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Denim Rays felt the tension in his skin relax the moment he set foot in the Solarium, the governing headquarters of Disuis 9. Really, it was nothing more than a clubhouse for the pampered upper class of society. Sure, the usual governing decisions were made there; constitutional issues discussed, diplomatic matters addressed.
While those who held seats within congress did their part of keeping Disiuis 9 “a productive hub within the grander vision of Greater Eden,” their family members busied themselves with play and leisure, all while being safely enclosed within a building where the air was constantly misted with fresh water, moisturizing oil, and UV protection from constant solar flares and slit storms.
In reality, or more so, Denim’s opinion, the Solarium and those who lived within it were little more than a benign cancer uponS society.
Denim had never had a desire to be a part of such uselessness. Unlike his father, he truly believed if a member of society were ever going to make Disuis 9 as productive as it could be, one had to actually perform as a member. That meant, doing your part to ‘build the future of Greater Eden’. That was why he’d joined the ranks of workers and performed as an RRS or a Rations Revenue Supervisor.
The position had been acquired for him by his father, a perk in the eyes of many for being a Congressman’s son, but Denim had worked hard, often times even harder than his cohorts to prove he deserved his title. He’d done splendidly for the greater part of seven years, up until three days ago. With the loss of three-hundred rations and his personal ship, he’d been suspended from all RRS duties. Worse than that, he’d been made to act as a farmer in the place of the one who’d made a fool of him until another farmer was able to cover the shift, but that wasn’t going to happen until he’d worked off half of the debt for the three-hundred stolen rations.
He gritted his teeth as Charis Joba’s face came to mind, and regretted the movement instantly. His skin still ached from solar flare and silt exposure. The muscles in his hands were plagued with spasms and cramps from the farming labor. He gave a derisive laugh. The cramping could have also been a result of him imagining that the smooth, brown, column of her neck was between his hands. If the wench survived her flight if he ever got her in his grasp. . .
That was the root of his problem to begin with, wanting her in his grasp. He’d foolishly succumbed to her wiles and flirtatious ways and was paying dearly for his folly. His father had even mocked him as Samson while dubbing Charis Joba his Delilah, seeing through Denim’s lie that the young girl’s unusual face, hips, and waistline, deep brown eyes or supple lips had anything to do with his negligence.
Being made to work off the debt she had caused to Disuis 9 by stealing rations was the least of Denim’s problems. He’d thought his dressing down three days ago was punishment enough, but Meekus Claudius had sent an Official Teller to fetch him again. That only meant that things were about to get worse. Official business was a dark sign that he was up against more than a father’s disapproving wrath. He was now in the clutches of Congress itself and at the mercy of their good graces.