Brixton Hipster Bullshit

January 2044.

Wales Site F, Trawsfynydd, Wales.

It was moving day, and Gemma was excited.

Not her moving day, of course. She was staying put, having consistently failed to score a room upgrade for her first two years, and recently having decided she quite liked life in The Bunks, actually. She liked the company. It was good for her, she figured, or at least it made things interesting, and gave her a built-in audience for her various rants, riddles and impromptu acoustic performances. No, it was moving day for Shruti, who hadn’t had any trouble scoring a room upgrade, and was now packing for her imminent trip next door to her very own studio flat. And since it was moving day for her, that meant a new bunkmate for Gemma and Co.

She’d miss Shruti, for the most part, but also Shruti had never gotten on with their other bunkmate Bertie, whom she found “irresponsibly complicit” for actually enjoying his life. So that would ultimately be a relief, to be rid of that toxic dynamic.

And then there was Cian, who held similar contempt for Bertie, and had tried to use that to bond with and/or smooch Shruti, which probably motivated her to find a new place to live in the first place.

A smile crept across Gemma’s face. It really was paradise in The Bunks.

“We’ll miss you, girl,” she offered up from behind her book. “Better have us over sometimes.”

“There’s barely enough room to have myself over.”

“Well, pretend.”

“Can’t wait to have you all over!” Shruti flashed a big fake smile, her crate already in her hands. So keen to get out of their lives forever. And that seemed to always be how it went. They’d done more than a few of these bunk handovers since Gemma got here, and she’d never intentionally seen any of them again. Sometimes around the plant, of course, in passing, or maybe on a shift together. But you’d just awkwardly push through. You’d assume sharing the misery together would forge some kind of unbreakable bond, but apparently that only happened in films. The reality was that she had to learn to not get too close to any of these people, because they’d wind up hating her and leaving at the first opportunity.

From another perspective it wasn’t hard to understand. The conditions were not great. Four bunks, two on each side of the room. A tiny bathroom with a sink big enough to wash one hand at a time, a claustrophobic shower cubicle, no attention paid to where anyone would keep their towels or toiletries. Everything painted a faded sea-foam green, which research had apparently shown was the colour most likely to put people at ease. (As a result, every square metre of The Bunks had been painted in it.) Both sets of beds had little desks at each end, giving you some semblance of your own space, with the most uncomfortable low-backed task chair you’d ever seen in your life tucked under. It was an extremely efficient use of space. Or, to describe it more simply, it was a jail cell. Gemma found it cosy. On her top bunk she was inches from the ceiling. Tucked away, hidden. But with access to instant socialising with her bunkmates should the need arise. And she had her headphones and her music to disappear into from time to time.

A loud buzz came through the speaker. Shruti spun around to face the door. “I think it’s time.”

“Bye Shruti, good luck with everything!” Bertie, chipper as ever, sat at his desk, didn’t even get a glance.

The door swung open and Shruti shot through it like a bullet. A couple sets of footsteps getting further away, escorting her to her new life and out of theirs. A new flat wasn’t just doled out on its own – it was almost always the perk of going up a level. You weren’t applying to move, but to get a better job. You technically earned more credits, but the higher pay was immediately eaten up by the added cost of the bigger room. So that was her gone, then.

“Where do you think she’s transferred?” Bertie was stood looking up at Gemma now. She contemplated headphones, but instead sighed and rolled over.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Huh. I’m sure it’s a great fit for her, whatever it is.”

“Ruthless optimism as ever.”

“Hello?” An unfamiliar voice from the hallway. They both glanced over to the door. There stood someone Gemma found a bit familiar, but she wasn’t sure from where. Messy greying hair, pricey slim-cut jeans stretched out from overuse, a rumpled graphic T-shirt that was just a bit too short, a beer belly sticking out a bit too far. Ah, she knew where she’d probably seen him. He looked like every man in the bar queue during an alt-rock gig at the Empire.

“Can we help you,” offered Bertie, in his tragically non-judgemental way.

“Hi, I think I’m in here. Living in here, I mean.” He struggled to keep holding his little crate of things, shifting it around in his arms.

“Oi, the fuck you are.” Gemma threw her legs over the bar and jumped down from the top bunk, taking another year off the few remaining in her knees. “Let me see your⁠—”

“—here it is.” The man was already holding out a small card, bent and folded all to hell. Gemma took it. It was slightly damp, sweated through in his pocket. Eew. But she could clearly see it said Bunks, Hall R, Room 62.

“Well, okay then. Michael Fernsby, welcome to our little slice of paradise, I suppose.” She took his crate and dumped it onto the bottom bunk, where Shruti used to sleep. “That’s you. It’s probably still warm from the last occupant. If you let us all call you Shruti it would help ease the transition.”

“Mike is fine.” He extended his hand, which amused Gemma. She gave it a shake and threw in a sarcastic head nod. None of the kids around here ever shook hands, hugged, anything like that. So she grew out of it. Cian had, too. It was going to be annoying having someone else her age kicking around.

“Did you just transfer here? Do you know where you’ll be working?” asked Bertie. This was how it went. The new person died slowly, cut to ribbons by Bertie’s aggressively positive yet relentless questioning.

“He’s from London, aren’t ya?” Gemma patted him on the arm. “Yeah, you are. Look at you.” Mike stammered out a yes and nodded, robbed of his chance to say it himself. “I’m gonna guess… project management.”

“Graphic design.”

“Shit, that was my next guess!” She looked him up and down then nodded, a look of realisation on her face. “Well, you’ve awakened in a strange place, Michael Fernsby. I’m Gemma, that’s Bertie. You’ll be staring up at me while you sleep. Or you can roll over and face Bertie I suppose. Cian’s on top over there. They’ll be along at some point, shift changes in a bit. You two can get acquainted while Bertie and I slave away overnight.”

Mike looked down briefly at the moist tatters of his assignment card. “I’m on night shift as well.” Bertie cocked his head in confusion. Gemma rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed.

“Christ, three night shifters in here? Right, well, that means I’m technically your supervisor now, Mike. Job one, please tell me your whole wardrobe isn’t this Brixton hipster bullshit.”

“It’s—”

“Don’t interrupt, I’m rolling. Bertie, you see him, he’s got the fire in him. The fire of youth.” She patted him on the back. He grimaced and straightened up, smiling like a show pony. “He also bloody loves this place. So if you want a nice, positive spin on life at the plant, he’s your man. Cian, you’ll meet them, not so much with the loving of this place, but doesn’t make a fuss. See how we’ve all got books on our desks? Cian can’t fit all their books so we pitch in. Please make room for some of Cian’s books.”

Mike glanced around at the desks and saw there were indeed piles of books on each, including one that only had books on it, presumably Mike’s new desk. He sighed and nodded.

“Then there’s me, I feel like we’ve covered me. How old are you, Mike?”

“48.”

“Shit, we’re the same age. Well, I’m a January baby, so I’m probably older than you. I can tell you’re a summer, you carry yourself that way.” Mike just stared, his soul attempting to escape his body. “Bertie, how old are you?”

“You know I’m 22.”

“Look at him. So fresh, so youthful. Never shaken a hand in his life.” Bertie was beaming. He definitely gave the impression that he’d seen Gemma’s bunkmate induction ceremony before. He was otherwise quite a perfunctory human. Brown hair tightly cropped, a round face, rail thin, probably five-foot-seven, in denim overalls with a plain white T-shirt under. Designed to be forgettable, Bertie was as close as you could get to someone having the default Fortnite skin in real life.

At some point during all this a loud, low tone had come out of a speaker on the wall. Mike had ignored it, presumably because he was cognitively overwhelmed, and everyone else had quietly made note of it. This was the shift change bell, and Gemma had long since given up finding it demeaning. Cian appeared in the doorway, looking confused that the door was open, then further confused by Mike’s presence.

“Who’s this,” they asked.

“Don’t interrupt,” Bertie quickly replied. “She’s rolling.”

They all walked over to their section of the plant together, Gemma giving Mike quite a performance which disguised various bits of training she was required to do on his first day. They were working in Corridor B, specifically on a control room buildout. It was slow, tedious work, as this week they were simply running wires. So, so many wires. The training for this would take about twenty minutes, she said, and then he’d he get faster and faster at it as the week went on. No, she added, they didn’t know what the control room was meant to control, and no, they hadn’t been told what any of the other rooms they’d worked on were for either. “It’s a nuclear power station, Mike,” she’d said when she hit peak annoyance. “Are you a nuclear technician? No. You’re a slave who runs wires. Stay in your lane.”

It was just the three of them, plus one blue badge who definitely did know what the room was for, and didn’t act like anything was particularly secretive. He’d leave them unattended, there was no security aside from the usual CCTV, he seemed to generally trust them. But he kept his distance, the relationship not really existing for them to ask those kinds of questions. Or any questions that weren’t strictly related to the work. No real interactions other than his tasking Gemma, who would then task the other two. Classic middle management. Otherwise he just sat in the corner on a little chair, tapping away on a tablet, sipping coffee.

“This is how it always is with the blue badges, by the way,” Gemma whispered to Mike. “Honestly, I think they just feel guilty.” Mike nodded. Bertie added that it was probably a rule. An utterly useless contribution. Some days Bertie’s bootlicking was charming, but others it was exhausting.

For his part, Mike spent the day quiet, absorbing everything, speaking when spoken to. Gemma kept prodding, poking, making jokes, hoping he’d open up. But to no avail. He was determined to be a blank slate. And he hadn’t even changed out of his elder millennial uniform. She’d give him a bit more time, though. After all, she knew him well enough to know it’d just take a pint or two to open his floodgates. Then maybe she’d tell him where she knew him from. Or maybe he’d finally realise on his own.

The walk back was relaxed but silent. Gemma was shattered, her back wrecked, her feet killing. She just wanted to be back in her bunk. Usually she could find the energy to go out, and she worried everyone would expect it, especially with the new guy around. Her demeanour must’ve been a sufficient deterrent, as Bertie just quietly proceeded onto the bar alone when they arrived at the door to their room. She clamoured up into her bunk almost immediately, not even bothering to change into anything more comfortable, just flinging her shoes off the top.

Mike flopped into the little task chair at Shruti’s old desk and looked around, seemingly unsure what to do with himself. There was an awkward tension in the room, just the two of them, with Cian presumably also off at the bar. She wasn’t quite sure when they slept, if she thought about it. She shook her head and pulled her sleep mask on, hoping to pass out instantly.

Squeeaaaaaaak. Squeeeeaaaak. Squeeeeeeeaaaaaaak. Her whole body tensed up. Squeeaaaaaak. What the hell? She flung up, hitting her head on the ceiling. “Fuck!”

“Are you okay?” Mike’s quiet, stoic check-in.

“The fuck is that noise?”

“What noise?”

“The bloody squeaking.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

She exhaled sharply then laid back down, still engulfed in darkness from the sleep mask. Squeeaaaaak. She ripped the mask off and rolled over, shimmying to the edge of the bed, glaring down at Mike. Squeeaaaaaaak went the shitty metal chair as he slowly rotated back and forth.

“Mike, it’s you, you’re fucking squeaking. Can you stop? Lay down or something. Sit still.”

“Sorry.”

She rolled back over, laying flat on her back. The sleep mask slipped off her head and fell down. Goddamnit.

“Do you need this?” Mike, goddamnit, stoically offering to hand it back up. It must’ve landed on his desk.

“No, fuck, I just want to sleep. Please leave me alone.” The added stress was making all the sore bits of her outright hurt now. She closed her eyes, throwing her arms down by her sides, fidgeting, trying to find some position that might hurt a bit less. Squeeeeaaaaaaaaak. She was properly seeing red now. “Mike, you’ve lost your fucking chair privileges for the night.”

She heard him get up and walk the two steps to the bed. He flopped hard down onto it, shaking the whole unit. He let out a little sigh, then another. Christ.

“Mike, I’m sorry.” She softened her tone a bit. Too tired to be angry, perhaps. “I know you get panicky. I mean, I can tell. Just read a book or something. Please? I’m knackered.”

“Sorry. I haven’t really shared a living space with anyone since, well, it’s been a very long time. Yesterday I had my own flat in London.”

“We all had our own flats in London, mate. Not special.”

“Is it possible to eventually get your own flat here? Or at least a private bedroom?”

“It’s possible. It’s not for me. But some people manage it. Or they manage to shack up with someone who managed it. Word of advice on that, as best I can tell, nobody here fucks. So that’s a dead end.”

He was quiet for a bit. She wondered what he was doing down there. Finally, he piped back up. “Should I turn off the lights?” She smiled.

“Sure, go right ahead.”

She listened as he plodded around the room, probably checking every open bit of wall. Then the desks, one by one. She’d give him this, he was thorough. And again! Working his way back around. Extremely typical. Refusing to simply ask her. Once he’d started his third round, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“There’s no switch, they’re always on. I hope you have a sleep mask.”

“What?”

“I’m sure Bertie can breathlessly defend the decision by our corporate slavers to never turn them off. But they’re always on. You can use mine. Since it’s down there anyway.”

“I’ll be okay.” Classic Mike. So defeatist, needlessly so. What a martyr. She shook her head, staring at the ceiling. There was a little spot where she’d hit her head. She rubbed it, trying to clean it off. Down below, Mike tossed and turned loudly. Everything the boy did was loud.

“Mike, I know it’s fucking mad here. I remember what it was like when I got here, years ago now. I was off my head. It does get better, if you let it. Not much better, but you get used to it.”

“Right. Okay.” He sounded so down. So done.

“Cheer up, anyway,” she added, using the rest of her energy to muster up a bit of playfulness. “You’re a lot cuter in person, yeah? Your photos were a bit shit. The banter too, really.”

“Excuse me?” He sounded concerned. Oh, no. But Gemma could barely keep her eyes open.

“Your Linkup profile. We matched a while back.” She yawned, starting to drift off. “You really bare your soul on that thing. Bit heavy for my taste.” She closed her eyes and rolled over, tucking her hands under her head. “Anyway, I’m passing out. G’night, Mike.”