Leo Tanner
Dying broke was expected. I just didn't think it would be from a power shutoff.
The notice on my door read: ENERGY TERMINATION IMMINENT.
In Dome City Eight, those three words were as good as a death sentence. No energy meant no door access, no heat. Nothing that kept humans alive inside these walls.
I'd be locked out, forced onto the streets where the desperate preyed on the helpless. Smugglers were always looking for warm bodies if the spawns from the other hellish dimension, the Nephilim, didn't get them first.
I'd seen it coming. Choosing between night shifts at the recycling plant and attending my engineering classes for three months ultimately led to this decision. You can't do both in a world where everything, even opportunity, costs energy credits.
"This is bullshit," I muttered, stepping through the entryway into the Energy Administration sub-office, located deep in one of the dome's older, grimier sectors where corroded metal plates patched sections of the conduit-laced walls.
My eyes automatically traced the exposed junction box above the entrance—standard Grid Spine architecture, but the power coupling was misaligned by at least three degrees. No wonder half the sector experienced brownouts last week. The admin staff probably didn't even notice it was the source of that irritating electrical whine resonating from overhead.
The noise did little to mask the scuffed floor or the streaks of mold marring the metallic partitions. The cavernous space offered no privacy, just rows of dented metal counters separated by flimsy, stained screens, rather than proper offices.
The line stretched twenty people deep between the makeshift dividers, all with slumped shoulders and faces etched with the same weary resignation.
Another day in Dome City Eight, where humanity cowers from what we created.
When my turn finally came, I stood before one of the identical counters. The administrator didn't look up from her wavering holographic terminal. Her blond hair, drawn back tight, was almost too vibrant against the dull metal backdrop.
There was a well-fed softness about her face and frame, a stark difference from the gaunt figures waiting in line behind me. Her uniform appeared newer, less strained at the seams, the presentation of someone whose position afforded comforts the rest of us couldn't imagine.
"Identification." The admin's voice was flat, bored.
I slid my worn ID card across the counter. My photo appeared on the display, grainy and a little outdated. Wavy brown hair, green eyes, a rounder face than I had now. I appeared healthier four years ago. The freckles stood out more these days, likely due to a lack of nutrients. Too slender, a little short. Like I'd stopped growing before I was supposed to.
"There's been a mistake with my apartment. The termination notice—"
"No mistake." Her fingers moved across the holographic display. "Unit 2187, Block D. Three months of minimum payments. Energy allocation reduced to emergency levels as of today, complete termination scheduled for tomorrow at noon."
The display showed my balance: -1,750 credits. The monthly minimum was 600 credits for basic services, lighting, door operation, air filtration. Full service, including hot water, cooking elements, and entertainment access, would cost 2,000 credits. My engineering program cost 1,500 credits per month. The plant paid 800 credits for a standard shift, 1,600 for double shifts. The math was impossible.
No matter how I arranged the numbers, survival remained out of reach.
"I work at the recycling plant. I'm a sorter," I said, hoping that explained everything. It should have. Sorters were essential, separating reusable materials from actual waste. Without us, the dome's already strained resources would collapse entirely. "I had to choose between classes and shifts."
Her tapping finger hovered over the holographic display, then stilled. A faint sigh escaped her lips before she met my eyes with a brief flicker of acknowledgment that she recognized my pain. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by the casual, practiced indifference of someone who'd seen this scenario play out countless times. "Look, I see this every day. You're not the only one with this problem."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Everyone has to choose something," she replied. "You chose education over energy. The system doesn't care why."
"So I just lost my apartment access? I can't even get inside?" My voice remained level. Tried anger once, years ago, over ration shortages. Ended with a warning slip and still hungry. It never changed the outcome.
"Emergency protocols allow door operation for 24 hours. After that, you'll need to make arrangements." She pushed my ID back. "Next."
I walked out into the perpetual gray of afternoon, though you couldn't tell the difference between morning, noon, or night anymore. The megacurtain blocked most sunlight, shrouding our world in dim murk. Recycled air hit the back of my throat, stale and tinged with metal, like rust and old blood. It coated my tongue and filled my nostrils while the city's filtration systems pulsed with their low, constant thrum—the soundtrack of humanity's failure.
It began with the resource wars, as countries fought over the last remaining oil reserves, resulting in environmental catastrophes. Then came the ill-conceived "solutions." Some genius scientists from the Resistance Nations decided that since our dimension was running out of energy, they could harvest it from parallel realities.
We tore the veil. And something tore back.
The Nephilim.
The Dimensional Collider they built was supposed to safely extract power from other universes. Instead, it tore open massive rifts in reality—Dimensional Fractures spawning creatures from hell.
That was fifty years ago. Long enough for two generations to forget what real freedom, real sunlight, and even real silence were.
The domes were humanity's last bet. Scattered across what used to be North America, some near the coast and others buried deep inland, the domes were built to keep the monsters out and what was left of humanity in.
The three remaining fusion reactors and solar arrays struggle to generate enough power for the eight remaining domes. The other four domes were overrun. Twelve million dead. And for what? So we could huddle in darkness, rationing every watt, while those monstrosities roam outside.
My parents taught me to care once. Their caring didn't save them. My caring wouldn't save me.
A familiar tightness clenched in my chest, a hollow echo I hated. I forced my gaze down, focusing on the scuffed floor plates beneath my worn boots.
My phone buzzed with a shift notification. Plant Manager Torres asked if I could cover another night. Double pay. The timing was almost funny.
"Yes," I typed back. Not that I had a choice.
A warning message appeared: "Battery at 8%. Connect to power source." I swiped it away. The apartment's charging ports were all dead. Another "non-essential" system, the Energy Administration, had shut down. Even if I went to a public charging station, it would cost me 50 credits for a full charge. Fifty credits I didn't have.