This is a quick story I whipped up for the October Monthly Writing Contest. This isn't final draft so there are major faults in it (e.g an incident of deux ex machina). If you are interested in reading about the novel, it's on the previous post. I'll likely submit a new post after this has been submitted.

"Hey! Heeeey Rioth!"
"Whaaaat?"
Rioth turned to the voice from staring his half empty tin mug. There sat an overweight bearded man looking back at him with his wild-hair weeding it's way out from his faded green cap in a damp and worn living room, complete with stained sheets on a mattress on the floor and a tiny portable gas stove. "Heeey, man! You've drunk most of my stock maaan!"
"Hah, fuck you, you drunk most of it. I just got drunk off the fumes coming from you!" was what Rioth planned to tell him. What actually came out was probably so slurred, it just sounded like a noise changing in pitch at seemingly random points. Rioth checked the time, the rough clock made from what looks like a wheel hub pointed to the 3 and about three quarters of the way to 9. "Whoah! I've got work in the morning! I should have been in bed a long time ago! I'll see thee later". His friend, Rach, grunted as he took another swig from his cup.

The streets seemed to swing to-and-thro as Rioth stumbled between the large metallic houses, most of them rusted and falling apart, while kicking up a lot of dust with his leather boots. At one point, he even fell over and got dirt on his overalls. Rioth tried to brush off as much of the dust off his clothes, but with little vain. He let out a sigh, knowing he'd have to spend some time before work cleaning the dirt off his overalls or risk being reported ("Clean clothes are a product of a clean mind"). He knew that he had to get home as quickly as possible while not attracted attention, being caught drunk after-hours was enough to get you to visit the Church's "Help Centre" (Rioth smiled, yet cringed at the same time, at the irony of this statement). He took a left at Stalkmans Street to Winterset Road. As he passed the old subway gates, he heard something in the shadows, he was sure of it. It sounded like... "Eighteen". Whispered yet loud enough for Rioth to turn his attention to the rusting bars. The only thing that wasn't bronze was a chain and lock holding the gates together. Assuming it was nothing, Rioth went on his way home. Upon arriving, he had a drink of water, set his alarm clock for 5am, undressed himself to his boxers, tripping over as he tried to remove his trousers, and put his oxygen mask on. He then climbed between the stained sheets and went to sleep.

However, he got an extremely small amount of sleep. The same question ran through his mind over and over again: "Did I hear something back then?". He couldn't shake his mind off asking himself what eighteen meant. Every time he closed his mind, the same voice said the exact same word: "Eighteen..."; over and over again; "Eighteen...Eighteen...Eighteen". When Rioth stirred from his sleep as he heard a monotone buzzing sound next to him, he felt like he hadn't slept at all. He could feel a small tear escaping his left eye as he rose and touched his head with his left hand. He checked to see if the mask was properly connected and if the tank was empty. Satisfied that it wasn't empty and properly connected, he just blamed the tiredness to the home-brew alcohol. A lot of black-market booze, or as his booze dealer put it: Slummer, tend to be mixed with all sorts and sometimes had methanol instead of ethanol which could lead to all sorts including, of course, tiredness.

For the next few nights, Rioth just couldn't sleep much. He even purchased some tranquilisers from Rach, which let him sleep but his couldn't stop seeing, hearing, smelling and tasting the number eighteen. The only thing left he could think of doing was confronting the voice and checking out the abandoned sub-way. He'd go to work the following day, checking through the recycled material for "heathen things" like condoms and cigarette packets, and putting them in fire-bin for disposal. After work, he'd wait until everyone else had gone to bed and it's dark and then go into the subway. Then what? Rioth didn't have the slightest idea.

When the time came, Rioth approached the gates. He put his hand around one of the bars and tried to see into the shadows. He then heard an all too familiar voice: "Eighteen". The pronunciation sounded foreign, eat-teen instead of the local accent ate-teen, and a boy, yet it had a feminine twang to it. It was hard to fully describe it. Rioth wanted to carry on, badly, but for some reason he was over-whelmed with fear and dread. He was about to turn to leave, when the feelings left him. "No, that's not it" Rioth thought, "Washed away". He climbed over the gate, minding himself between the two dull spikes protruding behind and in front of him as part of the gate's design, and jumped down the other side.

As he went down the cold, concrete steps, the light flicked on in the hallway; which blinded him for a few seconds. Just as he removed his arm from in front of his eyes, he heard the voice again "Eighteen". It was a wide but short corridor strangely free of any graffiti decorated with baby-puke green tiles and concrete grey floors and ceiling. The lights also seemed in perfect condition, as though they were newly fitted for him. It was straight with a small rounded sharp bend at the end. Once he got around the bend, he was faced with a metallic booth which oversaw a single gate through with the words "Ticket" written on it. Strangely enough, the booth and gate were not only free of rust but also operational. The ticket sign was lit up by a blue substance that seemed to be a liquid by the bubbles in the light. The booth contained a single chair, about ten buttons on the desk, a large copper tube with a flap-like lid and a button on the side on the left sinking into the floor and a small bronze (but by no means rusted) keypad with three-by-four small buttons with pipes left and right of it on the desk. Rioth tried to open the gate with no luck. He tried the booth door and it opened with ease, no creaking. After looking at the buttons, he found one labelled with tape and a piece of paper "Ticket gate" in a type-writer font (which he had only previously seen in letters sent by The Society Of The Messengers Of God, which often sent important news out to workers). Upon pressing it, he heard a loud gush of air. He jumped and looked towards the source just to see the steam finish making it's way out of the gate's hinges.

Rioth turned his back and was leaving the booth when he heard another gush of steam, this time behind him instead of in front of him. He quickly turned around to see a ticket shoot out of the machine. He crept over, half-expecting a trap to activate, and took the ticket quickly. He darted out of the booth to the back wall and put his back to it. He felt his heart racing and his chest rising and falling at a high rate. Satisfied that there weren't any traps, he looked at the ticket. "Platform 1, Nielsfield to Griffinsdale, Return, 16:43, 3.10.2021". Rioth looked at the ticket in confusion. The current year was 160 RA and he didn't know of any month past the eighth one, Joseph.

Once his heart beat was back to normal, Rioth walked through the open gate. Only to stop suddenly as he heard the same voice, a bit louder, tell whisper to him again "Eighteen". His spine felt like someone had just injected ice-cold water into it. He had to pause to wait for the sensation to pass. Once it had, he looked up at the large iron board above a set of stairs. At the top, in a red arrow to the left, it read "Platform 1", in a blue arrow pointing downwards, in read "Platform 2". At the bottom, in a yellow arrow it read "Platform 3". It still surprised Rioth how bright the colours were, like as though they were freshly painted yesterday. A temptation to put his finger on the yellow arrow to check if it was still wet came over Rioth for a second and quickly went away unanswered. Judging by the ticket, he assumed the best place to start would probably be platform one.

Rioth walked to the far left and started to descend down the steps, one at a time, with the concrete steps echoing under his feet across the entire platform. As he reached the bottom, he noticed the red tiles around the circular roof and on the walls which acted as a semi-circle over the floor. The floor was still dark grey concrete. The only thing around were benches near the wall made from copper. There was also a vending machine that was lit up and sold cigarettes and steam floating out two pipes near the top on the left and right. He walked over near the rails, looking up and down for anything, any sign of life. Rioth then heard the word "Eighteen", but instead of as an echo, it came from right behind him. He turned around sharply to see a small boy there.

He wore a dirt-brown robe and no shoes. His skin appeared to have a small blue tint to it and his face had slight feminine features to it which Rioth couldn't pinpoint what made him think it. The thing that stood out the most to him about the boy (who appeared no older than eleven), was how his ears seemed pointed at it's tips instead of rounded which stuck out among his slightly long hair-cut. The boy's face grew into an innocent smile and he extended his hand to Rioth ; a hand, that the man took.

Suddenly, there was a bright white flash. He was standing at the same station except he was now shorter in height. The place was also a lot busier with men, women and children waiting, chatting and sitting on the bench. He wore a sand-coloured tunic, green trousers and sandals. He had heard about how England was in a major recession and needed help with it. Elves had only started to live above ground twenty years ago. A religious group calling them Messengers Of God blamed the recession on Elves who were taking jobs, using up benefit money and was contributing to a shortage of coal and wood to fuel the steam-fuelled machinery. They were gathering in power and the elections were next month.

He suddenly heard a shout "AN ELF! A HERETIC!". Before he could do anything, a hand grasped on of one of his arms, another hand clutched another. "AN ELF THAT IS STEALING ALL OUR JOBS! IT'S GOING TO END UP KILLING US ALL! LET'S SHOW IT THE SAME THANKS!" the voice shouted out with an underlining tone of sadistic joy. Before Rioth could protest, he was lifted up as the mob shouted and jeered. They punched him, choked him, yelled at him, pulled his hair, pulled off his clothes, scratched him and carried him to the edge of the platform. He then heard the gushing of a steam engine, chugging it's way down the rails. Rioth was suddenly then thrown onto the tracks. He climbed onto his bare feet, cold and naked, looking at the crowd and crying. He wanted his mother and father to protect him and just for a hug. He begun to walk to the platform when he was kicked in the head by one of the jeerers. He fell back onto his bare-back. He got back onto his feet. The train began to sound its horn. Rioth turned to face the train. It then flashed white and then all went black.

Nighteen...Nighteen...Nighteen...

Edit: Final draft, done.