Echos of Dendrus

The Bins

          Atlas sat, hair caked in dust, in his small, dimly lit room. The bed shoved into the corner creaked at the slightest movement, its frame barely holding together. The cracked grey walls seemed to close in, the air thick with the stench of sweat and burnt wires. yet, despite the grimness around him, Atlas's attention was wholly on the purple glowing metal in his hands. He had never seen anything like it. It felt like it had significance—whether historical or financial, he wasn't sure—but its faint hum and the way it shimmered in the low light mesmerized him.

It was cool to the touch, almost soothing against his calloused hands, and when he held it up to what little light was available, it refracted purple beams across the walls, a brief glimpse of beauty in the otherwise oppressive gloom.

Atlas's thoughts wandered back to the events of the past week—events that led him to this strange discovery.

Last Friday, 5 AM

A heavy fist pounded on the door, the noise jolting Atlas from a rare restful sleep. Groggily, he stumbled across the cluttered floor, careful not to trip over wires and tools strewn haphazardly.

"Who the hell is it?" he muttered, pulling the door open to reveal the grinning, broad face of his friend, Gordon.

"IT'S BIN DAY, ATTY!" Gordon's voice boomed, his wide gruesome grin making the announcement somehow worse.

Atlas felt a shiver despite the oppressive heat. Bin Day—the very thought of it filled him with dread.

"Not again, Gordon. We've got decent scrap jobs; going to the bins is a waste of time," Atlas protested, knowing his words would fall on deaf ears.

As expected, a meaty hand clapped him on the shoulder, dragging him out into the streets that stank of sewage and filth. "No worries, friend. I've got an extra backpack, and look, you're already wearing boots!" Gordon's enthusiasm was unrelenting.

The dark streets of the caverns felt especially sinister without the dim light of the malfunctioning Solar Sims. Atlas sighed, adjusting the empty backpack Gordon had shoved into his hands.

"What's the plan this time?" Atlas asked, begrudgingly.

Gordon grinned, "Word is, trash from the highest levels is hitting the bins today. We're bound to find something valuable—scraps, clothes, maybe even working tech. Those rich bastards throw away anything the moment it bores em."

Atlas raised an eyebrow. "Where did you hear this?"

  Gordon waved his hand dismissively. "A source, trust me. It's worth your time. I know you'd rather tinker with your electronics, but imagine if we strike big. We could get enough to... maybe even move up."

Atlas laughed, a dry, bitter sound. "Move up? Gordon, even if we had the money, they'd never let the 'tainted' out of the slums. We're stuck here, like it or not." To emphasize his point, he spat into a puddle of muck.

The slow trek to the factories took nearly an hour. Huffing hot air, the pair rested, the heat causing their heads to spin."Ya know, I never get used to it. I hear AC is heavenly," Gordon huffed, dabbing beads of sweat from his forehead. Tired, Atlas nodded, unable to respond, his dry, cracked lips burning each time he licked them in a vain effort to soothe their dryness. Everything felt dry. Always. Living so close to the planet's core meant dry heat everywhere. The all-too-familiar feel of cracked lips and dry skin never made the sensation any more pleasant, despite never knowing what reprieve felt like. 

"Alright, up we go. Can't sit here any longer than needed, Gor," Atlas sighed, standing unsteadily and shuffling into the line forming outside the factory. The soft mumbling of those in line was almost soothing, if it weren't for the scent of burning plastic that poured from the factory in billows of smoke.

Eventually, the line grew behind them, and finally, guards in uniform marched out, their faces soft from their cozy lives on the levels above. Whenever Atlas saw them, he couldn't help but compare himself despite his best efforts. His face was gaunt from years of hunger clawing his stomach into knots, his hair brittle, sticking up on end from lack of vitamins and the harsh conditions his circumstances birthed. His eyes were sunken and tired, despite doing his best to sleep when he could; the sounds of whispers from the Caverns kept him awake. They beckoned to him just as they did his parents. Atlas's hair stood on end as he recalled the many nights tossing and turning, feeling his mind cling to its sanity; it aged him. 

Compared to him, these men looked younger; their hair appeared more lustrous, their well-fed faces grimaced at the heat. Atlas felt resentment bubble in his chest. 

**Do they even know what it is like to wake up to an inescapable heat and stench? Have they ever had to go to sleep early to escape hunger?**

They shouted orders angrily, irritation showing on their faces. It only served to piss the cavern dwellers off.

"LISTEN UP! WHEN WE OPEN THESE DOORS, NO SHOVING, FIGHTING, OR YELLING—ONLY DIGGING IN ALLOWED SPACES. ENTERING RESTRICTED ACCESS MEANS SEVERE DISCIPLINARY ACTION RESULTING IN IMPRISONMENT. YOU HAVE TWO HOURS. LINE UP ON THE FAR WALL IN THE BACK ROOM, AND WHEN INSTRUCTED, YOU MAY BEGIN DIGGING... AM. I. CLEAR?" A resounding "yes" from those in line was the response, and the heavy metal doors slowly ground open with a loud squeal from rusted hinges. The line descended into the factory's maze at a crawling pace. 

Once inside the factory, dust hit him, coating him in a fine layer of soot. His lungs burned as he suffered an agonizing breath in. Atlas always wondered how big the place was; piles of trash lined the walls in mounds as tall as mountains. The factory always felt like it had no roof, despite knowing there was one—the haze from the heat made it seem endless. Each incinerator puffed dust into the air, causing ash to cling to hair and skin. The feeling left one walking away hoping to never return again. Yet curiosity and greed led more than a few back into its hazy depths. Atlas wasn't one of them. In fact, he hated the damn bastards who spat on their luck in life. He hated digging in their garbage like it was gold. 

**If they deem it trash, then this is just a damn game for them to enjoy. They are laughing at us up there. I can feel it**

Eventually, after walking past section after section, Atlas ignored the deep ache in his feet. The line paused before wide doors labeled -DUMPING SITE-. Single-file, people were led in. Guards watched closely, ensuring everyone was lined up against the wall. Then, one after another, large metal crates were carried in, filled with sorted goods: clothes, metal, and wires—all intermingled in slimy, rotting garbage. The squealing of the carts as they rolled on rusted wheels rang a high-pitched song as they carted them into the room. The loud clang and toppling over of piled-up garbage added to the symphony. 

The stench was overwhelming, and that was bad coming from Atlas, who had huffed burning fumes all his life. It wrapped around his throat like a noose, choking him. The smell was putrid, expired, and rotting, mixed with what could only be mold and fire. He gagged and felt bile rise into his mouth, which only added to the sensory overload he was experiencing. Eyes watering, he coughed, swallowing vomit and trying to pretend he was unfazed. His expressions betrayed him. After a long whistle, people started bustling forward, hungry to dig through the garbage. Like ants, they crawled, tossing anything of perishable value to the side. If it looked durable, it went in their bags. breaths became shallow as the smell intensified, each inhale more painful than the last it took Atlas Fifteen minutes that felt stretched into an eternity before his breaths felt like they delivered oxygen and not stench to his lungs. He closed his mouth tightly, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, but even that felt like a betrayal. Finally, he mustered out a booming,

"GOD, GORDON, it smells like hell in here. What the fuck is that stench?"

"Ahhh... the rancid smell of the corrupt and rich." was the response he got back.  Atlas watched in sick horror as Gordon took a deep breath in savoring the scent like he was breathing in fresh daisy's, his face twisted in both admiration and disgust. 

Shaking his head, Atlas dove in, sorting through the rubble. Here and there, a few wires revealed themselves as useful or appeared to hold value; nothing was enough to warrant the experience of this, though. Atlas understood struggle. He understood desperation. But this was a step too far.