One after another after another after another…

  Again.

  After another… And on it went… In cycles.

  Over and over.

  Unending.

  Day in and day out.

  The first half hour of the shift always flew by.

  The last one always dragged.

  Every time it was a 30 minute eternity.

  30 minutes of sludgy time-lock. Agonizing anticipation. Waiting for the threshold of freedom between the bondage of the boss and the chokehold of cash and spending stupid money on food, on bad entertainment. On a face-melting mind-crash. Or on clothing and shoes-

  …To wear to work-

  …To earn money-

  …To buy clothing and food. To sustain the body-

  …The body that works.

  Every day was basically the same. Every day was an eternal recurrence of the same menial tasks. The same hand gestures of gr de inding, drilling, hauling, and digging.

  More clockwork than clocks, and more certain than sunrise, there was always another workday. No pity for the masses.

  Jet knew there was nothing beyond the Colony. Nothing but wastelands of pestilence and bitter toxic winds.

  “Hey, Jet!” A gloved hand fell on Jet’s shoulder.

  He turned to see Enver and his choppy blonde hair sticking out oddly from beneath his helmet.

  “What, is it off-time?”

  “Tonight, in the lower levels of the old tunnels, there’s a concert!” Enver grinned, speaking in hushed and urgent tones.

  He leaned in, “the band is pretty under the radar.” Enver passed a slip of paper to Jet.

  Jet raised an eyebrow, examining the crude map.

  “You verified the source?”

  “Haha, of course, man!” Enver laughed, continued, “I used to work in ore processing with one of the performers. He’s legit.”

  Jet couldn’t believe it. Enver’s old friends had managed to organize an unofficial concert in the older quarters of the Colony. Technically, such an assembly was illegal, but it had been done before. Such assemblies had a way of living in infamy among the people, going on to become legendary happenings that stirred the suppressed desire for something different, something new.

  And now, Jet had been given the time and location for the next one…

  “Right, Jet, I gotta get back into line before off-time,” Enver mumbled, heading back toward his team’s station, “See you there I guess.”

  Jet crushed a smile, burying the note in his pocket, before drilling into the bedrock once again.

  —----------------

  The dim lights of Jet’s housing unit flickered slightly. He untied the knots on his grimy boots, prying his feet out of them. With his feet free, he paced the unit and reviewed the security protocol Enver had relayed: “Dress plainly so as not to arouse suspicion. Walk alone and diversify your route to complicate tailing. Smear your face with soot or paint to trick the surveillance cameras. Don’t tell anyone else where you’re going.”

  “Why do the Holders even care?” Jet wondered, “Who cares what we do in our own time. We all live in the Colony and depend on it to survive, what’s so dangerous?”

  He could never quite find the answers… though the line of questioning felt meaningful. What could be so dangerous about normal people coming together for a night of fun?

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  He left his unit unlocked so the record looked like he only intended to be gone for a short while…

  —----------------------------------------

  Down 2 levels to the central forum.

  East down a commercial tunnel to the market hall. Here there were stalls stacked on top of each other several stories high. The hall was built around an old shaft that had been expanded and retrofitted to house merchandise stalls. Most goods were sold directly through the Holder’s corporate networks and could be bought with Colonial Scrip. However, craft goods and services were available from the hack-merchants: leisure clothing, virtual games, along with a variety of crude drugs made by amateur chemists. Every product or service the hack-merchants sold was a product of cottage-industry, dubious quality, and designed to make the dark reality of life underground a little more bearable. No one knew anything different, so in a sense it wasn’t a terrible existence, but Jet still felt that there was something more to life. Until recently, the market stalls could go up and down like an elevator, connecting the 0 through 6th levels.

  Jet wondered if they would ever fix the elevator mechanism or if the days of such easy travel were gone for good.

  One of the stalls creaked.

  Oh shit. Wait. Jet reminded himself to be as normal as possible. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, he told himself.

  An old shack-merchant was locking up for the night. She swung the gate to her stall and locked it. She walked right past Jet but made no sign that she found his presence suspicious. After all, he was just out for a walk.

  As he passed through tunnels and halls, Jet began to wonder when he’d finally arrive at the meeting place. Was this Enver’s idea of a joke?

  Still, he followed the map, winding through the tunnels to avoid anyone in pursuit, just in case.

  “Can’t be too careful”, he reminded himself.

  The air grew colder, the lights were spaced farther apart, and there was more and more trash piled up against the walls.

  Everywhere there was evidence of rats.

  Patches of graffiti had been covered with posters of the perpetrators' faces and their punishments.

  One of the phrases smeared onto the wall in red paint read “I am not graffiti.”

  The message was finished by a badly drawn smiley face.

  Jet smiled at first, but frowned, pondering the meaning of the message.

  If it wasn’t graffiti then what was it? A joke? Must be a pretty serious joke. But then, there were no posters of a perpetrator. Was it recent?

  Jet squinted at the words. Indeed, the paint looked fresh, no more than a few days old.

  Jet turned down an even darker tunnel but then…

  He could feel it.

  It was low at first, hard to detect, but with each step, it grew stronger, stronger, more powerful. A dull beat, like a heart, pounding away in the darkness. He felt his pulse quicken. This was it, the point of no return.

  Jet gritted his teeth.

  Too far to turn back, he followed the beat until it became clear that it was music, but no music he’d ever heard before. The singing was aggressive and angry, the instruments were violent. The sound was like a battlefield. Now Jet could see dim lights, the dark shadows of people just a few yards ahead. He jogged the rest of the distance, eager to reach the safety of a crowd and to meet the other people, who, like Jet, had risked everything to see the band play.

  The first people he saw were a young couple in tattered clothes, the guy was leaning on the lady in a stupor, exhaling smoke from his mouth and nostrils. The girl looked like she was about to fall asleep. Her nose was bleeding.

  “What the fuck?” Jet whispered, what was this place?

  The next person had their arms restrained in a canvas straightjacket, their face entirely obscured by a black mask and glowing goggles.

  It seemed that most people had come with others, or had quickly paired up with someone upon arrival. Most of the people were smoking and most of the people who weren’t smoking were drinking. The only other person who was as alert and aware as Jet was the Doorman. He was tall and thin, probably about 30, but looked old for his age. His hair was a mess and he wore studded rings on his fingers. He was the kind of guy who, when he fought, fought dirty.

  “Let me see your map”, the Doorman demanded.

  Jet scrambled to find the scrap of paper, it seemed to take a million years.

  It didn’t help that the Doorman kept his hand outstretched impatiently.

  “Ah! Here!” Jet held up the map.

  The Doorman looked it over.

  “Right, you’re ok, go inside, enjoy the show, stay outside if you like, I don’t give a shit.”

  “Wait,” Jet asked, “How much do I owe you?”

  The Doorman laughed, “For this? We don’t believe in that crap anyway. Don’t you know your history, Kid? Greed’s what got us stuck down here in the Colony! ‘Last thing we want to do is to “hold” onto something as worthless as scrip.”

  The Doorman spat, grinding it into the dirt with his heel.

  “Nah, Kid, fuck the Holders and fuck the Colony, they hold everything, we do everything. If you can’t handle that then go home, go to work tomorrow and forget about tonight. Or, say goodbye to hating life, find some good music, and enjoy the show!”

  Jet’s pulse was now in time with the drum beat of the music. He couldn’t go home now.