Chapter 1

<Trigger warning: suicidal ideation>

The Servant

I curl my toes over the sharp concrete edge.

Beneath my feet, the building falls away, a straight line of steel and glass that terminates just before the street below. I shouldn’t be up on this roof. I shouldn’t have climbed over the metal rail, gripping it with both hands and leaning out over the open air as far as my arms allow.

I should have the strength to let go.

But I don’t.

The wind tugs on my hair, and a soft haze of moisture kisses my cheek. Above me, the world is soft gray clouds and a promise of rain. On the street below, the world is what they made it. Figures move in orderly lines along the street. A mix of longing and despair tangle in my chest at the sight. Longing, because normally, I’m part of that calm, homogeneous whole. Doing as bid without any thought or care for where I’m going or what task I have to complete. A simple, soothing existence that I am normally grateful to be part of.

That’s what we all do, now. Serve.

We serve our Lords, who came to our world to guide us to a better life.

It is fulfilling. Meaningful. Simple. I want to embrace it—I know I should. Except for times like now, when other thoughts creep into my head. Half formed memories swirl at the edges of my vision and, for a brief moment, I see something other than order. I see a world that came before, one where people walked how they wanted, together in groups, fast or slow as they pleased. A time where the place below me had a name, an identity beyond what the Lords tell us.

Once, I’d known that name. I feel certain of that.

But that knowledge is gone, eaten by the same sickness that took my name.

How can I miss something I don’t even remember? It’s foolish—selfish—to long for these lost names. The Lords give us peace. Direction. To serve them is to help my world reach its full potential.

I shake my head, willing it to clear. Wanting to banish the ghosts of my forgotten past and resume my place among the dutiful Servants below. Yet memories rise from the depths and coil around my chest, clogging my lungs and blurring my vision. I blink, and for a moment there are no calm lines. Everything is pain and rage, with wild eyes and teeth charging forward with mindless hunger. Biting. Gnawing. Tearing through a screen door to rip into a person who’s begging for their life—

I suck in a sharp breath.

No, no, no. That was me. I did that.

The memory fades, as it always does. But the knowing remains. Following these sharp moments, I have no doubt that letting go of the railing is the best thing I can do.

I owe it to the world I helped kill.

Hold on, a voice whispers. Serve.

I hate this voice. It always drowns out the flashes of the past, where my hands are curled into claws rather than around a railing. I don’t want to forget how I ripped into people around me—I don’t deserve to be free of their screams. Gritting my teeth, I fight to keep the past in my head, to stop it from fading into mist.

I have to do what is right while I can.

Keeping my feet planted, I try to stretch my arms further. To lean further over the street. It is almost like flying—or floating—to hold myself about the neatly flowing population below. The Lords did this to us, bound us to always walk two careful steps behind each other, maintaining an arm’s length on either side. It is the only way for Servants to travel.

I eye the street.

If I convince my fingers to let go, will I land in the middle of those lines, breaking the ever-present pattern? My fellow Servants won’t risk touching my dead body, not even to clean my blood from the pavement. We never touch each other. Even the slightest brush of one arm against another can trigger what our Lords call the Resonance—the screaming in our heads, built to punish those who break the rules.

To touch is to fail the whole.

So it is the one thing the Lords don’t make us do.

But there are so many things I have done. So many reasons to let myself fall.

I sniff in disdain as a pair of Lordlings scurry between the rows of Servants, their frames still visibly smaller than the Lords, their faces covered with the same mirrored helms. The Lordlings delight in making us perform the most menial tasks—and they hate dirtying their suits. Forcing them to clean up my blood would be a final, perfect act of defiance.

If only my fingers would cooperate.

Return, the voice whispers. Serve.

Too bad. My lips pull upward as my arms begin to shake with exhaustion. This is the longest I’ve ever held onto awareness—I’m not sure how I know this, but I feel its truth the same way I feel the sea mist on my exposed skin. A tentative elation sweeps through me. I’m going to make it. The voice can whisper all it wants; when my hands give out, they’ll let go no matter what the voice says.

Gravity will do the rest.

I draw in a deep breath of cool air and soak in the view.

Soon, everything will change. But for now, I watch and wait, certain that none of the Servants below will lift their gaze. Nor will any of the Lordlings—they’ll never lower themselves to checking on a single, lost Servant. As for the Lords? Well. They’d have to be nearby and inclined to look—and none are in sight.

Between the rows of steadily walking Servants on the ground and my toes on the building’s edge, the occasional shuttle streaks past. Some large, some small. All with the same shape, like a stretched out star with a curved dome of mirrored glass in the middle—making them all resemble the Lords’ helms. And all are lit with green lights, leaving a finely illuminated trail of bright green in their wake. They’ll be ferrying Lords and Lordlings between the ground and the motherships hovering high above.

Tilting my head upward, I squint at the sky.

I know a mothership sits high above me, but my eyes are not equal to the challenge.

My arms tremble and I shift my gaze to the space below me, catching sight of an approaching shuttle. This one flies slightly higher than the rest, giving me an unfiltered view as it draws closer. With its white-and-gray panels outlined by delicate lines of verdant power, the ship looks like an extension of the Lords’ suits. I want to hate it, but the resemblance to my own Lord threatens to twist my resolve into compliance. I gulp in misty air and try to focus on my revenge. My forearms are screaming, my biceps begging for mercy. Surely I can’t hold on much longer?

If I time it right, can I splatter myself on the mirrored helm?

That would make more of a statement than sullying the pavement. It would inconvenience the Lordlings—maybe even a Lord. I imagine the Lordlings struggling to scrub the white panels clean and somehow a laugh escapes my lips. Hah. Struggling to wipe off blood would teach the smug little Lordlings to think twice before threatening dutiful Servants. I wonder if the impact could make them crash? That would be the biggest revenge of all.

But what if my Lord is inside?

The thought punches through me.

My Lord. I can’t risk him. I have to serve. I have to pull myself over the rail and return to my duties…

No. No!

I have to let go. Now.

“One… Two…” I cough as the simple words cut my throat like dry stones. With a jolt, I realize I can’t recall the last time I’ve spoken. Servants rarely speak—our Lords prefer silence and words have no place in our lives. Still, it hardly matters. I can’t remember most things.

I try to shrug, but my arms refuse to cooperate.

Tucking my chin in, I focus on my left shoulder and the mottled, raised brand marking my skin. The patch is green—the same luminous green that powers the shuttles, suits and exoskeletons. A permanent reminder of what I’ve become—what I’ve done—and how the Mothermind guides her Servants. The mark is how she directs us, and how the Lords relay orders to all their Servants without the need of messy words. Though the mark curls out of sight, I know the bulk of it sits upon the back of my neck, not because I’ve seen it, but because I feel its presence everyday.

As I stare at it, the mark trembles, as if uneasy with my countdown.

Good. Be scared.

I glare at it. Most of the time, that mark is the voice in my head. Relaying signals and using the pressure on my neck to tell me what to do. “But not today,” I croak. Today, in this moment, I am Awake. “Three…”

Return, the voice says. Serve.

I hold my breath and will my fingers to release.

But my grip holds. No! How dare my hands obey the voice and not my own desires. I can’t have long now before the urge pulls me back into the void. Will I even remember this the next time I wake? Or is this my last chance?

Will I forget I’m a monster?

Don’t forget. I bite my lip, willing the pain to focus my thoughts, and try to lean out further, stretching my arms and forcing them to shake violently. I have to remember. I have to let go—

I frown at my shirt.

There is a red dot on my chest.

Bright and no bigger than the tip of my pinky finger, it dances across the gray fabric of my assigned uniform. What is it doing there? Where has it come from? I’m not bleeding—not yet. And the Lords don’t allow us to wear any colors—and the only color they permit on their suits is green. Also, it’s moving. It can’t be stuck to my shirt, but it’s also not a bug.

Am I not alone up here? Is this mark a sign another Awake is also trying to set themselves free? Perhaps we can help each other. Long distance, silent cheering? Unlikely, but the chance of sharing a brief connection before the end is too tempting to resist. It would be nice to not feel alone when I fall.

Lifting my gaze, I scan the surrounding tower-tops.

But there’s nothing…

A glint on a distant rooftop catches my eye. They’re too far away to see anything, but I want to believe that someone is there, watching, willing me on. I try to smile. I don’t have a red dot to reply with, but hopefully this Servant planned better than I did. Pretending they’re counting with me, I try again.

“One, two.” I draw in a deep breath. “Three—”

Pain stabs the back of my neck.

“No!” I yank on my arm, twisting my torso to try and force my tired hands to relinquish their grasp.

Serve, the voice demands.

My marked skin constricts, tightening at the back of my neck. It feels like a hand has suddenly appeared to hold me, and soothing energy eases into my spine. With each pulse, my resistance fades. A familiar sense of calm steals over my mind, washing away the pain and leaving me with a simple directive: Return.

My hands no longer tremble, my arms no longer burn. I straighten, my back once again tight against the railing. Releasing my right hand, I twist and swing a leg over the bar, landing neatly on the rooftop beyond. It is so easy to move when I do what my Lord commands. My body feels loose, my steps fluid, as I cross the roof and head to the door leading down. There are many stairs, but I already know they will not trouble me, nor will whatever bothered me above.

Those worries are gone, washed away by the soothing beat of an order.

My Lord has sent for me. And I will, as always, obey.

DJ HolmesApril 15, 2025