Chapter Text
“...now approaching Station 12, Sector E. Please have your identification papers ready for inspection upon disembarking…”
In unison, the noise of rustling papers and shifting weight sounded throughout the train carriage. Walter didn’t move, gazing out of the window as the scenery transitioned to the grimy, industrialised station for Sector E: a narrow strip of grey concrete with faded yellow warning lines dotting the very edge. The ceiling was low and laden with rusted pipes, dripping a mixture of untreated water and coolant continuously on the platform, leaving dubious puddles littering the cracked concrete. There were no commuters waiting on the platform for the train, however.
No, a squad of Ganymede Guards stood on the platform, their black combat fatigues and featureless helmets ominous beneath the station’s glaring fluorescent lights. All of them were armed, their gloved hands casually holding heavy assault rifles, though their postures were relaxed, as if their presence here was routine. In a way, it was.
The train’s brakes squealed loudly as it came to a shuddering halt, and Walter looked away from the armed guards to covertly observe his fellow passengers rise from their seats. They all had that same exhausted air about them: gaunt, with dark bags under their eyes, dressed in simple labourer fatigues or jumpsuits, with a small knapsack or equivalent slung over their shoulders. Every one of them clutched their identification papers in hand, and every one of them had an anxious pinch to their expressions.
Times were troubled for the working class on Ganymede, Jupiter’s most productive and infamous colony, and if rumours were to be believed, things were only going to get worse in the next coming weeks. Though the nascent workers’ strike had been brutally crushed by the Ganymede Guards a week ago, the colony’s authorities were still aggressively hunting for the leaders of that failed attempt at unionising - egged on by the various Corporations that had been “negatively affected” by the “economically devastating” event.
The workers disembarked, and the armed guards scrutinised and inspected every single one. A few were even pulled aside to further questioning - and if they resisted?
The train groaned as it peeled away from the station, and the last glimpse Walter had of the platform was one struggling worker being shoved to the ground, a rifle raised threateningly-
“Next stop is Station 13, Sector E. Please be aware that only authorised personnel can use this station to ascend to Ganymede Colony’s Tier 2. Thank you.”
Walter leaned back in his seat, the scenery now just darkness as the train entered a tunnel. His reflection was stark, but Walter turned away from it to start readying for his own disembarkment. On the seat next to him was his rucksack filled with almost all of his earthly belongings - which weren’t much - and at his feet was a small carry-on bag that had his more valuable items: his identification papers, his colony passport, his wallet, his phone and a few photographs.
He pulled out his identification papers and his passport. He’d already triple checked that they would hold up to scrutiny, and he didn’t doubt Carla’s work, but there was always that needling paranoia that somehow the deception would be noticed at the border gate. Thanks to that failed workers’ strike, the guards were being extra cautious of movement between the slums and the colony proper.
His identification papers were modest: Jupiter-born working class, born to parents immigrated from Rubicon just before the Fires. His passport had the authentic visa stamp from Furlong Dynamics - evidence of his sponsorship by the corporation and his ticket to accessing that open door the connection would grant him. There might be some suspicion on how a slum dweller managed to get a sponsorship, but it certainly wasn’t unheard of. Slum dwellers made for grateful, hardworking and cheap labour.
It wasn’t even a lie. The sponsorship was real - Walter had worked himself to the bone, scrambling to the very front of that aggressive rat race to earn it - but his origins was where the deception lied. He certainly hadn’t been born on Jupiter’s colonies, and his parents had never left Rubicon. They were nothing but ash blowing on that planet’s winds now.
He folded up his identification papers and slotted them into his passport, and returned his gaze to the window. The train groaned along for almost twenty minutes, until:
“Now approaching Station 13, Sector E. Please have your identification papers and authorised passport ready for inspection upon disembarking…”
Walter rose from his seat as the train slowed, slinging his rucksack over one shoulder and holding his carry-on bag in one hand. He was the only one to disembark the train, the remaining passengers keeping their heads low, and the train pulled away quickly once he was on the platform.
It was much like the previous one: grimy, small, lit up with glaringly bright fluorescent lights. There were no armed guards waiting on the platform though, and Walter headed for the barred gate - the only exit to the platform. There was a large warning sign above the gate (‘WARNING: AUTHORISED PASSPORT HOLDERS ONLY’), and beside it a small buzzer with a tiny camera. Walter pressed the buzzer.
“...yeah? What do you want?” a nasally voice drawled, crackling with static.
“I want to pass through,” Walter said, all while thinking ‘what else would I want, idiot?’ “I have an authorised passport.”
“That’s what they all say. Whatever. Hold your identification papers up to the camera.”
Walter did as he was told. He kept his expression stoic, acting like he did this every day, but he could feel his heart hammering in his chest after the longest minute of his life passed. No doubt they were cross-referencing his papers with their system.
“... Walter Kohler, twenty years old, Jupiter-born to Rubiconian immigrants- oof, that’s rough…” the nasally voice muttered. “Been ten years since the Fires, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Walter said curtly.
“Hm… alright, looks like your papers pass muster,” they said, and Walter breathed an internal sigh of relief. “Hold your passport up to the camera - on the visa page, please.”
He did so, and thankfully this went quicker than previous scrutiny. In a far more friendlier tone, the border control officer said: “Well, looks like you actually do have authorisation to pass through. That’s rare. I’ll buzz you through now. Remember to report to your sponsor directly. You’re not actually given freedom of movement until they confirm your arrival.”
“Understood,” Walter said, and stowed his identification papers and passport away as the barred gate scraped open. It sounded like it hadn’t been oiled in decades.
“Enjoy your stay at Ganymede Colony… it’ll be leagues better than that cesspool you just crawled out of.”
The border officer laughed, the noise cut off as he switched off the comms. Walter didn’t react, walking through the gate and hearing it squeal shut behind him. The corridor he ended up in was narrow and led him up an even narrower set of stairs, the air stale and smelling faintly of mould. The smell eased the higher he climbed, and long after his thighs had started to burn from the ascent and his breathing came out hard, he finally reached the top and stepped out into a crowded train station.
Unlike the tiny, grimy stations below, this one looked like a palace in comparison. The ceilings were high and the hall cavernous, gates and hallways branching off while overhead large screens flashed train timings and locations. Shops and cafes lined the walls, and Walter stood there for a moment, blinking as he adjusted to what felt like stepping into a completely alien world.
Only to almost get knocked over when a gaggle of men clad in Balam Industries’ military uniform shoved past him, sniggering as he stumbled. He heard one of them mutter “fucking sewer rat”, and Walter slowly adjusted his rucksack, glancing upwards. Above the door he had just walked through was a faded sign saying ‘FOUNDATION LEVEL: SECTOR E’.
He was honestly surprised they didn’t just call it ‘The Slums’.
“Acre District, Furlong…” Walter muttered to himself, craning his neck to peer at the various timetables overhead. Unlike down below, the Ganymede Colony wasn’t carved up into Sector numbers - they had actual names, and Walter only knew he needed to get to Acre District and make his way to the military academy for Furlong Dynamics. He didn’t have a map, only the brusque directions in his acceptance message - allegedly the academy wasn’t that far from the train station, and was thoroughly signposted.
He eventually found where he needed to go - Platform Three, next train in five minutes - and made his way there. As he walked, he covertly observed the people around him, noting how unlike the downtrodden workers down below, everyone here seemed rather content and carefree. Clothes were worn for fashion or comfort, rather than utility, and while most seemed to be in a hurry, there wasn’t anything anxious about their haste - only impatience. Notably, there were only a small handful of Ganymede Guards patrolling the area, and while their black combat fatigues stood out, they didn’t wear the dehumanising, faceless helmets, and if they were armed, they were expertly hidden pistols. No one visibly shrank away from their presence.
Walter shook his head. Like night and day.
Boarding the train was a painless process, and once more he was struck by the differences. Down below there was little leg room between seats, and the only concession to amenities was a toilet every two carriages. On the colony, the leg room was spacious, the seats comfortable, and some even had tables. A food trolley had even meandered down a few minutes after the train departed, though Walter demurred purchasing anything.
He was on a strict budget. As part of his sponsorship, Furlong gave him a stipend, but it was aggressively audited. He had to show receipts of what he purchased with it every month to whoever his supervisor would be, and Walter was adamant to keep his head low.
He wasn’t here to make waves or be a nail to be hammered down. He fought tooth and nail for this sponsorship for the opportunities it granted him. While Carla slithered her way through the dark underbelly of the black and grey markets, sniffing out any mention of Coral, Walter was going to claw upwards, to see what rumours the Corporations hugged close to their chest about that miracle substance.
The stockpiles of Coral held offworld from Rubicon were beginning to dwindle. It was all over the news, how augmentation surgeries for AC pilots were back to being catastrophically fatal - back to Gen One levels - and miracle technologies that had been commercially available were being pulled from the shelves. The remaining Coral supplies were drying up, and if Walter knew Corporations - and he did - they’d be doing everything in their power to find more, by any means necessary.
Carla will keep her eyes below, and Walter will keep his eyes above. With some luck, they’ll be able to confirm that the Coral was effectively destroyed after a decade or so, but until then…
Walter brooded quietly over the subject as the train carried him to Acre’s District, not really taking in the lush scenery. Matching its name, Acre District was rather vibrant with greenery, framed by a twilight sky overtaken with ‘floating cities’ - where the rich people lived, Walter assumed - and Jupiter functioning as the backdrop. Incoming ships and shuttles flew overhead, and between the blurring trees whizzing by, Walter could make out the hulking silhouettes of a distant spaceport or production factory.
Plenty of skyrises too.
Eventually, the train pulled into Acre District’s main station and Walter stepped out onto a platform just as spacious as the one he’d just left. After getting admittedly lost for a bit, he managed to navigate himself to the exit, and stood near the station’s front steps as he scanned his surroundings.
There was a bus station nearby, as well as a taxi bay, but nothing that stood out as a signpost. Walter rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he should just meander about blindly until he found some sort of map or sign somewhere, when-
“Hey!”
A heavy hand slapped onto his shoulder, forcing him to stagger forwards a step and almost drop his carry-on bag. Frowning, he straightened up and turned, coming face to chest with… a very burly man whose shirt was barely containing his pecs, Jesus Christ.
Walter had to take a step back and look up.
The man peering down at him was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a half-open shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was a light brown and slightly tousled, in a way that said nothing short of industrial hair gel was going to keep it tamed, and his eyes were a tawny brown and his expression set into a grin that was friendly but also rather predatory. Walter couldn’t help but be reminded of some sort of big cat, like a lion or a tiger.
“Can I help you?” Walter asked, keeping his tone flat.
“More like can I help you?” the stranger returned with a snort. “You were standing around with a gormless look about ya. First time on Ganymede or something?”
Walter grimaced. Was it really so obvious that he was a fish out of water? “...or something. I come from down below.”
“Below?” the stranger’s eyebrows flew upwards. “You’re a sewer rat? Da~amn, you’re either a hard worker or a hard fucker to get up here, then. Well, which is it?”
“Fucker,” Walter deadpanned. “I’m a rather renowned escort, though I don’t think you can afford my rates.”
The stranger blinked, visibly taken aback for a moment… before he erupted into loud, guffawing laughter. He practically threw his whole body into the motion, his head tossed back and shoulders rising as he laughed loud enough to draw stares. Walter felt his ears burn slightly.
“That’s me told,” the stranger chortled, shaking his head. “Well, if you’re looking for customers with money to burn, you won’t find ‘em here. The Academy’s where you wanna go. It’s full of redblooded, sex-starved deviants.”
does he… think i’m serious? Walter thought blankly.
The stranger pointed down the street. “Down there, take a left at the bus stop, and keep on walking, then you’ll see the big pearly gates of Furlong Dynamic’s military academy! Make sure not to get eaten alive, rent boy!”
With that the stranger swaggered off without so much as a backwards glance, leaving Walter thoroughly wrong-footed.
“...well, I probably won’t see him again,” Walter muttered, noting that the stranger had walked off in the opposite direction to the academy. At least he got some directions out of that bizarre encounter.
Briskly, he set off. There was a bit of paranoia that the stranger had sent him in the wrong direction, but after taking the left turn at the bus stop, he saw a large sign heralding the proximity of Furlong Dynamic’s military academy. Huh, a rare good samaritan then.
The street was mostly walled parks and sport fields that gradually transitioned into what looked like high-end dormitories. Walter couldn’t help but be faintly reminded of Institute City, and felt an unpleasant mix of homesickness and resentment curdle up in his gut. He kept his gaze set dead ahead, and eventually the street took him to, as the stranger said, a set of pearly gates with a large sign saying ‘FURLONG DYNAMIC’S MILITARY PILOT ACADEMY’ on the brick wall beside them.
Well, here he is.
Walter hesitated outside of the gates, staring through them to the opulent courtyard beyond. It was obvious that this academy was meant to pander to the comfortable middle class of Ganymede, the glitzy refinement there to cultivate a sense of superiority and elitism in these soon-to-be officers in Furlong Dynamic’s paramilitary arm. The Corporation was renowned for training highly-skilled AC pilots - unaugmented ones at that - and while its profits could never match its rivals in Balam Industries or Arquebus Group, it certainly made sure to have the biggest stick out of the three of them.
Then how did Walter get to be here? One word: charity. Furlong Dynamics invested a lot in its segment of the Ganymede Colony, and a part of this investment was contributing heavily in social programmes geared towards ‘uplifting’ the destitute or disenfranchised. It was good PR and let them inject some diversity into what could’ve been a homogenised military force. A diverse army was a strong army, and Furlong, for all of its faults, understood that maxim well.
Balam Industries functioned the same, but they worked too closely with the Ganymede Guards and the System Police Force for Walter to be comfortable with them. Furlong was just a heavily armed corporation - Walter could get away with some things here that he couldn’t with Balam.
Charity or not, though, Walter knew this would be a hard slog. He’d be judged more harshly than the rest of his cohort, and the expectations borderline unrealistic. Walter will rise above, though - he had no choice. He made a promise, when they left the smouldering ruins of Rubicon behind, that he’d make sure their sacrifices wouldn’t be in vain, that he’d…
Walter shook his head, dismissing those thoughts. He can brood later. For now, he needed to make himself known to his sponsor and hopefully be assigned a room.
With any luck, if he had a roommate they wouldn’t be too obnoxious.
The next few hours was a test of Walter’s tolerance and willpower. Despite having completed and submitted his application forms prior to arriving at the academy, Walter was forced to sit in the HR office and resubmit it all - in triplicate - and sign a return of service contract where he swore to pledge at least seven of his years to Furlong Dynamics after completing his training as an AC pilot. Unless he wanted to be saddled with millions of COAM of debt, of course. With interest.
After signing his life away, and being subjected to a stern lecture on how grateful he should be for Furlong’s generosity, and how there was a lack of tolerance for socialist leanings at Furlong Dynamics, unlike ‘down below’, Walter was sent on his way with a thick stack of admin orders, a schedule and a key for his dorm room.
The Willow Block was where he was going to spend the next year of his life, and it was fortunately the closest dorm block to the academy itself. Unfortunately, his room was on the top floor, and bizarrely the blocks lacked elevators despite being at least five stories high. But Walter endured the steep hike, and made his way to room 512, already fantasising about taking a nice, long nap on a comfortable bed.
When he reached the room, however, he saw that there were two nameplates on the door: one said ‘RIVERA, MICHIGAN’ and ‘KOHLER, WALTER’. It seemed he had a roommate after all, and judging by the muffled noise of movement he could hear through the door, said roommate was already making himself at home.
Walter heaved a sigh, bracing himself. Just a year. A single year… he can endure having a stranger in his space for that long.
He rapped his knuckles on the door before opening it, announcing his arrival with: “Sorry for the intrusion. I’m Walt-”
“Well, well!” a familiar voice drawled, “If it ain’t the rent boy!”
Walter froze, staring in disbelief. Standing near the centre of the room, in that ridiculously tight shirt that couldn’t contain that burly chest, was the stranger from the train station. Said stranger - Michigan - was giving him a big, shit-eating grin, his tawny eyes squinted with cheeky amusement.
“...no,” was literally all Walter could think to say.
What were the chances? Literally, what were the chances???
“Didn’t realise you were makin’ housecalls,” Michigan continued, his grin widening. “Well, sorry to say, I’m not any richer than I was when we first met, so unless I’m getting a discount-”
Walter, tired and exhausted and already in a bad mood, impulsively threw his carry-on bag at his head.
Needless to say, it was the start of a long, tumultuous and very passionate relationship.