Copyright © 2025 by Brittany Noelle
BRIDGET PACES THE DARK apartment, PHOENIX business card in one hand, the repaired Sun Bird figurine in the other. The miniscreen by the door chimes again, denoting the time, eight. An hour before her supposed interview is to start inside Y. Shine Tower. Up on the Tenner level, of all things.
“It has to be a joke,” Bridget says again, trying to convince herself. “Why would a Tenner even know who I was? This has to be some sort of prank for one of their stupid new ‘real-life’ shows, right? Pick on lower-ranked people?”
Bridget collapses in the armchair, turning the Sun Bird in her fingers a few times. Every few minutes, her eyes flicker over to Mom’s studio door. Wondering if she should open it. If she should wait for Dad. How dusty is it? What state did they leave it in? What would she want—?
Angry crackles build in her throat, so she glares at the shiny letters of PHOENIX on the card for distraction. “What would I even do for a boy band?”
Bridget’s stomach twists for food, but she can’t sit with this anticipation any longer. She pulls on her jacket, smooths down her hair, pockets the card and places the broken figurine on the kitchen counter on top of Dad’s infuriating, but now unfurled and smoothed out letter. She hasn’t eaten or attempted to rest since making it home yesterday. Too twisted with guilt for Drew’s bakery. Afraid to think of Mom too much, or too little. Trying to contain the rioting electricity sizzling through her veins. She couldn’t even bring herself to search for the stars as the neon lights dimmed and natural sunlight rose over New Sky City once again, casting every surface in glittery yellows and golds.
“Maybe… This will fix everything. District Ten… I could bring Drew along. Dad. We wouldn’t have to worry about rankings…” Bridget regrets saying the words out loud at once but shakes her head. “This has to be a joke. There’s no way I’m becoming a blazing tenner today.”
Still, a conflicted yet hopeful pulse tingles out from her center. With one last glance up to the covered canvas in the loft, she exits, hood up, into the bright sunlight.
During sunup, yellow vents inlaid in the streets spill cooling air across each district deck. Citizens make their way to school or work dressed in crisp collars and fresh-shined shoes on scooters or in clusters of walking crowds, their steps brisk, their smiles bright. Everyone’s gossiping about the storm that lasted several hours during sundown, wondering how they can harness their energy and try harder at their various projects or assignments. The usual Sun-touched speak from the usual Sun-touched minds.
Bridget balls her fists in her pockets, keeping her head down as she climbs escalators with the commuters. Not making eye contact with any screen as she passes, though by the whispers, she’s sure others see her low ranking.
It doesn’t matter. She’s trying to fix it.
But again, what the fuck does a boy band want with her? And do creatives usually seek out Guild members out in the open like Nix did? There had to have been a camera or something on her. Maybe even now.
Resigned to some sort of game show shenanigans, Bridget knows she has no right to complain. She’s had months to establish herself in the Shine Chart rankings. This is her one shot, prank show or not.
She climbs the maroon and purple escalators past District Seven and Eight, higher than she’s been in several years. Not since an award ceremony for her Mom’s work at the Sunrise Festival. The last one Bridget attended. The last one before Mom started coughing in her studio, trying to hide any sign of weakness from her family, from the Sun.
Shaking dark-cloud memories off, she presses forward.
The escalator for District Nine requires an ID check, officiated by Radiant Officers, their gold-yellow hats reflecting sun rays like beacons. Bridget chances a glance at a nearby shinescreen to check the time. Still forty minutes before the interview. But the line moves slowly, and by the time she hunches forward to press her thumb to the glass scanner, another ten minutes have passed.
The Radiant glances at a pocketscreen in her hand. “What’s your business in the upper levels?”
Bridget holds out the business card. “Interview.”
The Radiant woman sniffs and backs up toward a small booth at the side of the security checkpoint. More glancing about, asking other officers. Even a call made. A prickly dark thought rattles through Bridget as she considers darting up the escalator. Nothing blocks the moving stairs from her, just good old-fashioned trust in the community. Which the Solar Council can afford given that every citizen is scanned into a central system and every citizen’s movement is tracked by the shinescreens. Bridget squints at the nearest screen fixed to the thumb scanning counter, half-wondering how it tracks everyone so well and leaning as far from its electric field as she can.
The longer the Radiant takes, the deeper the thought catches in her over-tired mind. If she could harness her weird glitching abilities, then maybe one day she’d be able to move through the City without anyone knowing her location. No shinescreens ratting her out or ranking her actions. No neon, no Sun, no eyes… hidden from sight all together. She might even be able to leave the City without crossing the Zero Gate check. The City clings to every available body they have, talent or not. Because someone has to man the lower districts. Water reclamation, waste disposal, SkyCurrent maintenance—the unglamorous, unskilled, looked-down-upon work anyone working in District Three and below occupy. Including anyone who ranks too low or tries to shirk their citizen duty of contributing to the City.
A flicker across the shinescreen silences her waking dream at once. She flinches another step away. The reality is, if anyone of the Radiant figures out she’s a threat to New Sky City’s precious electric grid, she’ll end up at the bottom of the districts. Imprisoned in District Zero with all the other criminals against the Sun. She wouldn’t have to worry about rankings after that, sure, but if the rumors are true, she won’t have many worries at all…
The Radiant returns before Bridget can finish the dark thought, eyes narrow as she scans Bridget’s outfit up and down. Still, the woman waves her through to the rising escalator. “Good luck.”
Bridget bristles. “What?”
“On the interview. Ten’s a good place to end up.”
“Right.”
“Be the light,” the officer bids her with a small, cordial nod.
Bridget swallows, and hurries along.
Y. Shine Tower, a mass of glittering blue metal, rises through the core of the City. Every district sprouts out from this center, like leaves on a stem. And all SkyCurrent lines begin with the tower. It’s the thrumming battery of the entire city where SkyCurrent Engineers ensure power to all systems across each level. A marvel of solar technology unmatched anywhere else in the world.
But to Bridget, the core of New Sky City has always hummed a little too loud. Maybe it’s her weird electric quirks, but the closer she is to the tower, the more she wants to escape in the opposite direction. Another coiling storm cloud presses into her throat as she winds higher up the escalator to District Ten. For a moment, she loses her breath. The air pumping out from the vents seems… cooler. And smells like citrusy fruits. Bridget hunches arms tighter to her sides as she moves between glittery clothing shops and hair dye sample booths, around carts selling sun buns and sunflower seeds. The sunstones underfoot seeming to take on more of a sheen than the lower-level streets. More golden. It’s all admittedly… beautiful. Each coiling silver trim on the yellow-brick buildings. The intricate frames for the shinescreens. Details Bridget wouldn’t think to include are pressed into every sunstone across the street—small blooming flower designs or sunburst spirals. Every breath fills her up with not just air, but lightness. As if every bad thought has been scrubbed away.
A passing trolley down the center of the sunstone path dings a bell as it approaches from behind, a rolling platform with golden poles where several passengers hang on and a grinning conductor with a flat hat and a gap-toothed smile. “Y. Shine Tower, next stop!” Bridget hops on the platform just in time and grips the pole tight. The conductor scans her up and down, just like the Radiant, but he sends her a smile. “Joining us up in the heavens?”
Bridget swallows a gulp of citrus air. “Just an interview.”
“That’s how we climb. Closer and closer to the light!”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Good luck!”
The trolley swerves to the left in a roundabout drive right outside the glass doors leading inside the Tower, but only slows, doesn’t stop. Bridget hops down, and stumbles, watching the gold-trimmed trolley return down the central street toward the escalator hill.
Hand to chest, Bridget pauses, staring up at the rising blue-metal wall before her of Y. Shine Tower. Wider here than the lower Districts, it seems, shinier, lined in blue and purple SkyCurrent powerlines arranged in different appealing square and diamond patterns to hide the engineering work it actually is.
Her skin buzzes, an unseen energy needling her fingertips.
The nearest shinescreen tells her she has nine minutes to make it to her interview. And in the reflection of the glass, Bridget can make out her raggedy hooded sweater, her wild curls, her tired eyes. Not tenner material at all. She doesn’t fit in this glittery, citrusy side of the city. She’s a storm cloud marring the sunny blue sky.
Then the District Ten Shine ratings spin and roll down the screen. Each profile picture revealing another pleasant smile, another squared jaw or perfectly crinkled eye. No hair out of place or smile too broad or shoulders too drooping or attention pulled elsewhere. Each face shining, no, glowing with harnessed potential.
Tenners. Beautiful, disciplined, dazzling.
And for some reason she has a chance to share in a sliver of that glow.
It’s a joke. Has to be.
Eight minutes left.
Bridget swallows hard, ducks her head, and hurries toward the glass doors.
~*~*~*~
CROSSING THE TOWER’S THRESHOLD sends electric bolts down her back, but Bridget remains upright as best as she can, matching the posture of those around her. While the Tower holds all the power supply of the city, many high-profile Guilds operate from inside as well. High-ranked actors or musical performers even live inside the Tower. The passing people around her seem to fall into that category. Pristine, unblemished faces speed walking to their destinations while in conversation with colleagues or happily checking personal pocketscreens. No matter the dress—pressed skirts and gold-lined blouses, crisp shouldered blazers, or the blue jumpsuits of the Engineers—every face smiles, everyone carries themselves with an air of confidence, purpose.
Bridget pulls herself to one side of the lobby, rechecking the business card to figure out where to go. Plenty of signs shine across the white walls, but with the cross-traffic and electric buzzing down her bones, it’s hard to concentrate.
“Can I help you?”
Bridget jumps and finds a young woman at a desk marked: Reception. She lets out a tight breath and nods. “I’m here for an interview. With Phoenix.” She shows the card.
The receptionist’s eyes widen, but she smiles when she sees the card. “What a lucky break! I hear the boys have been looking for some more help for a while. You’ll wanna head down the right hall here.” She points where the lobby curves into a hall that follows the Tower’s shape. “Phoenix ranked into their own studio last year, so they get their own elevator and everything. Marked with their logo.” The receptionist taps the red bird on the card.
Bridget shuffles her feet. Hesitates. The people walking from that hall are wearing all manner of flashy necklaces or blue-trimmed shoes. The fashions of the high-ranked and famous. Some noses crinkle when they spot Bridget against the clean white walls. She turns away from their judging eyes at once. “Is… Is there a bathroom or something?”
The receptionist smiles knowingly then reaches under her desk and pulls out a deep blue blazer. “This should fit you. Slip it on in the elevator. Only got a few minutes left!”
Bridget squeaks out a “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” and hurries with the jacket down the hall.
A row of elevators lines the inner wall when she finally curves around, several of the blue metal doors splitting open down the middle and spilling out recognizable singers and pianists with a few blue-blazered crew matching their steps.
“…appointment at ten for the new gown…”
“…dinner with Fitz, but he’s still going through that awful divorce…”
“…wants an interview, but I think she’s just worried to sunset her career…”
Bridget avoids side-eyes and searches for the red bird logo, sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. Until finally, all the way at the end of the row, there it is. Blue metal with a single button marked with a red bird. Hasty, she presses it before she can think to turn around, and zap! A shock catches her finger.
Bridget tugs back away from the button, heart pounding hard enough to bruise her ribs. She holds her breath, searches the hall. But no glitching shinescreens, no bursting bulbs. The elevator doors slide open, spilling out cool air and a mirrored box to take her to Phoenix’s exclusive studio.
She flips the card in her hand. Reads the words again.
From the ashes, we rise.
“Up we go,” she whispers, and steps inside.
~*~*~*~
AS THE ELEVATOR DOORS slide closed, locking Bridget into her decision, the split PHOENIX logo snaps together under the ambient blue lighting of the small box. The floor-to-ceiling metallic art piece displays a crimson-brushed abstract bird soaring upward, wings spread mid-thrust. A representation of the band’s name and motto, but also the power of the elevator hushing into action. Bridget teeters, knees weak, body rejecting the electric fields in the air.
“Why did I agree to this?” she mutters, scratching her arm where pinprick tingles scatter across the skin. The SkyCurrent-powered box practically vibrates, sending energy pulses skittering up her spine, but also buzzing at such a low frequency she loses her train of thought for a moment, pure panic taking over.
In the reflective walls, she finds her ratty self, blue blazer limp over her arm. Quickly, she pulls it on like a shield from the world. But the color matches the blue lighting, and it looks like she’s disappearing into the walls in every reflection. Molding into the shape the City wants her to be. An anxious whine escapes as she tears off the coat. She’s hated the city’s ranking system since she figured out the only way to “win” within it is to become copies of everyone else around her. No thank you. She’ll take her coal-stained fingernails and star-searching fire escape over fitting someone else’s mold.
Still, she tries to smooth down her hair. Even tries at a smile, but grimaces instead. Her gums pulse with pain, and she realizes how hard she’s gritting against the electric hum flowing through her body. She needs to stay grounded in the moment. The last thing she needs is for her panicky inner storm cloud to lash out and—
The elevator lurches to a stop; the ambient lights putter and flicker.
“No, no, no—” Bridget yelps and grips the handrails along the mirrored walls. How high has she already climbed?
How far is the fall?
Only a few buttons line the wall on either side of the split door. One marked for Up, one for Down, one for Emergency, and one for Intercom. All four glow a dull orange, even as the lights flicker again, elevator shivering underfoot.
The Down button light blinks, before winking out completely.
And the box drops.