A/N: I guess I should mention that by no means are my postings final versions of these chapters. They’re just the first incarnation. That said, I’m somewhat dissatisfied with this first chapter, but I’m posting it in the hopes of getting some constructive criticism. So have at it!

Fire on Babylon

Chapter One

“Dog tags, please.”

Dog tags. I’d always liked that name for them. Always felt that it invoked something bigger than me, some mythical tradition of blood and gore and death-defying heroics. Dog tags. She had requested them. Right. Haltingly, I slipped the chain up over my head, and handed it over to the severe, harried official inside the booth. Seeing her take it from me, hold it like any random trinket, made my breath catch. One of the first messages they’d managed to drive home at the training camp was that never, under any circumstances, should we lose, give away, or otherwise become separated from, our dog tags. They were our sole piece of identity, the only way we could be officially named, should anything happen. My dog tags had become inextricably linked to my sense of self. I prayed she would give them back.

Meanwhile, she had entered the numbers engraved on them, and, I assumed, pulled up my file.

“Trajan Marius Aemilianus?”

“Yeah.”

“Birthdate for security purposes?”

“Twelve, twenty-one, oh three.”

“Good. You’ll be on the morning shift, starting at midnight tonight, ending at eight in the morning. You’ll be staying in room C, floor 5, building 17, down that way and to your left.”

She handed me back my dog tags, yelled “Next!”, and I was dismissed. I walked a few paces in the general direction she’d indicated. Behind me, I could hear the next worker being officially welcomed to our new home.

“Dog tags, please. Cassius Tiberius Saturninus?”

“That’s right.”

“Birthdate for security purposes?”

“Six, twenty-one, oh four.”

“Good. You’ll be on the day shift…”

Someone jostled me from behind, pushed me into the crush. There were people everywhere, everywhere, and nobody, it seemed, was going in the same direction as anybody else. I dropped the chain back around my neck, the tags under my shirt. Their weight comforted me, and I walked on.

---

I would conclude later that they had a system for allocating and reallocating rooms and shifts. They must have had. They had a system for everything. That said, I was never able to understand it. I’m sure that was the point. An understandable system is one that can be manipulated. I grasped the basics, but no more.

There were two to a room. Men roomed with men, women with women. Each room was identified by a letter, from A to D. There were four rooms and two bathrooms on each of the six floors of every building. Each building had a number, from 1 upwards. There were no elevators, no balconies, and the doors didn’t lock, but there was nothing worth stealing anywhere. I often wondered why they didn’t simply lodge us in large, less expensive dormitories, for all that the rooms were personal and homey. Finally, it was pointed out to me that this was a method of putting distance between the old regime with its military and work camps, and the new regime with its factories. Besides, when the Chief Citizen moved in, the coffers were overflowing – the president had refused to open them up for anything, especially not if it had to do with the welfare of his people.

As for the shifts, there were three, each eight hours long, with no overlap. I never had the same shift as a roommate. While that may have only been my luck, I wouldn’t put it past them to have built that into their design for allocating rooms.

---

Room C, floor 5, building 17. I found it easily. It was a small, white room – walls, tile floor, bedding, all white – with two beds, two nightstands, and two chairs. A window took up most of the wall across from the door, and offered a full view of the large public square, roiling with people, and beyond it, the factory, starkly black against the white sky.

I met my roommate later that night. Domitian. He was tall and broad and hadn’t seen the inside of a school since the age of fifteen. He’d been perfect for the military, and was perfect for the factory. He was on the day shift, and when I left him just before midnight, he was nearly gagging with anticipation. He was already gone when I got back.

I spent most of my time between shifts sleeping. I had spent the last years living constantly surrounded by others, but I was intimidated by sharing such close quarters with only one person. I had nothing to say to him. When we were both awake, we’d watch each other rattle around the room, drifting and aimless, and awkwardly silent.

So it went, until there was a new address next to my name on the little screen just inside the door to the building. Room B, floor 6, building 22. I got my things and left. I never saw Domitian again. Any initial confusion over the sudden move was dispelled over the course of the next few weeks and months, as I was moved every ten days or so. Some told me they dreaded it. I welcomed the change.

---

They never bothered coming up with explanations for moving us around. I suppose they realized it was rather a waste of time. We all knew the reason. Or so I assume. It seems impossible that I should be the only one who, lying awake in between shifts contemplating my utter isolation from those around me, had thought from the depths of frustration that if they would only stop shuttling me around from one room to the next, then maybe I’d have the time to get to know-- Of course. How logical! One person alone, friendless, with no supporters, can’t possibly mount an effective counter-revolution, can’t foment rebellion on a large enough scale for something to actually come of it.

Slowly, though, fissures began opening up in this scheme. They probably could have seen it coming. The system was simply unable to support the full weight of the thousands of workers it had to govern. People began getting lost in the chaotic shuffle. For increasing lengths of time, some were simply forgotten.

The first of these I met had been in the same room with the same person for nigh on two months when they were split and I moved in with one of them. His name was Lucius, and he was younger than me. He was quiet, a mournful quiet. It would be only later that I’d understand why. They rotated him out about a week and half after having rotated me in.

Then came Titus, who kept a picture of a tree tacked to the wall above his bed. I asked him why, once, and he shrugged, looked away. I didn’t ask again. He was gone soon, anyways. After him was Seianus. After that, I lost track. There were more. Many more. I don’t remember their names. I may never have known them. It doesn’t matter; it never did.

The next I remember is Cassius.