Azure
an excerpt

Chapter Two- The Depths

The dusty oranges and browns of the streets and the black lacquer and brass of the buildings proffered a starkly melancholy, if regal feel to the city. For all the buildings’ writhing organic influences, subtle nuance could never serve to inspire the energetic, gleeful mood of celebration in the same way as the bawdy and the gaudy. It was for this reason that the life most vibrant was kept hidden from the city itself, and indeed, many lost out because of it. It was entirely ordinary for families, singles and sometimes even groups of friends to spend their precious leisure time in the quiet of their homes, or over a peaceful meal upon the pristine grass the many gardens of Safe Haven. But beneath the city, in the subterranean levels where great mechanical devices operated in deep, damp, cavernous hallways, there was a veritable carnival in action.

In the bowels of Safe Haven, the sensibilities that guided the population above could be shirked off, in favour of a more jubilant brand of rejoicing. In times of Leisure, rare though they were, the calm above ground allowed for those of more adventurous mind to sink into The Underbelly, a subterranean pleasure scene with a culture and atmosphere all of its own. Grime was present in every dank corner of the underground, smatterings of fungi that if eaten had a spectrum of effects from chronic diarrhoea to euphoric trance states grew in such places, and there were many who took the risks. Here, unlike in the light of day, the Technols rubbed shoulders with the PMD’s- Persons of Maximised Diversity. The vast majority of the population of Safe Haven now fell under this category, prestige and edict forcing the hand of select to create the new race of bronzed men and women with black hair and amber eyes. Those who fell under neither category were the artists and poets, those who were different by birth were different by trade, providing the society with a wild guess at the cultures that preceded them.
The Eye was the only home to those were often never seen nor spoken of, the Technols. Constantly it moved on impossibly dense walls that kept the destruction at bay, twisting and blinking to maximise the exposure of the shifting sun to every corner of the vast city. It was considered mystical in its constant, deliberate movement. The people suspected that one day it would close forever and leave them to choke to death in the carbon dioxide they exhaled as vengeance for their ire toward those who maintained it; Wizards and sorcerers who manipulated the forces of nature itself to their own ends, creating things unable even to be seen, yet still clever, able to do things a man would takes weeks or even months to do. They toyed with the black arts that had ruined three ages of man, and had been brutalised and marginalised because of it.
It was not surprising however that in this place, The Underbelly of Safe Haven, where a Technol sat and listened to the sounds of string and key with a battered metal tankard in hand, draining it’s distilled essence and tapping his foot as the man with flame dreadlocks dragged bowed hair across fibrous racked strings with erratic motions to create a tuneful racket, accompanied by a rack far greater in size, hammers dropped by keys fell across them to sound as angels might sing when drunk and raucous as these men and women were, those surrounding clapping their hands, dancing, or even singing along to the melodies of the poetry by now known to any who oft’ ventured here. The Technol graciously accepts a tankard in exchange for his empty one, watching the youth around him gallivant with a carefree attitude he adored to watch precisely because he could not muster such from his own tattered heart. Here, he lived quietly in remission, crawling out from the circumference of the city when the call to Leisure spread through the city, to drown his senses in the sights, sounds and smells of the human spirit let loose.
The smells in particular were rich and pungent here in the underground, so many bodies in such dampened stone hallways with no ventilation created clouds of pheromones, sweat and hot breath. The acridity of it served as a portal, leading any one of the hundreds of pleasure-seeking peoples to overcome any sense of self-consciousness, abandoning standards set above as there nostrils told them anything goes.
As the Technol watches the hands of another middle aged man dance above his head, his eyes closed and head bobbing to and fro as if carried by the current of the song, he laughs as a young woman, no later than early twenties, pulls on one of the hands clasps him by the waist, thrusting the hands out in front of them before swinging them up and down, spinning wildly as a round of cheers rises for them, as the man laughs along at his own attempts to keep up with her sprightliness.

“So like, yeah, I’m a PMD ‘n’ all, like you! My hair is just a real rare thing these days. I don’t know how to explain it, all the genes n’ stuff, but I think the rest’a me is doin’ pretty well, no?” Tiago smiles slyly, working in just a hint of coyness to throw her off guard. The woman he speaks to is many years his senior, but Tiago’s beauty, even now in his teens, is readily apparent.
She is, as are so many in this place, cutting a stunning figure in a bright purple dress cut way beneath contraband standards; she smiles and traces her finger down his well-defined jaw, “It’s pretty. You shouldn’t let ‘em give you a hard time about it!” Tiago frowns, shaking his head, “Nobody gives me a hard time. Seriously, look at this...” he pointedly remarks, flexing his bicep for her and smiling broadly, “Nobody wants a piece of this. Well, not if they’re looking for a fight. Of course, if they’re looking for something else...” he trails off, tapering one eyebrow into the slightest rise. She giggles and strokes his shoulder with her free hand, taking a sip of her drink, “Maybe in a few years honey, ok?”
Tiago blinks at her disbelievingly as she turns and slinks out of the sweltering alcove and toward the crowd. Recapturing his disarming smile he calls after her, “Or y’know, a few hours!”
She turns and smiles at him, her eyes lingering just a split second too long. As she finally pulls herself away, he claps his hands together and rubs them greedily. Standing in the alcove of the cylindrical tunnel that forms the vast sewer maintenance hall, he looks out over the sweltering, scantily clad crowd.
Bright colours are everywhere; people are waving flags of silver and purple, the hottest pink and sharpest lime, and the floral dresses worn by most of the women are flimsy enough to become semi-transparent in the thick humidity of the underground, while the men are all shirtless and dancing around them.
In the next alcoves some twenty metres away are musicians, huge and thunderous bowl drums blast out frenetic beats as bass chords from strings attached to the ceiling and roof, splayed in a semi-circular array, are struck at incredible speed with a pair of small farming spades by a powerful young woman who dances out the tune she plays on the huge instrument, the two providing the foundation for the frantic melodies of horns, as the horners dance gleefully and let loose flurries of liquid transitions through scale and octave, every one of them improvising with only hedonism as their goal. The rhythm set by the two in the alcove remains the same however, and so the people dance. Tiago raises his arms above his head and the people who see him raise a cheer! His palms facing the sky, he beckons with his hands, raising the cheer even further! He leaps headlong into the crowd, who all extend their arms to catch him, and he is carried along on the excitement and good will of the people beneath him for some time, until eventually he brings his legs underneath himself and enters the crowd. As he walks toward the musicians, he takes delight in listening to the conversations he passes,
“Listen man, I don’t give a fuck whose leadin’ us, ‘cause it’s always the same. But if revolution gets us a party, I’mma throw YOU in The Forum this time next week.” The man’s friend laughs, “Friend, if that guy really killed himself for this party, we have to start picking every mushroom we see off the walls.”, “Sold, to the man who’s gonna get quartered by Lysander next week!”, “You’re not even kidding, are you?”, “Nope!”
Tiago snickers as he overtakes them, but his attention is yanked back by a female voice, “Check that out! Yellow hair!” He turns, and sees her eyes widen in shock as he lets loose a lopsided grin and winks at her. He turns around before the embarrassed laughter starts, if she wants it, she’ll come looking. The teen shifts gear now, breaking into a rush as he side-steps his way through the busy crowd to make it to the area where they part into two much narrower files where the musicians continue their exuberant song.
“This is incredible. They’re so talented, but it looks effortless!”, “Yeah, it’s a pity they can’t do this in the gardens, huh?”, “Yeah! Out in the sunshine! That’d be amazing!” The two converse, a man and a woman, both in their late thirties, nodding along to the beats, clearly new to The Underbelly. This place was a thriving centre of contraband culture, and Tiago had seen it four times now. The first time when he was fourteen, brought here by his much more mature girlfriend, who was still far too young to be taking such risks. For Leisure was considered something only the mature could handle when packed into such concentrated extremes, and largely they were right. Tiago was a boy off the rails, with every ambition in the world practically pouring out from behind his eyes. He wished the world his oyster, and wished every woman his grail while he was it, to drink deep the sweet elixir that was his only narcotic- narcissisism.

The Technol is on the move now, keeping his eyes down at the floor out of courtesy and deference as he moves, not wishing to spoil the mood with a confrontation, his lumbering frame catching enough attention as it from the many tall and lithe PMD’s, who ignore him out of a similar desire to maintain the party atmosphere. As he walks, he passes a huddled group of Technols playing a noisy game of paper cards. They look up and nod to him, even a few cheers are raised, sending a chill up his spine as he looks out under his eyebrows to see if they drew attention. He understood, he truly did, why they were reviled by the masses. But that didn’t stop him choosing this path, and the friends he had made were worth a hundred PMD’s. Salty, foul-mouthed geniuses, every one, and unfortunately, it looked like they’d picked up some thrill seekers who wanted to taste that life, PMD’s sat nervously at the battered table with them.
“Why don’t y’come play some numbers, y’old fruit!” The bearded one cries, kicking a stool toward him as it clatters noisily out of the alcove and into the walkway adjacent to the main viaduct from which most of the noise was coming. Picking the stool off the floor and ducking his head, his face reddens slightly as the PMD’s have to change their course to avoid walking into him. Turning and looking after them, they don’t give him a second thought- he sighs in relief and turns back to the boys at the table, ducking into the alcove as a fiddler wearing a wreath of leaves and mushrooms and little else moves slowly by their table, accompanied by a host of faces in various states of lucidity.
“Because I’m here to have a good time, goat face. I’m not gonna end up draggin’ my balls down the wall again ‘cause you switched the deck!” The group laugh at the memory, drawing a fair amount of scowls for their rowdiness. One of them barges past the Technol, pushing him further into the alcove. He looks around the corner but finds she was merely running to catch up with someone and never acknowledged him. As he looks out into the main viaduct however, he catches a shock of yellow across his periphery. Trying to focus on the crowd, it’s constant movement guarantees it’s already too late.
“Look, these guys have just gotten the hang o’ the rules. Now’re you gonna tell me y’can’t take ‘em on?” The bearded one shouts, forcing the Technol to take his eyes off the viaduct. Turning, he stammers, his mind elsewhere, “Look, maybe later. There’s someone I gotta see, haven’t in a while. You guys hang in though, and watch out for sevens.” His sagely advice gets the PMD’s looking at each other quizzically as the bearded one throws the cards on the table, shaking his head, “Y’can be a real bastard, you know that? Just for that I’m gonna bet double on this next one and I’m not gonna use no sevens an’ then we’ll-” The old hustle was being set up as it always was, only to be distracted by a light, powered by their sorcery, flashing silently in the centre of the table. The Technols all give each other a cursory glance, then smile at the PMD’s as the bearded one exclaims, “Time to go! Oh, an’ if you want advice on what to bet on; the word’s trouble.” Hearing this, the Technol spins around and receives a heavy-headed nod from the bearded one.
Fear fills him. There wasn’t time. He pushes out into the multitudes heading for the viaduct and throws all his humility to the wind, raising angry insults from those he bypasses with haste. He had to get him out, and fast.

Amid the two crushed lines of people, others broke out to dance with and amid the musicians, writhing up against them in the cramped space. The lighting was stark, from a chain of lamps powered on the same sorcery as The Eye, and its powerful illumination gave extra definition to every sweaty undulation. Every sense and then some aroused, Tiago slides his shirtless body into the midst of it, pressing himself between a man and a woman and placing his hands on her hips. She turns with her arms in the air and catches sight of him, surprised the long shock of plaited blonde hair extending down his chest to his waistline. As she realises where it leads to, she looks back up and sees him with his head leant heavily to one side, a quizzical look on his face as he pushes his hips against hers, twisting in time with her movements. She lets out a shocked exhalation, sounding almost like a laugh, but does not resist. Closing her eyes, she tosses her head from side to side, her movements more powerful as she takes control, sliding skin against skin with those behind and around her as she moves off to the side and Tiago is forced to follow.
“So what d’you do when you’re not pushing yourself on women?” she asks in a matter-of-fact tone at complete odds with her enticing movements, “Pushing myself in women, mostly.” He grins, then watches with surprise as she rolls her eyes and fails to stifle a laugh, “Right.”
She begins looking off to one side, but he gently puts his thumb and forefinger on her chin, looking at her with a disappointed but good humoured glance as if to suggest she didn’t get the joke. It didn’t matter that he honestly expected it to work. He leans in, lowering his voice slightly, making her strain to hear him, “I’m a bison wrangler, I work on my mother’s farm. But next year I’m goin’ for The Vanguard training programme. I’ll be a good guy on the bad side.” She pulls away from him slightly to check his eyes for a disingenuous glint, her response coming somewhat suspicious, “A good guy working for Benedict is just going to have to kill a lot of other good guys.”
Tiago chuckles and speaks through his almost ever present smile, straining to sound natural while shouting above the music, “Well, the way I see it, if only the thugs and fools join The Vanguard, they’ll always only be thugs and fools. Someone’s gotta get in there and act responsibly.” He searches her face as she contemplates this, and in her mulling of his viewpoint, reaches a realisation, “Wait a minute, next year?? The Vanguard program starts at seventeen?” he watches her suspicious eyes as he shrugs sheepishly, her revulsion becomes immediately apparent.
“Yeah...?” He prompts, only to see the faces of her palms held up to him as she pushes her way out of the crowd. Having been grinded against for the last couple of minutes, he is far from eager to let this quarry escape, and begins to set off in pursuit, while smiling and dishing out encouraging slaps on the shoulder to the other revellers that encompass him. The music is still blaring all around him.
As he moves forward, he finds himself wrenched to a standstill as a heavy hand grips his shoulder like a vice. Momentary panic overwhelms him and he swings wildly in the direction of the hand, his careful visage of finesse falling to pieces. Soon even his savage attack falls to pieces as he stares down the length of the arm and into the face of his captor. He snarls and forcibly rags his shoulder free of the stony grip.
“Wha’d’you want?” He asks, looking down at his shoulder and rubbing it, seeming hurt and irritated as he looks expectantly across at the man he now faces.
“Come over here, we need to talk, and this music is ridiculous.” He cynically scans the musicians as they prance, a look of disgust veiled by purpose cast across his features. Tiago is a mirror and an amplifier for the disgust. He knows that face too well, for it might even be said to resemble his own. Aged, roughshod with stubble, small scars and burn marks, it is the filth-smeared face of a Technol, and worse, Tiago’s father.
“I don’t feel like talking.” He snaps, but his father snaps back with an outstretched arm, grabs him by the back of the neck with a calloused hand and drags him off to the side of the chamber before swinging him roughly into an alcove. Taigo yelps, tearing himself free in the alcove and slamming the heels of both his palms into his father’s chest, barely moving him and instead flinging him back against the wall.
“Get your filthy hands of me you fuckin’ Technol! You fuckin’ rapist!” His screams are easily loud enough to be heard by those sharing the alcove and they turn to see what drama is unfolding in their peripheral vision. They find themselves meeting the gaze of Tiago’s father, his hard eyes staring fiercely, his powerful frame hidden underneath a dirtied green poncho with a heavy hood, his thick and burnished leather trousers cutting the frame of his stocky legs. This is a man whose life has been a heavy endurance challenge, short on company to be sure, but not on tortuous hard labour. The hedonists back out of the alcove, cocktails of fear and disgust swirling in their eyes as the Technol stares them down. Tiago is breathing hard, pacing around in the now empty space.
“What d’you think you’re doing, Tiago? What in Safe Haven are those people going to think? You need to learn to keep that temper under control, boy, and I’m not playin’ around.” The tone is stern and commanding, to which the response of a teen is always predictable,
“Fuck off, Marlon! You come through here, kill my chance of havin’ a good time, and start tellin’ me how I should behave! Go back to your black magic and your little circus boards y’disgusting Technol!”
The weary drone he emits is emotionless, “Circuit boards, Tiago,” but already begins filling with a lifetime of resentment, “And you, just like everybody else here, is kept alive by ‘em. It ain’t black magic kid, it’s fucking logic. Same shit you boys up there never stop jabberin’ about. Now shut y’mouth and listen to me. Y’shouldn’t be down here.” The teen scoffs, throwing his long plait behind his shoulder, “Yeah, that’s the point, dad;” he sneers “wouldn’t be so much fun otherwise.”
“And I suppose your mother knows you’re down here havin’ all this ‘fun’?” Marlon asks, looming over his bastard son with an expectant glare. Tiago shoves him roughly once again, and once again has little effect. Turning away from him, he punches the wall in frustration and screams formless anger, before whirling around, “You’re not allowed to talk about my mother, you sick fucking ra-” before he can even finish Marlon claps a large hand around his sons mouth and backs him up against the rear wall of the alcove, snarling through his nostrils and glaring at him with genuine menace.
“You don’t ever use that word boy! Not ever! Ok?! It was love your mother and I had! Real love! Not that maximised diversity shit they throw together like a fucking lottery! You wanna be one o’ them, huh? You wanna fit in? You wanna get that job with The Vanguard and come down here and pin some bullshit on me ‘cause you don’t like where you came from?! I’m past givin’ a shit, kid. You wanna go it alone, you don’t want me on your case! Well sure, when The Vanguard get down here in a few minutes, you can walk up to ‘em and hand ‘em your application!” The overwhelming shock of the physical assault evaporates in the face of that knowledge. The Vanguard, here in The Underbelly! If they found him, he’d never be able to find a career, and he was old enough to be punished to the full extent of the law. Marlon roughly releases his son as presses his thumb and middle finger into his temples as he turns away to look out over the crowd, attempting to compose himself.
“Go play with your one eyed monster, Technol fuck.” Tiago utters in total disgust, referring to crystallised eye entrapping Safe Haven while fully intending the immature -yet surprisingly common- double entendre, before turning to the crowd and screaming at the top of his lungs “VANGUARD INCOMING!”
The message reaches only a few ears but spreads like wildfire as the entire scene explodes into shockwaves of panic and disarray down the length of vast tunnel. Turmoil as bodies clash against bodies, rushing in opposite directions for the many foxholes that lead down here. Marlon grabs Tiago’s arm and his son stares daggers at him.
“What the hell did you do that for? Now you’re never gonna get out in time!” Shaking his head in frustration, Marlon sweeps his dusty brown hair out of his eyes and pulls his son along for the ride as he jumps down into the cylindrical corridor, the running PMD’s buffeting off him as he trudges down against the current.
“Where are we going?!” Tiago yells, irate, fearful and confused in the same instant, as his father calls back to him, “To get you outta here.”
He begins forcefully barging PMD’s out of their way now and they don’t even have time for outrage. Fortunately for him, his indiscretions couldn’t be punished here; who would run to The Vanguard to tell of Technol knocking them down as they ran to escape a celebration filled with every kind of contraband? Tiago tears his arm free shouts forward, “No! Where!! Specifically!”
Momentarily confused, Marlon looks back and sees his son majestically weaving between the rush of people, keeping up with his lumbering pace without any apparent effort. He glances down at his forearm, then pulls the screen over it and shouts back.
“Over there! The fourth door!” Marlon shouts over the panic, pointing at the destination. Tiago breaks into a run, ducking and weaving and side-stepping as the grizzled Marlon struggles to keep his broad shoulders from buffeting off the fearful crowd, “They’ll be coming from that direction, get to the steamer!”
Tiago, without any real knowledge of The Underbelly, ignores the comment wholesale, focussing instead of simply getting to the door in question. His heart is pounding in his throat as he tries to focus, driven not toward his objective but by fear away from a faceless threat. Thoughts of kidnap alibi’s flit across the forefront of his consciousness, they’d believe it with a Technol rapist involved. Gasping for air in the thick, noxious atmosphere, he pushes on through the crowd and makes it to the alcove, taking hold of the edge of the elevated gangway and dragging himself up, before rolling onto his back in the filth and gasping heavily. Looking back into the crowd, he sees Marlon wading closer and growls under his breath. Hate and fear were a cancerous mix, welling up inside him and straining his mind to the point where he feels like he might explode. But he needed him; he had no idea how to get out of this place save the way he came, the sewers, which by now would have been flooded.
Marlon puts a hand on the top of the gangway and heaves himself up onto one knee. Ignoring Tiago entirely, he grabs the heavy door handle and cranks it upward, heaving it out of the locked position before pulling on it, sweeping the door to the side and opening a corridor leading toward the surface. Looking back to his son, he nods toward the entrance.
“Where are you taking me?!” Tiago cries out, loaded with a fear that threatens to overcome him.
“Home. Get inside!” He pulls his heavyset sleeve up to view the glowing interface, the corridors depicted like chains, links whitened as they become breached. Tiago backs slowly away from him as he sees the sorcery emanating from his body, eyes wide as he goes over the edge and into terror.
“They’re almost here! Tiago!” Stomping over to his son, he stoops low and threads an arm between his legs and stands, hoisting him up into a fireman’s lift and striding through the door, turning and grabbing the handle with his free hand, he swings the door toward being closed, but a screaming PMD wedges himself in the opening. Marlon sets Tiago down, his own adrenaline now flooding his system as the tracker begins its proximity warning, rattling his forearm.
“Let me through! Open this door!! I need to get out of here!” The man screams amid tears. Marlon grimaces and he holds the door handle in his hand, looking up the hundred meter stretch of corridor and feeling the separations between vibrations on his forearm shorten yet again. Snarling toward the top of the corridor, he looks back at the man trapped in the doorway with a sympathetic eye, with only serves to worsen his horror.
“I’m sorry.” He gravely intones, before putting his boot against the mans ribs and heaving, ignoring the tirade of verbal abuse being thrown his way, being insulted for everything from his social status to his stature, he finally recoils his boot and thrusts it forward again, slamming him out of the door and yanking on the handle, dragging the door to it’s closed position and letting the handle drop into the lock. The Vanguard can be heard progressing down the corridor beyond the far door, and Tiago looks desperately at his father.
“You’ve taken me right to them!! I’m dead! I’m fucking dead!” He screams, Marlon looks toward the alcove ten metres to their left, “Not unless you drown.”
He rushes to the alcove, where the steamer for this subterranean entrance is sat. A squat machine of pneumatic mechanical construction, these blew high pressure steam through the sewer systems to cleanse the walls and kill the many bacteria that linger there, making the conditions habitable for those with the undesirable task of maintaining these systems manually. Inset into the stone floor was a massive iron cauldron that rose to head height, filled with the water that provided the cleansing steam. Tiago approaches, running with his eyes affixed to the door at the end of the corridor. Panic overcomes him. Marlon shakes his shoulders.
“You’re going to have to hold your breath, so make it a big one.” Tightening his grip on the shoulders, Marlon heaves him up and he grabs the edge of the tall iron heater, dropping into the water with a loud crash.
Marlon hears the door scream open, metal grinding against the stones of the floor. Leaping up, he grabs the edge of the cauldron and heaves, straining while trying his best to remain silent.
The unified footfalls of The Vanguard begin increasing in volume as he swings a leg over the edge of the cauldron and into the water. Lowering himself in, he locks eyes with his son as he becomes submerged up to the neck. The footfalls getting louder still, at least forty of them filling the narrow corridor with their march.
The muffled, muted sounds of the desperate and screaming PMD Marlon left behind the door can be heard as Marlon locks onto his son’s eyes and holding out three fingers, steadily counts down as he inhales slowly and steadily, Tiago gaining control of his faculties enough to do the same. As his hand becomes a fist, he plunges beneath the surface. Tiago takes a final gulp of air and drops his head beneath the waterline, gazing into the deep.

“Stoke it.” The captain says, throwing a pointed finger out at the alcove as they march by, “Make sure no one can get out that way once we get inside. The sewers have been waterlogged; we need three-man teams to steam the rest of these passage ways. Everyone else, I need a cordon across the exits so we can start processing.”
One of those at the front of the troop, carrying a torch, takes a magnesium block from a heavily greased, black metal box in the alcove wall and tosses it down through the grill that forms the gantry around the cauldron, the rest of the squad place gloved hands in front of their eyes as he takes a powdered flint and throws it with all his strength down at the base of the cauldron, it sparks of the iron side and immediately ignites the magnesium, causing a huge white light to blast out as the flames wash over the coal and ignite it in turn. The captain turns to address them all.
“Now, remember the procedures. We have no decree for this raid so I’ll put my name to it and go before Benedict if I have to. But we’re doing this correctly. No fatalities, no amputations. Not until we can ascertain the level of guilt. If you get a LOG-4 or above, process it, anything below that gets a stamp on the wrist and a hefty fine. Clear?”
The Captain watches as they all slam their heels together, raising their right fist to their left shoulder before whipping the arm back down to their sides. Nodding, he turns on his heel and heads toward the main viaduct door.

In the water, Tiago is panicking. Hearing the muffled, authoritative tones in the corridor, he swings his arms above his head to push himself further down into the elongated iron barrel. Everything in it is blackness, as he slowly opens his eyes to a tiny squint, he can see only darkness- no sign of Marlon anywhere.
Far beneath him, he hears a rustling sound muted by the massive volumes of water. Feeling his lungs beginning to tighten, he forces himself to focus only on the blackness, to ignore the terrifying reality that closes around his throat. Then, a booming bass tone shockwave rises up from the bottom of the huge tank, rattling his teeth. Bewildered, he turns wildly in every direction, trying to identify a source. His lungs begin heaving in his chest, he feels them withering, becoming vacuous. Still there is a voice outside; a whole squad of Vanguard waiting for him for take that desperate breath.

“Anyone resisting, you have the right to subdue but keep the swords sheathed unless someone pulls a weapon first. If ANYONE attempts to escape justice, if they hide, if they run, if they deny, that’s a LOG-9, and they feel the full extent of the punishments assigned to that category. Get this door open.” The dull clanging of the door and the distorted shouting from behind it of the PMD desperate to escape is only the most distinct noise amid a low thrum of the chaos in the viaduct behind him. The fire starter walks forward once again, taking the handle and heaving it upward, before pushing the door forward and sending the desperate PMD barrelling over onto his back. The Captain marches through the door and the screaming of the people and their disorganised attempts to escape elevate to newer, even more desperate levels, sheer terror gripping everyone as the black and grey clad officers begin filing out onto the gangway lining the viaduct.

Tiago feels like his body is trying to do the exact opposite of vomiting- his diaphragm spasms as his chest begins to burn, his heart swollen and sore. He can hold it no longer, and makes a rush for the surface. Before he moves more than a few inches, he feels a shackle lock around his foot- Marlon’s hand reaching out from the depths to capture him. He twists and kicks frantically at the hand, his exertions making his body even more desperate for air. Marlon refuses to release his hold as the heel crushes his fingers, Tiago’s arms outstretched toward the surface, thrashing frantically and disturbing the water at the surface. The slow beating of the footfalls is tripled the redoubled by his heartbeat. Around them, the water feels warmer, and Tiago’s senses begin to blur as he feels the liquid encapsulate him in that warmth, lulling his resistance, beckoning him to slip into the blackness.

The Vanguard squad are blocked up in the bottle-neck of the heavy door as the hundreds of people in the viaduct refuse to listen to the Captain’s barked commands, “Everyone remain where you are! You are to adhere to the inspection decree immediately or be withheld appropriately until you comply! The area has been sealed and the exits will be steamed! Compliance will reduce the penalties!” He turns his head to the side, calling behind him to the troops, “This is useless. Three man teams, two guard while one steams. We’ll herd them back here when the area is secure. Go.”
The troops begin filing out from behind him, sprinting along the gangway, their feet at chest height to the revellers as the sprint down in both directions, barging the people out of the way and sending them crashing into the panicked mob, causing even more chaos.
“You, set this one going and seal it up.” The captain then drops down into the melee in front of him and marches to the centre of the viaduct. He draws his sword, the finely crafted blade resonating with a high pitched voice of its own, freezing everyone within fifteen feet of it as his voice booms out to fill the viaduct as the sword is held vertically above his head, “Everyone! Will remain! Where they are!”

The waters warmth increases, and just as Tiago is about to drift off, he is given life by the feeling of heat on the soles of his feet, the water becoming uncomfortably hot. The iron shell he’s trapped within conducts the heat; he feels waves of it on his face. He remembers what Marlon called it- the steamer. They were going to be boiled alive. With this realisation, his brain draws up more concentration out of sheer desperation to reach the surface, to escape this fate. Whatever The Vanguard would do would be better than death. But Marlon’s iron hand still did not release.
Outside, he hears footsteps approaching the iron tank, and the low groan of a lever being pulled ends in the heavy set clunk of a release, a huge counterweight dropping down into a sealed chamber and forcing air through a narrow pipe, beginning the process by which this water would become steam, and their lives would be ended in the agony of bubbling flesh and melting eyes and hollow lungs.
Blind terror overcomes Tiago as he stamps on the fingers, screaming exhalations bubbling up to the surface as the sound of the rush of air to the fire creating a massive uproar can be heard, the heat becoming more intense almost instantly, searing pain flooding his nervous system as the water threatens to flood his lungs. A distant thud resonates through the iron of the cauldron, and Tiago feels his foot released. He looks up at the weak, reddened glow of the fire’s reflection on the roof of the alcove and thrashes wildly toward it, bursting through the surface. As he looks at the roof, blackness encroaches on his field of vision, closing it down to a spot before he finally takes a huge breath, sucking in air to fill his screaming lungs.
Beside him, the water erupts as Marlon surfaces in a blowout that sends waves of water sloshing around the sides of the deep cauldron. He grabs hold of the edge, but is too weak to climb out. Tiago scrambles toward him, grabbing hold of his shoulders and his broad arm and pulling himself out of the water, evaporating off him in the air as he frees himself. He gets his legs over the edge and drops to the floor below, landing in a crumpled heap and gasping desperately, his blonde hair matted across his face. Marlon shakes his head and heaves, but he can’t make it. The water begins to bubble up from the base of the cauldron. Soon, the whole thing would be boiling. His feet were burning. Through sheer desperation, he screams with exertion as he heaves himself upward, getting his elbows over the edge of the iron and ignoring the burning sensation in them leaning forward and dropping headfirst toward the floor, landing heavily on his shoulders on the stone with a wet, hideous cracking sound.
“We-! We-! Have! To go!” Tiago gasps, still desperately gulping in air. But Marlon is crumpled in a steaming heap as the sound of heavy industrial clockwork begins grinding behind them. The now closed door to the viaduct mutes the discord they left behind; the cauldron is descended upon by a copper pipe encapsulating a smaller counterweight, the pressurising about to begin. Tiago struggles onto his feet and stumbles up the corridor. Turning to look at Marlon as his hands shakily begin to move to his sides, Tiago looks back up at the door, then back at Marlon once more. Looking at the pipes overhead and below, he has no choice. Breaking into an exhausted run, he falls into a crawl for the last ten metres of the dash as the clockwork continues to grind, the slow rumbling of the boiling steam pressurising creating an environment of fear that chokes all thought. Tiago wrenches the door handle and pushes it open before falling onto his chest on the stone. Looking behind him, he sees Marlon pushing himself onto all fours. He screams down the hall, “COME ON!”
Marlon hears the call of his son, and looks up at the corridor. The pipes on the top and bottom of the room are rattling erratically now as the pressure builds to incredible levels, adding to the deafening machinery. He heaves himself to his feet, staggering up the hill, but the look in eyes as he sees his sons panic belies his state of mind. Calm, serene, with a glint in his eyes. It only lasts for a moment however, as he knots his eyebrows and sets one foot in front of the other, pulling the hood of his poncho over his face and wrapping it tightly, staggering into a jog as the final counterweight drops and pulls back the hatches, steam exploding out into the room. He sprints as Tiago lies with his foot on the edge of the door. Marlon is buffeted side to side by the plumes of steam as they rise, rushing through them and hurdling over the hatches, diving through the door as steam begins to billow through it. Tiago groans with exertion as he pushes the door closed with his foot against the immense pressure. Marlon falls back against it, slamming it the rest of the way, before desperately and with a red raw hand dropping the handle into the locked position. He collapses on the floor and tears off the poncho which still holds water boiling off it, gasping for clean air with huge, wheezing breaths.
Tiago rolls onto his back, gasping desperately. His body finally begins to react to the immense shock, his whole body shaking against the cold damp of the stone as he hyperventilates. Marlon looks over at him with bleary, streaming eyes as his son shudders and lapses into unconsciousness. They had lived.