Clint, the journeyman

The day began as it always did, under the buzz of fluorescent lights that bathed Clint’s small apartment in cold, artificial white. He rolled his shoulders as he leaned over his counter, sipping from a metal cup of instant coffee with a taste like rusted tin. His eyes roamed the window, but there was nothing to see—just the familiar, sterile landscape of New City stretching out, all pristine glass, clean lines, and concrete, scrubbed free of anything natural.

Above ground, the city planners made sure that every inch of New City was sleek and orderly. Even the air felt cleaned, scrubbed of scent, dust or humidity, a purified breeze that drifted through vents placed high above the streets. No plants grew here. Vegetation had been deemed outdated years ago, replaced by rows of artificial foliage that emitted calculated oxygen levels but none of the rough beauty of real greenery. Every day, Clint felt the same numb, pressing silence in this manufactured world. No birds, no crickets, no shuffling trees or shifting grass—only the quiet whirl of transport drones and the hum of information screens lining every surface, displaying the latest news bulletins and government notices. He was grateful, at least, that his work kept him underground, where the air was thick and unfiltered, and the world was layered with age and sound.

Clint gathered his gear and tapped on the assignment display pad that greeted him at the door. Maintenance orders flickered to life in front of him, and his eyebrows raised at the day’s destination: “Nola City Sewer Inspection – Restoration Preparations.” Nola City. He hadn’t thought about it in years. It was somewhere far beneath New City, a forgotten relic buried and built over centuries ago, too costly to demolish, so it was simply ignored. They were sending him down there, alone, to map out pipes for demolition.

By mid-afternoon, Clint descended from the polished streets of New City, through the lower tunnels, and finally into Nola City’s sewers, a place that time had left untouched. The air here was dense, heavy with the earthy smell of dampness and decay. Rust crawled along the walls, creeping over exposed metal pipes like an invasive plant, while patches of green moss clung to cracks on the cobblestoned floor. Real plant life, he thought with a slight surprise. In a way, he envied these stray patches of life, clinging on in places that everything but themselves had forgotten them.

Every step echoed through the silent tunnels, his boots creating ripples in the puddles that covered the uneven ground. The pipes here groaned with age, some just skeletons of iron bars coated in a thick red rust. Clint's gloved fingers brushed over the walls, feeling the grit and the texture of corrosion. The metal was rough, untamed. Down here, things were allowed to fall apart.

With his scanner, he began methodically mapping out sections of the old system, holding the device up to listen for leaks and weaknesses. Each pipe he tapped had its own timbre, its own faint song, as if the tunnels themselves were whispering to him. It was something he’d always been drawn to, even if he couldn’t explain it. The way sounds echoed and changed, depending on the thickness, the rust or the water that might still flow unseen behind the metal. It wasn’t music—not that he’d know it if it was—but it made him feel connected to something alive.

A new signal flared on his scanner. Strange—a hollow chamber, tucked behind a thick, crumbling wall. Clint worked his way around to a rusted door that barely held together anymore. With one swift kick, it swung open, stirring up a thick cloud of dust. He stepped inside and coughed as the dust unexpectedly hit his lungs. He pulled his mask tighter over his nose and mouth as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Inside, the room was like a forgotten tomb. Shelves dressed the walls, crammed with items cloaked in thick, untouched dust. Papers, devices, and strange artifacts littered the floor, a scene frozen in time from another era. Everything here had been forgotten, and now it felt like he was intruding on a moment that didn’t belong to him.

His eyes landed on a small, smooth device covered with dust on the floor—a rectangular shape, cracked, with a dark and glassy surface. Curious, Clint picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The metal felt strangely warm under the dust. It did not resemble anything in his world, phones and other devices were no more than holographic threads, projected between the thumb and index finger. Whatever this was, it was ancient.

He brought his sound enhancer close, fitting it snugly over his ear as he tapped the cracked surface. And then he heard it—a strange, muffled choking noise. No, not a noise. It was rhythmic, pulsing, filled with odd, deep tones that rose and fell, interweaving in ways he’d never heard before. There were other sounds layered in the background, an unfamiliar wailing sound, a gentle tapping on hollow objects. It was warm, full of feeling.

Clint was left frozen, the sound floating around him, seeping into his bones. His heart thudded, beating in time with the strange, beautiful noise. He didn’t have a word for it yet, but whatever he was hearing, it filled him with a yearning he’d never known, like he’d found something he didn’t even know he was missing.

The music lingered in the air, spiraling around him, filling the small, dusty room with a life that Clint had never felt before. His body responded almost instinctively; he found himself swaying slightly to the rhythm, though he wasn’t even aware of it. His heart raced, his mind scrambled to comprehend, but there was something visceral in the way the notes tugged at him, as if the sound itself was reaching deep inside to pull something awake.

Clint had always noticed sounds in a way others didn’t, but this was different. The notes merged together with a kind of emotion. A sense of joy, or longing that was unknown to Clint. He listened, transfixed, the crackling static in the device’s old speaker adding to the mystery.

He turned the small device on its back, inspecting it thoroughly. It wasn’t much to look at. Just a scuffed, cracked relic. But as he held it, his enhancer picked up on something. With a soft tap of his thumb, a new song began, one that was slower, more melancholy, the smooth hum like a voice in mourning.

He didn’t know why, but a wave of sadness washed over him. Why would anyone make something sound sad? His world had no place for feelings like this, everything was designed to be efficient, logical and direct. There was no need for beauty, no need for art, for whatever this sound was supposed to be. Clint’s life had been a quiet hum, a steady stream of practical sounds and mechanical rhythms. Yet here, in this lost place, he got a glimpse of something entirely new.

The melody faded out, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Clint was left standing there, still clutching the device, leaving his fingerprints on the dark screen. It felt as if the song had carved out a small hollow in his chest. He wanted more of whatever had just moved through him, that strange pull that made him feel alive.

He fiddled with the device, desperate to hear the sound again. But he didn’t know how to work it, and only static answered him. After several tries he gave up, lowering it back to his side. In the silence that followed, he realized that he was trembling. Part of him wanted to leave this discovery behind, to set it back in the dust and never think of it again. It felt safer that way. But he couldn’t shake the need to hear it again.

For the rest of the day, Clint worked in a daze, his mind half on his tasks and half on that strange sound. He finished his mapping, noting which pipes were too corroded to keep, which beams might need reinforcement. The sounds of the pipes, usually a comfort to him, felt hollow now.

When he finished his shift and returned to the city above, Clint brought the device with him concealed carefully in his tool bag. He knew the authorities wouldn’t look too kindly on him keeping an unauthorized relic, especially one from Nola City. But he couldn’t leave such an emotional device there, abandoned in that silent room.

Back in his apartment, Clint waited eagerly until nightfall. The quiet seemed heavier now, more oppressive. He felt as if the silence itself was trying to snuff out any memory of the music. Carefully, he took out the device. His fingers were trembling as he fiddled with it again, whispering kind words to it, he tried to convince it into playing one more time.

Just as he was about to give up, a new melody sprang to life, filling his quiet room with sound. It was lively, brimming with energy. It brought the kind of beat that made his foot tap along without him even realizing it. This time Clint let himself move with the sound, letting the rhythm that swept through him guide his body and mind.

He could feel it awakening something that he didn’t fully understand. A longing, or a rebellion against the quiet life he’d known for so long. For the first time Clint felt the aching weight of the sterile world above him, a world that had traded sound and soul for silence and order.

And in that moment, he realized he couldn’t go back to how things were. Whatever this music, this feeling was, he needed it. And he needed to know where it came from.

Then came a sharp, angry bang on his wall. “Keep it down would you!” his neighbor barked, their voice muffled but unmistakably irritated. Clint froze, the shock of another voice breaking through his trance. He’d been so absorbed, he hadn’t realized he was dancing, or that the music had drifted beyond the walls of his small room.

He quickly fumbled with the device in a panic, pressing buttons in the hope of silencing it. After a few frantic tries, he managed to shut it off. The room plunged into an eerie, uncomfortable silence. The music still echoing in his head, the notes pulsing in synch with his racing heartbeat.

But before he could even catch his breath, there was another knock. A much heavier, authoritative knock. Clint’s stomach dropped as he glanced toward the door, where a cold, blue light blinked from the security panel. As he was watching the door, it felt as if the hallway stretched, further and further away from his reach. He crossed the room and pressed the screen to see who was there. His heart stuttered as he recognized two figures in standard-issue uniform, it was the city enforcers. They waited with practiced patience, their gazes cold and unwavering, almost like they were programmed.

“Open the door, please,” one of them called, his voice was rugged and formal.

Clint cracked the door just enough to see them. “Can I help you?”

“Your apartment was reported for noise disturbance, and we detected unauthorized sound emissions,” the enforcer said. His voice was low and monotonous, with a disinterest that seeped from his sharp eyes. “We’d like to search the premises for any unregistered or potentially hazardous items.”

Clint felt the device, cold and heavy, hidden in his pocket. The authorities had banned relics of the past ages. They claimed they were “dangerous” distractions, filled with influences that society had evolved beyond. And yet, the magical sounds from his new device still buzzed in his head, defiantly refusing to be quieted.

“See, I’m just wondering… Do I… have to let you in?” Clint asked, his voice barely audible through the modest crack.

The enforcer tilted his head. “No,” he replied, his tone rose in a slightly agitated fashion, “but if you refuse, we’ll just return with a warrant to conduct a full search.”

For a moment, Clint hesitated, glancing back toward his cramped and aged apartment. He could hide the device, stash it somewhere maybe, or—he wasn’t sure what. But he knew one thing, that he couldn’t let them take it. The music had awakened something in him, something powerful. He felt as if they were asking him to hand over a piece of himself.

With a defiant flash in his eyes, Clint muttered, “Then come back with a warrant,” and slammed the door shut. He locked it swiftly, his hands trembling, then leaned against it, breathing hard. He dragged his old drawer over to the door, to block it. He stood still for a moment, realizing it probably hurt his back more than it would stop them.

He knew they’d be back soon enough, and if they found the device. There’d be no questions, no leniency with them. They’d take it and wipe it from existence, just like everything else from Clint's life. Clint was running out of time.

For a moment, he just stood there, heart pounding as he weighed his options. Then he realized he had to get away from here, maybe into Nola City. Somewhere they wouldn’t think to look.

Clint grabbed what he deemed to be necessities, his tool bag, his dearest mementos and food. Quickly tucking the device into its hidden pocket, and turned to the window. One last glance around his room, his life as he’d known it, and he felt a pang of regret. But there was no going back. Whatever happened next, he knew one thing, that he’d found something that was worth fighting for.

With a quiet resolve, Clint slipped into the fire exit. Heading for the old tunnels, where the enforcers’ reach grew thin and the sound of the past still lingered, waiting for him.