The Deep

The synth-keys beneath Frederick’s calloused fingers were frigid, perpetually slick with a fine film of condensation that no amount of scrubbing could banish. Each key bore the ghost of countless forgotten tunes, their plastic surfaces scoured with dents and scratches, silent testaments to the hands that had pounded despair into them. Even through the faint, tinny reverb of the bar’s ancient, malfunctioning sound system, he could feel the individual imperfections, a physical echo of the broken world around him. The very air in "The Trench" hung heavy and viscous, a stagnant blend of recycled oxygen, the sickly-sweet tang of cheap synth-alcohol, and the faint, metallic scent of the Deep itself—a taste that had become as familiar and inescapable as the despair that clawed at his throat.

Above him, the low, insistent hum of the life support systems was a relentless, monotonous reminder: he was thousands of feet beneath the churning Atlantic, in a place that had promised paradise and delivered a meticulously crafted prison.

He launched into a familiar, nameless tune, a mournful melody that seemed to mirror the slow, desperate beat of his own heart. His eyes, heavy-lidded and rimmed with the perpetual exhaustion of Nereilora, scanned the scattering of patrons at the grimy, bioluminescent bar. A hulking man with a chrome cybernetic arm was already slumped over his drink, his face a mask of synthetic serenity.

Across from him, a woman with eyes as vacant as deep-sea caves stared into nothing, a half-empty glass of glowing blue liquid forgotten before her. None of them listened, truly listened. They rarely did. Their gazes were fixed inward, lost in the self-induced fog of manufactured intoxication, or outward into the pervasive, crushing gloom of the cavernous space, seeking only oblivion.

Frederick closed his eyes for a brief, fleeting moment, letting his fingers dance across the keys. He tried, for just an instant, to conjure the crisp, resonant sound of a concert grand, the imagined hush of an appreciative audience, their faces upturned, illuminated by the warm glow of stage lights. He remembered the shimmering holograms on the surface, the impossibly bright, pristine images of Nereilora: domes bathed in artificial sunlight, happy, thriving people with impossibly white smiles, boundless freedom, endless opportunities.

He'd seen a pianist on one of those ads, a man with a joyous, unburdened smile, performing in a grand theater with plush red seats and gleaming chandeliers. That was the dream he'd bought, the glistening, insidious lie he’d swallowed whole, a lie that had dragged him into this aquatic abyss.

He opened his eyes, the harsh, fluorescent reality of "The Trench" slapping him awake with an invisible force. "Boy, what are you playing over here? Are you trying to put the patrons to sleep? How about something a little more joyful, yah?"

Frederick's hands stopped abruptly on the keys, his gaze snapping towards the voice. Mr. Kit. His boss. A man whose face was a road map of the Deep's hardships, etched with lines of perpetual irritation and a thinly veiled hunger for credits. Mr. Kit wasn't an overtly cruel man, certainly better than a lot of the foul creatures who scavenged and stalked these depths, but his devotion to profit was absolute. Frederick knew, with a sinking dread, that if he wasn't generating credits, he was wasting Mr. Kit's time, and wasted time always meant docked pay.

Frederick let out a shaky breath, the recycled air suddenly feeling too thick in his lungs. "I'm sorry, sir. My head's just not in it tonight..." He couldn't force a lively, optimistic tune from his fingers tonight. Whether it was the Deep's immense walls pressing in, giving him that familiar, creeping claustrophobia again, or another sleepless night spent staring at the algae-covered ceiling of his cramped apartment, he simply couldn't find the motivation.

Mr. Kit sighed, his gaze sweeping across the mostly empty bar. It was pretty slow tonight, indeed, populated only by the daily regulars, lost souls perpetually drowning their sorrows "You know what, boy, you can head home for the night," Mr. Kit grumbled, running a hand over his scruffy, unmanaged beard. "It's slow, and if your heart's not in it, you might as well go."

Frederick's hands balled into tight fists on the keyboard, his knuckles white. He knew, with a bitter certainty, that he should argue, beg to stay for the meager credits that meant the difference between making rent on his crappy apartment and facing eviction. But the words wouldn't come. A profound weariness, heavier than the Deep's crushing pressure, stole his will. He simply couldn't find the strength to care.

He pushed back his chair, the old, water-warped wood groaning beneath him as he stood from the piano. "I'm sorry, sir. I promise I'll be better tomorrow... it's just one of those days." Mr. Kit nodded, a flicker of something akin to tired understanding in his eyes. Being trapped down here, some days were definitely worse than others. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, familiar blue pill. "Do you want one before you go? It might help you feel better, more normal." He held it out, its surface gleaming faintly.

This was Mailadite, the government's desperate answer to the Deep's soaring suicide rates. What was meant to aid the truly depressed had devolved into a ubiquitous, illegally trafficked street drug, known simply as "the blue pill." What was advertised as a mood stabilizer, a balm for suicidal thoughts, had become a quick, mind-numbing escape into numb forgetfulness. Overdosing was terrifyingly common, often turning users into raging maniacs, but the authorities rarely intervened, unwilling to deal with the effort it would take to enforce such a futile ban.

Frederick shook his head, a weary dismissal. "No thanks, sir. I try to stay off that stuff."

Mr. Kit shrugged, popping the pill into his own mouth like a piece of candy. Frederick turned, his shoulders slumping, and walked down from the old, creaking stage.

Outside "The Trench," the air was just as muggy and thick, though now spiced with the faint tang of ozone from the omnipresent power conduits. Fluorescent blue and vibrant pink neon lights bled across the busy streets, painting garish, fleeting streaks on the slick, perpetually wet pavement.

Silent hover-vehicles, their engines a mere whisper, zipped left and right down busy thoroughfares, a dizzying blur of speed and light. Frederick barely registered them. He simply pushed through the anonymous throng, his leather jacket pulled tight against the omnipresent chill. He looked up, through the thick, reinforced glass dome of Nereilora, and discerned the faint, simulated night sky above. Sometimes, the enormous, dark shapes of deep-sea fish, unknowing prisoners of a different kind, would glide lazily overhead, their distant forms a cruel reminder of the freedom Frederick lacked.

Every few feet, he'd pass another phantom of The Deep: a homeless person huddled in a grimy alcove, their breath misting in the cool air, a child with eyes too wide and hollow, their gaunt faces pleading for credits that Frederick didn't have. He felt a familiar, sickening pang of pity twist in his gut. If it was this hard for him, with a job, he could only imagine their impossible, starving struggle. But pity didn't buy credits. It didn't pay his rent. So he pushed past them, his gaze fixed on the glowing signs ahead, a silent apology his only offering.

He made his way past a particularly grim alleyway, choked with overflowing refuse and the stench of decay. "Stop right there and give me your fucking credits!" A voice, harsh and guttural, snarled from the shadows. Before Frederick could even fully register the threat, a rough hand yanked the back of his leather jacket, slamming him against a cold, metallic wall. He groaned as the air rushed from his lungs, a burning pain blossoming in his back.

He glared at the skinny man blocking his path, his face a mask of desperation and aggression. "I don't have any credits. Get the hell off me!" he growled, struggling against the tight, surprisingly strong hold.

"I know you fucking do! Now where are they?" The man’s hands frantically patted down Frederick’s pockets, sharp fingers digging into seams. This, unfortunately, was a depressingly normal occurrence down here, a testament to the Deep's true economy.

"Get the hell off me!" Frederick twisted, trying to fight him off, a desperate, futile struggle "Fred… Frederick, is that you down there?" A familiar voice, deep and resonant, cut through the scuffle. Frederick turned his head sharply to the right. His best friend. John.

A profound sigh of relief, ragged and uncontrolled, escaped Frederick’s lips as the mugger loosened his grip, surprised by the new arrival. John rushed into the dimly lit alleyway, his long, unruly red hair flowing freely around his pale, frankly worried face. Seeing the junky’s hands on his friend, John seemed to swell, a sudden, protective anger hardening his features. He stood taller than his already imposing height. "You have one second to get your hands off my mate, or there'll be a brawl." The mugger, clearly a coward at heart, didn't need a second invitation. He quickly released Frederick and scrambled deeper into the alley’s shadows, dissolving into the gloom.

John quickly helped Frederick brush off his jacket, smoothing the rumpled leather and straightening it. "You okay, mate?"

Frederick nodded, still a little shaken, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Yeah, I'm alright, thanks to you. Almost lost my hard-earned credits, too. Thanks for telling me the trick about putting them in my shoes." They stepped out of the alleyway and back into the relentless throng of the Deep.

John chuckled softly, a dry, humorless sound. "This place is really going to the shitter, isn't it? Is that the like third time someone's tried to mug ya this week?"

Frederick nodded, a grim acknowledgement. It was sad, but true. The Deep was decaying, rotting from the inside out.

They continued down the busy sidewalk, the constant hum of life support systems a dull thrum beneath their feet. John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "I thought you had work tonight. Mr. Kit let you out early or something?" John also worked at The Trench, but he manned the bar, mixing different, often questionable, concoctions for the desperate patrons.

"Yeah, I just wasn't feeling it tonight. Kept spacing out and stuff, I don't know..." His voice trailed, his hand running through his messy, curly hair, a gesture of exasperation.

John sighed, looking at his friend with a worried expression. He'd noticed Frederick had been down the past few weeks, a deep, pervasive melancholy clinging to him like the condensation on the synth-keys. He hadn't brought it up, not wanting to stress him further. They walked past a line of shimmering holographic billboards, their vibrant advertisements a stark contrast to the grim reality around them.

John stopped in front of one, shoving his hands into his pockets. Frederick, noticing his friend was no longer beside him, stopped too. He raised a brow, looking over his shoulder at John before turning around to stand beside him. The billboard pulsed with soft, inviting colors, advertising some kind of pen pal program with people on the surface. Words like "Connect," "Understand," and "New Horizons" shimmered across the screen.

Frederick couldn't help but scoff, the sound dry and humorless. What, in the name of all that was lost, would someone on the surface and someone in The Deep even have to talk about? They were worlds apart in their ways of living. People on the surface, with their fresh air and real sunlight, could never comprehend what it was actually like living down here. In fact, he was certain they all probably thought it was more of a vacation, a futuristic resort, than the dystopian hell it truly was. "What do you think, Fred? Would you sign up for something like this to take your mind off everything down here?" John asked, gesturing towards the billboard with a casual hand.

Frederick shook his head, his gaze fixed on the smiling, generic faces on the ad. "Nah, something like that's not for me. What about you?" John grinned, a flash of mischievous light in his eyes. "I'm already part of it."

Frederick's brow furrowed in genuine surprise. "Oh, yeah? Why'd you do something like that?"

John shrugged, his gaze flicking to the alluring faces on the billboard. "Why not? Plus, those surface girls are so easy." Frederick rolled his eyes, a familiar exasperation at his friend's predictable playboy nature.

"Plus, it's quick, easy, and free. You can literally sign up right here. Come on, mate. I mean, I know we aren't allowed to physically leave this place, but maybe talking to a pretty girl on the surface will make it all better." John's voice was persuasive, a smooth balm over Frederick's raw nerves.

Frederick looked down, the neon glow reflecting in his eyes, thinking it over. What could it really hurt? The monotony, the despair, the suffocating sameness of his days… Perhaps a new distraction, however fleeting, was exactly what he needed. Before he fully processed the thought, before his conscious mind could put up a real resistance, he realized his finger was already pressing against the glowing billboard, signing his name on the dotted line in the middle of the busy, indifferent sidewalk. A single, silent ripple, lost in the noise of The Deep.