The inhale. It wasn't a biological necessity. It was an 'Atmospheric-Withdrawal'. And every cubic centimeter of filtered O2 you pulled into your lungs? That was a 'Gas-Usage-Event'. A chemical debt.
Solar stood in the "Asphyxia-Gardens" of the Residential-District. The air was thin, smelling of recycled plastic and the sharp, clinical scent of medical-grade ozone. HISS. WHIRRR. Huge glass domes covered the luxury-penthouses, while the streets below were filled with "Oxygen-Vending-Machines" that hummed like hungry predators. Solar wasn't looking at the sky. The sky was an un-monetized void. He was looking at the "Lung-Capacity-Trackers" installed in every citizen's collar. In Aethelgard, if you wanted to take a deep breath, you didn't just need lungs. You needed a 'Respiratory-Credit-Line'.
"The oxygen-audit, Elias. Tell me the 'BPM-to-Bill' ratio is tracking the anxiety-levels."
Elias was wearing a clear plastic mask, his own breathing shallow and jagged, his face a pale shade of grey. GASP. WHEEZE. He looked like a fish out of water. "The lower-levels, sir... they're 'Hypoventilating'. They're literally holding their breath for minutes at a time to avoid the 'Hyper-Inflation' on the O2-meter. They're becoming a city of blue-lipped statues just to save fifty credits a lungful. They say the 'Breath-Tax' is making it cheaper to be dead than to sigh."
Solar laughed. A dry, jagged rattle. Like a vacuum-seal being broken in a room filled with toxic dust. POP. SHATTER. "Statues? No, Elias. That's 'Biological-Resource Hoarding'. If they're holding their breath, they're 'Storing Corporate-Property' without a permit. Why are you choking? It's just an audit of the molecule. Add a 'CO2-Emission-Penalty' of 80% to any unit that registers a 'Deep-Sigh' or a 'Panic-Attack'. If they want to be emotional, they pay for the extra ventilation. Life is a gas-service, Elias. And the tank is nearly empty."
CLANG.
Solar struck an oxygen-pipe with his bone-handled cane. The sound was sharp—a cold, hollow ring that echoed through the pressurized tubes. TING. ECHO.
"Audit the inhale, Elias!" Solar hissed. His voice was a cold rasp. A blade in the dark. "I want a census of every breath. Every gasp. Every sneeze. If it uses air, it's a 'Vapor-Liability'. And tonight? The atmosphere is expensive."
WHIRRR.
A massive air-scrubber began to spin on the roof, pulling the "Un-Paid" air out of the slums to enrich the private forests of the High-Sector. SNOORT. VACUUM. Solar didn't flinch. He just watched the "Oxygen-Revenue" graphs glow a lethal neon-green on his tablet. GREEN. PULSE.
"You're taxing the very air they need to survive, Solar!" A voice. From the fog of a nitrogen-leak behind the statue of the Founder. The Shadow. He was there, his silver mask equipped with a high-tech rebreather, looking like a diver in a sea of corporate greed. "You've put a meter on the very first right of every living thing! You're not a CEO! You're an atmospheric executioner with a pinstripe suit!"
Solar looked through the mist. The gardens were a blur of flickering lights and suffocating people. He didn't move. He didn't blink. "An executioner? No, ghost. I'm an 'Environmental Auditor'. You think you're a hero because you 'Breathe-Free'? I'm the one who owns the 'Air-Quality' you're polluting with your presence. Get out of my garden. You're causing 'Oxygen-Depletion' and I'm about to charge you for the 'Recirculation-Maintenance Surcharge'."
POP.
The Shadow tried to leap, but an 'Air-Pressure-Lock' triggered, making the atmosphere around him as heavy as lead. THUD. STRUGGLE. Solar didn't flinch. He just watched the pressure-sensors locking onto the intruder's "Unauthorized-Metabolism".
"The audit is moving to the blood, ghost!" Solar roared over the scream of the air-scrubbers. "Everything is an asset! Every breath is a transaction! I'll tax the gasp! I'll audit the yawn! I'll put a price on the very last air you scream into the dark!"
He turned his back. Walked toward the heavy, pressurized exit. The door hissed shut—HSSSSS.—leaving the district in a heavy, oxygen-deprived silence. He didn't feel the suffocation. He didn't feel the hate. He just felt the math. It was respiratory. It was absolute.
"Elias!" He barked as the air-lock beeped. BEEP. CLICK.
"Yes... sir?"
"The 'Breath-Holders'. Don't give them tanks. Sell them 'Meditation-Permits'. 70,000 credits for a 'Zen-State' discount. If they want to slow their heart-rate, they pay the 'Cardiovascular-Stability Tax'. And tell the survivors... the air is thin. But the ledger? That's a 'Vital-Sign Surcharge' of 97%."
Solar poured a glass of water from his flask. Cold. Clear. GLUG. GLUG. He drank it while the city below turned blue trying to afford a single inhale. He didn't blink. The interest never sleeps. And tonight? Even the very air of the world was going to be sold to the highest bidder.
The gardens were locked. And Solar held the valve.