GridSector smelled and tasted awful, like old metal, and it made you feel like there was no hope. It always did, especially around the PlazaofDrones.
Tall metal structures, like skeletons, reached up into the sky, which was always a dull gray. These structures were supposed to be part of fancy new buildings in the future, now just held up rusted megabanners advertising nutrient paste and cybernetic enhancements I could never afford.
I held my sign more firmly. "BLOOD FOR OIL, BREAD FOR THE FEW!" the message, painted messily in red on a piece of old, tough plastic.
The people around me were yelling and shouting – it was a messy, loud mix of anger and desperation.
We were all the worst off from this part of town: skinny people who searched for scraps, addicts whose bodies weren't working right because of technology, old people with bad coughs from the dirty air, and people like me who were still trying to make things better, even though it felt impossible.
"They're keeping everything for themselves!" yelled a woman with a shiny metal jaw. Her voice was loud, she was using a makeshift microphone. "They're grabbing all the good stuff – the Hydronutrients, the Clean Air, even the damn synth-steak! Meanwhile, we're stuck eating gross algae leftovers and breathing polluted air that will make our children sick and deformed!"
The crowd roared with shouts and cheers. I looked around, hoping to see someone who felt the same way I did, someone who also wanted to fight back. But instead, I just saw a deep, desperate hunger in their eyes. It was the same hunger I felt inside myself.
Across the plaza, the Enforcers stood like chrome statues, their visors reflecting the angry sun. The rifles were powered up and ready. Drones flew overhead every few minutes, making a low buzzing sound, its camera eye a constant, chilling reminder of who was in control.
I spotted Viktor, a seasoned activist with a network of underground contacts and had a knowing, almost bitter smile. He pushed through the crowd, looking serious and worried.
"Trouble's brewing," he muttered, leaning close. "Heard whispers of a crackdown. Stay sharp."
"You think they'll use the sonic cannons?" I asked, my voice tight. The thought of that high-pitched agony made my teeth ache.
He shrugged. "They're tired of our little protests. They want us to disappear. Just like the oil fields."
He was right. The "oil fields" was just a nice way of saying Agri-Domes, massive, automated farms that used to feed half the sector. Then the Corporations took control, claiming "resource management" while channeling all the food grown produce to the elite living in climate-controlled towers above the smog line.
The mood got heavier and heavier. Then, a rock was thrown, hitting a Enforcer's shield without causing any damage. That was the moment things really kicked off.
The Enforcers moved quickly, their pulse rifles spitting bright blue energy. People in the crowd yelled and pushed, trying to get away. Everything fell into confusion and chaos.
I quickly hid behind a broken concrete post. The air smelled like electricity and fear. I saw Viktor get tackled to the ground, his face disappearing under a metallic boot. I wanted to help, but survival instinct screamed louder.
I scrambled to my feet and joined the panicked retreat, dodging stun batons and stray energy blasts. The plaza became a battlefield, with injured people lying on the ground and broken pieces of signs everywhere.
Then, something incredible happened. Out of the darkness near a broken-down tall building, a new wave of protestors appeared.
These weren't the ragged, starving masses. These were the forgotten, the augmented, the ones who had been forced to trade pieces of themselves for scraps of survival.
Their weapons were crude – construction lasers turned into guns, grenades filled with nasty chemicals. But even more powerful than their weapons was their anger. The Enforcers were simply not ready for the savage way they fought.
The tide turned. The Enforcers, who were in control, started to struggle and then collapsed. The crowd saw this and got braver, pushing forward with a new feeling of hope.
I raised my sign high, my voice hoarse as I screamed along with the crowd. This was it. This was the revolution.
Except… it wasn't.
As the Enforcers retreated, they left behind a single, sleek transport vehicle. Its doors hissed open, revealing… food. Mountains of it. Fresh synth-steak, juicy fruits, even real, honest-to-God bread.
The crowd froze. The fighting stopped. The scent of real food, something most of them hadn't tasted in years, filled the air. Hunger, raw and desperate, eclipsed even the rage.
Slowly, cautiously, they approached the vehicle. Hands reached out, grabbing, tearing, stuffing food into their mouths. The revolution had been bought. For the price of a few days' worth of sustenance, the fire had been extinguished.
I stood there, my sign clattering to the ground, watching the scene unfold. Disgust churned in my stomach. They hadn't just bought the crowd; they'd bought their souls.
Then, I saw something that made my blood run cold. One of the augmented fighters, the one who had led the charge with such power and rage, stepped out of the shadows. He walked directly to the transport vehicle, picked up a piece of synth-steak, and took a bite. Then, he turned and smiled.
It was Viktor.
The usual mocking grin he wore, the kind that could make anyone feel uncomfortable, had gone. In its place was a chillingly genuine expression of satisfaction.
He raised a hand, a signal, and from the shadows, more figures appeared. They were dressed in the same ripped and worn-out clothes, carried the same roughly made weapons, but their faces were clean, well-fed, and most importantly, they showed absolutely no empathy.
They were the enforcers now.
Viktor caught my eye. He raised the piece of synth-steak in a mock toast. "Blood for oil, bread for the few," he said, his voice amplified by a hidden implant. "Always has been, always will be. You just have to decide which side you're on."
The new Enforcers began to herd the crowd, separating the strong from the weak. The strong got the food, a few days of respite before the next round of rationing. The weak… disappeared.
I turned and ran, the taste of rust and betrayal bitter on my tongue. Where could I go? What could I do? They had infiltrated us, manipulated us, turned our own anger against us.
As I disappeared into the labyrinthine alleys of Grid Sector, a question echoed in my mind: How many other revolutions had they orchestrated? How many times had we fought and bled, only to play directly into their hands?
I didn't know the answer. And I feared I never would. But one thing was certain: This sector, this world, ran on blood and oil, and the bread would always, inevitably, be for the few.