My eyes opened as they always did, every morning at the same time. My routine unchanged led me down the bustling street and through the heavy smog from the machine-carts that dotted the Great Gold Bridges. I was accustomed to the sounds of this city; they had become somewhat therapeutic to me, but I would never not be in awe of the sheer genius of Ignis' ingenuity. This country, barren and red, had developed ways to harness the heat and metallic resources to benefit the people and formulate creations that not even the seven gods could fathom. As I turned the street corner under the cover of Series 10 Skyscrapers, the morning line was shorter than usual. My count was never wrong, it wasn't allowed to be wrong, it could not be wrong. My brain skimmed through the workers like pages in a book; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10… 276, 277, 278. And me. 280. That the missing worker had lined up in front of me, I had never noticed. Not that I knew what anyone's face really looked like, our metal protectors did a fair job of concealing our private lives. Here we were workers, not people. Just workers. 279 was a decent worker, they did fall behind schedule on previous occasions but to be late from work over a period of 5 minutes was unbelievable. Ignoring the disturbance, my number was called, and I stepped into work. The building's architecture always brought a wave of calm over me despite the louder and more unavoidable ticking as we sailed down flights of stairs. The Hot room awaited me and so did my days' worth of work.