how they should respect everyone from the Upper City,
because they are the ones funding them with food, homes, and money. Peter
thought about his home, a box with everything you need: a toilet and a
mattress. He laughed inside. But he can’t complain, it’s the way it’s always
been. It’s the Lower City’s duty to maintain all things hands-on, which
included cleaning, running errands, fixing, and serving the Upper City by
working in places like restaurants and washing the washing machines. Peter wouldn’t
mind working in a nice part of the city. He looked at the girl with the red
hair and knew that she had to be working there. With hair like hers, there’s
only one place to get that, and it’s not Lower City.
The teenager with the black
jacket had stopped harassing the old man, who was now sitting quietly doing his
own thing, drawing something that required squinting eyes. Peter was one of the
few who stared at the teacher, who was now talking about the dangers of
trespassing in Upper City. It’s an interesting topic, Peter thought. So many
Lower City people die every day because they try and blend in with the
super-rich. It’s a dangerous game that only got you killed. His father had
played the blending game, and now he’s dead.
Allen pointed at the black
board, and a picture of someone’s home came up. It sure wasn’t one of theirs,
Peter thought. For one, the bathroom was five times bigger than his entire little
shithole. Allen cleared his throat, raised his hand in a stopping gesture, and
waved his fingers around. ‘People,’ he said. No one listened. ‘People,’ he
tried again. ‘People!’ The sea of chatter died instantly. ‘Good, now that I
have your attention.’ He smiled nervously, probably thinking about what had
happened to the previous teacher. ‘Who in here is in Sector Three?’ He tapped
on his visor, the blue wall flickering. ‘Raise your hand please.’
Sector Three, Peter
contemplated. The best one to be in – also the one he was in – and it was all
about cleaning the city’s shit. Peter and the loud Asian women raised their
hands.
The Asian kid with the black
leather jacket (collar erected), the one who’d given the old man verbal vomit,
also known as Ohko, turned his head and stared at Peter, blinking at him. Peter
returned Ohko’s hello with a nod. Peter knew what he wanted, and Peter was
going to find out what it really was after this learning session, outside, on
the streets. Peter glanced over Ohko’s head and saw the old man still sitting
there, still drawing.
‘Fantastic,’ Allen said, his
visor’s light stuttering. ‘If this machine of mine just works, we can get back
to cleaning basics.’ He looked up, trying to hold on to a smile. ‘So who can
tell me why it’s important to clean?’
A chubby black kid removed his
ancient headphones – old, big, red machinery that was as big as his head – and
shouted: ‘Becows the big rich too busy wiping ass with money!’ Fresh laughter
exploded and feet stomped. Peter grinned. The only person not laughing was
Okho, who stared at Peter.
-2-
As Peter walked down the dimly
lit creamed-colored tunnel, thinking about how mundane the learning session
was, he could see the outside world of Tokyo, and it was raining. Four
teenagers stood at the end of the tunnel, one smoking a cigar and the other
three electronic cigarettes. Footsteps stampeded from behind and past Peter,
almost knocking him to the side. Lohan, the chubby black kid, glanced and waved
a sorry hand-gesture, one middle finger up. He adjusted his red headphones
before they could fall and then he was out and into the streets of bustling Tokyo.
Rain chattered on a mountain of
trash bags. It was night, and Tokyo’s Lower City residents were marching by in
lines. They all wore black attire, which included holding a black umbrella,
some with leaking holes. Peter peered through the marching drones and at the dozens
of little stalls ahead, which seemed to
because they are the ones funding them with food, homes, and money. Peter
thought about his home, a box with everything you need: a toilet and a
mattress. He laughed inside. But he can’t complain, it’s the way it’s always
been. It’s the Lower City’s duty to maintain all things hands-on, which
included cleaning, running errands, fixing, and serving the Upper City by
working in places like restaurants and washing the washing machines. Peter wouldn’t
mind working in a nice part of the city. He looked at the girl with the red
hair and knew that she had to be working there. With hair like hers, there’s
only one place to get that, and it’s not Lower City.
The teenager with the black
jacket had stopped harassing the old man, who was now sitting quietly doing his
own thing, drawing something that required squinting eyes. Peter was one of the
few who stared at the teacher, who was now talking about the dangers of
trespassing in Upper City. It’s an interesting topic, Peter thought. So many
Lower City people die every day because they try and blend in with the
super-rich. It’s a dangerous game that only got you killed. His father had
played the blending game, and now he’s dead.
Allen pointed at the black
board, and a picture of someone’s home came up. It sure wasn’t one of theirs,
Peter thought. For one, the bathroom was five times bigger than his entire little
shithole. Allen cleared his throat, raised his hand in a stopping gesture, and
waved his fingers around. ‘People,’ he said. No one listened. ‘People,’ he
tried again. ‘People!’ The sea of chatter died instantly. ‘Good, now that I
have your attention.’ He smiled nervously, probably thinking about what had
happened to the previous teacher. ‘Who in here is in Sector Three?’ He tapped
on his visor, the blue wall flickering. ‘Raise your hand please.’
Sector Three, Peter
contemplated. The best one to be in – also the one he was in – and it was all
about cleaning the city’s shit. Peter and the loud Asian women raised their
hands.
The Asian kid with the black
leather jacket (collar erected), the one who’d given the old man verbal vomit,
also known as Ohko, turned his head and stared at Peter, blinking at him. Peter
returned Ohko’s hello with a nod. Peter knew what he wanted, and Peter was
going to find out what it really was after this learning session, outside, on
the streets. Peter glanced over Ohko’s head and saw the old man still sitting
there, still drawing.
‘Fantastic,’ Allen said, his
visor’s light stuttering. ‘If this machine of mine just works, we can get back
to cleaning basics.’ He looked up, trying to hold on to a smile. ‘So who can
tell me why it’s important to clean?’
A chubby black kid removed his
ancient headphones – old, big, red machinery that was as big as his head – and
shouted: ‘Becows the big rich too busy wiping ass with money!’ Fresh laughter
exploded and feet stomped. Peter grinned. The only person not laughing was
Okho, who stared at Peter.
-2-
As Peter walked down the dimly
lit creamed-colored tunnel, thinking about how mundane the learning session
was, he could see the outside world of Tokyo, and it was raining. Four
teenagers stood at the end of the tunnel, one smoking a cigar and the other
three electronic cigarettes. Footsteps stampeded from behind and past Peter,
almost knocking him to the side. Lohan, the chubby black kid, glanced and waved
a sorry hand-gesture, one middle finger up. He adjusted his red headphones
before they could fall and then he was out and into the streets of bustling Tokyo.
Rain chattered on a mountain of
trash bags. It was night, and Tokyo’s Lower City residents were marching by in
lines. They all wore black attire, which included holding a black umbrella,
some with leaking holes. Peter peered through the marching drones and at the dozens
of little stalls ahead, which seemed to
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