“I stoke the fires, embers scorch and engrave me

  A brand of ire, to be shunned of fervent plea

  I pound the bolts, oily rivers running free

  How can we carry on when our hearts grow oft weary?

  I thump and screw, I fix and weave

  I toil and shiver, I count to three

  The smog is here

  The smog is here

  It fills our lungs

  It blackens our tongues

  Our life is a furnace, filled with nothing but sorrow

  We dream of thereafter, hoping for a bright morrow

  In forges, in foundries, we suffer and cry a woe

  How can we carry on with our bones rotting below?”

  - Song of Sons and Daughters: an old anthem sang by Caelum laborers

  ———

  Beneath the blankets of an ashen sky, a land of frost rests between the snowy mountaintops and peaks. The daylight is short. The night reigns for hours up high. All are subject to the rigid temperaments of nature: unyielding in its cruelty, shunned by even the beasts. Amidst the ceaseless storms of ice and rime, not a patch of green is allowed to flourish.

  Yet it is within these bitter crags that one species persists in a never-ending struggle for survival. They dig into the mountains for stone. They set ablaze black rocks for heat. When the winds of winter descend, they build homes that which the frost can never penetrate. They are humanity: small in stature, feeble in strength, but tenacious above all else.

  There are few, at first: a sparse population of only a thousand. However, as the seasons pass, they begin to grow. A house becomes a village. A village becomes a city. Brick after brick, they lay the foundation for those who would come after.

  Eventually, it is done. The once-barren wasteland is no more, replaced by a towering bastion of metal and smoldering heat. It is a symbol of mankind’s defiance against the elements, their triumphant victory, and thus toward their new hearth they bequeath it a name: Caelum, the nation of forge and smithy.

  But the Caelum of yesteryear is no more. Now, a new power stands atop its weathered remains. Streams of molten metal are accompanied by a gushing deluge of sludge; smog wafts along grimy alleyways and infects the air. It is within this hostile environment that humanity carries on as they always have, laboring in the hopes that tomorrow will be better.

  One such person is a man like any other. He has a name, of course, but it has been many years since it held any meaning. A name is for those with value, individuality. The man has yet to accomplish anything of worth, and so it is that no one has reason to call it out. Perhaps one day he shall forget it entirely, but for now, a trace of his identity still exists. If he wishes to keep that way, then the day must go on.

  The man wakes up at the crack of dawn inside an assigned dwelling of meagre space. It is cramped here, containing just enough room to house a small bed, cabinet, and toilet. There is no kitchen; anything capable of igniting a flame is strictly forbidden within the complex.

  The man cannot even stretch his arms without touching the harsh grey walls, but he does not mind it. If he finds a partner, then a bigger room shall be appointed to him, as well as better commodities. The same holds true if he displays adequate results at work - results beget rewards.

  It has been five years since he was captured by the legionaries. The man remembers a time when he lived amongst the trees and forests, the peaceful days where little of note occurred and his youth was spent frolicking amongst bushels without care or worry. His life is much different now, but it is not so bad. Here, he does not need to worry of where next to forage food. He has a warm home, comfortable clothes, and a goal to aspire towards: becoming a Proletariat.

  Foreigners come into the nation as Freedman, the bottom rung of the hierarchy, unless they possess a valuable skill. The man is unfortunately not one of those people, but someday he will. It’s only a matter of time before his superiors recognize his commitment to the nation.

  Until then, he has work to do. The man combs his hair, puts on a brown suit, and leaves his room. A moving line has already begun to form outside the door. They march in orderly strides, and gather into a great mass of footsteps leading out into the cold, grimy air. The man joins them just as he always has, and soon, he disappears - consumed by the crowd.

  He is but one part of a much larger whole. It can be intimidating at first, but over time the man has grown used to it. There is comfort in routine, in the rhythmic flow, unchanging despite the years, that gradually becomes second nature. You know where to step, how to move, the exact distance and time and effort needed to reach the next point. Everything is familiar. You do not have to worry about change.

  Once one finds their place within the routine of Caelum, a special ability is granted to them: the ability to fast-forward time. It’s simple, really. All you need to do is empty your mind. Let instinct take over. By doing so, what should be a lengthy day of labor quickly flows by as hours become minutes and the repetitive monotony blurs into memory.

  The man has become quite the expert in this trade. Even now, his eyes glaze over, and his head fills with naught but smoke as his feet carry him to the far fringes of the city.

  It is near the border where his destination resides. He boards a lift, which carries him to the lower stratum, and then makes his way through a lengthy series of lanes and passageways before eventually reaching a large steel building. The number fifty-two is carved squarely in the front. How many of these branches exist, he knows not. They are all identical anyways.

  Upon entering, the man is subjected to a rigid search. He must produce his identity card, correctly fill out his personal information, and all manner of intense interrogation before finally being allowed to pass.

  Security has always been rather thorough, but it has become even more-so after the Polus attack on the capital one year ago. He recalls it vividly, how the winged warriors descended from the sky: the terror, the light, the hideous white-feathered beast.

  He would have perished there, if not for the Grand General’s fierce defense. Since then, Polus has yet to launch another attack, but no one knows when their lives may be endangered again. The nation is simply aiming to prevent a repeat of that tragedy, so even though the search may be tedious, the man undergoes it with pride. Let the rebels oust themselves in their foolishness; the hard-working men and women are far too busy to entertain themselves with lofty dreams.

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

  The man’s place of work in particular is especially important: He serves as an immigration officer. Deep underground, rows of displaced individuals, spoils of conquest obtained amidst the Caelum expansion, are brought into the city every day. It is his duty to give these people a new identity and purpose in life, as well as to check for potential spies.

  Soon, the man arrives at his designated office. Well, to call it that is a bit of a stretch. The space is barely large enough to fit him, containing only a booth, a chair, and varying papers mounted haphazardly on the wall. The text outlines his script, what he must say, and other factors he must look out for while conversing with the migrants. It’s admittedly not a very tidy place, but it’s the results that matter. The man pledges to better organize himself once he reaches a higher position.

  Complaining about his conditions will only lead to a quick termination. Besides, working here is paradise compared to the factories. At least he gets to leave without dirtying himself; the assembly workers can hardly be recognized at the end of the day what with all the soot and grime covering their skin. The man is happier here, satisfied with his tight stall.

  A loud bell rings - it’s time to work. He slides open a small gap near the bottom of the booth and prepares his documents. There’s a peephole he can look through, but for those outside, all they can see is a solid metal wall: mostly for safety purposes. Armed guards are stationed nearby, as well, so he doesn’t have to worry about being attacked.

  “Next,” the man grunts.

  His first client of the day is an elderly woman with dark skin - possibly from the eastern deserts.

  “Name?” he asks.

  The woman doesn’t reply, confused by the question

  “Oh great…” he mutters to himself. These types are the most annoying due to the language barrier, not to mention her older age makes her unsuited for the factories. Unable to communicate, unable to work, and unable to contribute to the growth and well-being of the nation. For such people, only one destination awaits: the Slums.

  Still, it is his responsibility to give them a chance.

  The man takes a numbered card, jots down the woman’s physical appearance and attire, and then leans towards a communications tube that branches out to other departments. “Requesting relocation of Migrant Number. 48234 to the northeastern branch. Individual requires a translation officer fluent in desert languages.”

  He drops the card in a chute and waits for a superior to confirm. Once they do, he packages a few more necessary permits in an envelope and then hands it over to the woman.

  “Please direct the miss here over to Gate B, terminal six,” he orders the guards.

  After she’s led away, the man carries on with the screenings. More people pass through, some unlikely to be useful like the woman before, while others display enough physicality to at least be put to work at the forges. None have shown the potential to become a Proletariat thus far, much to his disappointment. Ideally he wishes to find someone worthy and recommend them move on to the interview phase. If they manage to pass and transfer to the Proletariat or Erudite, then the one who referred them receives a sizable bonus in return.

  Of course, you can’t admit just anyone. It’s your neck on the line if they end up being unsatisfactory.

  Time marches on. The man yawns and checks the clock - the lunch hour will start soon. A few more inspections and he’ll finally be able to take a break.

  “Next.”

  The next pair to walk up is a father and his child. The little one seems no older than a year, and ordinarily he would have paid them no mind. Except, an unexplainable feeling draws him to the young father. He appears to be of the recently captured nomadic tribe by the northern uplands: long white hair, soft facial features, and a scrawny frame. This one has no doubt been starving for some time, and he looks hard-pressed to pick up a wrench, much less work in manual labor. But even so, there is something imposing about him. His presence feels almost regal - of a power only exuded by those who stand above all.

  The man cannot pry away from it: from the shining, amber luster of that person’s eyes.

  “A-Ahem.” He coughs and does his best to collect himself. “Name?”

  “Calason.”

  “Sounds like a Polus name.” It’s protocol to pay extra attention to these cases after the last incident. Unfortunate, but he’ll have to be extra thorough, no matter how pitiful the father may seem.

  “My people are descendants of the old land, Camelot. We have no affiliation with the current Polus.”

  The man takes a quick glance at his notes. “Hm, that is plausible. Tell me what your tribe is called, then.”

  “Avalonians.”

  No faults here. He has expected as much, but you can never be too careful. It’s all part of routine anyway.

  “... Very well, let’s move on. The child’s name?”

  “Aegis.”

  “How Avalonian. And the mother?”

  The moment the words leave his lips, the man breaks out into a cold sweat. He shouldn’t have said that; it’s obvious why a father would be alone without his partner. It’s not like this is the first time the man has encountered such a situation, but as usual his tongue proves to be his own worst enemy.

  Calason lowers his head, and then speaks with a solemn whisper, “Perished in the legionary raids. My child and I are all that’s left.”

  Damnit. Now he feels like gutter oil.

  “I… apologize. That was insensitive of me.” The man reshuffles his papers and does his best to change the topic. “I know it must not be easy to relocate to your enemy’s country, but I recommend you think of it as a new, fresh start. No one discriminates over origins here, and as long as you provide sufficient work, then your life may even become better than it was before - especially for your child. We have a great education system: the boy will learn from the very best in the field.”

  Of course, he doubts his plea will get through at first. Once upon a time, he too recalls being just like the rebels, wishing to get revenge on the Grand General, but time has a way of dulling old wounds. Now, he is simply tired. Hate won’t put food on the table, and people like him do not have the power or influence to bring change in the first place. What can one man do against such a rigid system? Nothing, so it’s better to give up, to conform, and make do with what you have now.

  His life may not be glamorous, but it’s enough. It has to be.

  “You’ll only waste time thinking about revenge,” the man says. “So, do your best to fit in. If not for your own sake, then at least for your little boy.”

  Calason nods along, thankfully willing to listen. This has always been the hardest part of the job, encouraging people to let go of past grudges, so it’s comforting to know that at least one poor soul won’t throw their life away.

  “Now, let’s see where we can put you,” he continues. “Do you have any skills of note? It can be related to anything: hunting, weaving, medicine or even cooking. We here at Nox Caelum value all types of expertise. There’s always the choice to enlist in the army as well, but… I would recommend otherwise - especially with your physique.”

  “I suppose my hands are quite adept. I used to be responsible for repairing the village tools; some days I’d even tinker a bit and come up with new inventions. They weren’t grand things, but I like to think it made our lives a little easier.”

  “A creative sort, hm? That’s good. We’re always short on capable engineers, and I’ve heard the development department is much less harsh labor-wise compared to the metalworkers.”

  Yes, this he can work with. The man normally doesn’t pay much attention to his instincts, but something inside him screams that he’s just found gold. If it’s this person, then it’s worth the risk to set up an interview. Visionaries tend to hold high positions - making a connection here will only lead to good things in the future.

  Alright, he’s decided: the man will stake his credibility on this.

  He arranges the usual papers into an envelope, but before handing it out, he presses a bright green stamp on the front that reads ‘PASS’. “Take this and proceed along the path. Once you reach a large opening, there will be an administrative counter in the center. Show them the stamped letter and they’ll take you to be interviewed. Be on your best behavior; not many tend to get an opportunity like this.”

  Calason receives it, and he bows his head towards the booth. “Thank you. This has all been quite frightening, so I’m glad to have met such a kind man. Would it be alright if I were to ask for your name?”

  “My… name?” The man hesitates. Has anyone ever asked for his name before? No, this is the first. He taps his fingers and attempts to recall the name assigned to him when he was first dragged here in locks and chains. “I believe it was Ned Clerk.”

  But Calason shakes his head. “Not that one,” he says. “I wish to know your true name.”

  The man opens his mouth wordlessly, and swallows. Is this right? Should he really say it? The guards are right there; he might be reported for this.

  And yet, he wishes to say it. The old him before his capture, the remnants of a warrior who once boldly declared his name, still lingers. It has remained even after all this time.

  “... Oshka,” he says. “My name is Oshka Bogatyrsky.”

  Calason smiles and nods. “If fortune wills it, then let us meet again.”

  “Yes,” Oshka chuckles. “When the time comes, I hope to see you as a proud and confident engineer.”

  Soon, Calason and his child depart. The encounter between them has been short, a mere blink in the endless routine of his life, but he can’t help but feel that something is different now. The name he has thought long abandoned - it returns to him. He holds it close to his heart like a dearly beloved, hoping that one day he may declare it freely.

  “Next.”