Seven Levels Below

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The capital city of Asdria, from the lowest levels, is shockingly colorful. The neon signs lighting up almost every doorway in the dimness of the underworld sends sharp, fluorescent beams shimmering into the air. The hum of the city life and electric street lights cover the lack of bird cries and leaves rustling in the breeze. The light from the sun doesn't trickle down into the depths anymore, not with the steely skyscrapers packing the air and city blocks, trapping the lower levels in the early morning fog. The eighth and lowest level exudes an underlying stench of every activity that occurs on its streets, both legal and very much not. In the figurative heavens, the monarch's palace, located on the edge of the highest level, is so pristine and bright in the reflected pinks and oranges of the evening sunset that thought of the dangerous life occurring beneath it is laughable.

On the third level, only two levels below the pure, sweet, freshest air the highest of the upper-class enjoys, a young man waits, toying with a pencil as he anxiously watches the room from behind a tiny, rickety desk in the corner of a wide office floor. Mitch glanced up occasionally, his eyes emphasized by tonight's charcoal eyeliner, to peer at the last gaggle of employees meandering their way past him down the staircase at last. The laughs from the young women echoed beneath the high, vaulted ceiling above the platform floor, overlooking the front lobby. He breathed a sigh of relief as they finally left with the door clapping shut behind them and rubbed his neck.

The scar was sore tonight. Even as he shuffled all his papers and tools into his bag, he was aware of the slight twinge of pain down the left side of his throat and along his collarbone, hidden to the rest of the world amongst the sharp lines of black ink he had since camouflaged it within. The incident happened almost three years ago, but the occasional twinge of pain still reminded him of the dangers he faced every day in the lower-city.

He heard the door click behind him as he left and kept his eyes cast down to avoid attention on his way to the city elevator. Even though he was lucky enough to be working in the relatively safe upper-city now, Mitch was well-aware of the confrontation he could face as an obvious lower-city resident. The tattoos covering his small, lean form, silvery purple hair, piercing black eyeliner, and swift pace through the shadows of alleyways marked him to the stately upper-city residents wandering down the streets. Back home on the seventh level, he was able to hide in the crowd, blending in amongst the others, but here on the third, he was privy to catcalls and the occasional brave soul approaching him, only to be met with a pocket knife faced back towards them and the smirk of a soul who had faced much worse and walked away.

The city elevators had large glass windows on the outside wall opposite the doors to let in light and prevent excessive crime from occurring in them. This evening, Mitch had to squint through the harsh rays that lit up the little room and hold his breath against the lingering stench of stale cigarette smoke as he waited out his descent back to the murky lower-city. Sometimes if you look hard enough at the right time, you could see where the other cities began in the distant mist, with the massive platforms hovering in the distance. The little tubes from the trains running between the first two levels to the other distant cities glinted in the light as the room began to sink. The warm, bright colors quickly disappeared behind the steel and mist as the room plunked down past the fourth level. This evening, the elevator didn't stop at any other levels and Mitch was able to ride alone in peace. At the seventh level, Mitch resumed his brisk pace towards his little apartment through the darkness of the streets.

The dim street lights mocked the missing natural light that was hidden from the underworld along the cracked pavement. Mitch glanced up at the fog that covered the base of the sixth level far above the city blocks of the seventh and picked up his pace. If the fog drifted too low, he could be walking blind. He clutched his bag to his side a little tighter. At least he was almost home now.

Skipping steps up to the creaky door of his brick apartment building, Mitch released some of the tension he had been holding in his shoulders. Stumping up the remaining staircases inside, away from the dangers of the street, he was able to take his time. Mitch leaned on his door frame as he fumbled with his keys. Exhaustion after a long workday was starting to hit him as he slid the door shut behind him at last. He kicked off his shoes and stumbled his way to his tiny bathroom to wipe off his makeup before he could pass out at last.

Mitch stripped off his clothes and dumped it in a pile on the floor of his bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old band t-shirt before flopping on his bed. He only had a few hours to rest, and nothing else mattered to him until he got some sleep.