The Hanging and the Trick

The air in the pit was thick with the stench of desperation and something metallic, something that clung to the back of my throat like a phantom cough. Lykos’ Lambda. Our tomb. Our glory. The festival of the revolution. A lie whispered in the dark, a cruel joke played out in the flickering glow of the vibranium lamps. They called it a reward, this meager distribution of nutrient paste and patched-up frysuits. But for us, for the reapers, it was just another turn of the screw, another reminder of our worthlessness.

I’d pushed, of course. I always pushed. The quota, a number etched into the very marrow of my bones, was a personal insult. My father, bless his defiant soul, had danced when they wanted him to crawl. And they’d strung him up for it. For a dance. A thing of beauty and rebellion in a world that choked the very life out of both. I felt his ghost in the sweat that slicked my brow, in the ache of my muscles, in the burning ache of the frysuit where the sheer effort had seared through. A foolish burn, perhaps, but a burn that spoke of exceeding. Of trying. Of a flicker of defiance against the endless, crushing weight of their ‘order’.

But it wasn’t enough. It never was. The Laurel, the symbol of the highest yield, the one thing that might have brought a sliver of dignity to my clan, was awarded to the Obsidian Clan. Again. Always. The Colors, they called themselves. The pure ones, who lived in the sterile, sun-drenched cities above, breathing air that didn’t taste of despair. We, the shades of gray and red, toiled in the darkness, fueling their paradise with our sweat and blood. And the festival, meant to be a celebration of our labor, was just another spectacle of their indifference.