//There is nothing here. Even the lack of impressions has been taken away, leaving absence where there should be darkness, nothing where there should be a hole. Some memories are left, foreign, but insistent. But my goal remains and the wait continues. I wonder, for how long? I am afraid I will never find out.//

  ***

  Spec has one eye in his head and the processor for the second eye in his pocket. He fidgets with it as he limps between bloated trash bags in the underground tunnel. The rest of this second eye waits on his workbench at home, incomplete without this final piece in his pocket. He rescued it from its boring existence as a processor in an electronic lock. He probably did it a favor.

  The lock was obviously not great at protecting either itself or the door it was attached to. It was over engineered, expensive and not quite thought through, a recurring theme in the corporate merch Spec usually takes apart. It’s a recurring theme in the entire city.

  Take the lights along the ceiling of the concrete tunnel Spec’s walking in. They give off a supposedly soothing blue color; the city replaced all of them in the Eastbridge Crime Reduction Initiative, sponsored by Incertus Inc. It didn’t work, of course. But someone got paid and someone else got elected, so perhaps the initiative did what it was supposed to do.

  The light shines down on Spec, he recently turned twenty five the other day and didn’t like it. He's quite tall, walks with a practiced limp and is therefore almost memorable. This despite the unkempt brown hair and soft jawline. He’s in a good mood. The final piece lies heavy in his pocket, his dad seemed lucid this morning and as he’s without an aug or prosthetic eye he’s not hounded by ads or malware at every step. It almost makes up for being digitally handicapped. Physical advertisements still litter every surface, chasing his attention, as they always have and always will. Poverty is no excuse to not spend, after all. Spec doesn’t mind. A blank wall would seem dull and gray to someone living in Eastbridge.

  He rips one of the posters from the wall as he walks on by and steps into the piss-drenched elevator, punching the button for street level with his elbow. An older man steps in beside him with a truly awe-inspiring beard hiding a friendly smile. How annoying. He hates just standing next to someone in an elevator and staring straight ahead. The walking beard isn’t checking Echo for the rage-inducing news of the day as people usually do, but that means he’s actively chosen silence so it seems rude to intrude. So Spec goes with awkvard silence.

  The poster reads “Peace of Mind 2.0: Secure your home with Berserker approved drones!” over a picture of a woman he doesn’t recognize holding up a spherical drone in her palm. Spec has no idea what slaughtering alien horrors has to do with home security. It’s not like the CONTACT gets into the megacities, or what would be the point of living like ants behind those concrete walls?

  “Such a sellout.” the other man says. The ancient metal cage acting as an elevator starts moving.

  Spec looks up, surprised Mr. Beard broke the silence.

  “Well the Berserkers have to eat right? It’s not like they buy food from the Exchange.” answers Spec, instantly regretting arguing with the friendly man.

  “The military has plenty of food. Seems acceptable for the rest of them, serving Europa where they are needed. But no, she wants penthouses and fancy tech-wear, working for the corps instead of killing CONTACT. Such a disgrace.” says the apparently quite bitter man.

  Spec looks down at the stained advertisement in his oily hands. He found it in a tunnel, printed on paper as if a security company selling drones forgot computers exist. The Berserker is probably not living in a penthouse.

  “Maybe the military only hires assholes.”

  The old man’s face hosts a war of expressions under the beard and wrinkles. Agreement that authority is inherently suspicious fights against stubbornness.

  “Maybe so, p?jk, maybe.”

  They stay silent until the cage finally rattles to a stop on the lowest street, the sky still obscured by the street above them. Not that it often peeks out of the smog. Spec crumples up the poster and throws it at a garbage pile while forcing a smile on his face, determined to remain in a good mood. He’ll complete his copper eye, work on that repair job he snatched the other day and in a month or so he’ll finally be able to afford the pills his dad needs. Determined, he sets out towards Million Towers.

  ***

  Something is wrong. As he arrives at the foot of his tower a warbled cacophony of alarms assaults his ears, smothering the usual backdrop of sultry voices and loud proclamations from advertisements. The fire alarms, some old, some almost new all attempt the same tune. The result is chaotic and eerie, as if the towers' millions of inhabitants are all in there, screaming.

  His gaze travels upwards. Black smoke belches out of several windows, hiding the garish digital screens and holographic projections. Different floors seem to be on fire, some lower down towards second street level, some higher up.

  His dad is up there.

  Spec rushes in, traveling against the trickle of people evacuating. He slams his arm under the grate moving down to cover one of the dozen elevators and enters the cramped space. Dragging it down behind him he hears a shout.

  “Wait!” a woman shouts as she runs towards him, squeezing between confused thugs trying to establish a semblance of order. She has one of those black plastic jackets thrown on and some bright orange cargo pants.

  “I’m going the wrong way too” she says with a small smile and quickly ducks under the grate. “Thanks for holding it for me. So, who is it for you?” she continues before pressing the button for floor 71.

  Spec notes they’re going to the same floor, momentarily thrown out of his spiral of worry by the bundle of words she throws at him.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “My Dad. He’s not… he’s distracted nowadays. I’m afraid he’s not going to recognize the alarm.”

  “Ah, that sucks. My grandma was like that, sure was stressful for us. Is it curable?”

  “Well that depends I suppose.”

  “On what?” She asks as she tilts her head.

  “Credits” Spec answers, unable to keep the acidity out of his voice.

  The girl nods automatically, as if he said smog was black.

  “Ah. I’m Juin by the way, I feel like I should have led with that.”

  “I’m Spec, I run the repair shop on the middle floors. So, who are you searching for?” he says, trying to keep up with her fast pace.

  “My little sister! She’s sitting tight in our room, don’t want her to get crushed if everyone rushes out.” Juin says with a bright smile that immediately collapses into worry. Her cleft lip makes the smile uneven, but no less earnest.

  “You’re doing the right thing. This is going to be chaos. I’ve never heard of a fire spreading in the towers.”

  Juin nods and lets the conversation lapse into a tense silence, the void filled by the old digital screen in the top right.

  “It’s six o’clock here in Eastbridge and Europa News is here to bring you fresh updates on the CONTACT situation. Our ferocious Berserkers are already hard at work outside of Eastbridge!”

  “Dave, please, it has been thirty years. You know the military prefers Spearpoint Forces now. “

  “Ah Trist, our dear viewers know that! Look, they are just slaughtering those lizards! Make sure to cheer them on in the chat, the betting has already started!“

  Spec tries to tune out the broadcast as the cohost lets out a practiced sigh. The mechanical elevator climbs slowly but relentlessly up, the sound of the rattling chains slamming against the bare walls of the shaft. As they pass each floor the alarms grow louder for a brief moment, but they’re still screaming incoherently.

  Floor 31, floor 32…

  The smell of smoke starts to taint the air.

  “They are really sticking with Spearpoint? Calling them anything but Berserkers seems weird at this point.” Juin says in what’s probably supposed to be a casual tone.

  “At least those in the army do, I suppose they’re pushing for something more professional. Doesn’t seem to be working though.”

  Sweat starts to pool at the top of his forehead. Is it hotter already? He finds it difficult to focus on the conversation.

  “Ha! It does. Spearpoint is better than plain Soldier though. Or Toy Soldier, remember when someone tried that?” she says. Her smile seems brittle, almost manic.

  “Look at her go! Iron Rain truly knows how to make it-”

  “Don’t. Sergeant Svendottir is putting up a valiant defense of our dear Eastbridge.”

  Floor 48, floor 49…

  It is definitely hotter now. A couple floors have flames licking the walls as they pass them by.

  People try to make themself heard over the alarms as they run towards the stairs. Some stand with their possessions in hand, waiting to crush themselves in the next elevator going down.

  Why aren’t the foam sprayers on? Just as the thought enters his head the elevator stops, jerking to sudden standstill between two floors.

  “Fuck!” Spec says as he looks towards the broadcast, still blaring on.

  “People, I am afraid we have disturbing news. The CONTACT infestation has somehow spread to-”

  “To another section of the wall! Dave, you had such a good flow going on, don’t stop now!”

  “Right, of course! If we go back to the live feed you can see a teleport just about to finish, it seems Iron Rain bought a new gun…”

  So the elevator still had power but the mechanism was out of order. Which was odd considering he fixed it just last week.

  “We’ll have to climb. I’ll open this hatch above us and boost you up.” Spec says in his best impression of a professional. He tries to convince his heart to slow down. This is not how this day was supposed to go!

  “... I suppose you’re right. Ah, it will be exciting! You sure there’s a ladder up there?” she says with a half-smile, nervously bouncing from foot to foot as if the floor is already hot. The elevator barely moves, she’s so light.

  “Absolutely, I put it there.”

  Spec reaches above his head to the locked maintenance hatch, glad he finally found a use for being tall. He looks at the cheap electronic lock asking for authentication and pulls out a strong magnet. Dragging it over the locking mechanism pops the hatch open. Why these corporate giants design such shitty products, he will never know.

  He builds a cradle for her heel with his hands and boosts her up to the hatch. Putting his weight on his good leg he jumps slightly and scrambles up, entering the dark shaft under floor 58.

  “Do you have a light?” he asks Juin in apparently luminescent orange pants.

  “Sure! Or something that makes light at least.” she says as the shaft bathes in the light of a flare, the color changing every second.

  “What is that?!”

  “Just a stage prop. Focus man, come on.” she answers and starts to climb the ladder to the side.

  As they both climb up the ladder, black smoke emerges in small tendrils along the ceiling of passing floors to combine with the less dense smoke from the flare.. The result is beautiful, sinister and utterly mad as the ever changing colors are painted with black veins. Spec’s arms are starting to burn.

  Floor 64, floor 65…

  Progress is agonizingly slow. Spec rarely finds himself in dangerous situations, prefering to tinker at home as soon as he finds his parts. Panic starts to circle his mind like the smoking clinging to the walls of the shaft. This is not like fleeing from private enforcers claiming the garbage is private property. This is slow and repetitive, leaving nothing to distract his brain from worry.

  He thinks about his dad. He is alone, probably confused and locked in a home he may not recognize. It was just supposed to be for a little while.

  Then the screams start. It starts quietly, distant and behind closed doors. Then they increase in volume. They rise suddenly and then stop, one after the other.

  “Why are there so many screams? The tower is not a giant torch yet, we would be dead. People should be able to get out. Can you check your aug?” Spec says as he climbs past another floor.

  “No connection here, I’m trying to write to Summer.”

  “Your sister? I’m sure she’s fine, you said she stayed in the room.” Spec says with false cheer.

  Juin doesn’t answer.

  As they finally reach floor 71 Spec follows behind Juin. She steps straight from the ladder into the corridor beyond the open shaft. Most of the doors to the shaft have been stolen and sold as scrap by now.

  He steps into mayhem.