Ilyas woke up in a cold sweat to the sound of rusty ventilation humming and dim blinking lights.
He'd seen a dream... No. A nightmare? His body felt light and vulnerable, his hand shivered as if the echo of what he'd felt chased him to his conscious mind. He tilted his head and saw his lean, gaunt bronze chest heaving erratically and glistening with sweat.
'It cannot be that bad.'
Well, what was it? All he could remember was an expanse much vaster than the aluminium embrace of the Vault he was accustomed to. Incomprehensibly vast and... blue? No, it was as if a haze of some reddish or brown colour attempted to smother the immaculate blue ceiling.
Blue ceiling? Wouldn't it have been the 'sky' then? He'd never seen it before, and never hoped to. The desolate wasteland was synonymous with death, and not just any death, but an agonising one. Even a Dweller of the fifth level like him knew of the sky that encompassed the lands before the war.
Well, that would explain his cold sweat and absolute haggard state. Perhaps even dreaming of it was so condemning.
'Ah! I cannot be asked for this. Not today!'
Today, his mind must be in order and devoid of any uncertainty and distraction.
He turned to his father, who was still curled up beneath a ragged blanket with his long, grizzled hair splayed on his rotting cot that was adjacent to his.
'Would he remember?'
Ilyas smiled. His father was distant and reserved... and despondent and stingy and harsh- and and and... but he was still his father. And though many of the Dwellers regard him with contempt and disdain, Ilyas saw an underlying purity within him that nobody else could see.
Not that his father was fatherly and kind to him in private or anything! No!
In fact, he barely acknowledged his existence when they were alone, keeping to himself in that fetal position of his and rambling some indiscernible nonsense.
'One more day. Tomorrow we'll sleep on Level Four.'
Today was his eighteenth birthday. Therefore, he was eligible to attain a Personal Task and finally earn a chamber on a higher floor. Of course, he made sure that his merit was exemplary over the past few years to outdo the competition, since he wasn't the only one with an ambitious soul, but he was certain that they didn't stand a chance.
He rose from his cot with a groan, sought his black Dweller jumpsuit that had his name and code etched on its breast pocket, grabbed his toothbrush, towel, and other toiletries from the corner of the chamber, and just before reaching the hatch wheel, he caught his bleary reflection on its aluminum surface.
Ilyas wasn't particularly tall, nor was he short. He had bronze skin, akin to his father's, bronze-streaked black hair falling to his nose and clinging to his face, a hunter's gaze in his narrow black eyes overlined by thick eyelashes and dark eyebrows. He had a somewhat fine yet emaciated face overall. His gaunt frame, however, still glistened from the cold sweat incited by the now receding nightmare.
He sighed dejectedly at his unfortunate state.
He wouldn't have known the abnormality of his physique if he hadn't laid eyes on those Dwellers from the upper levels a few months back. They seemed to have a different presence overall. Their skin seemed more... elastic? It was complete, as if looking like its true self. And their faces were rounder and pudgier, like having something to spare if that made any sense.
But what truly shocked and had him in a contemplative and overly ambitious state for a few weeks was when he saw a middle-aged man from Level Three who was...
Chubby!
He didn't even know the human body was capable of such a tremendous feat!
His jumpsuit curved around his abdomen like he had some food to expend in times of need.
'Dear god, I must acquire that divine physique.'
He plastered a determined look on his face and went for the hatch.
"Dad, I'm out!"
His father grumbled something illegible, raised a hand to flick him away without looking, then shifted beneath his blanket. Ilyas sighed and left.
The fifth and lowest level of Vault KL507 was webbed with aluminium catwalks that overlooked vast halls and chambers, including refectories, mini-factories, greenhouses, and so on. In fact, only 20% of the Vault was used for day-to-day activities by the Dwellers; the rest was for sustenance. The Vault in and of itself was self-sustaining. The catwalks created a network that connected the overpopulated floor with all the dilapidated chambers.
Around five hundred chambers housed an overall of 800 people on Level Five. The only level that hosted above capacity. Level Four had 400 chambers and 400 Dwellers. Level three had only two hundred chambers and Dwellers. Level Two had 100, and Level One was reserved for the Chiefs of the Chamber and the Condemned.
It was said that on Level One, the risk of succumbing to infection was concerning. Conditions hadn't recovered from the war, and the air was laced with the scent of devastation that damned everything countless years ago. Though Ilyas fantasised about reaching Level Two one day, or at least bequeath the privilege to his offspring, he never once envied those at the top.
The instant he unfastened the hatch, the familiar din of numerous conversations, Dwellers performing their Tasks, and the breakfast crews preparing in the refectory fell upon him like an avalanche. Their chamber was situated right above the main refectory, which was quite unfortunate, really, considering that he had to step out into an overwhelming human march every morning.
He was used to it by now, but he still lamented this tragic happenstance.
'If only I could open my eyes to a field of tomatoes instead of these damned breakfast warriors? What luck!'
He peeked over the railings to eye the refectory and gauge the time. If it were flooded with Dwellers, then it would be between 9 and 10 am.
For now, though, it was only 8 am.
'Good. It's not a 'fight for a bite' morning. Antonio isn't even down there yet! Heh heh. Ms. Henriette is kind, but not absolute! These savages.'
Granted, he was a breakfast warrior himself. In fact, he was the worst of them. But their kind's worst enemy was their own. They loathed nothing more than a competitor.
Today, however, breakfast was surprisingly not his main concern.
It was that damn interview.
'They have my merits, Goddamit! Why do I have to talk to people!?''
He has a fair amount of time to mentally prepare for his interview with the Council. It was precisely at 6 PM. His merits would do most of the talking, but a good first impression with anyone with a single bit of authority in this place was vital.
So he was rightfully stressed... especially considering his lack in that domain.
He descended the stairs and allowed himself to drown in a torrent of Dwellers as they funnelled into the male baths. It was rare not to be in constant contact with another at all times. He hated it, but it was standard. As long as they didn't attempt to stir up a conversation, he was fine.
He slipped out of his jumpsuit, waited in one of the lines to his favourite sprinkler, and when his turn came, he scrubbed his body hurriedly as if he was burning and was trying to beat out the flames. He had to utilise his two minutes the best he could.
Throughout it all, his mind ran through all the possible scenarios the interview could unfold.
... and all the cool things he could say to make the council entranced by him.
'Dear god, I'd be amazing if I said that. Yes! yes! I should say it more nonchalantly, though. That'd definitely get'em.'
On his way out, while absentmindedly rubbing his hair with his towel, a hand smacked his nape, jolting him out of his reverie.
He sighed. "You want me to tell the Guardians about your trip to the woman's baths? No, even worse, I'll tell Kim."
Ray pulled up beside with an indignant look, "What?! When did that happen?"
Ilyas smiled innocently, poorly concealing his impish intent, "My word against yours."
Ray scoffed, "That's not how it works; they won't even consider your claim... Ah! How could I forget?"
Ray stopped abruptly, causing a minor stagger and a few dissatisfied grunts from the Dwellers behind them in the human traffic, and pulled him aside into a water fountain alcove.
He grabbed Ilyas by the shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and said genially, "Eighteen! Eighteen Ilyas! Goodness me, you're eighteen!"
Ray laughed and pulled him into a tight hug, patting him on the back. "Finally! I know you'll do it better than Kim and me and get to Four, so you'd better save a space for us. You may as well go ahead and pre-introduce us to your future companions. We'll definitely catch up in a few months."
Ilyas couldn't help but smile in response to the warm feeling in his heart. "You really know how to make an 'Adult' tear up," he jested. Or at least attempted to...
Though Ray only frowned at him.
'Dammit Ilyas! 'Adult'? Are you serious? Okay, at least I know not to drop any jokes in the interview since my own ideas have proven to be unreliable.'
Ray took a deep breath and said earnestly, "Listen, Ilyas, for your sake... and I say this as your friend, but don't try any-"
Though before he could finish, Ilyas raised a hand, interrupting him. "Yes, yes. I know now. I... apologise."
They rejoined the swarm and continued their way through the somewhat cylindrical aluminium hallway to the refectory.
Ray was taller than him with a more defined and nutritious build. Though his assigned Tasks did not elevate him to a higher level, he was still entitled to more portions than he. He had a shallow stubble and a more masculine, affable, and outgoing face that seemed to rest with a smile. He looked inviting, rather than whatever Ilyas had.
And also unlike Ilyas, Ray was a social butterfly who seamlessly floated in and out of conversations, much like a magician.
'Magic? Really?'
Well, it certainly never failed to astonish Ilyas.
It was never clear why Ilyas's childhood in the Vault was so... unusual. Up until he was seven years old, fellow Dwellers were somewhat prejudiced toward him and his father. Of course, like any other child, Ilyas wasn't very socially attentive, but living a life where a force field surrounded him in a place where personal space was a fantasy, he could clearly discern that they were outliers. The consequences on him were somewhat permanent.
Why?
Well, it would probably remain a mystery. Although his most faithful hypothesis was that it was all due to his father. But that never identified him in any way with others... or at least, Dweller culture refrained from doing so.
By the time Ilyas turned seven, an eccentric and outgoing twelve-year-old called Ray decided to approach him in the refectory whilst he was, as usual, alone, happily gobbling down a breakfast of roasted tomatoes and toast. Having lived seven years with barely any socialising other than with his reticent father, he was understandably mortified when Ray stirred up a conversation out of nowhere about his only source of entertainment, 'The Wasteland Crusader' comic, a Level Two Dweller published.
Ray seemed content with having a passionate one-sided conversation with him for the first few days until Ilyas became confident enough to partake with a few words here and there.
So then, Ray considered it a green light and brought along his other close friend to their table the next day.
It was Kim.
And Kim was a girl.
And Ilyas almost passed out.
Thankfully, although Ray was very socially outgoing, he preferred his inner circle to be limited. So Kim was the last addition.
When Ray and Ilyas reached the enormous hatch that led to the refectory, another hand slapped Ilyas's nape.
Ilyas tsked in resignation.
'Is this a cultural thing that I failed to pick up on?!'
Kim, shorter than Ilyas and much shorter than Ray, pulled up between them, staring up at Ilyas with an impish grin.
"Happy Birthday, dimwit!"
Ilyas regarded her with a heartfelt smile. "Appreciate it, Kim. But a question, why is it that you both-"
Before he could finish, however, she slung one hand over his shoulder, the other over Ray's, and allowed her legs to hop off the ground and glide down the hallway with them carrying her.
She laughed and interrupted with, "Gosh, you've been seventeen for a few years now! Took you long enough!"
Ilyas weakly suppressed his exasperation behind a smile. "I'll make sure you guys feel it on your birthdays."
Ray and Kim stared at each other for a moment, then laughed.
Ray patted him on the back and said, "Listen, buddy, it's one of the cons of being the youngest."
Kim then added, "And you won't be able to do anything when you're up there anyway."
Kim, unsurprisingly, ended up marrying Ray a few years back. When they revealed the news to Ilyas, expecting a stunned reaction, they were met with a deadpan stare that said he was expecting a continuation.
She wasn't very happy with his reaction, no matter how much Ilyas insisted that it was the most obvious thing in the Vault.
Their poorly concealed affection for each other was so obvious that it was like a cheesy performance in a romantic play for those who cared, which was only Ms. Henriette, really. Ilyas, unfortunately, was forced to the front row at all times.
'I think they called it third wheeling in the Wasteland Crusader?'
They reached the semi-chaotic line and waited until they reached the front. Ray grabbed a tray first, followed by Kim, then Ilyas. The lunch lady, Ms. Henriette, greeted them with her usual affable and soft voice. She was a woman of almost seventy this year, and through all the years Ilyas knew her, she never failed to uphold a smile... and always had a lot to say.
"Ray! Kim! Ilyas! Good morning, sweethearts! Wait, Ilyas, how come that sweet boy, Antonio, came here much earlier with no competition?"
'Sweet?! Preposterous! That man is a vile thing!'
Ilyas made an effort to conceal his outrage with a fake cough, then shrugged, "Well, what can I say, ma'am. I am a grown-"
But before he could finish, Kim interrupted, "It's his birthday today, and he has an interview. So he's probably dying inside!"
Ilyas glared at her darkly, but she just laughed.
"Oh dear! How could I forget?!" Ms. Henriette beamed. "Well then, I'll make sure you enjoy an extra portion of roasted tomatoes today! But please don't tell Antonio."
Ilyas's face lit up, and he bowed slightly. "Thank you so much, Ma'am! And don't worry, that won't be difficult."
She turned to Ray and Kim and asked, "The usual?" She couldn't prolong a conversation for now, so she had to rush them along.
Ray nodded, "Yes, ma'am. And good morning to you, too."
Suddenly, though, Ms. Henriette turned sombre as if remembering something, and whispered, "Ah, will you guys be attending the Preservation Judgment Ceremony later this evening? I heard that three will be taken from our level this year. Goodness, it was only two last year."
Ilyas frowned, then remembered. And just as he was about to answer, a strange sense of urgency overtook his two friends, rushing him away from the line with darkened expressions.
'What the hell?'
"Ah, sorry about that," Ray said, rubbing his face with one hand while carrying his tray with the other. Just as fast as his face darkened, it returned to its usual flair. "It's not nice to engage in those talks with others around, you know that. Sorry for grabbing you like that."
Kim cleared her throat from behind. "We can't be having derisive glares piercing us throughout breakfast," she said.
'Ah... They're right.'
It was indeed a touchy topic.
"I know," Ilyas added belatedly. He curiously regarded his friends for a moment, then shrugged it off. "I have the interview later on anyway, so it doesn't concern me much."
Kim found them a vacant aluminium table, and they settled themselves to finally eat.
***
An hour later, Ilyas was back in his chamber, where his father was still in a fetal position beneath his ragged blanket, mumbling something to himself. Ilyas lowered a tray, hefting his father's 'unique' diet and gently rested it beside his cot.
'Good god, he seems to be getting worse. I have to get him his injection soon.'
Suddenly, his father jolted awake with wide, startled eyes, staring at his son as if he had just awakened from a nightmare.
'What a coincidence?! Is this a father-son thing?'
Ilyas didn't react; this wasn't unusual. His father's condition has been worsening for the past few years. His mumbling intensified. His paranoia became more severe. And his body was growing more frail by each day. In the past few weeks, he stopped eating supper altogether, preferring to whisper and scratch himself to sleep.
"Hey, Dad. I got you your breakfast. I also got you the knife you requested."
He would've been worried about the strange knife request if he didn't know his father as well as he did. He supposed it's got something to do with the late-night scratching on the wall he's been doing lately. With the insufferable noise, Ilyas had to get creative and find efficient ways to fall asleep.
His efficient method consisted of a back-and-forth cursing session with his father until one of them tired out the other.
His father stared at him for a moment, then at the tray, then, as if remembering something, stared at his son some more. He reached for a band, raised a shaky hand and tied up his long, grizzled hair behind his head. He continued to stare at his son while his fingers worked.
Ilyas felt unsettled.
What's up with him today?
His father finally sighed, strained himself forward, and grabbed his son in for an awkward, tentative hug.
'What?! What the hell is he doing now?!'
That never happened. Ever.
"Ilyas! Is it your birthday today? No, it must be! Right?" His voice was raspy, hoarse, yet hopeful.
Ilyas smiled softly. "Yes, it is. But why the hell are you grabbing me all of a sudden?! Is this... wait? Are you getting worse again? Should I schedule with the pharmacists for more severe prescriptions?!"
His father pulled back and sat with his back against the wall of the small, cramped chamber.
"You useless brat. Can't you let a father try to be more fatherly every once in a while?" he said.
But he then trailed off, mumbling something to himself along the lines of, "...knew I shouldn't have listened to her telling me all this nonsense."
They both stared at each other silently, both with sceptical gauging expressions, until his father broke the silence bluntly with, "How old are you now?"
"Eighteen."
Something changed on his father's face. His brows furrowed, his once sharp jaws clenched, and his eyes glinted with a different emotion...
Trepidation? No. Hopeful apprehension.
His father took a deep breath. "I see."
The old man scratched his head, reciting something to himself. "I see. I see. I see. Ah goodness me, how time flies."
Ilyas stared at his father, confused.
'What the hell is he on about now?'
His father remained still for a few moments before finally looking back at his son and saying, "Well, you must think that you'll be assigned now?"
"Yes. And don't give me your pessimistic, unsolicited opinion now. I've been working my ass off for two years for these merits."
His father nodded, then scrambled for something beneath his blanket. Eventually, he pulled out a syringe and said, "Well, get assigned to those tomato farms you've been rambling about like a madman for all I care."
Ilyas was flabbergasted.
'The audacity! Madman?! This old delirious fossilis calling me a madman?!'
His father fetched the knife from the tray, stretched out his arm, then clenched his fist and unclenched it repetitively until his veins and arteries bloated in his arm unnervingly.
Ilyas frowned, his indignation fading as he tried to comprehend what was happening.
His father sighed. "Well. That is it then... Ah, you lazy rapscallion, I put in all this effort in you, and you still turned out so lame. Tomato farms? Really? Your aspirations should be me, and me alone!" His father shook his head in disappointment.
At this point, Ilyas didn't even bother to be insulted, baffled or even irritated, because he could somewhat see a hint of mischievous glee in his father's eyes, and he was not going to give him the satisfaction with a reaction.
His father scoffed, ceding his attempts. "Anyhow. Level four has better cots, lighting, smell, food, toiletries... toilets, oh, and you might die this evening, but if you don't, make sure not to befriend this man called Robby."
Ilyas's eyes narrowed 'Wait, what?' He swallowed and frowned so hard his brows hurt.
His father continued, "...he always trades these slick-looking batteries that almost always explode after two months."
'What did he say?'
"...The bastard gives a guarantee for three months as well! The Goblin! I say, some people need to get up and learn to do some honest work! He keeps a clean slate by using proxies and..."
Ilyas stopped listening after a certain point with a mortified yet incredulous reaction on his face. He raised both hands, interrupting his father forcefully.
"Hey. Hey. Hey! Wait! Wait!"
His father paused and stared at him disdainfully. "Why are you interrupting your father, you useless, lanky-looking leprechaun?"
"I might what?!"
"I said you might die this evening. Or tonight. Not sure how those things work."
Ilyas blinked a few times, shook his head, stared incredulously at the floor, then blinked some more. "Yeah, what's up with that?"
"Don't worry, I've had eighteen years to brood about it. I'll be fine. I won't be as-"
"I don't care about what you feel!" Ilyas scowled. "And I know this isn't some nonsense you're spouting, because... because you're perfectly lucid! Make some sense, you old sloth!"
His father remained silent, then burst into laughter.
Eventually, when he grew silent, he took a deep breath, fetched the knife, looked at his veiny arm, and with great force, he nicked his ulnar artery.
In that moment of shock before Ilyas could lunge at his father and stop his insane behavior, his father used the syringe to suck in his crimson, strangely viscous blood, filling it completely.
He had to be swift because a few seconds later, his arm stopped bleeding.
Ilyas, whose face was still hanging open and horrified, was frozen in place. Completely at a loss.
'Huh?'
His father stared up at him, took a deep breath, pointed the blood-filled syringe to the ceiling and grinned.
"I've waited a long damn time for this, you ingrate. Give me your arm."