The city where I live has no name anymore. Every city in the new order looks the same, feels the same, smells the same, sterilized air pumped through ventilation that recycles our breath until it's almost clean, almost pure, almost like we arent slowly suffocating.
Biotech Corp dominates the skyline. Their tower rises forty stories above everything else, a monument of glass and steel that catches the sun and throws it back at the city like a challenge. At night, it glows with soft blue light, visible from every window, every street, every alley where clones huddle in the dark. They want us to see it. They want us to remember who owns the sky.
The residential zones are segregated by genetic status, though they don't call it that. Originals live in the inner rings, close to the tower, in buildings with doormen and gardens and windows that actually open. The architecture here mimics an older world, wrought iron balconies, stone facades, touches of individuality that cost more than most clones earn in a lifetime. I live in one of these buildings. My apartment occupies an entire floor. I have never once opened the windows.
Beyond the inner rings lie the production zones, where factories run twenty-four hours a day manufacturing the goods that keep the economy moving. Clones work these factories in twelve-hour shifts, their gray uniforms blending into the gray concrete until they become almost invisible. Above the factory floors, dormitories house thousands of workers in stacked bunks, eight to a room, their tracking chips monitoring sleep patterns and productivity metrics and signs of potential rebellion.
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Farther out still, the agricultural sectors stretch toward the horizon. Massive hydroponic facilities grow food under artificial light, tended by clones whose hands never touch soil, whose eyes never see the sun. They produce enough to feed the city. They produce enough to export. They produce enough that no one has to think about where their meals come from, or who suffered to put them on the table.
The streets between these zones are patrolled by Enforcement, clones soldiers engineered for loyalty and aggression. Their faces are identical, their movements synchronized, their presence a constant reminder that freedom is a privilege reserved for those born, or reborn, on the right side of the genetic divide.
I walk these streets often, I attend galas in the inner rights. I dine with executives and politicians and celebrities who never question the world they've inherited. I smile and nod and play my part.
And every night, I return to my apartment, close the door, and stand at my window watching the Biotech Corp tower glow against the dark.
Waiting.
For what, I do not know.
