Darshan K S

In the modern world, no walls are needed to keep a rat in place. The maze moves inside — into the alarm, the quota, the social ladder, the need to fit in.   

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Generations ago, the tunnels beneath the city belonged to no one. But then came the ledgers and quiet acquisitions — a bakery bought out here, a grain merchant undercut there — until every rat could only answer to one name: Ratkind.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ratkind did not conquer. They simply outlasted everyone who tried to compete with them.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They built nurseries first, then schools, sorting pups by aptitude before they could walk straight. They trained them for the trade Ratkind requires from them. And they discovered Clarity: the elixir of intelligence. Rank determined dose. Dose determined clarity in thinking. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The rats hold up the walls now. And they call it civilisation.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But the walls are already beginning to move. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Day 4, Week 461 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 8:30 a.m. 

Dawn alarm went off on schedule. Woke up with dry eyes, and the whole burrow smelling musky like my bed. Slipped into the hallway as housekeepers arrived with bleach and fresh straw for the bed. Went into the dining area and munched on the peanut-flavoured breakfast pellet. Got to the grooming stations next door, went through the usual. Even tried the Peppermint No. 7. — the bestselling perfume of the week! 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Never really thought of how convenient life is. All thanks to Ratkind, my alarms, housekeeping, grooming, and food are all managed for me! Much cheaper than having my own bathroom. And they groom better anyway. They even figured out decades ago that foraging was inefficient! The housekeeping cleans, restocks, and re-scents. Everything a productive rat needs is taken care of. I will never have to bother with the mundane. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Then I walked to the tunnel station and caught the train just as it stopped — a long metal burrow with doors that fold open like jaws. I squeezed in beside another rat and smiled at her. She smiled back. Neither of us meant anything by it. It's just polite. Then I planned my work for the day by staring into the distance. The tunnels made me think of Boyz n the Hood, the kind of movies I had to watch as a pup. Just with the smell of urine and hay and without any hotspots for crime in a lawless society. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 8:30 p.m. 

Work today was on the Clarity enhancement trial. Batch nine — Clarity's effect on sleep induction — is my assignment for the quarter. My job is to measure how fast a dose brings a rat under, how little it lets them dream. Ratkind wants sleep that costs nothing; no tossing, no waking with a thought still hanging off you. I logged my readings, flagged two outliers, and moved on. Peak hours are for output. Precision determines rank. Rank determines Clarity allocation. Everyone knew that by heart. As the slogan says:  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Clarity: Smarter. Satisfied. Secure.” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I also had lunch pellets with the usual colleagues at the cafeteria. The same talk as always — who's moving up, who's slipping, and what's coming that might affect your footing. You always need to know where the ground is solid. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The afternoon was meetings. Updates, proposals, ideation. It matters less what gets solved than that you were seen solving it. I spoke when I could, always making sure my voice landed. I've watched rats go quiet in meetings and disappear from the office the next week. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ After work, I went to the Exchange Tunnels market. I tried the musk sampler everyone's wearing and bought a top hat, the kind that says you understand the right circles. Then I hit the fitness floor for the mandatory hour. As Ratkind states:  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Health is an input, not a pleasure.” 

On the way back, I caught the same train with the same rat. I smiled out of habit. She smiled back with the same amount of politeness as before.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Back at the nest, I checked the Clarity delivery — standard grade, as always. Without it, we’d still be living like the other rodents.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Poured a glass of the fermented grain and watched the broadcast. A scripted drama about rats doing exactly what I did today. Quite aspirational. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Overall, a great productive day. Spending more on me helps me give more of myself at work. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 10:30 p.m. 

I almost forgot. Subject 74A192 from the first trial hasn't reported back for two weeks. I wasn't supposed to pull her identity file, but curiosity got the best of me. Her Clarity intake had been incomplete for over a week before she stopped showing up entirely. Her last logged note asked why sleep needed to be induced at all, why a dream should be something to be shortened rather than had. Nobody answered. Nobody had to. The last time she was seen was at the Council Hall, denying her sobriety from skipping her Clarity doses. The file said no more. Nothing about her on the Ratline News either.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I wonder what would happen if I skipped Clarity for tonight. Would I end up like her? For better or worse? 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ For the sake of science, I'm trying it. The alarm is set again. Not really of my own accord. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Day 5, Week 461 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 8:30 a.m. 

I wake up lighter than usual, but somehow worse. No dream, no warmth, no useful blur. It’s been a week of celibacy. Sleeping alone isn't encouraged by Ratkind, but nobody's flagged me for it yet. Then I see that the Clarity bottle is still sealed, exactly where I left it last night. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ My gut churns. I remember the news clippings — rats who missed a dose, then missed work, then went missing.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I reach for the bottle. But something small and stupid and new within me lifts my fingers off the lid. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 8:51 a.m. 

Without Clarity, everything is too loud and uncomfortable. The cot's straw. The alarm's pitch. My own breathing. All the sounds I’ve never paid attention to.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I notice things. I notice that noticing takes effort. I notice that effort feels a lot like fear. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Fear of what, exactly? Of waking up? Of staying awake? Of becoming the sort of rat who stops smiling at the right moments? Of not journaling the day for no one to read it? 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Clarity: Smarter. Satisfied. Secure.” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Smarter? Yes. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Satisfied? When it works. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Secure? From what, specifically? 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The words settle, but they do not settle me. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 9:13 a.m. 

It’s already time for work. My paw was on a pellet, but I wasn’t hungry. I go through the same routine. But now I can feel its weight.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The pellet.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The grooming.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The train.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I smile at the rat beside me, but I don't mean it.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Even after breakfast, I can't focus on work. My work looks subpar. The work floor has started to feel wrong. The lights are too white, the vents keep breathing warm air into the room, and the click of claws against the data panels won’t settle into rhythm. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The more I work, the less I want to. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I get stares. Angry faces. Complaints about my behaviour. Someone asks if I'm sick, though sickness is something we stopped naming years ago. I don't answer. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ At some point, I realise I have seen this before. The same slow failure to belong. The same silence when someone asks a question. The same look on the others’ faces, already moving past me. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It was in the file of the rat who didn’t come back. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 6:34 p.m. 

The sharpness hasn’t faded. The room is still too loud. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I listen to the sleep music Ratkind broadcasts, but my legs wiggle on their own. I don't stop them. I can’t stop them. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I think of the rat I forgot about too quickly. I think of how easy it was to let her become a missing case. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ An hour passes. I don’t close my eyes. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I let the dawn alarm ring and ring and ring. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Not really of my own accord. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Some things you do just to stay placed. 

“Subject 74Z014 has missed Clarity intake for two days,” says the pale scientist. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Blinding yellow lights fill the narrow corridor. Through the glass below, the colony stretches wide, a lattice of passageways lit from within. From here, it doesn’t look orderly so much as inevitable. The pale scientist keeps her arms folded close, voice dry with the effort of making numbers sound calm. The Director keeps his hands behind his back, as if he has spent a lifetime learning not to touch anything he cannot inherit. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Not yet flagged by Ratkind,” she continues. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Silence settles between them. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Do you like being Director? You’ve never said,” she asks. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Nothing to say,” replies the Director, while slightly tipping his top hat. “My father held it before me. His father before him.”  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Another pause. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I couldn’t tell you why the place is still running,” he says. “It just is.”