"Your quarantine has ended. You may leave, now."
Having spent the last week in the quarantine chambers of The City, The Photographer got up from his bed.
He was completely naked in a white room, surrounded by padded walls. But as the lower half of the glass door was tinted, the wide shot did not expose Averie’s lower half to the audience.
The Photographer massaged his eyes, sighed, and walked up to the door.
Previously, clothes had hidden how skinny he was. But it couldn’t be hidden now.
His head had stopped throbbing two days ago, yet he hadn’t gotten used to the white walls. He needed his glasses.
A guard, dressed in green, walked up to the door and handed him his clothes.
Before long, he was in the office of the inspection officer, a job known for being cushy. Practically, every nepo baby in The City wanted it.
The Photographer had heard many stories like these from the bored guards. He didn’t have much to add, but he listened.
He had always been a faultless listener, and he demonstrated that in front of the officer as the man sang an ode to himself.
"Ah, one last thing."
He took out a machine that looked like a staple gun and placed it to The Photographer’s neck.
A burning pain travelled up his neck, and before he could scream, the officer retreated.
"Done."
He rotated the mirror on his desk to face his guest.
The Photographer leaned in, his wide amber eyes peering into his reflection.
In that mont, the reflection looked livelier than the real thing. It felt more alive than its counterpart.
With trembling fingers, The Photographer caressed his neck. There was nothing there, but he could feel sothing protruding through the skin.
"A chip," explained the officer nonchalantly. "It’s a standard procedure."
The photographer understood that he would not receive more information than that. Soon enough, he was escorted out by a pair of guards.
The entire process, from quarantine to embedding of the chip, was part of the most infamous immigration policy of The City.
It was introduced a decade earlier as a precaution designed to avoid the introduction of outside illnesses to the residents of the dod city.
"It had caused the cri rates to plumt... as far as the immigrants are concerned."
The man telling the story was less than presentable. His clothes were tattered, and he looked broken—in spirit and body.
He had approached The Photographer in the hopes of being hired as his guide. He was quick to gather that it was like begging in front of a fellow beggar.
"You and I are their creatures." He pointed at the inspection centre behind him with the pipe he was smoking. "We are second-class citizens; no one will admit it."
He emptied the pipe on the advertisent sign he was leaning against.
"They will always know where you are. Take care not to upset them. Bitter n often end up finding trouble here."
The Photographer’s head slightly shook as he peered into the eyes of the suspicious man.
"I am not bitter."
His pronunciations were marked with a slight French accent.
The man bobbed his head as if he didn’t believe him.
"Intelligent n know they deserve better." He gestured towards the vast city that stretched out ahead of them. "This place brings out their bitterness."
As The Photographer stared into the abyss that lay ahead, the man limped away.
"Don’t let that thought cross your mind."
He turned in the direction of the voice, but the man had already vanished.
He lowered his eyes before thoughtfully turning them towards the fortress that lay behind him. It was built into the stone do and looked like sothing out of a dieselpunk story.
"Intelligent..." he muttered, studying the large structure they called the inspection gate.
It was The Outskirts of The City, an elevated area compared to the center of the structure. Only the destitute lingered here.
What he could see of The City was vast enough, yet it wasn’t even ten percent of it.
The lights overhead attracted his gaze. They were like stars.
There was no sky, only a ceiling covered in neon billboards. The signs for plastic surgeons were right next to the signs of sexual service providers.
He was on the ground level of the city, but there were floors above and beneath him.
It was a bemusing structure to look at.
Nervously playing with the flap of his satchel, The Photographer continued forward.
The shot of his back against the backdrop of the sparkling city filled the screen.
The scene cut to a wooden sign hanging over a recently varnished door. The dark wood obscured the na engraved in black, which seed like an awful combination for a signboard.
In the sea of neon, it was the only old-fashioned pub found on the ground floor.
"The Mistress, it was called."
It was the voice of Benoit Durand. A monologue had begun.
"It was a coffeehouse originally. But when the need for coffee places diminished, it had to be rebranded and reard."
The door opened with the pleasant sound of a bell, and The Photographer stepped in, his worn brown leather shoes scraping against the hard walnut wood.
"It had been a lot of things in its ti. It was a bootlegger’s, a cobbler’s, a tanner’s... When the sll beca unbearable, it was broken down and rebuilt."
The cara panned up, showing The Photographer’s chest as he walked past the many patrons of the establishnt sitting at the bar.
"By the ti I ca to own it, the landscape had changed. Ceilings of stone had replaced our skies."
The cara once again followed him in the wide shot, but his head remained out of fra.
"I designed her interior. I gave her a na. And I bathed her in every kind of drink."
As The Photographer continued walking and the cara continued panning, the barkeeper entered the fra.
He was talking with one of the patrons at the bar, a beaming smile under his moustache.
The pub, representing a fusion of rustic and classy styles, seed to be designed in his lively image.
With all but the barkeeper’s head turned away from the cara and The Photographer’s out of fra, the shot seed to linger.
With the latter in the front and the forr in the back, it was the first wide shot that insisted on depth.
And by the audience’s account, it was beautiful.
"Les Vigne, my na."
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