It all started with a basket of fruit. I swear, I didn’t mean for him to end up dead.

Everything on this planet is gray. The sky is gray, the buildings are gray, heck, even the food is gray. Nothing like my homeland, where the flora that the Mother gifted us flourished, painting the planet a myriad of pinks and greens, with blues and oranges lighting up the sporangium forests. Now, I only breathed in such vibrancy in my dreams.

That fated day began just like any other day. I got up from the room I had borrowed, or whatever you called it on your world, and slipped on my work uniform, a tight-fitting, charcoal jumpsuit with matching light gray joggers. It wasn’t much to look at, but it fit and it was easy to work in, at least for now. Who knows how long I had on this planet until the Xylish intelligence operatives found me. Not long, I hoped.

I picked up my comb, attempted to look somewhat professional for work. Yet, my blonde hair had gone limp, the chemicals in the smog turning my hair a putrid green.

I gazed into the mirror, taking in my dismal appearance. I was paler than ever, the bags under my eyes giving me a sickly glow. I looked ill, as if my light, my soul, was fading before my eyes.

I trotted down to the café below, attempting to wake myself up as I descended. I felt like shit. No one on my home world arose before our star was at least a quarter of the way above the horizon, and there never was a hurry to get places.

Here, on this dismal, gray world, everyone worked all of the time. The star had not even arisen, yet I had to work, wasting my day away pouring gray drinks for pallid people dressed in formal wear so uncomfortable, it made me almost wish I was back home.

That was when I spotted the fruits, a splotch of color in the colorless sea of WellCorp employees.

I couldn’t tell what they were at first, thinking that the colorful objects were some kind of security measure, like those sterile alarm sirens that topped the lampposts in this district. How ironic that the one splash of color was also a constant reminder that I was not welcome here.

Now, not all districts were as colorless as this one – the upper east side was abundant with neon everything, from signs to clothing to even food – yet none of it was like Xylia. Xylia, where fruit grew abundantly among the fertile grasslands and blossoming trees. Xylia, where the air never smelled like mysterious chemicals, casting a haze upon the land. Xylia, my home and my worst nightmare.

The man cradling the basket came up to my counter and ordered a NewCoffee, one of those WellCorp beverages supposedly proven to increase productivity. I still couldn’t tell you how, but it seemed to do the trick every time. Yet, all the ingredients were truly mouthfuls to pronounce, each packed with artificial flavors such as Tropical Fruity Refresh. What did that even mean?

“How would you like your NewCoffee served,” I asked him. Standard procedure. “We can serve it either hot or cold, for here or to go.”

He looked up from his tablet and gave me a curt nod, replying, “Cold, to go.”

I distantly smiled at him and handed him his NewCoffee, distracted by the basket in his left arm. Under the gray towel, I spotted at least six fresh green limes and two apples, pristine and crisp.

“Sir, are you paying in cash or card,” I asked, attempting to pull my gaze away from the delicious treasures.

“Cash is fine,” he replied, pulling out his wallet and rifling through it for a moment.

He placed three coins on the counter and moved away as if to leave when I grabbed his jacket. 

He looked down at my hand gripping his jacket, disgust painting his face.

“Nowhere that has ever known the likes of you,” he scowled. “I could sue you for assault in the way you almost ruined my suitcoat. Do you have any idea how much this cost? Now let go of me.”

I mumbled out a quick apology and released my grip on his jacket, sighing with defeat as the only sign of life I had seen in six months walked away from me.

I swear I tried to stop myself, but I truly thought it didn’t hurt to ask.

“Cheer up, kid,” my manager, Mr. Gerald, said behind me, looping an arm around my shoulders and giving me a small grin. “Mr. Pearson has always been a cranky geezer. It’s about damn time someone shows that man a taste of his own medicine.”

And that was when I had an idea, an idea that would alter my life course forever. I was going to get one of those apples whether that old man liked it or not. I deserved it, after having to wade through hell to get here, to this colorless planet.

I was going to get my apple.

I deserved to be at least a little happy, even after betraying Xylia and betraying Mother. 

My life cannot be defined by just one small slip-up. I should be allowed to be who I am, whether on Xylia, Gamma-8, or even Old Earth. And I deserve a little treat every once and a while. I needed it to stay alive.

I threw off my apron and grabbed my work bag from the hook on the wall, my mind racing a mile a minute as I tried to figure out how the heck I was going to get just one apple off of a high-ranking WellCorp employee, one who just so happened to be armed to the teeth and pissed off.

“Don’t worry, Mr. G.” I called out behind me as I ran out the door, the pockets of my work bag fluttering from the air conditioning unit pushing cold air outside. “I’ll be back in 15. Consider this my midday break.”

And with that, I rushed into the streets, tracking Mr. Pearson’s WellCorp-issued, management-purple hat as I descended into the crowds of the lower west side. I was going to retrieve the last piece of flora on this dying planet whether Mr. G. liked it or not.

May this be one final act of resistance, my last bit of teenage rebellion before succumbing to my new dull life.