Movement wasn't a right. It was a 'Kinetic-Expenditure'. In Aethelgard, every swing of an arm, every hurried step toward a transit-hub, and every nervous twitch of a finger was an 'Unauthorized-Energy-Drain'. The Board provided the 'Bio-Nutrients' to keep the muscles twitching, so the Board owned the resulting 'Mechanical-Output'. If you weren't using that output to turn a wrench or stack a crate, you were 'Embezzling-Motion'. You were a parasite sucking the kinetic-lifeblood out of the Board's infrastructure.
Solar stood on the "Vibration-Plates" of the Central-Transit-Hub. The air was a thick, oily soup of recycled friction and ionized dust that tasted like copper and old sweat. HUMMM. THRRRR. Underneath the metal floor-grates, massive turbines harvested the footsteps of the thousands of workers scurrying to their 18-hour shifts. The vibration was so intense it made the teeth rattle inside the workers' skulls.
"The 'Kinetic-Yield' is down, Elias," Solar said, his voice a jagged, wet rasp through his silver mask. He didn't watch the crowd. He stared at the moving pile of grey meat. His eyes, cold and bloodshot, fixed on the "Motion-Density-Map" on his terminal. FLICKER. RED. "They're dragging their feet. They're 'Conserving-Momentum'. Those bastards think they can hoard their energy. That's 'Kinetic-Resource-Hoarding'. It's a breach of contract."
Elias was a wreck. His ash-grey skin looked like wet parchment stretched over a skull. He was scratching at his tablet, his fingers bleeding from the jagged edges of the screen. CLICK. SMASH. "The workers... they're 'Stride-Shortening', sir. It's a protest. They're walking in slow, deliberate steps to dodge the 'High-Velocity-Surcharge'. They're trying to be 'Still' in a city that runs on friction. They think if they don't move, we can't bill them."
Solar laughed. It was a nasty, broken sound. Like someone kicking a bucket of rusty bolts. "Still? In my city? That's 'Static-Obstruction'. If they don't move, I'll tax the 'Potential-Energy' trapped in their rotting muscles. Wake them up, Elias. Increase the 'Vibration-Frequency' of the floor-plates. Give them a 'Motivational-Jolt' they'll feel in their marrow."
BZZZZT. ZAP.
The floor-plates surged with a blue, crackling current. A thousand workers jumped at once, their bodies jerking in a forced, agonizing dance. SCREAM. SHUFFLE. Solar walked through the staggering crowd, his leather coat dragging like a heavy sheet of oil through the grime. SHHHH. He stopped. Some wretch was leaning on a pillar, puking yellow slime all over his own feet. The man's hands were jumping—uncontrolled, nervous spasms that wouldn't quit.
"That's a 'High-Frequency-Twitch', Unit 12-Zeta," Solar whispered, the silver mask inches from the man's sweating, filth-smeared face. "3,000 vibrations per minute. That's enough 'Kinetic-Waste' to power a street-lamp for an hour. You're 'Leaking-Energy' into the atmosphere without a 'Vibration-Capture-License'. You're a walking power-leak."
"I... I can't help it..." the man gasped, his voice a wet, disgusting gurgle. He tried to hide his hands in his ragged, grease-stained sleeves. "The cold... it makes the muscles jump... the hunger... I'm not doing it on purpose..."
Solar grabbed the man's wrist. The bone felt like dry wood ready to snap, covered in a layer of cold, sticky sweat. CRACKLE. Solar's glove felt for the pulse, the 'Bio-Rhythm-Asset'. He squeezed until the man whined like a beaten dog.
"Cold is a 'Corporate-Climate-Variable', debtor," Solar snapped. SNAP. He leaned closer, smelling the man's decay. "If your body reacts to it by 'Unauthorized-Shivering', that's a 'Thermal-Kinetic-Penalty'. You're generating heat that isn't being harvested by the 'Bio-Thermal-Grids'. That's 'Thermodynamic-Theft'. You're stealing calories from the shareholders."
Solar opened the Ledger. The violet light illuminated the man's terror, showing the deep, oily grime in the wrinkles of his neck. CLICK. CLICK. "Let's look at your 'Motion-History'. 4 hours of 'Unproductive-Gesticulation'. 6 miles of 'Erratic-Walking' that didn't end at a workstation. 1,200 'Nervous-Twitches'. Total debt: 900,000 credits. Collateral: Kinetic-Restraint-Braces. We're going to lock your limbs until they learn to be efficient."
"No! Please! I need to move to work! I have a family!" the man shrieked, his voice turning into a nasty, rattling cough that sprayed the floor—and Solar's coat—with a thick, bloody spit. SPLAT.
Solar looked at the spit. To him, it was just a leak in the system. "Spitting? That's 'Fluid-Projectile-Motion'. 500 credits for the 'Distance-Coverage'. 200 for the 'Cleanup-Liability'. Elias, mark him for the 'Static-Dormitories'. Since he can't control his 'Kinetic-Assets', we'll lock his joints in 'Corporate-Stasis' until his shift starts. No more 'Leaking-Motion'. He'll be a statue of debt until 06:00."
CLANG. HISS.
The guards dragged the man away, his feet scraping against the metal floor in a final, taxable screech. Solar watched the numbers climb, his eyes following the jagged lines of profit through the red smoke and the stinking crowd. 045000... 067000... 112000. "Every jerk of a limb is a credit earned, Elias. Don't let a single 'Vibration' go un-audited. I want the total sum of their kinetic-shame."
The Shadow emerged from the steam of a high-pressure vent, his mask a dull smear of silver in the flickering red glare. He looked tired, his movements heavy and jagged. "You're turning them into statues, Solar. You're taxing the very impulse to live. Even a heart-beat is 'Motion' to you. You've become a void that eats friction."
Solar didn't turn. He stared at the workers shuffling through the red-tinted rot. "A heart-beat is a 'Pumping-Service', Shadow. And every service has a 'Maintenance-Fee'. If their hearts beat too fast because of 'Fear' or 'Love', that's 'Emotional-Velocity-Tax'. They should keep their pulses at the 'Corporate-Standard-Idle'—60 beats per minute. Anything more is 'Metabolic-Arrogance'. It's a waste of biological resources."
Solar adjusted the dial on his cane. GRIND. CLICK. He slammed it into the center of the walkway, right onto a patch of dried blood. THUD. The vibration-sensors on his tablet spiked into the red, screaming for attention.
"Elias! The next block. Sector 11. I want a 'Kinetic-Audit' on the kids. I heard they're running. In Aethelgard, if you're not walking to a job, you're 'Speeding-in-a-Zero-Growth-Zone'. Tax their 'Playtime' at the 'High-Impact-Industrial-Rate'. If they have enough energy to run, they have enough energy to turn the 'Manual-Turbines' in the sub-basements. Their little legs can generate at least 4 kilowatts before they snap."
"But sir," Elias muttered. He was looking at the dark, wet corners where the pipes leaked. "The kids... their bones won't hold. The turbines... it'll be a bloody mess. They'll just get ground up."
"Then they'll be 'Structural-Waste-Collateral'," Solar said, his eyes cold as dying stars. "Waste is still an asset if you recycle it correctly. Now, move! Every second you stand there 'Thinking' is a 'Cognitive-Pause-Surcharge'. This city doesn't pay for your 'Pondering'. It pays for your output."
WHIRRR-SCREEE.
The transit-hub's sirens began to wail—a long, agonizing sound that forced the workers to move faster, their shadows jerking and stretching under the harsh, strobe-lights. Solar stood in the center of the human tide, his ledger open, his silver mask reflecting the chaos. He didn't see people. He didn't see pain. He saw a 'Kinetic-Empire' built on the debt of a thousand-thousand steps.
Solar walked out, his boots making a heavy, rhythmic THUMP... THUMP... THUMP... Each step was free for him, a privilege of his rank. But for everyone else? It was a 'Vibrational-Loan' they'd be paying off for the rest of their miserable, shivering lives. He left the hub smelling of ozone and the sweet, rot-like scent of a successful audit.