The Souls in Sectum – Chapter II – A Dictadurian
Tack, tack, tack. The rhythm persisted, relentless. Adria stood upon the same patch of ground for twenty-three grueling hours, breaking rocks in search of precious metals for Dictaduria, and its president, Roland Copernus. Raw metals held significant value in three of the four countries of Sectum
She sold her findings to the government, known as 'The Regime,' accepting their terms and prices if wanting to avoid a beating by the Sentinels. Dictaduria's social hierarchy mirrored that of centuries past, with the government monopolizing primal resources, processing them, and then selling them back to the populace at inflated rates in essential products.
Adria was an extarri—a label for anyone residing on the continent of Sectum. Three years she had spent in Dictaduria after enduring four in Imperia, a land that used to be ruled by Empress Sabina and her Elkrachet army—a period she would rather forget, violent, exhausting and painful. Her sentence was exile from Malkuth, her home planet, with four years still remaining from her original sentence.
According to her calculations, she was scheduled for relocation to Capitalia—a neighboring country to Dictaduria— in eight to ten months, an uncertainty about her future that loomed over her path to an unrequested redemption.
Covered in dirt, sweat, and a smattering of blood, Adria abandons her excavation site, her limbs protesting every movement. Numbness pervaded her body as she trudged forward, shouldering a bag weighing at least twenty-five kilos. At the end of the softly illuminated hallway stood a dark metallic wall, punctuated by five elevators. Adria summoned one and leaned against the nearest cold surface, exhaustion weighing upon her.
Three other dictadurians joined her, their idle chatter grating on Adria's nerves as she fought to keep her eyes closed, contemplating the use of another enhancer. It would be her third since she last slept, a dangerous gamble that could lead to a stroke if she overindulged. Doubt gnawed at her; would she even make it home with her dwindling energy?
Feeling dizzy, cold sweat beading on her brow, and acutely aware of her plummeting blood sugar levels, Adria succumbed to rest. The people around her fell silent as the elevator doors slid open; they entered first. Adria woke from her short slumber, seizing the opportunity to swallow a shiny purple pill. Its effects were instantaneous—a rush of warmth surged through her veins, invigorating her as she stepped into the elevator, alert amidst the sea of tired faces.
Finding a spot to lean, Adria braced herself for the journey ahead. Seventeen floors loomed above them within the mountain, but the elevator halted at the fifteenth floor and six others on its way up, inducing waves of nausea. With each stop, the graphene box grew warmer and more claustrophobic as worn-out dictadurians wearing their sweat dirty, old overalls filed in, leaving no room for escape.
Breath came in labored gasps. Adria's stomach churned with hunger after swallowing the enhancer pill; she hadn't eaten in thirteen hours, and fasting before that only exacerbated her hunger pangs. For the remainder of the journey, she kept her eyes shut, focusing on regulating her breathing and heart rate.
Finally, the elevator arrived at the main hall, where a couple of dozen dictadurians queued in two lines. Adria joined the right line, resigned to the monotony of her routine—a reality she endured two, sometimes three times a week if luck was on her side and more turns we're scheduled. Working for gatvits was a detestable chore, but material wealth was a necessity in Dictaduria and she had people too care about.
As she approached the payment booth, the enhancer continued to course through her veins, granting her energy for a few more hours. Waiting for her was Inea—an old, gaunt woman whom Adria had known since her first day in the mine.The young dictadurian extracted her rocks from the bag. The woman across the cement counter her looked impressed. "Adria, how long have you been here?"
"Twenty-three hours, I’m beaten, Nea."
The dispatcher let out a soft whistle, taking the stack of rocks and placing them inside a metallic box resembling a sophisticated microwave. The box, whiter than anything else in the mine, closed, and Kinea waited for about ten seconds before an alarm beeped. Opening the door, she showed that the rocks had been evaporated, leaving the raw metals behind.
"This is the best harvest we've had all day: 289 grams of iron, 113 grams of gold, 467 grams of silver, and 88 grams of bismuth. Well done. 7,540 gatvits are being transferred to your account. It should be available by the time you get off the mountain, go get some food, you look pale.”
“I was born pale, looks worse than what it is, don’t worry, take this for you. Thank you, Inea.”
Adria left ten metal coins knowing how she would use the money, to the last gatvit.
"You’re too kind, go get some sleep, dear, furka is not a good look for you, okay?" the old woman said with care, a kindness she had shown Adria since their first encounter. That's why she always chose her as cashier and left a tip.
"That's the plan, Nea, thanks for the compliment."
Some people in Dictaduria remained good at heart, and Inea was one of them. She would continue weighing rocks long after Adria had left—a stable job for a half century sentence. The reason Kinea ended up there was still a mystery but it had been confirmed by trusted sources those good intentions where known by the mine workers two decades prior those days.
As Adria stepped out of the mine, sunlight blinded her momentarily before her gray eyes adjusted to the brightness. Before her a panorama of several quarries and mines sprawled a sight all too familiar to her.
Glancing at her hands, she realized how dirty they were. Adria hadn't showered in several days, and all visible skin was coated with dust. Attempting to clean herself with her gray overalls proved futile; they were just as dirty. The digital clock above the entrance to the mine read 2:47 PM—a relatively early hour. Adria began her walk back to home and her grandfather, Bitlan. She needed water and food urgently; her body begged for sustenance.
The road was hot and dry, devoid of vegetation. Dictaduria lacked greenery, its dry lands dominated by endless blocks stretching for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. Sectum was the only place in Malkuth where the Edictum Vitae held no sway—a continent divided into four countries, each with its own social system and government. Aequiteism was nonexistent there.
Escape from Sectum using extarri methods was deemed impossible. The continent was isolated from Malkuth by Culter—a titanic energy barrier enveloping the land, its sky, and its oceans within invisible walls. The porter inside Dicterium and it’s three sister locations on each of the other countries were the sole means of exit.
Extarri foolish enough to attempt crossing through Culter were transformed into living asylums—their memories obliterated within seconds. A mere fraction of time sufficed to identify their DNA; if extarri, a frequency shock would overwhelm their bodies with excessive energy, overloading their neurons.
Upon returning, those affected by Culter would retain no memory of their past or former selves—everything became jumbled, including their personalities. Culter delineated the border of Sectum with the outside world and marked the boundaries between its four countries—a vast cage of lost souls. Sectum was the continent of the exiled, criminals and forgotten.
Adria reached the bottom of those hills and navigated the concrete streets of Dictaduria, before her sprawled a grim repetitive panorama of cement houses and buildings known as 'blocks,' a sight all too familiar to her. Each block was marked with a massive ID number painted on its walls, a reminder of the dehumanizing system that considered dictadurians as nothing more than alphanumeric codes on a list.
Memories of her free life in Malkuth flooded her mind, jumping through bubble fields as a kid, traveling between porters, traveling around the galaxy. She once lived a life where dreams manifested into reality, brimming with endless possibilities.
Living in Dictaduria was challenging, but Adria had endured worse. Her time in Imperia had been a nightmare that still haunted her. Her previous identity had attracted unwanted attention, complicating her life beyond measure. However, things had quieted down since her fall from the ladder of power in the undercity of Negativus months before, pushing her to forge a new life with her grandfather as roommates.
Only until recent times Adria had shred her former name from its two last letters—Adriaas—the final link with her father was sliced after years thinking about it. With her well known fake last name, Zaraz, too accompany it. A simple alteration, but one that symbolized a fresh start. Her past— not the fabricated tale of turning a poor man paraplegic by sabotaging his merkabah she told strangers—haunted her, a lie she perpetuated to hide her truth. No one believed in wrongful exile in Dictaduria; she had been framed almost eight years ago and could not prove her innocence.
At first, Adria had doubted herself, unable to find an alternative explanation with the evidence stacked against her during her trial. However, over the years, she had come to know herself better than anyone else and become reassured of her innocence from that crime. Since then, life in Sectum had pushed her to perform a couple of real crimes and it felt life had come make justice on her. A handful of people believed her reasons, starting with her grandfather, Bitlan—, who she met by chance in those forgotten lands, and some friends, but truth was, after so long, Adriaas didn’t care about rights of wrongs, as no matter what, she would remain stuck in those lands for another four years, with Capitalia looming in her future.
The Souls in Sectum – Chapter II – A Dictadurian
Tack, tack, tack. The rhythm persisted, relentless. Adria stood upon the same patch of ground for twenty-three grueling hours, breaking rocks in search of precious metals for Dictaduria, and its president, Roland Copernus. Raw metals held significant value in three of the four countries of Sectum
She sold her findings to the government, known as 'The Regime,' accepting their terms and prices if wanting to avoid a beating by the Sentinels. Dictaduria's social hierarchy mirrored that of centuries past, with the government monopolizing primal resources, processing them, and then selling them back to the populace at inflated rates in essential products.
Adria was an extarri—a label for anyone residing on the continent of Sectum. Three years she had spent in Dictaduria after enduring four in Imperia, a land that used to be ruled by Empress Sabina and her Elkrachet army—a period she would rather forget, violent, exhausting and painful. Her sentence was exile from Malkuth, her home planet, with four years still remaining from her original sentence.
According to her calculations, she was scheduled for relocation to Capitalia—a neighboring country to Dictaduria— in eight to ten months, an uncertainty about her future that loomed over her path to an unrequested redemption.
Covered in dirt, sweat, and a smattering of blood, Adria abandons her excavation site, her limbs protesting every movement. Numbness pervaded her body as she trudged forward, shouldering a bag weighing at least twenty-five kilos. At the end of the softly illuminated hallway stood a dark metallic wall, punctuated by five elevators. Adria summoned one and leaned against the nearest cold surface, exhaustion weighing upon her.
Three other dictadurians joined her, their idle chatter grating on Adria's nerves as she fought to keep her eyes closed, contemplating the use of another enhancer. It would be her third since she last slept, a dangerous gamble that could lead to a stroke if she overindulged. Doubt gnawed at her; would she even make it home with her dwindling energy?
Feeling dizzy, cold sweat beading on her brow, and acutely aware of her plummeting blood sugar levels, Adria succumbed to rest. The people around her fell silent as the elevator doors slid open; they entered first. Adria woke from her short slumber, seizing the opportunity to swallow a shiny purple pill. Its effects were instantaneous—a rush of warmth surged through her veins, invigorating her as she stepped into the elevator, alert amidst the sea of tired faces.
Finding a spot to lean, Adria braced herself for the journey ahead. Seventeen floors loomed above them within the mountain, but the elevator halted at the fifteenth floor and six others on its way up, inducing waves of nausea. With each stop, the graphene box grew warmer and more claustrophobic as worn-out dictadurians wearing their sweat dirty, old overalls filed in, leaving no room for escape.
Breath came in labored gasps. Adria's stomach churned with hunger after swallowing the enhancer pill; she hadn't eaten in thirteen hours, and fasting before that only exacerbated her hunger pangs. For the remainder of the journey, she kept her eyes shut, focusing on regulating her breathing and heart rate.
Finally, the elevator arrived at the main hall, where a couple of dozen dictadurians queued in two lines. Adria joined the right line, resigned to the monotony of her routine—a reality she endured two, sometimes three times a week if luck was on her side and more turns we're scheduled. Working for gatvits was a detestable chore, but material wealth was a necessity in Dictaduria and she had people too care about.
As she approached the payment booth, the enhancer continued to course through her veins, granting her energy for a few more hours. Waiting for her was Inea—an old, gaunt woman whom Adria had known since her first day in the mine.The young dictadurian extracted her rocks from the bag. The woman across the cement counter her looked impressed. "Adria, how long have you been here?"
"Twenty-three hours, I’m beaten, Nea."
The dispatcher let out a soft whistle, taking the stack of rocks and placing them inside a metallic box resembling a sophisticated microwave. The box, whiter than anything else in the mine, closed, and Kinea waited for about ten seconds before an alarm beeped. Opening the door, she showed that the rocks had been evaporated, leaving the raw metals behind.
"This is the best harvest we've had all day: 289 grams of iron, 113 grams of gold, 467 grams of silver, and 88 grams of bismuth. Well done. 7,540 gatvits are being transferred to your account. It should be available by the time you get off the mountain, go get some food, you look pale.”
“I was born pale, looks worse than what it is, don’t worry, take this for you. Thank you, Inea.”
Adria left ten metal coins knowing how she would use the money, to the last gatvit.
"You’re too kind, go get some sleep, dear, furka is not a good look for you, okay?" the old woman said with care, a kindness she had shown Adria since their first encounter. That's why she always chose her as cashier and left a tip.
"That's the plan, Nea, thanks for the compliment."
Some people in Dictaduria remained good at heart, and Inea was one of them. She would continue weighing rocks long after Adria had left—a stable job for a half century sentence. The reason Kinea ended up there was still a mystery but it had been confirmed by trusted sources those good intentions where known by the mine workers two decades prior those days.
As Adria stepped out of the mine, sunlight blinded her momentarily before her gray eyes adjusted to the brightness. Before her a panorama of several quarries and mines sprawled a sight all too familiar to her.
Glancing at her hands, she realized how dirty they were. Adria hadn't showered in several days, and all visible skin was coated with dust. Attempting to clean herself with her gray overalls proved futile; they were just as dirty. The digital clock above the entrance to the mine read 2:47 PM—a relatively early hour. Adria began her walk back to home and her grandfather, Bitlan. She needed water and food urgently; her body begged for sustenance.
The road was hot and dry, devoid of vegetation. Dictaduria lacked greenery, its dry lands dominated by endless blocks stretching for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. Sectum was the only place in Malkuth where the Edictum Vitae held no sway—a continent divided into four countries, each with its own social system and government. Aequiteism was nonexistent there.
Escape from Sectum using extarri methods was deemed impossible. The continent was isolated from Malkuth by Culter—a titanic energy barrier enveloping the land, its sky, and its oceans within invisible walls. The porter inside Dicterium and it’s three sister locations on each of the other countries were the sole means of exit.
Extarri foolish enough to attempt crossing through Culter were transformed into living asylums—their memories obliterated within seconds. A mere fraction of time sufficed to identify their DNA; if extarri, a frequency shock would overwhelm their bodies with excessive energy, overloading their neurons.
Upon returning, those affected by Culter would retain no memory of their past or former selves—everything became jumbled, including their personalities. Culter delineated the border of Sectum with the outside world and marked the boundaries between its four countries—a vast cage of lost souls. Sectum was the continent of the exiled, criminals and forgotten.
Adria reached the bottom of those hills and navigated the concrete streets of Dictaduria, before her sprawled a grim repetitive panorama of cement houses and buildings known as 'blocks,' a sight all too familiar to her. Each block was marked with a massive ID number painted on its walls, a reminder of the dehumanizing system that considered dictadurians as nothing more than alphanumeric codes on a list.
Memories of her free life in Malkuth flooded her mind, jumping through bubble fields as a kid, traveling between porters, traveling around the galaxy. She once lived a life where dreams manifested into reality, brimming with endless possibilities.
Living in Dictaduria was challenging, but Adria had endured worse. Her time in Imperia had been a nightmare that still haunted her. Her previous identity had attracted unwanted attention, complicating her life beyond measure. However, things had quieted down since her fall from the ladder of power in the undercity of Negativus months before, pushing her to forge a new life with her grandfather as roommates.
Only until recent times Adria had shred her former name from its two last letters—Adriaas—the final link with her father was sliced after years thinking about it. With her well known fake last name, Zaraz, too accompany it. A simple alteration, but one that symbolized a fresh start. Her past— not the fabricated tale of turning a poor man paraplegic by sabotaging his merkabah she told strangers—haunted her, a lie she perpetuated to hide her truth. No one believed in wrongful exile in Dictaduria; she had been framed almost eight years ago and could not prove her innocence.
At first, Adria had doubted herself, unable to find an alternative explanation with the evidence stacked against her during her trial. However, over the years, she had come to know herself better than anyone else and become reassured of her innocence from that crime. Since then, life in Sectum had pushed her to perform a couple of real crimes and it felt life had come make justice on her. A handful of people believed her reasons, starting with her grandfather, Bitlan—, who she met by chance in those forgotten lands, and some friends, but truth was, after so long, Adriaas didn’t care about rights of wrongs, as no matter what, she would remain stuck in those lands for another four years, with Capitalia looming in her future.
