Noia leans back on the railing. The descent of the elevator is smooth and she sighs, rubbing her temples to ward off what she suspects is a headache.

The lightning children…

They had been…a collection of abandoned cases. Their misfortune originated for various reasons: a mother was too young, a family already had too many mouths to feed, an affair’s result was unsupported, an incurable disease had manifested, and countless others had developed disabilities and deformities. Noia had taken them, empathetic to their suffering. With her they grew and enjoyed what she could provide. They had been playing in her sky laboratory when the accident happened. She had been measuring energy efficiency in relation to electrostatic occurrences with moisture when she had encountered an unknown variable – what mattered was that the children had come out of the experience with the ability to separate and bridge charged particles.

They could channel lightning! Eventually she found they could convert lightning strikes into energy and they were happy to help simply by playing outside during the most energized tempests.

Until Zuiter twisted the aftermath of their romps and then stole them for his own purposes. He used them as bolts to exhibit power. Sure, she had a temper but she had never turned on them or used them to vent her frustrations.

Zuiter had turned them into murderers.

Noia shakes her head to chase out the thought. She frowns at the panelboard. There are no buttons for B5-B7, only spaces on the panel where the buttons had been.

Noia feels the bass beat vibrating through the walls before the elevator doors open to reveal a brightly lit landing area. There is a crowd of people lined before open double doors where music and lights bounce off the stone acoustics. On either side of the entrance are two mountainous men, burley like the guards outside ETHR’s main offices. There are booths against the walls here where women sell small lights, clothing, reflective jewelry, glow sticks, and glow paint, among other things.

Curious, Noia advances with the crowd. It isn’t long before more press in behind her from the elevator and stairwell. Now Noia sees that the bouncers are checking cards presented to them under a black light. For those without a card they lean in to have their shoulder scanned with a device the size of a lipstick tube; the only ones without cards for the bouncers are with someone who does have one.

Once at the front of the line a bouncer frowns at Noia. “Membership card?”

She swallows but, spurred by inspiration, smiles up at the bouncer and forces a nervous laugh. “Could you remind me which one it is? I was given so many.”

He narrows his eyes, suspicious of the small lie. “Where is your residence card?”

“Residence card?”

He folds his arms. “Do you live here?”

“Yes, in the penthouse.”

He frowns deeper. “I need to see your key card, the one you use in the elevator to permit you access to the penthouse.”

Noia pulls the brown key card out of her pocket and presents it. He holds it under the black light – and then raises his eyebrows. His expression is more relaxed when he returns the card.

“Thank you, ma’am. If you would hold out your arm, please?”

“Does it matter which?”

“No, ma’am.”

Noia lifts her left arm and he pulls a stamp from his pocket and rolls it on the back of her hand. It leaves a lightning bolt enclosed inside a circle in dark green ink. He gestures beyond the open doors.

“Welcome to 6 Feet Underground, ma’am. Please enjoy your VIP access.”

Noia thanks him with a smile and steps forward.

No wonder there were no buttons for B5-B7 in the elevator – the floors had been merged into this exclusive access club.

The first two stories, B8 & B7, supported the bars and dance floor. At the opposite end of the dance floor a grand staircase gave access to what have been B6 and B5. B6 had balcony edges that circled the entire floor. Curtains hung over carved out archways to give the semblance of a private space. At the top of the staircase were more bouncers guarding access to an area veiled with decorative curtains, sheer in some sections to reveal teasing silhouettes. The purple and blue lighting there shifted and writhed in time with a beat different from the one on the dance floor.

Noia is soon distracted by the flashing lights and glow paint decorated bodies and makes her way to one of the bars with available stools close to the wall. She takes a seat two down from a hooded young man hunched over his drink. The music is muffled here as if there is an invisible, noise-absorbing barrier just around the bar.

“What can I get you?”

Noia jerks her head up. The bartender in a black tank top and slacks on the other side of the counter waits patiently, a faint smile on her lips.

“You alright, miss?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“You look thirsty. What can I get for you?”

“I don’t have any money to pay you with.”

The woman laughs, tossing back her ponytail. “Didn’t they tell you what comes with your stamp, sweetie?”

“No.”

“You have unlimited access to all levels of this building as a VIP with that particular stamp. All services are paid for on ETHR’s tab. All I need to do is scan your access card to log any costs and you’re golden. So, what would you like? A stiff liqueur? Fruit infusion? Or are you craving coffee cream?”

“I guess a fruit infusion. Please.”

The bartender uses a hand scanner for her card. Between Noia putting away the card and glancing back out at the dance floor the bartender set a glass before her with an umbrella, slice of orange, and a straw. Noia blinks in surprise then slips tentatively from the straw. It is pleasant enough that she can’t separate the taste of the alcohol in it.

The orange makes her think of trees which then reminds her of the wilted environment from her trip with Deline. She had seen so little greenery barely clinging onto the land during her flight from Rome to Washington State. From her research she read the End Wars had all but decimated the planet and the humans were struggling to hang on between the degraded atmosphere, radiation zones, and the contagious remnants of biological warfare. Though it seemed the Global Alliance was rallying humankind together and that ETHR was doing some environmental good there was a creeping sense of unease that to Noia signaled an undertone of control. Ventures out into the wilds that are creeping across ruined cities were time limited and supervised by ETHR’s staff. Travel passports were tagged with any movement across the globe–

Though they’re not as sensitive as the ley lines, she thought.

It seems the world had become a mess only Big Brother was sorting out. If she did not know better she could swear Zuiter is here, pulling the strings from the top.

And they want to open the jar…

No. The jar needs to stay out of humankind’s hands. Something about the lightning children was connected to the jar but the remaining memories are still fuzzy to Noia…

“Damn dystopian slaves,” the young man at the end of the bar mutters. Noia squints through the haze from fogger machines at him. “An omniscient worldwide surveillance organization and a happy-go-lucky do-gooder company that employs subliminal messages in every advertisement are in charge and the last generation gave away our liberties for the illusion of security leaving us with neither. The war is over, they say, we’re working together now, huh? Tch! Purify the acid rain my ass. Where do they think all the toxins are coming from – let alone where they’re being dumped? Connect with your prefect match? Then why do they need our DNA samples to make matches? It’s a breeding pedigree, people!”

Noia sips her drink too fast and sputters. She hits her chest with one open hand, coughing and gasping, eyes watering. It isn’t until another hand, broad and firm, claps her on the back a few times that she is finally able to clear her esophagus. When she looks up again he is standing right next to her.

“Better?”

Vote on your next choice by commenting below or following the link in the comments to the survey (this is the last week I try comment voting). Deadline to submit your feedback: Wednesday September 6, 2017 @ 8PM EST

After confirming you can breathe he introduces himself as Rowan. Then he asks who you are and what you think of the state of affairs. What do you say?

A. Express your own doubts

o +charisma

B. Ask him what evidence he has

o +wisdom

C. Pretend you did not hear him

o +strength

D. Demand to know who the hell he is

o +speed