2

I wake up in the dark and stare at the ceiling for a bit listening to Axel softly snoring. After a couple minutes of that, I bring my left arm up so I can see the watch on my wrist. Midnight according to the dimly glowing readout. I feel wrung out, tired. My eyes are heavy but sleep won't return. The events of yesterday replay in my head. I lay there, wondering yet again what the point of all this is. With nothing else I can do, I pray for the strength to make it through the day.

Crushing loneliness brings me to think briefly about Natira. The two of us seem to get along rather well, and I certainly find her attractive. Should I give it a shot? I quickly abandon that idea. As tempting as it is to find that sort of companionship after so long, the fact of my worsening illness on top of keeping my past hidden, means that any attempt at a relationship can only end in disaster. I figure she deserves better than that.

I close my eyes for a while, trying to relax enough to get back to sleep for a bit. About an hour or so later I open them and look at my watch again. One-thirtyfive a.m. I close my eyes again, try not to sigh too loudly, and lay there, unable to sleep but unwilling to give up trying.

After a few hours of getting nothing but more frustrated at my insomnia, I remember that I'd forgotten to wash any of my clothes yesterday.

I throw my blanket off and swing my legs over the side only to be greeted by a familiar ache and stiffness that's been developing in my knees. With a quiet groan of pain I slowly lower my feet to the floor, letting my knees bend. As with my fingers, I work the knees and they limber up as the pain fades. I sit there for a moment, with the only sound being the quiet snoring from the next bed over.

I'm gripped by a sudden panic and I feel my pulse accelerate. Although everyone here is human, I suddenly feel like I'm on an alien world. This feeling would hit me with more frequency during the earlier months. The familiarity of some things is enough to make it feel like a place I know, but then my mind would suddenly focus on all the strange and unfamiliar. It's like the familiarity is a curtain hiding all the strangeness, keeping it just out of view, and in moments like this my mind draws that curtain aside to reveal a world in which I am the alien. This time the feeling is stronger than before.

I sit there, trying not to stare at Axel, barely visible in the next bed. I can make out his cybernetic arm by the light of the lampposts outside. The idea of it isn't repellant, it's actually really incredible. That I'm in a future in which cybernetics have become so commonplace that almost half the people I run into around here have some form of advanced prosthetic was once kind of exciting as well as frightening. There's even those who've had their entire organic body, save for the brain and a small part of the spinal cord, replaced with cybernetics. The Motorball players being the most visible example. They got one powerful body for the games and another, lesser body for everyday life.

These days though, they're a mark of how alien this world is to me. Some times it's an effort to remind myself that this is Earth, almost six-hundred years from when I was born. I gently shake my head side-to-side to clear it, and get dressed. Then I carefully grab up the full laundry basket under my bed and quietly head outside, closing the door behind me as quietly as I can.

The barracks that the two dozen farmhands stay in are placed facing each other, both identical buildings with six rooms of two people each. Stepping outside, puts me under the eve that runs the length of the building. A wide, open path runs between the two structures, lit by a couple lampposts. Off to the right is a separate building that I think used to be a storage shed, but was converted into a laundry for the Farmhands before I showed up.

I head for the laundry room, feet crunching loudly in the quiet pre-dawn air.

Once I get there, I climb the few steps to the little porch in front of the door, weariness pulling at my limbs, making them feel leaden. Lack of sleep is quickly starting to catch up to me but I know that the second I lay down, I'll be wide awake. I reach the door, open it and step into the little rectangular room glad to see that the light was left on so I don't have to fumble for it with my hands full. The laundry room is somewhere around three by six meters, with the door set in the middle of the longest side. Four washer/dryer units are spaced against the opposite wall from the door with narrow tables set against the wall on either side of the door as I enter.

I'm about to close the door behind me when I see movement off to my right. I stop and look over, seeing a young woman standing by the far wall. The two of us stand there looking at each other in the bright flourescent light, both of us startled by the other's sudden appearance.

The unexpected occupant of the laundry room looks to be several centimeters shorter than my 1.8 meters. Dark hair hangs in ringlets, framing an oval face of dark olive complexion. It's difficult not to notice that she's well-built, even through the baggy farmhand clothing. It's also obvious she's been crying. She looks at me with wide eyes and I can see a trace of fear in her face. It suddenly hits me that it's dark out, she's alone and some strange guy is standing in the only doorway out. Even back where I come from, that could be cause for concern. In this world, it could be downright alarming.

She's standing still as a statue, so I take the opportunity to go first. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't realize someone was already here." I immediately surrender the doorway in the event she feels the need to be elsewhere.

As I move towards the left side of the room I say over my shoulder, "If you like, I can have this started and be out of your hair in just a moment." I put my laundry basket on the narrow table opposite the two machines on this side of the room and look over at her. I'm glad to see that the look of fear is gone.

She turns away and I hear sniffling as she wipes the tears from her eyes. As she's collecting herself I open a washer and start tossing in the paltry wardrobe of extra clothes that I own: a few pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts of various dark colors and a few underwear with a couple pair of socks. After that I pick up the little box that was under the clothes in the bottom of my basket and pull out a small square of some kind of laundry soap that's compressed into a block the size of a six-sided die and toss it into the machine.

"No, that's alright," I hear from the woman. "I'll go."

I hadn't intended to say anything, but as she reaches the door I call out, "If you don't mind my askin'," she pauses, "is everything alright, miss?" I look over at her, raising my eyebrows a bit to smooth out my face from the near-scowl that it's become habit to keep it in.

She stands there for a moment as if deciding whether to answer. I figure she'll deny anything's wrong and head off.

Instead, her chin trembles as she holds back tears and says in a slightly shaky voice, "No, not really." She stands there fidgeting like she's still not sure if she wants to leave or not.

I mentally heave a tired sigh and say aloud, "Well, if you feel the need to talk about it, I seem to have some free time." I activate the washer, then lean back against the table I set my basket on. When I was first shown the laundry room I was immensely relieved to see that the machines are still as simple to operate as they were 600 years ago.

With one last look towards the door she walks the few steps over and stops at the end of the table I'm leaning against. Awkwardly she holds up a folded piece of paper, "I got a message last night." She pauses to fight back tears. "My father killed himself."

I nod knowingly. Been there. I say quietly, "My condolences. I'm sorry to hear that." Then I sit and look at her, eyebrows raised slightly in what I hope is a friendly expression, calmly waiting to see if she wants to continue.

As if she'd been waiting for someone to talk to, she goes on. "My father had this little shop in the city. It was everything to him, he poured his heart into it trying to make it work. Business never really picked up though, so things were tough. I came out here to work, trying to help out with the money I made." She shakes her head, frustration filling her voice, "Henry was the only one willing to take a chance on me. No one else wanted to bother with a little unaugmented girl," She stops to choke back some sobs before continuing. "I just found out from my sister that Dad's shop had been broken into and vandalized a couple days ago. He lost everything."

Her shoulders begin shaking as her voice breaks up. "Yesterday he hung himself. My sister just found out last night." She breaks down crying, quietly sobbing as she covers her face with her hands, the folded piece of paper sliding out of her fingers to land on the table.

I stand there feeling awkward, leaning on the table. I suppose in this situation a normal person would go over there and comfort her. Unfortunately, I'm not normal. I'm socially awkward, uncomfortable around people I don't know. It's very difficult for me to do something like physically comfort someone grieving unless I feel very comfortable with them. Otherwise I feel like I'm intruding, like I'm crossing a line that I shouldn't. It's one of those things I've never have been able to overcome.

I do the only thing I seem to be able to do, I wait quietly. Sitting there listening to the young woman grieve for her dead father, I find myself suddenly fighting back tears as memories of my own father's death resurface. The call from my brother, Michael telling me that he was sending me a plane ticket to fly down to Nevada. 'Mom needs help,' he said. 'Dad shot himself.'

I surruptitiously wipe a tear from my eye but I'm not quick enough. Having pulled herself together faster than I expected, the young lady catches me in the act.

"I didn't mean to upset you," she says shakily. "I probably shouldn't have told you all this. I don't know what I was thinking."

I wave dismissively, "Don't worry about it. I was just-. Well, I've also lost family." I look over at her. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh," she says quietly. With awkward hesitancy she adds, "My condolences."

"Thanks."

Wiping her tears away with a small cloth she says suddenly, "I'm Alma, by the way." She looks up at me. "Nice to meet you..." she trails off, giving me an opening to introduce myself.

"I'm Jason. Nice to meet you, too." I smile and nod to her. I find myself feeling a little less awkward.

"I've seen you around. Just hadn't ever run into you before."

I shrug dismissively, "I'm a little embarrassed to say that I can't recall seeing you around, but then I'm not always that observant." It's strange how my anxiety and depression sometimes seem to lift in moments like this, even if only temporarily.

After a moment's silence, broken only by the washing machine, Alma looks up at me as she retrieves the piece of paper. "If you don't mind my asking, who was it?"

It takes me a second to realize she's asking about who I lost. I take a deep breath before answering, surprised to find that I need to steady myself even after all these years. "My father. He also committed suicide, some years ago. Waited 'till Mom was out shopping, then shot himself."

Immediately after I say those words I can almost hear the brakes squeeling as everything comes to a sudden halt. My weariness vanishes as a sudden shot of fear over what I let slip hits me.

Alma looks up at me, her brows knitted in confusion. "He what?" she asks softly.

'Did I really just say that?' I think to myself in sudden alarm, a cold pit forming in my stomach. 'To someone living in a place where guns are outlawed on penalty of death? Really?!'

"Did you say he shot himself?" she asks in an unsure voice. "How did that happen?"

I freeze. 'Well, fuck! Too late to take that one back, isn't it? Moron.' I think furiously trying to find some way to talk my way out of this slip-up. Panic threatens to take hold as my anxiety spikes. My heart is racing.

With what I hope sounds sufficiently casual, I tell her, "Somehow he got his hands on a gun." I shrug. "Never found out how. Never found out exactly why, either." I look over at her as calmly as I can. "It was confiscated, of course."

Inwardly I'm cursing my stupidity, my anger at myself and near panic at my mistake clearing away the weariness of my depression and lack of sleep for the moment. All I can do is pray she believes me. I've never asked how common it might be for someone to get their hands on a gun, so I have no idea how badly I may have just screwed up.

"Oh." She takes a deep breath, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

I nod politely to her, thinking, 'This time keep your mouth shut! Idiot!'

Alma glances back towards the door. "Well, it's getting towards sunrise. I'd better head off and get ready."

I nod to her, "Alright. Take care."

As she reaches the door she stops and turns back, almost shyly she smiles again. "Thanks for listening." Then she's gone out the door.

I sit there for a moment, thinking about what just happened. My chest tightens as a lump forms in my throat. That whole episode is just another reminder that there's no one here that I can really talk to, no one I can really trust.

I sigh wearily. I have no idea what to do about that gun comment. My jaw clenches and my teeth grind as anger at myself flares up for letting my guard down like that. A stupid, stupid mistake! I take my glasses off and rub at my eyes, all the ways this can come back to bite me in the ass running through my head. All the ways in which this can get so much worse. Then again, maybe it's not that big a deal? Maybe it's not all that unheard of for people to get a hold of guns of some sort?

I put my glasses back on and just stand there staring at the opposite wall feeling worn out, angry and alone until I hear the washer finish up. I check my watch, 5:35. I can toss my clothes in the dryer for a little bit before setting 'em out to on my bed to dry in the daytime heat. So, I toss 'em into the machine for fifteen minutes which gets them mostly done, then pile them into the basket. I head back to my room feeling more tired and drained than before. There's now a trace of fear shadowing me. A part of me is certain this can only explode into a big mess.

I enter to find Axel just getting up.

He pauses on his trip to the bathroom to let me past. "Couldn't sleep again?"

I shrug at him, "Nope. Figured I'd get my laundry out of the way."

"Well," he yawns sleepily, "appreciate you not waking me."

"No problem," I say after him as he shuts the bathroom door.

I take care of my clothes and, having showered last night before going to bed, figure I'll head to the dining hall early. Instead, my eye is drawn to my footlocker. I hear the shower start up and think to myself, 'If something does go sideways because of that stupid 'gun' comment, they might decide to confirm if I have it on me. That is a pretty serious crime here.'

I crouch down and unlock it, opening the lid. I take out my wallet, pausing to look through the pictures again. Just as the the painful tug of heartache hits me, I put the pictures away and close up the wallet. I stuff it into a pants pocket and close up the locker before heading out to breakfast.

The short trip to the dining hall feels like wading through wet cement. I want so badly to just lay down, but I forge onward, getting to my destination just after the bell rings. As a result, I'm just about the first person there, aside from the small kitchen staff. I try to be cheerful in greeting the servers as I get my food and coffee, then I find a spot out of the way near a far wall to eat. Around six-thirty is when shift starts, so I got some time to enjoy my food.

As I'm about halfway through my meal, Loretta shows up at my table with her own breakfast. She greets me with a tired grin and sits down.

I glance meaningfully at her food, "Oh, not gonna hijack mine this time?"

"Nope," she responds brightly, "I figure a man your age needs his nutrition."

"How thoughtful of you," I say dryly.

With a rather girly shrug, she comes back, "I thought so." She takes a quick bite of her food then leans over conspiratorialy and stage-whispers, "Especially since you and I get to muck out the hog pen today!" She flashes an exaggerated smile at me.

I look back at her, setting my fork down as I lean back. "We do?" I ask with mock excitement, giving her my best impression of a doe-eyed look, "Aaaw, I hate you too."

Her features open into an expression of, clearly fake, joyful excitement, "I know! Won't it be great? We can wade through the pig shit, take in that delicate aroma of pig piss." She punches me playfully in the shoulder, "It'll be the best day ever!"

I let my face fall into an emotionless mask and say in an equally emotionless voice, "I am overcome with joyful anticipation, truly."

"Morning, Jason!" I hear Natira call out.

I look over and wave to her as she takes a seat at another table with some friends.

Loretta waves as well before continuing, "Then we have a mid-day delivery to make!"

I snap my attention back to her, "Wait, what?"

"You heard me," she responds with a touch of snark.

I hang my head a little and sigh, "Oh, yeah. It's that time of the week, isn't it?" The reason for her chipper attitude becomes clear. Since there are no real days off around Zalem's territory that I'm aware of, the usual custom for the Sheffields is to give anyone making deliveries into Iron City the remainder of the day off. It usually only takes a few hours to complete deliveries, which gives the people making the trip an opportunity to spend some leisure time in the city before making their way back later that evening.

"Yep. And this time, Dad decided it'll be just you and me."

"Just the two of us? Why?" Anxiety twists into a knot of fear in the pit of my stomach.

"With so much work to be done, Dad wants everyone else here so we can try to catch up on some of it."

I sit there for a moment, stunned. A few months after first arriving, I went into Iron City to help make a delivery to the local businesses. The guards stopped us at the gate and asked the driver some questions. Then they had one of those huge, tank-like Centurions scan the cargo area before clearing us. Seeing those guards made me wonder if there was some kind of identification requirement. If so, I realized that I could be in big trouble. It was especially nerve-wracking after finding out that the penalty for a number of crimes is simply death. At that point, I was too spooked to ask any questions about whether I was considered legal or not, lest someone turn me in for some kind of reward.

It was my second trip in that really cinched it for me. It was about four months ago, some time after that woman, Alita started showing up in the Motorball circuit. We pulled up and the guards demanded identification from the driver and passenger up front. Me and the guy in the back with me weren't bothered, fortunately. I decided at that point, that my lack of identification was indeed a problem. I only went in one other time, and that was a couple weeks ago. I made sure to sit in the back with one of the other farmhands, and sure enough, we didn't get asked.

I'm thinking furiously, panic starting to coil around my chest. I can't bring myself to tell Loretta or Henry about this, I like them and even trust them, to an extent. But I really don't know how far that trust can go and I'm just not willing to test it, especially if I can stay in the back as we go through the gate and have the guards not bother with me.

I put on my best neutral expression as I raise my head, "Well, fine. Guess it's just you and me, kid."

Loretta grins at me, "Looks like it. And try not to look so worried, it'll be fun!"

We finish breakfast and head out to deal with the pig pens. There aren't a lot of them but with only Loretta, me and a couple others, it takes a few hours to finish. During the cleaning, while it's just me and Loretta, I try to broach the subject of my lack of 'papers' as it were. I fail miserably and we end up off on some other tangent. With Loretta, that tangent is invariably Motorball and her idol, Alita.

"Yes," I say somewhat impatiently, "you've told me all about how she was supposed to have started at Second League. Many, many, many times." I refrain from rolling my eyes at her.

"I'm just saying, it's so unfair that they dropped her into Third League and made her fight her way back up like that."

Grunting with the exertion of pushing manure into the waste pile for later removal, I finally give in and roll my eyes at her, "Many, many, many, many times."

"You know," she says as she piles more manure onto the waste heap, "you'd probably find yourself liking Motorball if you actually watched a game or two."

"Uugh, I've seen plenty of Motorball, thanks." I've lost count of the number of times she's harped on this very subject over the last few months.

"Really? 'Cause I know, I know the only Motorball you've seen is what little you've caught on those viewscreens over the streets. Or what I happen to share with you. I'm telling you, it's something entirely different if you were to see a game in person."

I sigh loudly in irritation, "You can ask someone else to go, you know. Why are you trying so hard all of a sudden to convince me to go to a game with you?"

"Well..." Her pause sends up a red flag, but I can't put a finger on what it's pointing to, "Maybe I'm just trying to get you to find some activities outside of work." She halts her shoveling to look directly at me, "You could really do with a little more fun, you know."

I likewise stop long enough to turn and look at her. "I'm plenty capable of having fun, should I desire to do so. Now, think we can get back to shoveling this enormous pile of shit?"

"Uuuugh! Fine!"

We manage to finish just before lunchtime. I hop over to my room and put my clothes away, relieved to find that leaving them out to dry worked. Then Loretta and I grab a quick bite to eat and start loading up the produce, as well as a few slaughtered pigs bound for a butcher's shop. By this time, my breathing is becoming a bit labored. The lack of sleep is clouding my thinking and dulling my perception. I start to forget simple things. Compound that with what my depression is doing to me and it starts to become a bit frustrating for Loretta as well as myself.

The truck is finally loaded up and we're ready to go. Henry comes over to see us off.

"Alright," he says as he hands a decidedly un-sci-fi-looking clipboard to his daughter, "here's the customers, the only new one is that butcher shop here," he points to an address on the form held by the clipboard. Mainly to me, he says, "Make sure you get the payments. A couple of 'em tried to stiff us a few times. Enjoy some R and R when you're done and make sure," he points a dull steel finger at me, "you bring 'er back to me in one piece."

"I will safeguard Loretta with my life," I say with a slight bow.

Henry looks slightly taken aback for a second, "Oh. I was talking about my truck, but yeah, bring my daughter back too if ya can."

"Oh, I love you too, Dad!" Loretta punches him hard in the ribs, making him grunt lightly from the impact.

With a big grin, Henry gathers his daughter up in a one-armed bear-hug and kisses the top of her head, "You know I'm kiddin'." With a bit more seriousness, he says to me, "You two have fun, but be careful."

I look him square in the eyes, "Oh, I have every intention of staying out of trouble and coming back as quickly as possible."

After a quick exchange of 'good-byes', Loretta and I load ourselves into the truck and head out onto the main road toward the city. As we drive, my fatigue begins dragging me down again, but my anxiety also starts piling up. A jittery energy starts to suffuse itself into my limbs, making me feel like I need to be doing something. For the most part, we drive in silence, Loretta likely about as tired as I am. I lean my head against the passenger door window and watch as the world passes by. My eyelids start to droop and I nod off for a moment. I snap back awake.

Outside the window I can see that we're now passing the Factory farmlands. They're much, much larger than the family-run farms on the outskirts. Huge machines work the expansive fields. Up ahead, I can make out the towering wall of high-pressure water that encircles Iron City. Anything trying to get through there would get shredded by the incredibly powerful jets of water. If that didn't get them, the massive voltages they charge the water with would probably finish off whatever tried to pass through. The gates themselves aren't any less defended. I've only ever seen the one we're heading for, but I think I can safely assume that the other gates are the same. Festooned with weapon turrets of varying sizes and types on each side of the gate as well as above it.

As we drive closer, my tired brain finally realizes that, at the very least I shouldn't be in the front seat when we reach that gate. I'm starting to feel a jittery sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I turn to Loretta, "I'm gonna lie down in the back for a bit, if that's alright."

"Sure, that's fine." Her own features look tired, but she still retains that upbeat energy she always seems to have.

I give a weary nod and carefully climb into the back of the cab to lay down on the passenger seats. I get down low to try and keep out of sight, without looking like I'm trying to keep out of sight. I end up nodding off almost as soon as I settle in, only to be later awakened by the truck slowing down as we pull up to the gate.

She brings us to a stop and I hear a man's voice outside the driver's side, "I.D. and delivery orders?"

I watch as she hands the requested items through the window. A bearded man with bushy hair peers in through the passenger side window. He looks right at me and I do my best impression of someone who's really bored, really tired and really uninteresting. I guess it works, 'cause he moves his gaze around the rest of the cabin, then disappears from sight.

I see the clipboard with the delivery orders and Loretta's I.D. get passed back through the window, where she takes possession of them.

"Alright, scan's clear. Proceed."

Loretta smiles and nods and puts the truck into motion, passing by one of the Centurions on duty, it's tank-turret-like body turning to track us with the small cannon on either side of it's hull. Then we're through the gate and heading down the streets among the industrial and somewhat mis-matched architecture of Iron City.