Estelle gets on the train, with earbuds firmly in place, gripping her pad in gloved hands. The train has been uncomfortably chilly lately. No one seems to know why, but the people in charge promise that they're looking into it.
She takes a seat, next to a window, and settles in for the ride to City Center. This morning her earbuds are playing something soothing and classical. It doesn't do much to improve her mood, but the music is like a cacoon, protecting Estelle from interaction with her fellow passengers.
The screen of her pad glows and she taps at its interface with gloved fingers. She reads the headlines, letting the words wash over her, not really caring about what happens a million miles away. Unrest in Russia. Famine in Africa. Sexual shennanigans involving politicians and celebrities. None of it matters to her, not directly.
As the train approaches City Center, the car fills. A man sits next to Estelle. He's wearing a bright, puffy coat and fuzzy orange gloves that match his hat. He smells like citrus. Like Estelle, he is armored against the crowd with earbuds and a pad. Estelle glances at his screen, like you do, and sees that he's reading some kind of manga.
The car is quiet. No one talks to anyone else. Somewhere in the back someone is using old-fashioned headphones and their music-of-choice is leaking into the surrounding air. Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper. Estelle adjusts the volume of her earbuds to drown it out.
Close to City Center, you get more foreigners boarding the train. You can always spot them. They're so short. There's more of them every year. Sometimes, in her darker moments, Estelle feels like they're being invaded. Sometimes, she wishes they'd stay at home, but then she remembers the news of unrest and famine and general stupidity and realizes these people are probably trying to get the hell away from all of that.
She still doesn't like them.
Finally, the train arrives at City Center. Estelle rises and departs. The train station is crowded. People flow like water around ticket kiosks and hot food machines. Estelle never buys food in the station. A friend told her the stuff in the machines is close to expiration, so unless she wants to risk food poisoning, its best to avoid it. Most people either don't know this or don't care. The line for hot food is long.
Estelle takes the escalator up from the depths. The station is chilly. The surface is warm. At the gates to the station, Estelle always pauses to take a deep breath and open her coat. The city sprawls around her, beneath the Dome. Through its transparent material, Estelle can see the familiar red skies of Mars.
She draws a deep breath, inhaling the complex aroma of the enclosed city. A mix of ozone, body stink, spices and incense. The streets are crowded. Estelle slips into the flow, already planning to grab a coffee from the Starbucks down the street. It might make her late opening, but she decides she doesn't care. What's the point of being your own boss, if you can't do what you want?
Her earbuds pick up on the change in her mood. They switch from soothing classical to poppy jazz, and Estelle begins her day.
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