Chapter 2

The cheap green plastic-mesh gates stretched and screeched as the crowds strained against the make-shift barrier. Gathering since noon in the dusty concrete bowl surrounding the detention center on Level 10 of Cirrus Prime, the protesters numbered close to 10,000. The number of demonstrators would have grown larger, but the compartmentalized infrastructure of Cirrus Prime and the ruthless efficiency of the Jurisdictional Enforcement teams effected a rapid closure of inter-level travel, halting the flow of the underclasses into the protest site within an hour of the anticipated gathering time.

“FUCK. THE. PIGS.” the crowd chanted. Flags depicting a gear and wrench waved from the windows; children with manifestos calling for revolt pamphpleted all passerby; street artists spoke, sang, and rapped to a change that was coming. After a century of exploitation, the wheel was turning. 100 years of backhanded compliments, working for their worth, and living to work; enough was enough.

Riot officers reacted harshly to the chants, battering their batons against their chests and battening the hatches of their barriers. It wasn’t enough. The people needed to be heard. It was time.

They were together to celebrate their status as human. Not worker, not contributor of wealth. Human. The guards, as many of those gathered to protest were willing to acknowledge, were also human. Even pigs demonstrate high levels of intelligence. However, they’d made their choice.

The time for war had arrived. Sides had been chosen.