The 20th floor. Where the strong prey on the weak; where the outstanding soar while the ordinary crumble; where dreams are forged and nightmares are born; etcetera. I'd read all about that stuff from my box, something to do in the free time during the easy tests. I'd passed through the 2nd floor without much drama (except for the shock of finding out the robed proctor was a guy) and I thought that I'd be a shoo-in to pass the rest. For the next 17 floors that was true, and in 4 years I'd made my way to the dreaded "Needlehole to Heaven".
I'd liked reading, even before I came into the tower. When I got my box and lighthouse it was like stepping into a library that stretched out further than the ceiling of the floor I lived on. It was heaven. I haven't had much time for that anymore, too busy dodging the goddamn loan sharks that live on this floor. None of them've caught up to me though 'cause I'm smart. I know how they work. They rely on tracking us through pocket registration, and since that's worked with everyone else they think it'll work with me. But it doesn't. I can track each restaurant and see if it's linked with any loan shark businesses and I steer the hell away from them. Of course, this method doesn't account for randomly bumping into them on the street.
Okay, fuck me. That wasn't exactly a foolproof method of avoiding loan sharks, but the district I was living in was huge, and I had made sure to stay away from the main base. How the hell was I to know that these loan sharks had been checking up on a victim that hadn't been smart enough to realize that these guys really did know what they ate and shit every day. For scrawny looking residents these guys really knew people's soft spots. Short jabs to ribs, efficient kicks to abdomen and balls, these guys really knew their stuff. After a while, they left me and dumped me over next to the guy they'd been following. As a parting gift they lent me more money at the same interest rate, along with the threat that if I didn't pay them back they stuff things up my ass so far I wouldn't be able to find it with my lighthouse
I'd never been those strong beefy fishermen types; those guys with muscles even thicker than their brains. That and the fact that they'd stomped on my kneecap were pretty good incentives for me to stay lying down. But I had (and still have) a big mouth (yeah, weird for a bookworm) and with a guy lying right next to me in no shape to run away, what else could I do?
"So, you one of the little fish that get eaten up by these sons of bitches?" Everyone likes bitching about this or that, and nothing makes friends faster than bitching about the same thing.
Except this guy who didn't and stayed silent.
I looked around to see if he was unconscious. He wasn't, just staring up at the blue ceiling. I tried again. "What's your name?" Always a safe start. No surprises, a nice icebreaker.
But this guy seemed intent on breaking all the rules about starting conversations because he just kept on staring at the ceiling.
I sighed. I tried one last time. "You taking the next test?" I'd run out of strategies, or the vitality to actually care and just said something for the hell of it. So, of course, this random stab finally got a response out of this guy.
"If you do not curb your tongue I swear by the guardian I will roast your ear off." The guy hadn't looked at me, but he talked all the same.
It's weird how pockets translate languages, but everything else like tone, accent, and voice is still unique. This guy had a really upper-class kind of voice; the kind that sounds like kings from those fantasy books, and I knew he was a kid of an official. So why the hell was he getting the crap kicked out of him on this floor. Even sons of normal rankers had an advantage in climbing up the tower.
"Nice threat. You got a torch to back it up?" Didn't seem like a nice guy, but then again, no one's their social best after they'd just been on the receiving end of multiple boots. Not everyone could be as engaging as I could right?
He didn't say anything, but the fire he produced above his head was more than enough. Burning my hair off was overkill.
After that I took the hint and shut the hell up. The awkward silence was pretty grating, but the guy got up after a while and limped off. I didn't know why I did it, but I shouted as he left. "They track you through your pocket registration. They own restaurants around here, and once you buy stuff they know where you are."
He turned around and I backed up, lighthouse at the ready, but he just went on his way. Guess not roasting me was his way of saying thanks. Groaning, I got up and limped back home.
When I opened the door of my apartment I slumped onto the couch. I checked to make sure the money was still with me, then went to sleep. I'd register for the test tomorrow.