The alarm screamed like a wounded animal at 5:45 AM, just as it had every morning for the past seven years. James's hand slammed down on the metal casing before his eyes even opened, the impact sending a dull ache up his forearm. The cheap plastic clock wobbled dangerously close to the edge of his nightstand - a slab of repurposed factory pallet - before settling back into place.
His apartment smelled of ancient books and yesterday's instant noodles, the scents mingling into a stale, familiar haze. The single bare bulb overhead flickered as he swung his legs over the side of the cot, its yellowed light revealing the peeling paint on the metal walls, the stacks of books, the odd-looking artifacts that belonged to an era long gone.
Outside his window, the perpetual glow of District 10-CE's factory complex painted the pre-dawn sky a sickly orange, as unchanging as the rest of his life.
For a few moments, his eyes stared hollowly at the scenery beyond the glass.
Another day. Another shift. Nothing new.
His fingers moved subconsciously to his chest, brushing the cold, smooth surface of a pendant hanging from his neck. The circular metal disk was etched with fine, indecipherable engravings - an heirloom passed down from parents he'd never known. The only thing they'd left him, besides the cluttered apartment filled with relics of the past.
Most of the books lining his shelves recounted history from before the Collapse. The Bronze Age. The medieval era. The Industrial Revolution. The 21st century. He'd read them all, absorbing tales of societies that had risen and fallen, of civilizations that had clawed their way toward progress only to crumble back into something worse.
He didn't know it yet, but today would mark a turning point in his never changing cycle of life. A change that would go down in history books if anyone remained till then who could record it that is.
Blissfully unaware of what was to come James started a new day.
His clothing style was mechanical. Gray thermal undershirt, stiff with dried sweat. Dark blue jumpsuit with the faded '10-CE Manufacturing' logo peeling from the left breast. Steel-toed boots, their soles worn thin enough that he could feel every crack in the pavement on his walk to work. The fabric clung to his skin immediately - the building's ancient climate control had given up years ago, leaving the air thick and humid even in winter.
The communal bathroom down the hall reeked of ammonia and mildew. James splashed tepid water onto his face, watching the rust-colored droplets spiral down the cracked porcelain sink before disappearing into the drain. His reflection stared back at him from the broken mirror - dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a five o'clock shadow of a beard that never quite faded no matter how often he shaved.
"Move your ass, 307!" a voice shouted through the thin walls. "Some of us got real work to do today!"
James didn't respond. He never did. The shouting was just part of the morning ritual, like the ache in his lower back or the way his knees popped when he stood up. Some days, he wondered if the guy next door even knew his real name.
Outside, the streets of District 10-CE were already alive with the usual pre-shift chaos. Food carts lined the cracked pavement, their grills hissing with synthetic grease as vendors fried dubious meat substitutes. Neon signs flickered weakly against the smog-choked twilight, advertising everything from stimulant patches to black-market prosthetics. A group of night-shift workers trudged past in the opposite direction, their jumpsuits streaked with grime, their eyes hollow and unfocused.
James kept his head down as he walked, his boots scuffing against the uneven concrete. He sidestepped potholes and piles of refuse leaking unidentifiable fluids, his body moving on autopilot. The factory complex loomed ahead, its massive silhouette blotting out what little natural light managed to penetrate the smog layer. The security gates screeched as they parted, the sound setting his teeth on edge.
Inside, the locker room was a cacophony of shouted conversations and slamming metal doors. James found his assigned locker - dented, with a stubborn latch that required just the right pressure to open - and swapped his street shoes for work boots. Around him, men and women in identical blue jumpsuits prepared for another shift, their movements practiced and weary.
"Late again, huh?"
James didn't need to look up to know it was Clark. His oldest friend - maybe his only friend. They'd grown up in the same state-run orphanage, two parentless kids shuffled through the system until they were old enough to be thrown into the workforce.
"Not late," James muttered, pulling on his work gloves. The leather was worn thin at the fingertips, the knuckles reinforced with patches of tougher material that had long since lost their original color.
Clark snorted. "Three minutes is late to Kowalski. You know how he gets when - "
A piercing whistle cut through the noise.
Foreman Kowalski stood in the doorway, his massive frame nearly blocking the exit entirely. His face was perpetually red, his nose a web of broken capillaries from years of heavy drinking.
"Move it, maggots!" he bellowed. "Line's starting in ninety seconds! Anybody not at their station gets docked an hour's pay!"
The locker room emptied in seconds.
The assembly floor was a temple of noise and motion. On their way further down the line before them streched like some segmented mechanical beast, its body pulsing with activity even before the shift officially began. James took his usual position at Station 14, the metal floor beneath his feet worn smooth from years of workers standing in the exact same spot.
His workstation was a study in controlled chaos - tools arranged just so that bins of components were within easy reach. Soon enough the conveyor belt hummed to life with a vibration he could feel echoing within his body.
"Look alive, shitbirds!" Kowalski shouted as he passed. "We got a rush order from the district head. Double quotas today!"
'Great. How awesome.'
A collective groan rippled through the workers as they shared James' sentiment, but no one dared protest. James simply adjusted his gloves and waited for the first unit to arrive.
The modules came down the line like clockwork - one every forty-seven seconds.
James's hands moved automatically.
'Grab the housing. Insert the primary filter. Secure the secondary array. Check the seals. Place it on the outgoing belt.'
Over. And over.
The rhythm was almost meditative in its monotony. Around him, the factory roared - pneumatic tools hissed, conveyor belts clattered, and somewhere in the distance, a power hammer pounded out its relentless beat. The air grew thick with the smell of hot metal and machine oil, the heat rising until sweat dripped from his brow and stung his eyes.
He lost track of time. There was only the work - the endless, unchanging work. His hands moved, his back ached, his shoulders tightened into knots of tension. The modules kept coming.
'Grab. Insert. Secure. Check. Place.'
Somewhere around hour four, Clark's voice suddenly cut through the din slightly startelling him while assembling a unit.
"How long have we been doing this, James?"
James didn't pause though. He was quick to answer. "I don't exaxtly know but four hours I'd reckon. Or maybe five. Why?"
Clark wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear. "Not the shift. I mean... this." He gestured vaguely at the line, the factory, the whole damn district beyond the walls.
James's hands hesitated for just a second before continuing their work. The module in his grip suddenly felt a little heavier.
"Too long. Far too long."
Clark opened his mouth to respond, but a shout from down the line cut him off.
"Eyes on your work, 422! Unless you want me to report you to management!"
Kowalski's beady eyes glared at them from three stations down. Clark ducked his head and returned to his work, but James caught the tightness in his friend's shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.
'That damn reptile! How did even hear us through all this noise? Adding to that he is always drunk which should blind his senses and not elevate them. Damn bastard.'
A grim expression was plastered onto James' face.
Trying to not let his emotions distract him from working he thought about what Clark had wanted to say. He knew exactly what he was was thinking. He'd thought about it himself a thousand times, every day he woke up and every day he went to sleep.
'How long can we keep going like this? This isn't living.'
But what choice did they have?
James had read about the past - about the late 21st century, when automation and universal income had promised a world where no one had to grind their bones into dust just to survive. And then came the Collapse. The return to the grind. The cycle repeating itself.
Back then they had been so close to achieve what many would have called a Utopia but the Collapse ... an event that seemed so unnatrual as it was disasturous.
According to the information he had received, an all-out war had taken place, lasting almost a hundred years and destroying most of the hospital landmass. In the process, most of the old world was lost. The single most tragic event in modern human history.
'Grab. Insert. Secure. Check. Place.'
The modules kept coming, and James's mind kept pestering him with dark thoughts.
By the time the shift-end siren wailed, James's hands were trembling with fatigue. He stared at them—the calluses, the scars, the permanent grease stains etched into the creases of his knuckles. Hands that had once dreamed of helping people, healing them. Now they were just tools, like every other part of him.
He never wanted to be a factory worker but to work in the medical field. But wanting didn't change anything. Opportunities in this sector were as scarce as real organic food. Money ... Money was always also scarce - far away from enough to finance his dream's education fees.
"Finally done," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Clark appeared beside him, stretching with a series of audible pops. "You look like hell warmed over."
James exhaled. "If hell's real and not some fictional place lunatics made up a thousand years ago, it better be worse than this. If not, I would be disappointed."
The walk back to the locker room felt longer than usual, their legs leaden with exhaustion. Around them, other workers moved like ghosts, their faces blank, their movements automatic.
The locker room was louder now, filled with the sounds of relief - forced laughter, the clatter of lockers, the occasional muttered curse. James changed in silence, ignoring the chatter. His street clothes - a faded gray t-shirt and patched cargo pants - felt strange after hours in the jumpsuit, the fabric too light against his skin.
Outside, the district had transformed. Food carts sizzled with grease, their owners shouting over each other to hawk their wares. Workers clustered around makeshift tables, drinking cheap synth-beer and playing cards with worn decks. The air smelled of frying oil and exhaust, undercut with the ever-present chemical tang from the factories.
Clark bumped his shoulder against James's. "Come on. First round's on me."
They found their usual spot - a hole-in-the-wall bar where the drinks were cheap and the owner didn't ask questions. The interior was dim, lit mostly by flickering neon signs advertising liquor brands that hadn't existed in decades. The tables were scarred with knife marks and cigarette burns, the chairs mismatched and wobbling.
Two glasses of something amber and suspicious appeared before them. Clark downed half of his in one go, wincing as it went down.
"God, that's awful."
James smirked. "Best in the district."
Clark laughed, but the sound was more hollow than amused.
They drank in silence, two men in a dead-end world, waiting for nothing ...
... until there was something to wait for. The signals of the arrival of that something were quite attention-grabbing.
Suddenly, the sound of glass breaking in reverse reverberated throughout every living creature's ears in district 10-CE.
After that, it was silent for a while until blood-curdling screams echoed throughout the entire parameter of the district's expanse.