Enduring Aella

Episode Nine | Going Up

The bus rolled to a stop in an alleyway next to the tower, and we were lowered into an underground garage. My stomach lurched as the bus descended, and the screech of metal echoed through the cabin, jarring awake the sleeping passengers. Even Harold stirred from his medicated slumber. He sat up, adjusting his glasses, and gathered his things. 

The driver opened the bus door, and two men in dark suits stepped aboard. They began escorting passengers off one by one, maintaining a five-minute space between each departure. I sat fidgeting in my seat, every passing minute tightening the coil of nervous energy in my chest. When Harold finally stood, he paused to place a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"It was meeting you, Hanah. I hope we get a chance to chat again soon." 

I forced a smile, my anxiety flattening it into something stiff and hollow. "Me too." 

He left, and I counted every second until my name was called. Grabbing my things, I made my way down the aisle, my legs stiff and unsteady after sitting for so long. By the time I reached the stairs, I stumbled slightly, catching myself against railing.

The garage stretched out before me—vast and shadowed, its dim light swallowed by darkness. The coastal air was humid and thick, and clung to my skin as I stepped off the bus. I instantly felt damp and heavy, as though I were breathing underwater. 

n the center of the cavernous space stood a glass elevator, its structure unnervingly exposed on all sides. Only the polished wood-paneled corners offered any semblance of stability, but they felt decorative, insubstantial against the yawning void around us. The thought of stepping inside made my stomach clench, but I forced myself forward. 

My company liaison was waiting by the elevator. He was leaning against the glass door, a clipboard in one hand and a pen—that he was clicking with a slow, deliberate rhythm—in the other. His expression was distant, glazed, as though he were doing mental long division. His loose tie hung unevenly over a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair, slightly tousled, looked more like the result of restless fingers than deliberate styling. 

He glanced up as I approached, his eyes flicking briefly to mine before dropping to my badge. "Hanah Gregory for Aella?"

"That's me," I said, my voice catching slightly in the cavernous space.

He gave a curt nod, checked my name off the list, and hit the elevator button. The glass door slid upward into some invisible recess, and he stepped inside without hesitation. I followed, trying not to show my horror as I realized the floor was also glass—or something terrifyingly similar. The door slid shut and the world around us began to drop away.

Logically, I knew we were rising, but the lift was so smooth it felt like the world was falling away instead. The elevator sat at the heart of the building, and each floor we passed offered a brief, tantalizing glimpse into life in the Tower. First, the sleek, polished lobby. Then, the organized chaos of office spaces. After that, we were soaring past floor after floor of residential quarters.

Mirrored living spaces branched off to either side of the elevator, their walls transparent enough to give fleeting snapshots of the lives inside. I turned my head left and right, trying to take it all in. Behind the glass, everyday moments unfolded—people lounged on couches, folded laundry, and cooked dinner. Watching them felt thrillingly voyeuristic, and a question began to tingle at the back of my mind: With so many employees already here, why had they opened applications to outsiders?

An annoyed sigh broke through the silence behind me. My liaison had done such a thorough job of ignoring me, I'd forgotten he was there.

I spun on him, unintentionally releasing all the pent-up exhaustion and irritability of the trip, "Is something wrong?"

He froze, looking like a cornered animal—half-ready to lash out, half-ready to bolt. He was no doubt regretting riling up the weird outsider. He chewed over his words, making it clear he had no desire to talk to me. Finally, he muttered, "You're not supposed to look. People don't like it."

The words landed heavier than I'd expected. I bit back a defensive reply. It wasn't his fault I'd been stuck on a hot bus for hours. It wasn't his fault I was a peeping Tom who should have known better than to spy into people's living rooms. However, it was his fault that the space between us felt awkward and uncrossable.

I didn't apologize for my nosiness, and instead, pointed beyond the glass. "You live in one of these?"

"I'm third generation."

"Third? Wow. Is that why you're so rude?"

His head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing, but then he paused, studying me as if he were seeing me for the first time. "Maybe," he admitted.

I stepped back to stand next to him. He shifted uncomfortably, but he didn't move away. My gaze dropped to the elevator floor, watching the empty shaft blur beneath us as we climbed the final floors. "You probably hate us," I said quietly. "You've been waiting to go your whole life, and now here we are—outsiders—strolling right onto the ship."

"Aletheans don't hate," he said, almost too softly to hear. "But we do get jealous. And apparently, we can be rude. I apologize for not greeting you properly. I've spent a long day watching others live my dream."

For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the elevator. Then I gave him a hearty pat on the back. "Hey, no worries. I get it. And I'm sorry I snooped in people's houses. Also"—I lowered my voice conspiratorially—"your fly's down. I wasn't going to tell you because you were ignoring me, but, yeah... might want to fix that."

His face turned scarlet as he spun around, hastily zipping his pants. Before he could recover, the elevator slowed to a stop, and the glass wall to my left slid open.

We stepped into a large, rectangular living space that managed to feel both imposing and inviting. One side housed a sleek kitchen and dining area, with steel countertops and a polished wooden table, while the other acted as a lounge and study. Plush couches faced heavy oak desks, their surfaces neatly arranged with lamps and blank notepads. Numbered doors lined the longer walls—six on each side—and between them, floor-to-ceiling bookcases stretched upward, crammed with books.

The only natural light filtered through a wall of tinted windows at the far end of the lounge. Eighty-three floors up, the view was all ocean and sky. Through the glass, waves and clouds mirrored each other in muted purples, blurring the line where one ended and the other began. 

My liaison stopped at door number four, pulling a keycard from his pocket. With a practiced swipe, the lock clicked open, and he pushed the door inward. "This is you. You'll be in isolation for the next four weeks. Everything you need is provided, and the instruction manual for your room is in the top desk drawer. During isolation, your access to common areas will be restricted, but you will have daily time outside on the balcony."

"Isolation? Like, completely alone for four weeks?"

"It's for your safety and ours."

"What about the others?" I asked, gesturing vaguely toward the numbered doors. "Can't we be isolated together?"

"That's not really how isolation works."

"What about you? You've been exposed to anything I have."

He hesitated, the clipboard shifting in his hands. "I appreciate your desire for my company, but I'll be isolated too. I'll spend the next month separated from my wife and son."

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry," I said, the weight of his words catching me off guard. "That's awful."

He shrugged, managing a faint smile. "It's the job." Then his expression softened as he gestured toward the room. "Now, step inside, please. I actually have to lock you in. Don't freak out, though. The apartment's comfortable, and trust me—the time goes by faster than you'd think."

I hesitated at the threshold, my palms sweaty at the thought of being locked in. As I stepped past him, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The passcode for the intra-tower chat system is 'Tower42.' Don't comment, just read. You're not supposed to have access, but no one will notice if you don't post anything."