The Price of a Rose

Chapter 1

They say that going to the Above is like stepping into paradise.

As for me?

Well, I still hadn’t forgiven them for carving my eye out of my skull.

Now, I stood in the middle of the markets, haggling over the price of a gold valve as my vision began to blur. Lantern light and brass softening into hazy circles around me.

“Not again…”

The words fell from my lips, blending into the sounds of steam, hissing from the pipes that snaked through the markets.

“What’d ya say?” the merchant asked.

A pot-bellied merchant stood in front of me, waiting for me to reply, a small mechanical bird perched on his shoulder, its tiny beady eyes assessing me carefully. I reached up to my face and removed my mechanical eye...right there in the middle of the market. I twisted the brass housing free and held it up to the lantern light as the vendors' voices boomed around me.

In the center of my palm, the golden metallic pupil stared back at me, lifeless. With a sigh, I pulled a screwdriver from my belt and carefully pried off the outer lens. Tiny gears rotated inside, but much slower than they were meant to. A thin layer of soot coated the mechanism. Great.

“You’re falling apart,” I muttered to myself.

I cleaned the gears, adjusted a few pressure springs, and snapped the housing shut. The moment I pushed it back into place, the world sharpened, and the market sprang into focus. Stalls overflowed with insect skewers, fungus bread, salvaged machine parts, and vegetables that should have been thrown away days ago.

“That’ll cost you three cogs."

The merchant's voice dragged me back to reality. Apparently, he’d grown tired of waiting for me to perform surgery on my own face. I looked down at the gear sitting on the table between us and scoffed. I'd learned to bargain before I learned to read.

I knew that it was cracked. I could see it at just a glance. A thin, jagged line just along the surface. He would have certainly inspected the gear with a magnifying glass before trying to sell it.

“Half a cog, final offer,” I said with a smirk.

He grunted, shaking his head. “No deal.”

I rolled my eyes and silently turned on my heel, walking in the opposite direction as he scowled after me. Let another fool take the chance.

I lived in Ashworks, the asshole of the Below. The Below is an underground world made of tunnels that seep deep below the surface of the Earth. Ashworks is only a fraction of the Below, a gutter tucked away in a long-forgotten polluted slum. You won’t find a place with as much sin and grime as Ashworks.

Above us, on the surface of Earth, was the Above. Where the Topsiders lived. They had the sky, the sunlight, and more food than they knew what to do with.

I adjusted the strap of my satchel and continued walking, my boots sinking into the moist ground as I wandered deeper into the markets. A passing steam cart rattled over divots in the pathway behind me as a group of laughing children darted in front of me, weaving through stalls and around steam pipes protruding from the ground, spitting out clouds of hot moisture.

The markets were more energetic than normal. But of course they were. The Lottery was happening today.

Workers crammed the aisles, their clothes stained black with inky grease and powdered with thick soot, spending their hard-earned cogs on withered vegetables and fungus-coated bread.

Lantern lights hung from the vendor stalls, reflected off rusted pipes overhead, casting long shadows along the walkways. A woman selling potatoes spotted me the moment I approached, the smell of rotten earth wafting from the baskets in front of her. Her eyes narrowed instinctively as I approached, “Oh no. Not you again.”

I sighed. “Good afternoon to-,” The broom came swinging before I could utter a complete sentence. The bristles smacked directly onto my shoulder. “Don’t you start with me, Rook,” she spat.

I rubbed my shoulder and grinned at her, “Do you hit all your customers?”

“You’re not a customer,” she hissed, swinging the broom at my head this time. I stepped back, the weapon narrowly missing its mark. “I know exactly what you are,” she shouted. “A menace!”

Around us, several people paused to watch. Arguments at the markets were a common source of entertainment down here. “You keep those sticky little fingers away from my stall,” she huffed. Suddenly, I felt the satchel around my waist moving. I looked down, and a familiar nose poked out from the opening, followed by two bright black eyes. It was my pet. A tunnel ferret named Tully.

He climbed onto my shoulder without hesitation, his small paws a blur as he moved. He was roughly the size of a ferret, though considerably scruffier. His dark fur was streaked with patches of grey, and his long tail curled around the back of my neck as he settled into place.

The woman groaned. “Great. You’ve brought the accomplice. Everyone knows you trained that rodent to steal for you.” Tully chirped happily. “I think he likes you,” I smiled. She lowered her broom with a sigh. “Go bother somebody else.”

“As you command,” I shrugged lazily, before sauntering down the aisle and away from her. Only once I was safely swallowed by the crowd did I reach into my satchel. The potato I’d slipped from the woman’s stall during the argument lay in the middle of my palm. Tully immediately grabbed it with both tiny paws and bit into it.

Just then, a large mechanical clock groaned overhead, signalling that trade hours would soon come to a close. It’s not as if we had light down here to tell us that evening was approaching. Instead, we relied on time systems built throughout the sector.

I walked away from the markets and turned down a narrow pathway-one that most people tended to ignore. The market noise faded behind me, replaced by the hissing and whining of the machinery around me. I eventually found the tunnel and walked inside, the walls narrowing before opening into an abandoned pressure chamber.

I heard the sound of children giggling in the distance and sighed. It sounded like Etta had visitors again. I walked further inside, following the sounds of laughter until I spotted four boys standing near a forest of sculptures made of gears and valves.

One had climbed to the top of a brass tree, now attempting to pull a bird made of gears from its branch. “Come on, Valve Witch!” one of them shouted. “Make the bird fly!” Another was pelting bolts at a massive clock sculpture, laughing maniacally. The other two bolted between the other sculptures, screaming obscenities.

Near the back of the chamber, an old woman worked without acknowledging them. A welding torch glowed blue in her wrinkled hands as she carefully attached another gear to the sculpture in front of her. A set of goggles sat on her face, shielding her from the blinding light of the torch.

“Oi!” I shouted towards the children.

The boys froze instantly. I heard one whispering to the others, “Oh no, it’s Rook!”

“Get out of here,” I said, folding my arms. “We’re just having fun,” one groaned, rolling his eyes. “Now,” I hissed, eyes narrow.

They exchanged glances, before finally walking away from the sculptures. But not before one kicked the base of the tree, as he walked away.

“My dad says she used to be a Topsider,” one of them muttered before they began making their way back through the tunnel.

“Careful,” I called after him. “She’ll probably turn you into a valve.”

That was enough to send them running out of sight. I sighed and walked over to the tree, collecting a tiny brass sparrow from the ground, that lay upside down after one of the boys had knocked it loose. I crouched, brushing tunnel grime from its beak before twisting it carefully back onto the branch it had been pulled from.

The old woman finally looked up. My face stared back at me in the reflection of her goggles. “Greetings Rook,” Etta smiled.

Most of Ashworks called her the Valve Witch-but as for me-I called her Etta. She’d earned her name after spending all of her time hidden away from the rest of Ashworks, aimlessly completing one sculpture after another.

She was surrounded by her art, brass flowers slowly opening and closing with each pulse of pressure from the pipes beneath the tunnel. Some sculptures were alive. Mechanical jumping spiders, birds with shifting eyes and even snakes that slithered at our feet.

But the thing that made Etta's art odd, was that everything was from the Above. The trees. The insects. Every creature she ever made. Lavish buildings, unknown foods.

"Your left hinge is slipping again," she said before turning back to her sculpture. Instinctively, I reached for my eye. "How did you know?" I asked. "It squeaks," she muttered as she poked at her work.

My eye settled on the sculpture she was currently working on. A man. But unlike the others, he wasn’t built from rusted bits of scavenged scrap. Every piece had been polished until it gleamed. He wore a long cape made of brass mesh and his hand was placed on his chest. As if he were pledging his allegiance to some higher power.

“He looks important,” I smiled.

I watched as her old, withered hands slowed, “He was.”

“Someone you knew?” I asked, inching closer to the sculpture to admire her craftmanship.

“Someone I remember.” She said mildly.

I tilted my head. His clothes were strange. Nothing like anything worn in Ashworks. They were far too tailored and clean.

“A Topsider?” I asked.

She didn’t answer; instead, she reached out to remove a speck of dust from the man’s cheek with her thumb.

Just then, a screech was heard overhead, blaring through the overhead speakers, and rumbling through the tunnel. A muffled voice sounded from above our heads.

Attention residents of Fuel Sector.

This is a reminder that the deadline for all Lottery entries is in one hour.

The selected residents' names will be announced this evening.

We pray the furnaces never fail.

The Lottery. I snickered under my breath.

For months, the Above had been preaching unity and partnership. Funny how interested they became in working together after the Below started fighting back.

For centuries, they’d lived with the luxury of pretending their comfortable lives weren’t built on the sweat-soaked backs of the people beneath their feet. They called us Tunnel Rats, as though spending our lives underground somehow made us lesser. In turn, we called them Topsiders.

The Below kept the Above alive. My sector, the Fuel Sector, maintained the machinery that pumped fuel through a vast network of underground pipes stretching all the way to the surface. In return, they sent us crates of vegetables already beginning to rot and the tougher cuts of meat deemed unworthy of their delicate palates. The arrangement had been tolerated for generations.

Until recently.

The Water Sector was the first to act, restricting access to the filtration systems they operated. The Air Sector soon followed, shutting down thousands of ventilation units responsible for circulating fresh air throughout the upper districts. Next, the Cultivation Sector froze shipments of the fungi used to produce the Above’s medicine.

But the Fuel Sector delivered the final blow. We cut their fuel supply in half. And for the first time in centuries, the Above was forced to confront an uncomfortable truth: every comfort they enjoyed depended upon the people living beneath their feet.

The Above promised change. Promised the Below a greater share of the resources we’d always produced. But the Below still rumbled with anger. Hundreds of years worth.

Treaties might quiet the unrest for a period of time, but they could not erase centuries of resentment. The divide between the Above and the Below ran far deeper than disputes over food, water, or fuel.

What was required, was a gesture. A symbol of reconciliation and togetherness. A lottery that allowed Tunnel Rats to climb to the surface and become a Topsider. Each year, two names were called from every sector.

So, a desperate Tunnel Rat only needed to write their name on a bit of paper, place it into a box and cross their fingers, hoping for the chance to live in The Above.

It was voluntary, thank the Gods. So I had never entered my name. I had already been to the Above and that trip alone was enough to satisfy my curiosity for a lifetime.

I gave Etta one last smile and nod before turning and leaving. By the time I reached home, the sounds from the nearby markets had fully faded away.

I ducked into the tiny space that I called home. It had once been a maintenance alcove carved into the tunnel wall, designed for storage. A thick rusted pipe ran through one wall, providing enough heat to warm the small space-a luxury in the Below. A narrow cot sat beneath a cluster of hanging lanterns, and shelves made from scavenged scrap lined the opposite wall.

It wasn’t much, but it was warm, relatively safe, and most importantly, it was mine. Tully leapt from my shoulder the moment I stepped inside, disappearing beneath the cot with his potato, the tip of his long tail peeking out from below.

I removed my boots and stretched out on the cot with a heavy sigh, the springs groaning under my weight. Above me, pipes rattled softly in the walls as fuel rushed through them and toward the surface, the sound lulling me to sleep like a twisted lullaby. Then, I closed my eye as Tully abandoned the potato and lay on my chest, curling himself into a ball of fluff.

Soon, I drifted to sleep.

An hour later, the announcement speakers crackled to life, and my eyes snapped open. Static hissed through the maintenance alcove. I groaned, annoyed that I’d been pulled from my sleep.

Attention residents of Fuel Sector.

The selected candidates for the Fuel Sector have been determined.

Tully chirped, his small eyes blinking as he let out a soft yawn.

“Let’s find out what idiot thought joining the Lottery would be a good idea,” I muttered. “So, I know who to speak to about the disruption to my sleep.”

The first selected candidate, from Coalrun is...

Bram Craftmore.

"Hurry up," I groaned, desperate to return to my slumber.

And the last selected candidate. From Ashworks...

Rook.

My name echoed through the tunnels. Tully chirped and tilted his head, as if he understood. I didn’t move or breathe- nor did I understand. It couldn’t be possible that my name had been selected. I had never entered the lottery.

I knew everyone in Ashworks, and I was the only person named Rook. The only person without a last name.

There was no chance they had called the wrong one.

We pray the fire endures.

Then the speaker’s static died, and I was left in silence.