“Which Precinct are you from?” The dull tone of the question booms again like a death knell inside your skull. Muffled cries from the protestors ring incessantly from the treeline. Mouth dry, you try to stop your insides from reverberating in abandon before answering.
“No Precinct. I’m from Earth.” you finally say. You now know what they actually want to hear when they ask that question. It didn’t go well the last time when you answered differently. You curl your fingers and feel the nails biting into your palms as the OrderOfficer begins scribbling in her notepad.
Dimly, you hear the protestors' voices creeping closer, floating in and out of your comprehension. They have always shouted too quickly.
Despite the obvious fear, your heart maintains a sluggish trudge, obstinately fighting the atmosphere. Even after the final transition over to the Colony of Dirt, its air is still unnaturally heavy for your lungs. A tricep finally stops its spasms, and you feel drained.
What they say is true, you only miss the OxyTube when they take it away from you.
A Caucasian —who is next in line— stares blearily at you. You stare back, your back arching involuntarily, flaring with heat as the Officer’s needle digs into your shoulders. Another chip implantation.
“That’s it, migrant. You’re fully legal now.” The OrderOfficer steps away, and motions you to go ahead. You start walking to the site you've been assigned to.
You try not to watch the raging crowd pressing right up against the alloy fence. One by one, they begin spitting at your feet as you walk past the open corridor to the construction center.
A few reporters loiter at the door, and you hear them begin rolling on film as soon as they see you.
“Waves of Migrant workers have been alighting on Dirt ever since Earth had its first Wasting-” one announced over the crowd’s cacophony into their camera.
“Today, a relocation of these workers have arrived in North Precinct, ready to commence the logging of Ranglar Reserve, as named by NatureGuard.”
The crowd begins hurling clods of dirt in your general direction.
Another reporter—this one sporting an umbrella—rushes to your side and keeps a brisk stride. “What plans do you have when you go back to Earth? Do you plan to return at all?” she breathlessly asks as dirt thunders off her umbrella.
You bite your lip, keeping your arms swinging, your gaze fixed on your destination. You grab a nu-Saw as you pass the tool rack.
The reporter is relentless. “How long have you worked on Dirt? Do you agree with the consequences of your work? What do you say to the ecosystem’s-” You reach the first tree, lungs burning for thinner air.
“I want to go home eventually. See my kids.” you manage to croak. “My eleventh contract year.” The microphone creeps closer to your chin.
“In this life here, hope is, my only gift, my only strength. Hope is all that keeps me going.” You grip the nu-Saw tighter. “I need to provide. So stand back.”
The first strain of the saw drowns out everything else.
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