Slinging an anti-mechanoid assault rifle over his shoulder, a security soldier lazily yawns while browsing family photos on his mobile device.

  His one-year-old son, his nine-year-old daughter in a school uniform, his smiling wife holding both kids, and his parents beaming behind them. Gazing at his mid-level city family, the soldier glances at a drug addict firing wildly, raises his rifle, and pulls the trigger without hesitation.

  Dry gunshots and booming artillery. Missiles, rockets, and other soldiers’ fire engulf addicts and zealots in flames, wiping out the rioting undercity mob.

  He hates trouble. No intention of working harder than his paycheck demands. His family knows he’s a soldier but not that he slaughters scores in the undercity. Naturally, he has no plans to tell them.

  Lying to his wife and parents about a long business trip, he chose this post for its high hazard pay and undercity security bonuses. His kids don’t know their dad pulls the trigger so easily, or that he’s killed more than anyone in his unit. Separating work from personal life, treating his finger and mind as detached entities, he’s become the longest-serving undercity soldier.

  A soldier’s job boils down to killing. There are minor tasks—gate management, ruin digger check-ins, relic trade oversight, toxin level monitoring—but they’re few and dull compared to pulling the trigger. Sending a message to his wife, he closes the device’s screen and spots Danang and Eve approaching the gate.

  “Ruin digger, heading to the ruins again?” the soldier asks.

  “Yeah, gate duty again, soldier boy?” Danang replies.

  “Work’s work. And the assistant lady’s tagging along?” the soldier says.

  “Yes, thank you,” Eve replies.

  Scanning the code on Danang’s mechanical arm, paying for both, Danang crosses his arms.

  “By the way…” Eve starts.

  “What, assistant lady?” the soldier asks.

  “More riots?” she says.

  “Yup, again. I’m used to it, but they’ve been frequent lately. Be careful, alright? Stick with the digger for safety. Got it?” the soldier warns.

  “Thanks for the concern,” Eve says. “Um…”

  “‘Soldier boy’ works. We haven’t swapped names, me and the digger,” he says.

  Letting out a dry laugh, tapping the desk, the soldier calls for coffee from a younger soldier.

  Residents like Danang and Eve, who’ll chat casually, are rare for him. In this hellish borderland city, everyone’s mad or grim-faced, unlike the mid-level city. Body mods and mechanical limbs are rare up there, used only for medical needs, but most undercity folk chase power through cybernetics.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  No… The soldier recalls Danang’s words, adjusting his thoughts. Relying on machines for strength isn’t wrong, but the weak have reasons for it.

  Debt collateral strips their organic parts. Cheap, mass-produced limbs, less effective than the originals, tear off under strain or break down, driving the weak deeper into ruin until death. To mid-level folk, the soldier’s tales of the undercity would seem like far-fetched fiction.

  “Gate’s almost ready, but… digger, you forgot something,” the soldier says.

  “I paid,” Danang replies.

  “Idiot! Our drinking plans! You forgot, didn’t you, after your last trip? I’ve got a bottle and seats reserved!” the soldier says.

  “Oh… right. But, soldier boy, drinking with me?” Danang says.

  “I’m asking you specifically. My colleagues are back up top, young soldiers are in the Pleasure District or on mental leave, and my boss is a creep caging undercity women and kids. Decent conversation’s rare. You’re… practically an acquaintance,” the soldier says.

  “Guess so,” Danang replies.

  Unfazed by the soldier’s enthusiasm, Danang, gas mask and goggles on, glances at Eve as she taps his armor. “What?” he asks gruffly.

  “Go for it. Connecting with people matters,” Eve says.

  “No point. What’s in it for me, buddying up with a mid-level soldier?” Danang retorts.

  “Think beyond profit for once. Food and drink smooth things over, don’t they?” Eve says.

  “Not interested,” Danang says.

  “That’s your problem, Danang. Undercity folk ignore reason and chase desires, but soldier boy’s mid-level. An acquaintance—someone who knows you—isn’t that great? If you won’t go, I’ll take Rilse,” Eve says.

  “…”

  Surprisingly, Danang—who’d brushed off the soldier’s invites—hesitates at Eve’s words. His mechanical fingers tap steel, and after a pause, he meets the soldier’s eyes. “Where and when? Reserve three seats,” he says with a sigh.

  “Nice one, lady! It’s a bar near the gate—a mid-level chain, but the food and booze are solid. Let me know when you’re back from the ruins,” the soldier says.

  “…Got it. But—” Danang starts.

  “But what?” the soldier asks.

  “…Never mind,” Danang says.

  As the gate opens fully, dim elevator lights flicker. Danang and Eve wave to the soldier.

  “Don’t regret this, Eve’s a big eater,” Danang teases.

  “Hey! Don’t say that, I’m normal!” Eve protests, cheeks red.

  “Normal? You polished off a whole pot,” Danang says.

  Kicking his thigh, Eve blushes as the soldier laughs, sliding his fingers across the control panel to close the steel gate. He glances at a pale-faced young soldier approaching.

  “Sir,” the young soldier says.

  “What?” the soldier replies.

  “I… want to transfer back to the mid-level city,” the young soldier says.

  “Reason?” the soldier asks.

  “I can’t handle killing, even undercity folk. I became a soldier to protect, not to kill…” the young soldier says.

  “…Fair enough. This place isn’t for young guys. I’ll talk to the higher-ups. File your transfer request. And—” the soldier says, raising his pistol.

  “—?” the young soldier gasps.

  Click—a sharp metallic sound.

  “Scared? If that spooks you, you’re not cut out for this. Your ideals are noble, but get a proper aptitude test before switching jobs. Plenty of mid-level careers protect people without being a soldier,” the soldier says.

  “What about you, sir? Why’d you become a soldier?” the young soldier asks.

  “Higher pay than average. I want lots of kids and a cushy retirement. That’s why I work here. No lofty reasons like yours,” the soldier says.

  “…”

  Bowing, the young soldier flees. Lighting a cigarette, the soldier exhales purple smoke as new riots and zealots emerge from alleys and streets. Work time. Kill. Finger on the trigger, he aims, flicking away an empty shell.