Chapter 3: Daxin
The twin suns of Astra burned through the perpetual haze that hung over the slums, casting everything in a sickly orange glow. Damon kept his head down as he walked, his worn boots kicking up clouds of fine dust from the cracked pavement. Each step sent dull aches through his calves, remnants of yesterday's fourteen-hour shift in the Daxin fields. Beside him, Sage moved like a shadow, his thin frame nearly disappearing in his oversized Jalo.
Around them, the slums groaned to life. The metallic shriek of bunker doors opening. The distant shouts of overseers herding men to work stations. The ever-present hum of suffering that vibrated through the air like the prelude to a scream.
Matrons patrolled the streets in their crisp black uniforms, the silver insignias on their collars glinting in the morning light. Their batons swung at their hips like pendulums counting down the seconds until someone stepped out of line. Damon kept his shoulders hunched, his posture carefully non-threatening, but his eyes remained alert beneath his lowered brows.
After an eternity of walking - past the skeletal remains of old-world buildings, past the makeshift markets where men traded scraps of food and stolen goods - they finally reached the gathering square. Up ahead, hundreds of Slumborn men stood in ragged lines, their bodies sagging with exhaustion before the day's labor even began. The air reeked of unwashed skin and the sharp, coppery scent of fear sweat.
Damon and Sage shuffled into place behind a familiar figure, a boy, with dirty blonde hair that hung limp to his shoulders, the back of his neck burned a permanent red from years working under the merciless suns. Like all Slumborn, his clothes hung loose on his frame, the fabric worn thin at the elbows and knees.
"You guys are late,"
the young boy said without turning around. Then he glanced over his shoulder, his pale eyes, one slightly clouded from an old injury, taking in Damon first, then Sage. A knowing look passed over his sharp features as he tucked a greasy strand of hair behind his ear. "Nightmare?"
Damon exhaled through his nose, feeling the familiar weight settle in his chest. "Unfortunately yes. It's not getting any better, Adam."
Beside him, Sage stared blankly at the growing crowd, his fingers twitching at his sides. The boy, though at fifteen years he was hardly a boy anymore, had dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises. Damon didn't ask about the nightmares. Some things were better left in the dark.
Adam leaned against a rusted support beam, his posture deliberately casual despite the overseers circling nearby.
"Your brother is strong, Damon." He nodded toward Sage. "It takes steel in your spine to face the wastelands every day. You and I both know I'm not that guy."
With a theatrical wink, he tapped his collar tag, making the hologram flicker to life - P-T N52. Pleasure Tool Number 52.
Damon allowed himself a small, tired smile. "Yeahhh, pleasure tool. That's all you are to them." His voice dropped to a mocking whisper. "A little whore."
Adam clutched his chest in exaggerated offense, his grin widening.
"Hey now, watch your mouth..." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Who are you calling little?"
The blow came without warning.
"Shut up! Dog!"
The feminine voice cracked through the air like a whip. All three men stiffened, they hadn't heard her approach. Adam turned slowly, deliberately, to face the matron standing behind them. Her baton was already in hand, the polished black wood gleaming in the morning light. The insignia on her uniform marked her as a senior enforcer.
"Telling me to shut up is an insult to my dignity," Adam began, his voice dripping with false formality. He gave a shallow bow that was just shy of mocking. "I won't have-"
The baton struck like a snake, driving into his solar plexus. Adam doubled over with a grunt, all the air rushing from his lungs in a pained wheeze. Damon instinctively moved in front of Sage, shielding him with his body as the matron seized Adam by his long hair. With a brutal yank, she brought the baton down across his face. The crack of wood on bone echoed through the square as Adam hit the dirt, blood immediately gushing from his nose.
Before he could rise, her boot came down on the back of his skull, grinding his face into the dust.
"Filthy animal,"
she spat, applying more pressure until Adam groaned into the dirt. "You think you can speak to your betters like that?"
The commotion drew immediate attention. Nearby matrons turned toward the scene, their hands drifting to their own weapons. Damon's pulse hammered in his throat - this was escalating too fast. Adam had always been reckless with his words, but today he'd crossed some invisible line.
"Please," Damon stepped forward, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He kept his hands visible, his posture non-threatening. "This doesn't need to escalate."
The matron's head snapped toward him, her eyes burning with contempt. "Do you want to take his place, huh?" She pressed harder on Adam's head, making him groan into the dirt. "If not, get back in line!"
A hush had fallen over their section of the square. Damon could feel dozens of eyes on them, the other Slumborns carefully not watching while watching everything.
"Stop!"
The new voice cut through the tension like a knife. An overseer, distinguished by the red sash across her black uniform, pushed through the gathering crowd. Her boots clicked against the pavement with military precision. "What is going on here?" She glared at the matron. "Get your bloody foot off him, eh?"
The pressure on Adam's head relented slightly. The overseer crouched down, her polished boots creaking, until she was eye-level with Adam's bleeding face.
"You. I know you." Her lips curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's a sharp mouth you have right there."
Adam spat a glob of blood and phlegm onto the ground beside the overseer's boot. Then he grinned up at her, his teeth stained red.
"Well what can I say? This mouth works wonders." His voice was hoarse but steady. "Even you can attest to that."
A deadly silence fell. Even the ever-present murmur of the slums seemed to hush. Damon's stomach dropped - Adam had gone too far, and they all knew it.
The overseer's face darkened. Slowly, deliberately, she stood and brushed imaginary dust from her uniform.
"Get him up," she ordered the matrons. "We're going to make an example out of him."
Two matrons hauled Adam to his feet, his arms twisted painfully behind his back. Blood dripped from his nose onto his already filthy shirt, creating dark blooms in the fabric.
"No, please," Damon tried again, the words ash in his mouth. "Forgive his impudence."
The overseer turned her gaze on Damon, her eyes cold as steel. She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the floral soap on her skin, a luxury unimaginable in the slums. Her fingers reached out and tilted his collar tag toward the light.
"Farm Laborer Number 352," she read aloud, her voice carrying across the now-silent square. Every Slumborn within earshot had gone perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. "Is there anything you want to say to me?"
Damon's mouth went dry. He glanced at Adam, who gave the slightest shake of his head. Blood dripped from his chin onto the overseer's pristine boots, but she didn't seem to notice.
"No, Overseer," Damon managed, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.
"Good." She smiled without warmth. "That would have been a bad call, 352." With a flick of her wrist, she signaled to her subordinates. "Take him to the holding cells. Let him think about his words for a few days."
As they dragged Adam away, his boots scraping twin trails in the dirt, Sage leaned close to Damon. "What's going to happen to him?" His whisper trembled like a leaf in the wind.
Damon watched his friend disappear around a corner between two matrons. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "Worst case scenario? The Pits."
Before Sage could respond, a shrill alarm blared from the south side of the square, the signal for work assignments to begin. The crowd stirred like a beast waking, men shuffling toward their designated stations with heads bowed. The show was over. Life in the slums continued.
Damon turned to Sage, gripping his shoulders with hands that wanted to shake but didn't.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You be safe out there. You sense anything dangerous, anything at all, you run. You hear me? Run."
Sage nodded, his eyes too old for his young face. Without another word, he melted into the crowd, his slight frame disappearing among taller men. Damon watched until he was completely out of sight, then exhaled slowly, the weight of the morning settling between his shoulder blades.
Around him, the square was emptying rapidly. Overseers barked orders, herding men into neat lines like cattle to slaughter. Damon squared his shoulders and joined the procession heading toward the grand terminal, its massive display board flickering with work assignments.
In the distance, beyond the slums and the worker districts, the polished towers of the noble quarter gleamed in the morning light. Among them stood his destination, the Estate of Daxin.
As he walked, Damon kept his eyes forward but his mind wandered. To Adam in a cell somewhere, probably bleeding and bruised but still cracking jokes. To Sage in the treacherous wastelands, where mutated beasts and rogue bands of outcasts roamed. To the countless other Slumborns just trying to survive another day in this carefully constructed hell.
The system was designed to break them. To grind them down until rebellion was unthinkable. But as Damon passed through the towering gates separating the slums from the rest of the city as he felt the eyes of the gate guards on his back, one thought burned brighter than all others, Someone would have to change it.