Air. It wasn't a right. In Aethelgard, it was 'Conditioned-Atmospheric-Inventory'. A product delivered through rusted vents and humming turbines. Every single lungful of oxygen you took was a 'Metabolic-Withdrawal' from the Board's chemical tanks. Solar didn't care if you needed to live; he cared about the 'O2-Consumption-Rate' and the dirty carbon you were pumping back into his clean corridors.
Solar stood in the "Ventilation-Hub" of Sector 12. The air here was thin, tasting like ozone and stale sweat. HSSSSS. HUMMM. Huge metal fans were grinding overhead, pulling the life out of the lower slums to feed the luxury suites in the clouds.
"Elias. Look at the 'Exhalation-Logs' for the mining crews," Solar said. His voice was a dry rattle, like a snake moving through dead grass. He didn't look at the screens; he just watched the condensation forming on the cold pipes. "They're breathing too heavy. Gasping. It's a waste of high-grade filtered air. Are they panicked? Or just greedy?"
Elias was slumped against a vibrating compressor. He looked like a man made of grey ash. His chest was heaving, his ribs sticking out like a cage of broken sticks. He was wiping a thick, greasy fluid from his forehead. WIPE. SLAP. "The... the air-pressure is dropping, Solar. The workers are choking on their own carbon. They're 'Lung-Hoarding'—taking deep breaths and holding them just to avoid the next 'Inhale-Surcharge'. They're turning blue in the face, man. Some of them are just... dropping dead at the machines to save a few credits."
Solar didn't blink. He just tapped his bone-handled cane against a hissing valve. TINK. TINK. No rhythm. Just the sound of a debt being counted. "Lung-Hoarding? No. They're 'Atmospheric-Embezzlers'. If they're holding their breath, they're 'Stagnating-Assets'. Why is that foreman wheezing, Elias? Is he trying to steal an unauthorized 'Deep-Breath-Cycle'? Add a 'Hyperventilation-Penalty' of 110% to anyone whose heart rate exceeds the 'Aerobic-Quota'. Oxygen is a subscription service. And the atmosphere? The atmosphere is a Board-owned luxury."
A massive "Carbon-Scrubber" in the floor began to roar. A jagged, mechanical scream that sucked the heat and the moisture out of the room. ROAR. SCREECH. Solar didn't flinch as the dry air cracked the skin on his knuckles. He watched the "Breath-Revenue" bars on his tablet turn a dark, suffocating crimson. The colour of a lung that's been taxed to death.
"You're taxing the very wind in their chests, Solar!" A voice cracked from the darkness of a pipe-stack. The Shadow. His silver mask was dull, covered in a thin layer of frost. "You've put a price on the last thing a man has! You're not an auditor! You're a fucking vacuum!"
Solar didn't turn his head. He just checked the scratched face of his watch. The metal gears were biting into each other with a cold, dry friction. SCRAPE. CLICK. To him, those clicks were cubic meters of stolen oxygen. "A vacuum? No, ghost. I'm an 'Atmospheric Auditor'. The Board built the scrubbers. The Board bought the chemicals. Every inhale is a 'Product-Delivery'. They don't like the price? They can hold their breath until the ledger turns black. But even then... there's a 'Final-Exhale-Tax' for the cleanup."
The sensors in the vent caught a sudden gasp. Someone was suffocating. A loud, wet coughing fit echoed through the hub. COUGH. HACK. WHEEZE.
"The audit is moving into the bronchi, ghost!" Solar shouted over the roar of the fans. Eyes hard. Like frozen grease. "Everything is an asset! Every breath is a transaction! I'll tax the inhale! I'll audit the gasp! I'll put a price on the last puff of air you get before the world turns into a vacuum-sealed debt!"
Solar turned and walked toward the air-lock. His boots clicked on the cold, dry floor. CLICK. CLICK. No guilt. No fatigue. Just the cold, hard math of a man who owned the very air you needed to stay alive.
"Elias!"
"Y-yes... sir?"
"The ones who stopped breathing. Don't recycle them yet. Sell the 'Residual-Oxygen' in their blood to the medical sector at a 600% markup. If they've got air left in them, the Board wants it back. The world is a tank, Elias. And I'm the one who holds the key to the valve."
Solar disappeared into the vacuum-sealed lift. He didn't look back. The interest never sleeps. And tonight? Even the air between your lips was being sold to the highest bidder. The Ledger was hungry for the next gasp.