“So, you do own something besides uniforms,” I managed, fighting not to stare.
He gave a dry snort, stepping back to let me in. “Yeah, I go wild sometimes. Even sleep in them, if I’m feeling reckless.”
I stepped inside, acutely aware of the echo of his presence in this small space.Twins,I thought—if only by architecture.Or maybe just two people thrown into matching boxes, figuring out what to do with the space between.
When I stepped inside, I realized he didn’t look quite as refreshed as I’d thought, catching him on the porch with his sharp scent and damp hair. Up close, the lines under his eyeswere perceptible. I hoped they weren’t due to my early call this morning.
He moved to the kettle and snapped the lid shut. “I was about to make some tea. You want any?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
“I don’t have regular tea,” he continued, turning back to me. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “It’s herbal, something we used to put together back… well, back when.”
His voice roughened slightly at the last bit, but I pretended not to notice. “What’s in it?”
He exhaled, rolling his neck. “A bunch of herbs.”
I smiled faintly. “Figures. Where do you get them?”
“Floating market. Herbs and honey, those I pay for. Everything else, I live off work lunches.” He fished a jar of dried herbs from the cupboard, the contents green and brown and tangled.
I found myself wondering who he was saving for, if anyone. He lived alone, didn’t talk about anyone from before. Did he have family somewhere, or was there no one left to wait for? What got him out of bed each morning?
But I just watched him work, letting the questions sit, not sure I wanted the answers yet.
After we drained the last of the tea, Hayden vanished upstairs. I stood awkwardly in his kitchen, acutely aware of how little he’d said since I’d arrived. When he reappeared in a uniform, he barely paused, just grabbed his bag, opened the door, and waited, gaze expectant.
We left in silence, matching pace down the street. He didn’t bother with small talk, just kept his eyes on the road ahead as if already mapping the route in his head.
On the shuttle, we found the only two seats together near the back, wedged in among workers in faded uniforms and grimmorning faces. Hayden let me take the window, but his posture was all elbows and angles, arms crossed, daring the world to take up more space than it deserved.
Outside, agricultural scenery blurred by—patches of green and brown, square plots, lines of fruit trees—but I didn’t really see any of it. My attention kept dragging back to Hayden’s profile: cut jaw, dark lashes, a line of tiredness under his eyes that seemed to be from more than just lack of sleep. He didn’t speak, didn’t fidget, just watched the shifting landscape with the same quiet focus he brought to everything else.
Five minutes in, as we curved along a razor-thin track above a valley, Hayden finally leaned in, just enough that I felt the heat of his shoulder, not quite touching mine.
“Look left,” he said, voice low. “That’s the industrial quarter.”
I followed his gesture. Black smoke twisted up from three distant chimneys, a jagged peak looming beyond. The sight made my stomach knot, a reminder of where we were headed.
“Impressive,” I managed.
“Wait till you see the inside,” he muttered.
The shuttle angled upward, rails clattering. The closer we drew to the mountain, the more claustrophobic the world became. At the tunnel mouth, darkness swallowed us. The shuttle roared, rattling around us; dim bulbs flickered along the curved walls.
For a moment, I could feel nothing but the press of strangers, the sharp scent of Hayden’s soap, and the dark ahead—a tunnel that felt longer, somehow, for the silence between us.
And then, after two minutes, it became brighter. We pulled into an underground station, and the shuttle slowed. I looked around, my eyes falling on a long platform.
The vehicle’s doors slid open with a low hiss. The crowd surged to their feet, eager to spill out. I hung back a moment,waiting for Hayden to move, then followed him onto the broad concrete platform. Seven yawning entryways gaped along the wall, each marked by wide double doors leading into fresh tunnels. Above each, glowing signs announced their route numbers.
“We’re over there, route five,” Hayden said, his voice low. He nodded toward a door halfway down, then set off at a brisk pace. I fell in behind him, the tunnel swallowing us both.
We walked for several hundred yards, our footsteps merging with the steady shuffle of the crowd, echoes chasing us down the length of the tunnel. At the far end, another set of barriers loomed. We scanned our rings and stepped through, emerging into a cavernous space that could have swallowed our entire commune.
The cave was crammed with towering rectangular containers, each one heaped with mounds of clay, jagged rocks, and hunks of metal in every shade—copper, slate, iron-black—most of which I couldn’t name. Back home, we mainly built with wood and rope. The idea of forging floating platforms from these raw, stubborn chunks felt like a kind of sorcery.
And where did they get all these materials? Could they all have been sourced locally?
