Part I
The elevator descended with a prolonged groan until it reached Level 5.
The air changed immediately. It was no longer the dense stench of District 19, but something worse: a thick humidity that permeated every breath. The metal walls were covered in phosphorescent fungi, glowing with a sickly blue. Corroded pipes let out jets of white steam that coiled like invisible serpents.
My mask system vibrated with an insistent beep.
Environmental condition: Unstable. Risk: Critical.
It was the first time my own interface seemed to hesitate.
District 20... the border with the Shells.
They were called that: Shells (or Hulls).
A name I had heard since childhood, always accompanied by terrifying stories.
"If you don't pay your Vita-Credit, they'll send you to the Shells."
"The Shells swallow the weak."
"Whoever enters the Shells, never returns."
I had never seen one.
Until now.
The tunnel stretched before me like the throat of a monster, dark and damp.
The lights flickered, some completely dead, leaving entire stretches plunged into total gloom.
The floor was covered in puddles that reflected the lights like broken mirrors.
The silence was almost absolute, broken only by the constant dripping of water and the distant echo of forgotten machines.
The system projected the order onto my visor.
Module without official registration. Anomaly detected. Proceed with immediate disconnection.
An illegal module on the border.
That explained the warning.
The poor on Level 5 sometimes connected clandestinely to the main pipelines, stealing air with improvised filters.
They called them Gray Lungs: homemade cylinders made of metallic scrap, capable of stealing oxygen from the main ducts.
A crime punishable by immediate eviction.
I moved through the tunnel, my steps echoing on the damp metal.
The echo was unnerving: each footstep seemed to return an answer, as if someone else was walking with me.
I found the module.
It was barely an improvised cavern, with metal plates welded irregularly. The door was open.
Inside, a man was breathing with difficulty, connected to a Gray Lung that vibrated and wheezed like a wounded animal.
The cylinder, made of scrap metal and rusted filters, illuminated faintly with each inhalation.
The man looked up when he saw me.
His skin was covered in sweat, his eyes sunken, but still charged with intense rage.
"Don't... don't take this from me." His voice was rough, broken.
He clung to the Lung as if it were his own child.
I raised my arm.
The protocol was clear: disconnection, sealing, Act of Silence.
A routine procedure.
I pressed the command.
Cutoff initiated.
The Lung began to vibrate violently, emitting an irregular hiss.
The same hiss as always, but distorted, sick, like the sigh of something that refused to die.
The man screamed.
He lunged at me, with a desperate, inhuman strength.
His hands slammed against my mask, trying to tear it off, digging his nails into the filter vents.
"Give me your air!" he roared, his voice filled with madness and hunger.
My Exoskeleton responded automatically, absorbing the impact, stabilizing my posture.
But even so, I felt a shudder.
The direct contact, the rage, the pure fear in his eyes… they hit me like an electric shock.
For an instant, I didn't see the man.
I saw my father.
I saw his hands grasping the door of my childhood module, hitting, begging, demanding oxygen that would never come.
I saw his eyes, filled with desperation, when the Chamber decided we no longer deserved to breathe.
My vision blurred for a moment.
The man kept screaming.
"Your air, machine! Your air is mine!"
His nails scratched the filter.
The warning beep sounded in my ears.
Danger: Risk of mask rupture. Unstable consumption.
I couldn't allow it.
I couldn't let him break the only boundary that separated me from the same fate.
I took a deep breath.
The mechanical air passed through my artificial lungs, cold, metallic, stabilizing me.
I activated the Exoskeleton.
The servomotors hummed like a metallic roar.
My arms stiffened, my muscles reinforced by the machinery.
With a single movement, I pushed him away with brutal force.
The man flew against the wall, the Gray Lung ripped from his hands.
He fell to the floor, gasping, trying to crawl back toward the broken cylinder.
His breathing was an agonizing whistle, as if he had already begun to choke.
I watched him in silence, my mask returning my own mechanical breath in a constant echo.
The protocol was fulfilled.
The Gray Lung had been disconnected.
The anomaly was neutralized.
And yet… my hand was shaking.
It shouldn't happen.
The Exoskeleton was designed to suppress such reactions.
The mechanical body maintained firm, stable movements.
The tremor was mine.
A suppressed memory had returned.
The image of my father hitting the door.
His voice screaming in the gloom.
His gaze fading when the counter reached zero.
That tremor… it wasn't physical.
It was memory.
I stood still, watching the man who was still trying to crawl toward his broken lung.
His breathing was an echo of mine, a distorted reflection of what my childhood had been.
For a moment, I thought about stopping.
About lifting my hand from the panel.
About breaking the protocol.
But I didn't.
I pressed the final authorization.
Eviction completed. Act of Silence registered.
The tunnel fell silent again.
The only sound was my mechanical breathing, cold, constant.
The tremor in my hand still persisted, as if the memory refused to let go.
I looked at the destroyed Gray Lung.
It was still dripping air, a faint hiss that slowly faded.
That final sigh tangled in my ears like a murmur from the Shells.
The sigh of those who were not meant to breathe.
I closed my eyes for an instant.
But all I saw was my father's hand hitting the door.
And I understood that no Exoskeleton, no filter, no machine could rip that from me.
District 20 wasn't just the border with the Shells.
It was the border with my own memories.
And on that edge, I was already beginning to tremble.