effect. 

“I swear. Who would I tell?” 

I’m so curious now as to where this otherworldly surprise fiancee came from, that I would probably agree to anything. Issa’s stormy eyes are burning into me, though I don’t meet them. She probably is inventing new and painful ways to kill Markus and me in her head. Talking about her as though she’s an inanimate object, or worse, not even present. 

Markus exhales shakily before telling me that Issa was discovered along with a small group of “wild-people” in the surrounding forests and outlying rubble of Cityland. There is so much unused land still, and it doesn’t surprise me to learn that a few stragglers have managed to survive in tribes outside the City’s bright walls. 

He goes on to explain that the team of explorational biologists who found her tribe’s camp had been planning to keep her and a few others for observation, to study them closely. The wild people apparently spoke a form of English that was closer to Old World English, and they seemed to have retained civility albeit rough-edged, living like some kind of post-apocalyptic Indians. The wild people hunted and gathered and lived in abandoned remnants of old towns or in huts in the woods. The scientists said how remarkable it was that they had not lost all their humanity. That they weren’t merely animals in human skin. The scientists called Markus to ask for funding, which he promised them if he could take the girl. Apparently for the past month, she’s been training privately at the most expensive pleasure grotto there is, the Pre-Raphaelite styled Half-Shell Grotto. 

After spending just one week in her company, Markus was smitten. 

“And so,” he says while running his hand languorously up and down Issa’s spine, “That brings us to now. So you understand why no one can know about her?” 

I nod, trying to process what I’ve just been told. 

There are people who live outside of Cityland. 

There is a way of life utterly perpendicular to ours. 

That is what Markus and the researchers do not want the citizens of Cityland to know; there is life beyond the walls, and they are nervous. 

“What do I tell people, when and if they ask?” I ask suddenly, which makes Markus furrow his brow. 

“Tell them. . .tell them she’s a Novatrixian. They’re all earthy, all plant-happy up there. They won’t question it if you tell them she’s Novatrixian.”

His digitab begins to beep, signaling that he is needed at the office, breaking the tension that fills the room. 

Markus pushes Issa gently off his lap, gets up and straightens his clothes. 

“Tryxtan, I need you to look after Issa today. I’m in meetings until the party, and she needs to be taken care of. I’m forwarding you her itinerary, and whatever you do, don’t let anything happen to her.” 

His eyes have a crazed glassiness that makes me very uncomfortable, but I agree just the same. He’s still my boss, lunatic or not. 

After the door closes behind him, a few moments of silence pass between Issa and I before she speaks in a voice like tepid water on fevered skin. 

“I’m going to kill myself. You’d better not try to stop me.” 

Author's Note

read and review :) **I edited the part that was kind of windy and long, let me know how you like it this new way**

Reviews

[by S.D.]

The info dump at the beginning was hard to get through. Maybe Tryx's narrative would've worked better if it was placed in a scene, and maybe if he told it from the perspective of one of the people who remembered. You've got your setting, but I think a lot of what you've told us can be fitted in between the action and the dialogue.
You expressed yourself clearly with good thought organization between sentences, but not so much between paragraphs. Can't wait to find out what the story is.

Show, don't tell (all at once).
:D

[MoriartyMesa]

Here is what I totally dig, this reminded me of the outline of a graphic novel. The one thing that lacked was the graphic imagery. And for one reason or another I love to associate words with music and the self narrative made me think https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pls_luhVdAw