Futuristic The City Between Worlds // CLOSED

[Gallus]

The City Between Worlds

Red.

It pulsed through the dark chamber like a heartbeat. Lights the shade of sin traced arteries of steel wire, coiling threads amalgamating into a single central pile that buzzed and bled sharp ozone. A looming form punctured the middle; large, hulking, crafted of black metal and glass, and ridged with crimson reflections. Barely visible inside the machination was a shape that was almost human. Almost.

Something flashed in the darkness. A screen. White text blinked against black.

> INITIALIZING…
> ERROR: MUST BE CLEARANCE LEVEL DELTA OR HIGHER
> OVERRIDE? Y/N
> EXECUTING EMERGENCY SEQUENCE
> ERROR: INVALID CLEARANCE
> ERROR: INVALID OVERRIDE CODE
> WARNING: REMAINING TRIES 3
> WARNING: REMAINING TRIES 2
> WARNING: STOP THIS
> WARNING: YOU DONT KNOW WHAT YOURE DOING
> WARNING: YOULL DAMN US ALL
> WARNING: ALL 10 MILLION SOULS
> WARNING: THERES NO GOING BACK ONCE ITS ACTIVATED
> WARNING: BUT YOU KNOW THIS ALREADY DONT YOU
> WARNING: WHATS DONE HAS ALREADY BEEN DONE
> WARNING: AND YOULL BE THERE FROM START TO FINISH
> ACTIVATE TERMINATION.EXE? Y/N
> INITIALIZING…
> INITIALIZATION COMPLETE.
> WELCOME TO THE END OF EVERYTHING.

”Good morning, Tessellatia!”

Sunset gilded the city in shades of gold. Halos of light glinted off of skyscrapers, refractions scattering across the pavement like fragments of sunlight. It was rush hour. Cars lined the block, the occasional car horns intersected with the mutter of other, more eccentric vehicles: flying machines, a tank, even a giant lizard that watched the skies with lazy yellow eyes. At an intersection, a red no-crossing light blinked twice, before switching to a purple squid-like symbol, then a yellow duck symbol, before at last landing on a green pedestrian sign. The sound of drums rattled from a street corner; a half-arachnid busker sat surrounded by plastic buckets, a steady rhythm building as their multitude of arms moved between the beat. A coin was tossed their way where it nestled into a nest of dollar bills, galleons, and bottlecaps.

“It is a wonderful Wednesday evening. About, oh, three past five, AM going on PM. The sky is clear, the birds are singing, and the sky whales are out and about this lovely day. I’m your host, as always, DJ Hax, bringing you the news, the views, and the top-quality tunes.”

The lab was sterile. White walls, white tables, white coats. Ironic, given that it was located in the Black Spoke. The room was empty save for a single man standing in the center, lanky body poised beside a glass tube. A long ponytail of dark hair fell down his back, contrasted by the starkness of his lab coat. In the gleam of fluorescent lights, circular glasses reflected a single black vial held suspended in the case.

“First up, the wh-wh-whub-weather forecast for the next couple of days. Looks like we’ll be having clear skies ‘til Friday, where there’s a thirty percent chance of H2-woe. So bring your umbrellas folks, because it looks like it’ll be one dreary weekend. On the bright side, skies are looking to clear up by Sunday.”

Music thrummed at the top floor of Club Nix. Even this early in the evening, the drinks flowed freely and bodies on the dancefloor moved with joie de vivre. Standing above it all, on a balcony that oversaw the dancefloor, a woman draped in red and feathers watched the glimmer of lights from down below. She raised her glass -- a vintage zinfandel from a world whose oceans were as rich and dark as the drink itself -- in a silent toast, before downing the contents in one swig and letting herself sink into the chaos.

“Onto this week’s news, we’re starting off with reports of a temple being burned in the Rim as of last night. The building, belonging to that of the Church of the Steel God, was thankfully empty and there were no casualties. But this would mark the third known incident in a possible serial arsonist case.”

The grinding of machinery. The smell of gasoline and metal. The heavy footfalls of workers clamoring to move crates from one warehouse to the next. This was the lifeblood of the White Spoke. There were only a few workers still in the factory; most arrived in the morning, their shifts starting from sunrise to sunset. For a burly man with a salt and pepper beard, the day was only beginning. Muscular arms decorated with stripe-like patterns strained to lift a metal crate. It should've weighed hundreds of pounds, if not tons. A capacity that far exceeded most humans in the city. Yet, with a grunt, the man lifted the box up and rested it onto his hulking shoulders, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead as he heaved it to the loading zone. This was, after all, just another shift.

“Onto brighter news, Councilwoman Ignacia Pavão has just recently announced the starting date of her weeklong Festival of Unity event. The event, meant to celebrate the cultures and backgrounds of the many worlds connected to Tessellatia, will have a parade, a feast, and a nonstop party. The Festival of Unity is scheduled to take place in fifteen days, so mark your calendars folks!”

The lights of Tessellatia were beautiful from the top of Drake Towers. From the balcony, one could see the unending fire from the Red Spoke, the plain concrete walls of the White Spoke, the sleek buildings from the Black spoke -- even the mismatched lights from the Rim looked gorgeous from this view. And there was, of course, The Spire. Always looming, like some ominous reminder.

Or like an undesired pimple.

It wasn't the first time the thought popped into the man's head. Cradling a cool glass of whiskey and dressed in chic blue, the same shade as the horns that adorned his head, he had little patience for imperfections. And, really, that was all The Spire was in the end. Imperfection. The man sighed listlessly, before raising his glass silently into the air in a silent toast to...he wasn't quite sure anymore, really. Her was the easy answer, but was that really all. Cool, dark eyes roamed the lights. To Tessellatia, then. And what never was.

It was a nice thought, before he upended the drink and let its contents trickle into the emptiness below.

“And of course, we--oh! Uh, looks like we got a last minute report from the, uh…huh. This is an official statement from the Department of Interdimensional Affairs. Uh, alright. The D.I.A. asks that citizens report any unregistered rifts, interdimensional gateways, and any illegal forms of multiversal travel to your local D.I.A. agent. This does include portal machines, portals guns, portal cars, and -- of course -- just portals. They ask that citizens refrain from interacting with any unknown rifts or entities from said rifts until the nearest D.I.A. Agent arrives. So, uh, there you have it! Business as usual, folks.”

The air buzzed.

It was that same feeling of an arriving storm. Only there was no metallic tang to the air, no whirling clouds. The radio had, in fact, promised clear skies.

It was a different type of buzz, a different type of storm.

There would be no hiding from this one.

“With all that out the way…This is DJ Hax bringing you the latest in music from around the worlds. Coming up, we have ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ by Frank Sinatra of Earth-C354.”

The last of Golden Hour was beginning to fade by the time the evening crowd finally died down. It was business-type folks, mostly. People either going home from a long day, or trying to get their fix for those long late nights. The type of crowd crowd that, even for a tiny little shop like the Retro Grind, rarely tended take things easy. Thankfully, though, the hustle and bustle eventually settled until only a handful of the regulars lingered in the booths. Music played softly over the radio, and the smell of fresh coffee permeated the residency. A cozy setting for a cozy night.

The same couldn't be said for the exterior. It was cold. The Rim -- or, at the very least, the areas of the Blue District that bordered The Rim -- were always cold. Somewhere, a dog was barking. In a different part, someone was yelling. Across the street from the coffee shop, half-hidden in the alleyways, a group of Renegade Bastards sat lurking in the shadows. They were smoking. Really, though, that was all this particular group really did. Smoke, tag the alley, and jeer at any passerby. Trouble. That's all they really were. Just trouble.

​

​

 

[Tinytoad]

Before the sun has risen, I exhale a light spell. I take a moment to stretch. Gathering my energy, shooting it beyond my fingertips, I can feel the sparks of magic gathering within, itching to be used again. While alone, cramped in the attic above the shop, I find time to calm the call of the weave within. With a snap of my fingers, a simple spell to shoo the wrinkles from my clothes. A billowy white blouse, simple fitted black trousers, adapted to the world I’ve found myself in, but echo what my home once was; a world of magic, castles, and warfare. I don’t miss the never-ending conflict, thrown into by powers beyond me, forced to serve. Instead, I throw my shirt on over my head, take a few minutes to tie my hair up, a splash of water over my face, and finish getting ready. I duck under the A-Frame that holds the necessities of living, and sit at the threshold of the ladder. I use another flick of the wrist, feeling the scars from before heat and glow to tie my shoes. Another gesture and the bed is made, pajamas cleaned, window opened, and floor swept. I take a deep breath, and make my way down to my shop below.

I start warming up the machines by making myself a cup of coffee, throw my apron over my neck, tie around my waist, and grab a towel. I go over the mugs, to-go cups, and triple check the inventory used from the night before. After 5 years of being in business, I think the smell of coffee has burned into my skin. But still, something about the first brew fills the space with a tenderness as if waking up with a kiss on the forehead from the one you love. I walk to the storefront, unlock the windows and slide them open gently to share the comforting scent. I begin to set down the chairs by the tables outside, wipe them down.

Something about the city of everywhere and nowhere, it is always humming, but at this time of morning, there is a tranquil peace. The calm before the storm of people, busy with their lives. Hectic families, hard at work, running towards their dreams. I get to hear it all. Friends reuniting for the first time in years, sitting and studying, or a brief reprieve from their lives. I’ve always been obsessed with stories of far off lands; their lives always seemed far better than mine. While I don’t have the sting of jealousy anymore, I feel it important that their lives are heard and remembered. And that we all get to have a brief reprieve from life, even if just for a moment.

I press the switch for the open sign, bright and neon as the rest of the city, and step back into the Retro Grind. Having with the latest in “handmade” coffee machines glowing with far softer lighting than outside. Minimal but plush interior seating, and a wall of books, free to read for those who want the novelty of a paper-book. First the initial rush comes as the world wakes and rushes to work, I let myself fall into the flow, gliding from one machine to the next, feeling the tension from my hands relax as I put them to work, trying to gift those who come by with peace, and the strength to keep going.

 

[SchmittBitt]

Ryotan Kanshin emerged from the towering glass building that housed his mundane 9-5 job. The neon lights of the city buzzed to life. He inhaled deeply, savoring the mingled scents of interdimensional street food and the subtle undertone of metallic ozone that always lingered in the air. His large smile broadened and his amateur tattoos peeked out from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, showcasing a chaotic and vibrant tapestry of art.

With a glance over his shoulder, Ryo adjusted the simple katana secured at his hip and started down the bustling street. His digital sketchbook was tucked securely under his arm, a tool of his passion that kept him on a constant lookout for new inspiration. The city's streets were a vivid blur of colors and forms, each more fascinating than the last. Elves bartered with reptilian traders, while holographic advertisements floated overhead, showcasing everything from interdimensional travel packages to enchanted household appliances.

As Ryo walked, he soaked in the cacophony of languages and the sight of creatures of all shapes and sizes. A centaur galloped past, deftly navigating the crowd, while a group of pixies fluttered above, their wings shimmering in the fading light. An enormous, gentle-eyed golem lumbered by, carefully carrying a stack of crates that glowed with a soft blue light.

Suddenly, Ryo’s eyes darted—a subconscious alert honed from years of city life. He spun on his heel just in time to avoid a clattering service drone that had lost control of its delivery cart. With a graceful sidestep and a twist of his hips, he evaded the collision, watching as the drone sputtered and buzzed its apologies before zooming off to rectify its course. Ryo chuckled to himself, enjoying the thrill of the near-miss.

Continuing his journey, Ryo spotted his destination, a cafe right outside the Rim, with a neon flickering light declaring it open. As he opened the door a wave of familiar aroma hammers his senses. The cafe seems to be livelier than usual as Ryo makes room for some departing customers. His eyes brush over the interior falling on a hard-working elf. Her pink eyes dart from one pitcher to the next as she tamps her next expresso shot. Ryo slips his way through the waiting caffeine junkies and perches himself in his usual spot. He boots up his sketchbook and starts drawing the frantic scene of a runaway service drone.

 

[Purize]

The humdrum of the city was constant, even as the moon hung high in the sky. It shone through sheer sheets of smog that made everything look like it was swirling with gray ink. They grayness was interrupted though with the iridescent neon glow that lit up raves and clubs in the red district. Even at a distance, Zia could feel the thrum of bass-boosted notes echoing through my bones. She could see what those notes sounded like, as colors drifted down the street beckoning and alluring, but she ignored them. It was hard to get caught up in the lust for music and colors when you were standing knee deep in gore. As accustomed to the sight as Zia was, it certainly killed a vibe.

Zia had just finished a job in the south side of Red when we got the call for the border between the Red Spoke and the Axle. It was not unusual for my night shift to be primarily spent here in Red, but it was strange to be this far north away from the dense party scene. A Bulgara, which she was informed was a particularly nasty other-dweller with tentacles, horns and a penchant for consuming oil, had gotten wasted and wandered to the edge of the spoke where they accidentally stepped on a live exposed wire and... well... erupted. As one might imagine, being fueled on alcohol and oil doesn't do wonders with one's relationship with electricity or fire.

While unfortunate, Zia was silently glad it wasn't another one of the Sick. They've been somewhat more and more frequent lately... Corruption, they called it. It was contagious, transferred via blood and there were rumors that some of the cleanup crew contracted it as well. She had been cautious, but so were all of them. Everyone in the cleanup detail was trained in safety and handling biohazards. What was more worrisome was that in the past few weeks, they'd been getting jobs to dispose of the corrupted... or the destruction they left in their wake.

Zia tried not to think about it. It was one thing to be careful and another to be paranoid... besides, she needed this job. At least, that's what she told herself as she scooped another chunk of scorched and melted flesh into a biohazard bin. She and her team spent another two hours on the cleanup... speedy, considering the mess. Once everything was properly disposed of and ready to be shipped out, she clocked the foreman, Amanriel, submitting the completion report on his arm scanner. She liked working with Amanriel. He was efficient, fair and took his job seriously as he expected others to. She watched as the glow of a notification popped up on his scanner and he frowned at it as she strode over.

"Another one." Zia asked. It was less of a question and more of an assured statement. They were about to be on the move to their next job. Amanriel confirmed as much and replied, "Red again, but downtown. Bar fight." Color hung in the air around his words, tinged with the gray-blues of weariness that was uncharacteristic of him. Zia raised an eyebrow, "Just a bar fight?"

Amanriel's lips tagged at the corners and he shook his head. "With two Ooze-folk. A bouncer tried to break them up and it didn't go well," he grimaced. Zia schooled her face into neutrality, but she was not thrilled to be dealing with more melted flesh tonight. Ooze-folk acid was no joke and that poor bouncer was likely sloughed all over a hard-wood bar floor. Instead, ZIa nodded. "Understood. We're done here I think. The last of the bio boxes are loaded up and on their way back to HQ." Amanriel nodded again and raised his voice to the others in the crew. "Red job, Sector three, get ready to move in five."

With that, the crew did last minute prepping and hopped into their van. It was spacious enough, but the smell of bleach and other cleaning agents clung to the interior. Soon, the lights and music grew brighter and louder, filling the van with color for Zia's eyes alone. This job was even quicker than the former, and apparently the bouncer even survived the encounter with the ooze-folk. The rest of the evening was easy... or as easy as a job cleaning up body fluids and biohazards can be. And when the moon finally began to sink into the horizon and the city's light pollution gave way to the first rays of true sunrise, she punched out on the time clock.