The metal fell through the sky like a falling army. It came down in hordes and bundles, crashed and rolled quickly into piles, some hollowed-out and created caves, little worlds of old-parts and layers of panels and shards. Some were always slipping and scratching as the piles ached and creaked and whined from the pressure. Sometimes it sounded like a distant cry or a muffled scream. Then the drops crashed down again, loud and clapping like thunder. And the caves collapsed, the piles grew, and new peaks and caves formed all staggard, reckless and weak. A temporary, always shifting world of metal waiting to be scraped and shaped into something new. A place where bored-out plates and broken screens were stripped of their precious veins and bones. It was a mountain. An autonomous world where mechanical arms were always twisting and picking, and the machines were always hovering and sucking up chips and wires from eternal lines of silent tugboats and winking lorries. Nothing ever stopped working here. It was always light. It was always open. For the spotlights followed the yellow cranes and silver drones everywhere; when they wandered between the black river and grey mounds, they watched them; when they discarded their hauls onto the elevators and belts that climbed into the always bright, always blinking cityscape, they watched them. They lit up the metal mountains and followed every limb that poked and picked and pulled at the piles. This autonomous world was always temporary. For something was always falling, and something was always shifting, and something here was always worth something.
Maya clambered the yard like a wild thing. Wide stanced, wide-eyed, dotting and leaping over gaps that were filled with shards and torn-up useless panels. A sign ahead lit up, ‘Southern Slow Mound.’ Another to the side said, ‘Eastern General. Scrapping Priority Zone.’ She continued south. Leaping and stepping. Climbing and crawling. Shifting and sliding between walls and layers of panels. She stood and considered the cave below. Hollow and wide. Deep and black. Dangerous, yet possibly rewarding. Giant mechanical claws appeared above clacking. Dropped its load. She side-leaped, legs splayed. The horde crashed through the hole. She landed faintly and calm like a housecat, feet sticking like paws to the sheet-metal on the bank. Her boots were rubber-wrapped—transparent around the heels, sides and toes like she had stepped in glue. She pressed on, moving slow and tentative when her mind told her too, stretching out a leg or hand, pressing at sheets and layers before she deemed them safe or not. Sometimes she dotted quickly, light and agile, her toes barely registering on the piles. She stood and stopped at a wall. She tapped her gloved knuckle on the sheet. A low ring. Dense. She tapped again in different places as she listened and studied the sound like it meant something, as if the walls said something in a different language. She eyed up the panels. Then jumped, kicked into the panel, sprung up, hung, and pulled herself high. As she stood in bundles of stripped rubber and wires, she stared at the large sheets that propped and managed the roof high—from a ship, or jet maybe. She pulled one aside, waited for a moment and stared and listened before she bent and crept in. The spotlights cast beams through the gaps above and to the side and stalked the space like lines of yellow lasers searching through the walls. Her Twaron fibre jacket scratched on barbs either side on the tunnel. She knelt and pulled at the wall. Small yellow wiring prized out—loose, long and unstripped. She twisted and knotted them, then slid the bow into the pack strapped to her thigh. She pulled more, did the same—copper, aluminium—some wrapped in their blue and red thermoplastic sheaths, some not. She dug at the walls, shifted panels and beams, her hands and multi-tool working deftly. She removed the Nano-titanium-Carbon cheek plates from a Maid-Android head, its eyes long gone, but it was still full of clean wires and valuable shielding. She stripped it, searched through its skull. The chips were still there—memory, graphics, processors. All carefully sprung loose, then packed away accordingly. She pushed up her sleeve and it tugged on the metal bracer—thickly and thinly scarred, the screen dark and lifeless. She pulled a black flat pole from the belly of the forearm collar, it clicked when it reached far past her hand. Then the end of the stem popped out into a disk like an electrified flower head. Each triangle petal, long and thin. She slid a clasp open on the bracer, pushed her thumb in, twisted, released. The bracer whirled and blinked, hummed and shone yellow like an angry hornet. She tapped the cracked screen: PULLER. She knelt, held out her hand then splayed her fingers and the round head buzzed. She squeezed air. Her hand jolted. The plate crackled like tiny bullets hitting bone. She held out two fingers below the plated head, it tucked, snapped into three petals. She cupped her right hand and flicked her bracer fingers, and clumps fell into her palm. She removed a thick pen and a chain with a lens from her thigh pack. She placed the monocle in her socket, squinted to keep it in place. Hovered the end of the pen over the small grey and black lumps in her palm and clicked the top. Through the lens, the bug-like specs and lumps shone—mostly metallic, a fair amount white, a few greens and reddish-purple, and some little spots of yellow. She didn’t study them for long before she poured them into a small container that could’ve been an old Zippo and slipped it into her chest-pack. The wall creaked. The layers were pulled and searched at from the outside. She inched lower, peaked at the light disappearing and appearing through the scrap wall. Legs. Prying hands. Large metal grabbers. She shifted almost silently across the jaggered floor, inched through the tunnel and toward the flashing and flying lights outside. She crawled closer to the crashing that thundered and clapped as it rolled, the falling hordes absorbing more metal and wires and panels before they settled into mounds. Aching mountains built from the scraps of others, each layer with its own secrets and dangers piled on top of each other. There were small spots of silence before the crashing outside came again. Then someone shouted, called out something, clapped the side of the panel. The tunnel shudderd. She pushed her weight up. Held the roof. Then scuffled like a monkey does along its branches, sideward, arms and steps wide and and high, grabbing and shifting a canter. Hunched, pressing, pushing the roof as panels fell behind her. The roof collapsed. She dived. Crushed her chest-pack. Legs and feet stuck. Lights shining down on her. She clawed at the floor and pulled. Heard a click of a primed weapon. Tucked her elbows to her ears. Waited for the pain, or the threat, or for the darkness before the tunnel of light. She turned. A snubbed double-barrel to her face. Two blue eyes staring. The wrapped-up-black figure lowered the gun.
-Oh, hey Maya, she said pulling down her scarf. Good haul?
Maya’s eye lit up blue as the laser passed over. She walked into the Reclamation Hub, a vast, square, cavernous space filled with the sounds of whirring machinery, the smell of iron and burnt rubber, and headed to the corner where a sign lit up, ’CONVERSION.’ She unstrapped the small pack on her thigh. She leant in and the screen scanned her eye and flashed ‘LOADING.’ Then ‘WEIGHING’ SCANNING’.
-Good afternoon, Maya. We hope your foraging was bounteous today. Please place your items on the conveyor-belt, the screen chimed.
She poured the condense onto the belt. The scanner hummed as a holographic display appeared.
-High value items, the scanner announced as the screen showed, REE Concentrate, 3 kilograms. Value: 10 BDP. 348 MC. Pounds or Mecha? It asked.
-Mecha’s, said Maya.
The display confirmed.
Next, she unzipped her backpack and placed two plates on the belt.
Nano-titanium-Carbon Plates, the scanner flashed. 2 kilograms. Value: 20 BDP. 696 MC.
-Mecha’s.
696 MechaCredits, the display confirms.
Two small, intricate units are placed next. QCPU Cores. The screen flashed: 1.4 kilograms. Value: 45.23 BDP. 1574 Credits.
-Mecha’s, Maya said without hesitation.
The screen confirmed.
Maya placed four small modules on the belt. ANNP Modules. 1.7 kilograms. Value: 36.61 BDP. 1274 MechaCredits.
-Mecha’s.
Maya then placed a collection of small cylinders on the belt and the screen paused, then flashed: Graphene Capacitors. 4.2 kilograms. Value: 16.55 BDP. 576 Credits.
-Mecha’s, Maya confirmed.
She unloaded piles of coils and panels as the belt carried them away.
Medium Value Items. Copper Wiring. 10 kilograms. Value: 21.45 BDP. 746.46 MC.
-Pounds, Maya said.
-Twenty-one pounds, forty-five pence, the voice confirmed.
Maya continued to place the scrap on the belt, and it weighed and scanned. Circuit Boards: 1.8 kilograms. Value: 35.45 BDP. 1233.66 MC. Solar Panel Fragments: 3.6 kilograms. Value: 16.74 BDP. 582.55 MC.
-Pounds, she clarified.
Finally, she dumps a large pile of items onto the conveyor from her backpack.
The screen flashed: Low value items. Mixed Plastics. 21.2 kilograms. Value: 5.40 BDP. 188.00. Ferrous Metal Scrap. 7.3 kilograms. Value: 2.25 BDP. 78.30 MC.
-Pounds, said Maya.
The holographic display updates. TOTAL EARNT. BDP: 81.29. Total MC: 6508.97
-What’s the current Mecha exchange? She asked.
-Thirteen percent decrease today, said the screen.
Maya sighed and said. Okay, transfer,
-Transfer made, the screen chimed as the numbers disappeared.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Maya walked through the scanners and left the Processing Centre at Tilbury Docks. She walked the short walk to the bus stop and didn’t wait long before the three-story red decker turned up. It’s outer walls were playing out a scene from a new series or film, she wasn’t sure. She scanned her thumb and her watched buzzed and notified her: 19:32. TFL. -6 BDP.
She sat and tore open a small blue packet and sucked on it and stared out the window. A man laughed and joked with his three children on the billboard—its holograph pushing out from the corner of building and onto the street—he span in circles and waved two silver chop-sticks. A woman with a bright white toothy smile hugged him from behind before they all slid into the low dining table that sunk into the floor. The children smiled as the man held and cracked the brightly lettered YumYum pack—25% EXTRA. He then poured the steaming noodles into bowls. The children cheered and pointed at him, pressed their palms together and bowed slightly, eyes peering at their shining parent. White, black and silver egg-shaped cars passed by, their privacy windows wrapped around its shell like a bow and mirrored the holo-boards from the street and from the glass towers and from the hovering Ad-Drones. One flashed: 20% off Mecha-Credits: with an eight-minute countdown. Another one flashed something about a new rapid software—more time in Mecha, it said. A large blimp-like Ad-Drone flashed over and over: Be The Person You Always Wanted. Mecha-Realm. Just a second away. Come for an hour, earn a day.
She left the bus and stopped at the corner stand, the shelving bands flashed blue and yellow as the prices switched between BDP and MC. She stared at the old digital board and watched the prices, she sighed when they flickered: +3.4%. She picked dirt from her nails then put the bottle of water back on the shelf. She scanned her protein burger and placed her thumb on the pad. Her watch notified her: 19:52. Tesco. -11 BDP. She snapped the pack then put it in her chest-bag, walked across the street to Westfield station and sat at the back of the platform, pulled out and opened the burger. Steam billowed out. She bit in and cheese sauce dripped onto her overalls.
She left Rochester station as her watched notified her: 20:37. British Rail. -34 BDP. She walked across the street to the bus stop and looked at the sign. #34: 12 Minutes.
She rode the bus for eighteen minutes, then walked two minutes to the gate. Scanned her thumb on the pad and the metal door to Chatham Community Camp opened. She walked the outer route to avoid the groups of kids dressed in dark clothing and balaclavas throwing bangers at the caged windows and shooting fireworks at drones. Two of them had big brown dogs with spiked collars and no leads. A man shouted from his window high up in the tower. The group shouted something back, all Maya heard was ‘come down here and tell us.’ The man in the window shook his head and retreated inside.
She scanned her thumb and the metal door slid open. The yellow LED lights stuttered for a few moments before they didn’t come back on, and the only light came from the Craving Vending Machines snug in the wall and from the LIFT sign at the end of the corridor. She walked and placed her thumb on the call pad. Her eyes wandered across the machine as she waited. B12+ and Omega Oil Nutrient packs: 8 BDP. Mixed Protein Burger: 13 BDP—Cheese sauce: 2 BDP. Nicotine Cartridge: 18 BDP. Electrolyte Gel: 6 BDP. Walkers Share Bag: 7 BDP.
The elevator door slid open and lit up the hallway and Maya turned her head and squinted her eyes. The back panel glowed neon yellow and blue and advertised Nutrient injections before it flickered to the seaside—a beach somewhere with ice-creams and miniature golf. A woman’s voice said, Broadstairs: Just a train ride away. Come fast. Come now. Create memories. Create joy. Create fun. Create lasting time for you and your family. Check your travel ranking now. Check your travel ranking now. Check your travel ranking now. A thumb scanner door slid open but Maya just looked away as she stepped in. The ad flickered and the screen quickly and quietly said, Mecha-Broadstairs available now. A second away. A life away. A dream away. A digital button read: Scan here. She held her thumb to the larger pad. It flashed. She pressed Floor 73.
The red screens on either side wall played the news. British Troops were somewhere with sand, it looked hot and dry, and the streets were barricaded and ruined like an earthquake had happened or bombs had gone off. She tapped the ‘x’ in the lower corner but the sound didn’t mute and the screen didn’t stop. The back wall flashed—Maya jolted from the noise—Up your Citizen Credit Score now. Travel. Learn. Earn. Give Back. Apply here.
A list scrolled down the screen:
In Your Area:
Community Watch Program.
Report Illegal Acts.
Report Noise Violations.
Report Suspicions.
EARN. EARN. EARN, WITH US.
All Careers Available.
JOIN the UKGOV.
Her room was the exact same size as a prison cell. It was even advertised as so: The same size, but cheaper than jail—was the hook. Although in prison you had your own toilet.
Maya slumped onto the chair and picked at the leather and scratched at the cheese sauce stain on her leg with her thumbnail. Once it was gone she stared out the window and watched the red, yellow and blue cracks of the fireworks light up the grey building and then at the two dogs snapping and jumping and barking at the bangers and flashes.
Maya scrolled through the notifications on her watch.
21:32. Jamal: Let’s go in!
21:41. Jamal: Where are you?
21: 42. MR. Shift Available: Data Entry, 2 Hours. Potential Earnings: 60 BDC.
21:45. Jamal: I’m going in.
21:47. Jamal: I’ll be in Fairways Casino for a bit then I’m meeting up with your sis.
21: 48. Jamal: Come come come.
She checked her account on her watch.
12/06/2044. 21:49.
UKGOV Banking.
British Digital Pound: 308.
MechaCredits: 17,067.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
With a heavy sigh, she leaned over and opened the drawer and removed her helmet. She pulled out a wire coil, a small chip and multi-tool from her pack. She stripped and cut the wire, unscrewed the panel on the helmet and carefully pulled out three frayed wires and a chip, she twisted the three scrapped golden wires, attached them, and slid in the chip and screwed up the panel. She held the helmet in her hands for a moment, bounced it a little. She put the helmet on and stared at a worn picture torn from a magazine and pinned to the wall. White sand, tropical trees with coconuts, a blue clear sky that didn’t look real. She scanned her thumb on the side of the helmet. The visor slid down and lit-up her face bright blue.
The interface screen flickered.
‘Mecha-Realm’
Confirm.
She slowly blinked twice.
The interface initialized. A flash. A featureless figure. Distorted. Eyes glowing orange.
The last thing she saw before the transition was the short loading bar and the small text at the bottom, "Welcome to Mecha. Come for a moment, gain a lot more.”
. . .
She spawned on the terrace of her apartment. Her crimson robe glittered with gold triangles. Ahead, a spire shone and churned silver like a river of metal—a giant ‘M’ flashed blue on its tip. Jets zipped past. People twisted and barrelled as streams of coloured smoke followed them in spirals and straight lines. The park below was bright. Fountains sprayed illogical shapes into the air. Trees lined the wide clean white paths. Cars hovered in a cue.
She turned and walked inside. Clean, polished marbled white walls. White sheets on the hovering bedframe. White countertops. Coffee machine. Fridge. Large screens in her Workspace.
She sat at the screen and it lit up. A list:
Upgrades.
Messages.
Mecha-Net.
Perks.
Gifts.
She tapped messages.
Jamal—5 New Messages.
Earn—18 New Messages.
Housekeeping— 27 Messages.
Invites—74 Messages.
She tapped Earn.
A list:
Street Safety.
Report Nuisances.
Full and Part-Time Careers.
Productivity Centre.
She tapped Productivity Centre.
A message waited.
Data Entry. Mecha Headquarters. 2 hours. Potential Earnings: 57 BDC. 1983.6 MC.+15% Bonus uplift—if exceedingly good.
She tapped ACCEPT.
Maya materialized at her assigned workstation. A holographic data stream cascaded before her in endless lines of code and data points. A message hovered: Task: data entry, categorizing and organizing information for Better Logistics. A clock shows: RW. 22:55. Mecha. 17:55. Time duration. Real World Time Task. 20 Minutes. Mecha Time Task. 120 Minutes.
Maya's fingers flew across the virtual Globe-board precise and efficient. A digital billboard flashed in the centre of the hall. "Own Your Personal Wyvern! Fly Through the Data Streams!" "Construct Your Dream Fortress in the Cloud!" "Unlock Exclusive Avatar Customizations!"
Hundreds of focused heads faced the holographic spheres, each wore something different: shimmering dragon wings, glowing cybernetic limbs, and even miniature, animated companions. One avatar, a hulking figure with glowing red eyes watched a massive wolf, its fur rippling with detail as it ran beside him as if on a treadmill. Numbers scrolled and collected above the wolf as it generated feedback. The owner shifted the data around into bunches and fed them into the sphere.
A message hovers in the right corner. Productivity -14%.
Maya shook off the distractions and continued.
A notification pops up on her workstation: “RW TIME SPENT. 2 HRS: 24 MIN. PAID. BDP: 42 BDP.”
A glitch flickered across her data stream. A brief, distorted image: the featureless figure she saw in the real world, its eyes glowing. The image vanishes. A message: "System Error: Please Continue Task."
She glanced around—the other avatars were focused on their tasks. A Holo-board flashed. Mecha-Credits Exchange: ALL CURRENCY.
Dirham + 3.7%
Yen + 2.9%
Dollar + 1.8%
Euro + 1.3 %
Pound - 2.6%
…
Pound - 2.8%
…
Pound - 3.1%
*
Maya came to the city in 2035. After her mother died, her father moved her and her sister to London with the promise of working his dream of saving lives and making the sick well. Finally, a chance to become a Medical Doctor, a chance to be someone. A chance for them all to start fresh, he told her.
She had worked at the Processing Centre at Tilbury Docks for ten years searching through dead machines, risking limb and often life, for the cranes and drones dropped what they wanted when they wanted and other Scavs had Local Priority, so she often had to go deeper into the stacks and under the chutes and claws to Scrap. But it was better than Wembley PC and Clapham PC and even better than Tottenham PC, although the death rate was lower there.
Three years and four months after Maya moved to London her father was killed in Hackney. The Police report said he didn’t fight back, and it noted that a witness said she saw three homeless men snatch his sandwich, push him to the floor, kicked him, and then stabbed him. The Coroner’s report said he was stabbed seven times by one blade, six by another, and cut between fifteen and nineteen times with a razor-blade shank. It accounted that they couldn’t be sure of the exact the amount of the slashes due to the stab marks.
Maya and her sister, Daniella, were adopted into state-care and moved between eight foster centres until Maya was twenty-one. She stayed as a volunteer for another two-years before her sister was twenty-one and released, and then they both got jobs in the massage parlour behind Seven Sisters road before Maya quit and became a Scav. Daniella still works there.
