The Underdistrict always had a unique scent. It was hard to describe. Many claimed it was similar to must but with a faint memory of something sickly sweet, like a frosted cake that had gone bad.

Ironically, the people knew where it was coming from. Firewatch had lent a hand, tracking the source down many thousands of levels below the surface to an arcane engine of creation, performing a task beyond the understanding of humanity in a chamber that was vast enough to house an entire fleet of auto-battleships. Unfortunately, no access portals went down that deep; at least, none were safe. Nor were there any offshoots of Firewatchs' vast subterranean tunnel network that seemed to terminate there. The Subministry of Station and the Local Group Research Project had plumbed the depths with microdrones time and again but always came back empty-handed.

And so the Scent persisted. People eventually got used to it. If you were new, it stung a bit. Hermetic suits were a common sight the farther down you went, but not many people ventured past the Black Zone these days. Life went on.

The major tunnel network was built hexagonally, with gravity plating on every surface. Cities were constructed inward, often radiating from the center like the spokes of a wheel. Most of the Underdistrict consisted of endless spans of these "spoke cities," and the wealth varied tremendously. Some were lush and green, others concrete jungles suffocated beneath thick blankets of smog. Large stretches of the tunnel network were abandoned, too contaminated for human habitation. 

Every fifteen kilometers, exact down to the nanometer, was a cavernous chamber that served as the junction for the access portals that provided passage topside. From these branched numerous minor tunnels, some no larger than a few feet in diameter. These would eventually fork into even smaller capillary tunnels, which snaked through the superstructure of Firewatch like blood vessels.

The Dekker was one of those portals. A cylindrical shell that stretched downward for nearly a hundred kilometers, with several million inhabitants. 30,303 stories. Three for administration, three hundred for security, and 30,000 for everything else, all rank with acrid smoke and chemical byproducts, providing passage for tens of thousands daily. 

It was early in the morning when Peter returned to work. The entire transit, from his housing unit on Floor 10,295 to the security station on Floor 303, took about twenty minutes; teleportariums were public and present on every hundredth floor. 

The office was already buzzing with activity, and the cases were piled high after the Harvest. Mostly petty crimes: theft, assault, and a few deaths.

A few, however, were more pressing. A young man, racked with gout and a dozen other illnesses, had stumbled through the doors. He was obviously the result of illegal cloning - the sickly-yellow skin was a dead giveaway. They were used as slave labor, pumped out of outmoded, poorly-maintained printers by the hundreds. Most lived in near-constant torment, with few surviving more than a handful of years. It was a miserable, if mercifully short, existence, and the people responsible were the worst kind of scum.

The poor fellow was probably abandoned to die by his owners once they realized he would be incapable of working any longer. He was wasting away, coughing up blood, and didn't even know his own name, but through sheer force of will, he had managed to drag himself to and up the steps of Peter's security station. He asked to be put out of his misery, to which Peter's troopers obliged. A new clone was already being procured, along with the necessary documentation.

Several task forces, including a company of Ministry Rangers, were on rotation in The Dekker for precisely this purpose. Access portals were the only reliable means of getting aboveground and were thus heavily policed. Not to mention that Firewatch itself quite literally had eyes and ears everywhere. Most savvy criminals avoided them like the plague. 

Regardless, it seemed this one had slipped through the gaps in the line. Security was to be tightened, but as of right now, Peter's department was already stretched paper thin. 

A knock on his door broke Peter from his train of thought. "Good morning, Jenson," he said, waving him through.

"Mornin', Captain." Jenson took a seat, crossing his legs and sipping from a thermos. "Remember that girl?"

Peter shook his head and put his hands up. "There are at least a dozen people you could be referring to." 

Jenson snapped his fingers and pointed a finger. "The one from three months ago?" he said. "That Firewatch dropped a Guardian on?" 

"Oh," Peter mumbled with his head in his hands. "Yeah, what about her?"

"She's out of grayscale. In the printing cycle. One day, at most."

Peter groaned. "No kidding. That lab still on lockdown?"

"Aye. 24-hour guard."

"For three months?"

"You gave that order." 

"Yeah, I know."

Jenson pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Want me to take a det squad down?" 

"If you can find one free," Peter said. "Detention's a little overwhelmed at the moment."

"What's up?"

"Cloning ring. A major one. Just got the word, and the Ministry got wind of it, too. They want us to tighten security along all major Underdistrict access portals. Double postings."

"We don't have that kind of manpower. Or funding."

"That's what I told them."

"You should've told them to go fuck themselves."

"Yeah, well, I didn't."

"I might."

Peter snorted. "Be my guest."

Jenson stood, snapping his fingers again. "I'll scrounge a squad up. You'll meet us there?"

"Uh... maybe. But in case I don't," Peter said, "you know what to do." 

<>-----<>-----<>-----<>-----<>

Deputy Jenson hated teleportation. It never felt right. He was always paranoid that something would be missing when reconstituted on the receiving pad. 

Of course, there never was. Still, his first stop was at a local podcrawler taxi service. They scampered up and down the faces of The Dekker at breakneck speeds like insects, sometimes pulling dozens of carriages. Much faster than any hovercraft could hope to achieve with antigravity fields, and lighting a fusion drive was highly illegal within the confines of access portals.

They were all in use, to Jenson's dismay. He decided against walking the Conveyance down after learning the printing lab was 476 floors down. So he just bit the bullet. With a little prodding from his squadmates, he gingerly stepped onto the transmitting pad and secured the gas mask. He squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath... and he was there. Standing on the receiving pad. With everything in the right places. A soft ding, and he cracked one eye open. "That was it?" he always thought to himself. 

Attendants urged him off the pad. Time was money, and you didn't want to be on the receiving pad when someone else was being reconstituted. 

Not that Jenson needed to be told twice. He had dealt with splicing accidents in the past. They were grisly, even by the standards of a security officer.

Floor 779 was a manufacturing floor. One of three classifications, the other two being residential and commercial. And of the three, manufacturing was by far the least pleasant. Factory pods stacked like bricks fed a constant river of raw material into the fires of industry, churning out an infinite array of goods for public consumption. Conveyor belts, assembly arms, drones, pipes, and wires: they were as varied in their purpose and design as they were numerous, obscuring the floor completely under knotted sheets of plastic, insulate, and metal. Hundreds of smokestacks and cooling towers snaked out and up, winding around the structural frame of the Dekker like parasitic worms. Despite this, pollution still hung thick in the air.

But perhaps worst of all was the noise. A neverending cacophony of heavy machinery. Of grinders and welders. Pneumatic presses and power hammers. Drones, furnaces, turbines, ventilators, and many things that Jenson couldn't identify. The discordant symphony of production, some called it. 

The cloning lab was technically erroneously zoned here. It was legally a commercial structure but took up space on three floors due to the size of the printing apparatus. There were entrances on all floors, but the birthing chute was on the lowest floor, so that's where the troopers were posted. 

Jenson wormed his way past a pair of gigantic industrial auto-forges and stooped into a low-ceilinged back alley. It was well-kept, if a little dark. A few mystery fluids pooled on the ground, probably coolant or lubricant, judging by the color alone. But there were no bodies, junkies, or two-foot roaches, which by itself was a step up from most other manufacturing floors.

The printing lab was nestled away deep. It took a few wrong turns, but Jenson ended up at the right place. 

Corporal Tyler Collins was the attendant guard. He snapped a quick salute when Jenson rounded the corner. "Deputy Jenson."  

"Corporal. Doctor in?"

"Yeah. Just got here," Collins said, opening the door to the lab. The lobby was a cluttered, claustrophobic room, with barely enough floor space to fit the four troopers that had been stationed there. With Jenson and the three detention officers he had managed to scrounge up, squeezing into the same space, there was almost no room to maneuver. 

Through a small hatch was a significantly larger chamber that held the birthing chute and printing apparatus required to produce a healthy clone. There was a stasis tank in the corner, drained of fluid. An operating table and various pieces of life support equipment were present nearby. Finally, the recycling chute and incinerator, in case the clone came out bad and couldn't be saved or wasn't worth the trouble. All legal requirements for any licensed printing lab. 

The Doctor was tending to her drones when Jenson arrived. She looked over her shoulder, standing upon realization and flipping up her welding mask. "Deputy," she said, pulling off a pair of heavy-duty work gloves. She was well-built but not quite the youngest face in the room. "Sorry for the delay. There was a hovercraft accident a few floors up."

"No worries, Doc. How long on the girl?"

"Twenty minutes, at most." Doc threw her welding gear into a tool cupboard, sterilized the room, and slapped on a pair of surgical gloves. "The Captain going to be joining us today?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Too busy?"

"Yeah. A cloning ring. A big one."

Doc fiddled with a touchscreen on the printing apparatus. "Haven't had one of those around here in a while." 

"Not since I got transferred."

"Are you claiming credit for that?" Doc asked, chuckling.

Jenson flashed a smile and replied, "You never know."

"Remind me where you transferred out of?"

"A minor nation. Elysium Falls, just outside of Laria. Security Station 2."

"Quite the change of scenery. Why'd you do it?"

The printing apparatus was surprisingly noisy. Several gears were screeching into motion, and the birthing chute rotated to be at a 45-degree angle. Doc wheeled over a stretcher mounted on a scissor lift and adjusted it to the appropriate height.

"Well, I stuck around to take care of my mother," Jenson said. "After she passed, there wasn't really much reason to stay. Too expensive."

"Sorry for your loss."

"Ah, yeah," Jenson said, scratching the back of his head. "Thanks. It was more than a few years ago now."

"Was she buried?" Doc asked.

"No. Couldn't afford it."

"Recycled?"

"Yup."

The dull hum grew in intensity. "Only a few minutes now!" Doc shouted, handing everyone a pair of safety goggles. "Don't touch anything!" 

"Wouldn't dream of it, Doc!" Jenson shouted back.

<>-----<>-----<>-----<>-----<>

It was over in less than a second. 

For a minute length of time, a crossroads in the fragile veil between dimensions, the world stood still. A rippling vortex shattered into realspace, spewing tendrils of aetherial energy that arced between the nine men and women standing in the room. Jenson could feel it, a burning pain, but even more than that, a crushing sense of causality and finality. 

Doc reached out with one arm. The worldhole was mesmerizing. She had never seen one so close. A kaleidoscope of colors that were unique, indescribable, unthinkable. Illogical. It was painful just trying to process them.

Then, a roar and a crash. The clone printer was ripped from the concrete floor, flung through the vortex, and torn into ribbons as a segmented cylindrical being thrashed into reality, emitting a guttural, digitized roar. Nine needle-like appendages streaked into the printing lab. The troopers, Jenson and Doc were shredded in the blink of an eye, their remains swallowed up by the worldhole. 

Then the worldhole collapsed and exploded.