Picking the crops from the ground. Ragna looked at both his arms, his skin which was dark.
His skin tone became very dark because of the time spent in the sun.
Well, that's what I think it looked like, anyway, shifting his gaze from his body, he looked back at the basket behind him. He picked it up and brought it in front of him, and placed all the crops he had just recently harvested, into the basket. His shift was almost over. Ragna was a government farmer.
The government farm program was a lifeline for people like Ragna, offering employment and a chance to earn a steady income. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than scrounging for scraps in the streets. Ragna's job was to tend to the crops, ensuring they were healthy and productive, it was hard work, but it paid the bills.
Ragna's boots scraped along the cracked dirt path, each step grinding grit into the worn soles. The sun had already dipped behind the smog-choked skyline of Grimveil, but the heat still rose from the government farm's vast fields in shimmering waves. Sweat glued his shirt to his back as he slung his tool bag over one shoulder and started the long walk out.
His muscles ached from hours bent over rows of hydroponic trays, fingers raw from pruning synthetic vines that never quite tasted like the real thing. The overseer drone had buzzed past him twice today, scanning output quotas, its red lens lingering just long enough to remind everyone who was really in charge.
Ragna kept his head down, same as always. The pay chip in his pocket felt a little heavier today—he'd skipped his own lunch for the past week to save for the new medication the clinic had prescribed for his mother. She'd been bedridden for days, lungs clogged with the black dust that settled over everything in the lower stacks, but the doctor said she was finally turning a corner. It was something. Better than the streets.
A hot wind carried the sour smell of nutrient runoff and distant garbage fires. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his faded jacket and pulled out his comms device. The screen flickered to life: 9:30. School started at 10:00. He had to get home first—change out of these grimy work clothes into his student uniform, and make sure his mother took her new dose while she was awake enough to swallow it.
"Damn it," he muttered, breaking into a jog.
The path spilled onto the main road where workers shuffled toward the transportation hub like a tired river. Ragna wove through them, dodging elbows and overflowing bags. The air here was thicker—diesel fumes from old ground trucks mixed with the metallic tang of hoverbus exhaust. He caught the first battered bus that descended, repulsors kicking up clouds of red dust that stung his eyes.
Inside, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the recycled air stale and humid. Someone's elbow dug into his ribs; a child whimpered somewhere near the floor. Ragna gripped an overhead rail, staring out the scratched window as the slums blurred past—towering hab-blocks patched with corrugated metal, neon signs flickering half-dead promises of cheap meals and cheaper dreams.
Twenty minutes later the bus hissed to a stop outside Sector 14's lower stacks. Ragna shoved his way out and jogged the three blocks to his family's unit, boots pounding cracked pavement. The door scanner recognized his biometrics with a tired beep.
The moment the door slid open, small footsteps pattered across the floor. Mimi—his little sister—rushed over and threw her arms around his waist, nearly knocking him back a step.
"You're home!" she chirped, face smudged with the cheap nutrient paste they called breakfast. She was already dressed in her patched school jumper, backpack slung over one shoulder, ready to head out with the neighbor's daughter who waited in the corridor.
"In a minute, kiddo," Ragna said, ruffling her hair. "Go wait with Lena. I'll walk you both to the lift on my way out."
Mimi grinned and darted back toward the open door where her friend waved.
His mother lay propped against thin pillows on the lower bunk, pale and thin, but her eyes were open and clearer than they'd been in days.
"welcome back home," she whispered, voice still raspy but stronger than yesterday.
"Bought the new meds." Ragna pulled the small pharmacy vial from his pocket and placed it gently in her hand. "Doctor said twice a day. Take one now."
She managed a faint smile as he helped her sit up a little more, tipping a pill onto her tongue and holding the cup of filtered water to her lips. She swallowed, coughed once, then settled back with a sigh. Her frail hand reached up to touch his cheek.
"I'm proud of you, Ragna," she said softly, eyes shining. "You're going to do great things."
The words hit him harder than any drone warning ever could. He swallowed, nodded once, then ducked behind the thin partition to change. Off came the sweat-stiff farm shirt and pants; on went the clean—if threadbare—navy student uniform he kept folded on the shelf. He splashed water on his face, scrubbed the worst of the dirt from his hands, and checked the time: 09:56.
He stepped back out, grabbed Mimi's hand along with her friend's, and walked the girls to the building's rattling lift. After quick hugs and promises to be good, he watched the doors close on their giggling faces, then sprinted back to the local platform.
He caught the next bus toward the central interchange, then bolted down the escalator to the subway line. The platform clock glowed 10:05. One more train. could he still make it before class started?.
When he finally arrived at school, Ragna rushed to his classroom.
The door to Lecture Hall 17 was already closed when Ragna skidded to a halt outside it, chest heaving, uniform collar askew from the mad sprint across campus. Inside, the low murmur of Professor Harlan's voice drifted through the reinforced glass—something about black-market arbitrage in the AI-controlled supply chains. Ragna swallowed, smoothed his hair with a dirt-streaked hand, and knocked twice.
"Teacher—excuse me—may I come in?" he called, raising one arm high so his silhouette would be visible through the narrow window.
Silence. The lecture continued unbroken.
He tried again, louder this time, voice cracking with urgency. "Professor Harlan, please—may I come in?"
Nothing. Not even a glance toward the door.
Ragna's arm slowly dropped. He knew that silence. It was the same one the overseer drones gave when your quota fell short—cold, mechanical, final. Late was late. No exceptions, no excuses, not even for someone who'd spent the morning pruning synthetic vines and racing across half the city to keep his family breathing.
He stepped aside, pressing his back against the cool concrete wall beside the door. Students hurrying past gave him curious looks, but no one stopped. The hallway smelled of recycled air and cheap disinfectant, the same scent that clung to every public building in the lower sectors.
Minutes crawled by. Professor Harlan's voice rose and fell behind the door, sharp and precise, slicing through economic theory like a scalpel. Every word Ragna missed felt like another credit slipping out of reach.
Finally, the door hissed open. Students poured out in a tired wave, clutching data slates and muttering about assignments. Professor Harlan emerged last, tall and severe in his charcoal instructor coat, silver hair catching the harsh overhead lights. His gaze swept over Ragna without pausing.
"You are obstructing access to my classroom," he said flatly, not breaking stride. "Please remove yourself."
The words landed like a slap. Ragna opened his mouth—some plea, some explanation about his mother's medication, the crowded buses, the skipped meals—but nothing came out. Harlan was already gone, coat tails disappearing around the corner.
Ragna stood there a moment longer, the hallway emptying around him. Then, when most of the crowd had thinned, he slipped inside the lecture hall.
The hall wasn't completely empty. A handful of students lingered in the back rows—those who always stayed late to squeeze extra study time from the free lighting. The holo-board still glowed faintly, casting pale blue light across the scarred desks.
Ragna walked slowly down the aisle and dropped into his usual seat near the back, the one with the cracked armrest. He let his head fall forward onto folded arms.
"Haah…" A long, exhausted yawn escaped him, carrying the weight of the entire day. The farm's dust still clung to his skin; he could feel it in his lungs, taste it at the back of his throat. His stomach growled—an empty reminder of the credits spent on medicine instead of food.
But beneath the fatigue, something quieter burned. His mother's words echoed in his mind: *I'm proud of you, Ragna. You're going to do great things.*
He lifted his head, pulled out his battered data slate, and opened the lecture recording the professor always uploaded after hours.
"Oi, Ragna."
He turned. Gensu leaned against the aisle rail two rows back, arms crossed, a half-grin on his narrow face. His uniform was crisp, hair slicked with cheap gel—the kind of clean that came from living three sectors closer to the mid-levels.
"Hey, Gensu," Ragna replied, voice hoarse.
Gensu strolled down the steps, nose wrinkling as he approached. "You look…"
He paused, sniffing dramatically.
"You look…" Gensu repeated, dropping into the seat beside him. "Uggh, Ragna, you stink, man."
Ragna huffed a tired laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. Didn't have time to wash up proper before rushing here. Farm shift ran long."
Gensu waved it off, though he shifted a little farther away. "That's alright. I've smelled worse on the morning bus." He propped his feet on the desk in front. "So—have you heard the news?"
Ragna arched a brow, pausing the recording. "What news?"
"Got two big ones for you."
"Okay, shoot."
Gensu leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "First: someone in our class got pregnant."
Ragna's head snapped up. "What? Who?"
"Bianca."
"Bianca?!" His voice cracked louder than intended. A girl two rows ahead shot him an irritated glance before returning to her notes.
"Yes," Gensu said, savoring the reaction.
"Bianca. The one whose father is Priest Elias at Saint George's Temple—the guy with the fire-and-brimstone Sunday holo-casts."
Ragna stared. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious. And get this—the baby's father is supposedly some hoverbus conductor. Lower-stack guy. Imagine the scandal when Elias found out."
Ragna exhaled slowly, mind spinning. Bianca, always front row, perfect posture, quoting scripture like armor. The image didn't fit.
"Huh," he managed.
Gensu's grin widened. "Second piece: Father Mike's end-of-the-world prophecy? It's spreading fast. Whole networks of churches are taking it seriously now—mid-level chapels, even some up-spire ones. Stockpiling rations, holding emergency services and building defenses, preaching about the 'final ascent.'"
Ragna snorted softly. He'd heard doomsday cries all his life; they rose and fell like the smog tides.
"There've always been false prophecies," he said.
"As far back as I can remember. The blood-moon rapture scare. That Jewish priest who swore the world would end after four consecutive eclipses. Or the rogue planet collision panic when we were kids—people sold everything, fled to the hills. Nothing ever happened."
Gensu shrugged. "Maybe. But this one feels different to some. Father Mike claims he's got AI models backing the ancient texts. And with the new labor laws tightening, quotas rising, blackouts stretching longer… people are scared."
Ragna glanced at the frozen holo-board graph: AI monopolies projected to claim 87% of human jobs by 4040. He thought of his mother's frail hand on his cheek, Mimi's patched backpack disappearing into the lift.
"Maybe they should be," he said quietly.
Gensu studied him for a moment, grin fading. "You good?"
"Just a long day."
Gensu clapped him on the shoulder—careful to avoid the grimiest patches.
"Then stick around. We're starting a study group after curfew. Smuggling in synth-coffee. You in?"
Ragna looked at the glowing slate in his hands, then at the dimly lit hall and the few determined souls still scribbling notes.
Yeah, he said, a faint spark returning to his eyes.
I'm in.