Numerous cables hung from the ceiling of the vast room, resembling a separate floor of the city. It was an old lightbulb factory, though ironically almost completely devoid of light. Only a few lamps, haphazardly placed, cast faint glows on the cold, metal walls. The air was thick with a suffocating smell of ash, coming from the incinerator below. The air was heavy, saturated with dust that settled on every surface, making everything seem dusty and muted.
Production lines stretched across the entire hall, disappearing into the darkness as if they had no end. Old, metal machines, covered in layers of rust and grease, worked in the rhythm of dull, repetitive thumps, creating a steady, hypnotic noise. In the center of the room stood a large glass building – an office where the manager and overseers resided. They held complete control over this soulless facility.
Workers, sitting at the production line, focused on evaluating the quality of the lightbulbs. Each of them wore a dark green work outfit with a number matching their station. Additionally, on that day, everyone wore a white mask covering their entire face, similar to gas masks, due to the polluted air. The media had reported in the morning that the pollution level was life-threatening. It wasn't anything new for anyone, as such events occurred in the Lower Level at least once every two weeks. Returning to the topic of lightbulbs, any defective piece had to be immediately placed into a special black container, from where they were later taken to the incinerator. There, they were melted and reshaped into new, more useful forms. This cycle repeated until the company achieved a satisfactory result.
The work was monotonous, but few complained. Compared to other jobs on the Lower Level, the pay was more than satisfactory. For some, it was even the job of their dreams – stable, well-paid, and predictable. Still, the omnipresent cold of the metal, the shadows cast by the machines, and the faint screeches of the mechanisms gave the place an almost eerie character, as if the factory lived by its own ruthless rhythm.
On the edge of this enigmatic place, at station 371, sat Ferrick. His work didn't stand out in any special way. Like every other worker, he evaluated the usability of the lightbulbs. He sat on a modest, wooden stool, moving items from the production line to his worn desk. On it, there was a place to screw in the bulbs, a few tools for dismantling them, and protective foil that seemed useless.
Each worker also had a black pen, with which they wrote down a code identifying a defective lightbulb on a special sheet of paper. Though this paperwork was mostly for the overseers, it also served to check if the workers weren't slacking off. Most of the light came from the few lamps scattered around the warehouse, so visibility was limited, which further hindered the work. For new workers, it was a true torment during the first few days, but over time, with each passing day, it became easier to get used to this dark, grim place.
Suddenly, the sound of a siren echoed from the loudspeakers mounted in the middle of the glass building, signaling break time. The workers immediately straightened up after six hours of work and headed for the canteen, located on the lower floor, almost next to the incinerator. Its only distinguishing feature was its color. The walls were beige, giving a slight sense of calm during the rest. Every day, workers were given something to eat. It was always a yellow mush with beans, humorously called " Potabeans" – a combination of the words potatoes and beans, though no one was sure if the yellow substance was really potatoes.
Ferrick, after a long wait in the queue, received a tray with a snack from the well-known cook and then walked briskly to the table where a skinny man with short blonde hair and bulging eyes sat. His name was Irlop Vardon. Ferrick never considered him a friend, but he still liked talking to him. He was completely different from the other people around – always full of optimism. No matter if someone died or hostile armies attacked, he always had a weird, carefree smile on his face.
- How's your day going? - Irlop asked, chewing a piece of beans at the same time.
- Same as always. Sometimes the cough really gets to me - Ferrick answered.
- Oh right. And how was your visit to the doctor yesterday? Did he tell you anything specific?
- He said my lungs are in decent condition and I need to quit smoking, or else he'll report me to the authorities. Irlop, listening to Ferrick's tale, took a large spoonful of Fartofli and eagerly shoved it into his mouth.
- Listen, if the doctor says that, you can't argue with him. The guy probably knows better than you. And you know smoking only harms you.
- You smoke too, though.
- Yeah, but I don't have problems with my lungs.
- For now.
- Your "for now" means a lot. Still, I can be happy that nothing has happened to my family yet. By the way, you know what I'm going to spend my next paycheck on? Books for my little one. She's been wanting to develop her knowledge so much lately that my wife and I can't ignore it.
- I'm planning to buy myself a new sofa.
At that moment, an old, gray-haired man with a mask on his face entered the canteen, accompanied by several soldiers in black uniforms with the Caldoria flag printed on them and helmets of the same color. The old man wore navy blue trousers, a gray shirt, and a brown bow tie. It was Mr. Sorvigoh, the head of this facility. Exceptionally strict, but effective in wielding power. Conversations with him always ended with his dominance, and the only hope for a worker was that he might show a bit of mercy. Despite this, no one ever opposed him, because his salary for work was very fair.
- Greetings, gentlemen. Today, at the Alaric Weismann Lightbulb Factory, we have the honor of hosting a special guest. Thanks to him, your lives have become much better, and many of the goods available to you exist because of his actions. His decisions shape our daily lives, ensuring stability and order. Before you stands the man who holds power over the Lower Level and one of the representatives of the TDP – Johan Zeilendorf.
A tall man in a brown suit and shiny black shoes entered the canteen. Under his formal attire, he wore a beige sweater made of the finest fabrics available in the country, which immediately suggested his high status. His face was adorned with a dignified dark mustache, accompanied by a slight beard, and his longer black hair fell to the right, partially covering his sharp features. There was a long scar on his upper lip that stretched all the way to his nose, giving him a stern appearance.
What was most striking, however, was the fact that he wasn't wearing a protective mask, despite the earlier warnings about air pollution. Unlike the others, he seemed completely unaffected by the threat, as if the contamination had no impact on him.
- Greetings, dear inhabitants of the Lower World - Zeilendorf began, looking at the gathered workers.
At the sound of his voice, everyone immediately straightened up as if on command, maintaining full discipline.
- Relax, my dears - he added with a slight smile. - No need to be so formal. Let's try to treat each other with equal respect. You can sit.
His tone was polite, almost friendly, but no one had any doubt who truly held power here.
- You're probably wondering why I came here in person today. The answer is quite simple. As the one in charge of the entire Lower Level, I am obliged to inform you of any changes. I start today with your facility, because it is here that, with your help, energy is provided to light up our beautiful level. The next larger factories will be visited later today. But now, let's get to the point.
Everyone listened attentively, staring at him as if hypnotized. No one had expected such an unexpected visit today, so the tension in the room was almost palpable. No worker dared to look away from Zeilendorf. He emanated a powerful aura of authority and dignity, making even the silence seem heavier than usual.
- Due to the increasing tensions in the north and east, the main TDP administrators have decided to burden the city's budget with funding for the Caldorian army. Specifically, this applies only to the Lower Level. It has been ordered to reduce the wages of all workers employed in the largest factories by half. This means that each of you will soon receive only half of your salary. This process will continue until further notice. If you disagree with this decision, you may make it clear. I am also willing to answer any questions.
A deep silence fell. The workers appeared visibly upset and saddened, but no one spoke up or asked any questions. Everyone remained silent, as if they had become obedient sheep, incapable of resistance. The atmosphere was thick, and in the eyes of many, one could see anger mixed with helplessness. Though no one uttered a word, it was clear that beneath the surface of this silence, unrest smoldered.
- Since none of you has anything to say, I thank you very much for your attention and wish you all a pleasant...
- Why doesn't this decision also apply to the Upper Level? - someone from the crowd interrupted.
The workers' gazesshifted to the one standing among all the seated ones who dared to ask thequestion. It was none other than Ferrick. His face was pale, and his handstrembled slightly. He looked as if he had just stepped out of his comfort zone.