Welcome to Malpolis

We lost all allies after the war. No one will listen to what’s happening here, not after we were responsible for the most cataclysmic human-made environmental disaster the world has ever witnessed.

I gaze up at the tallest skyscraper, glinting gold panels marked by graffiti and scorch marks. Vehicles honk and people swarm all around me. I sigh, checking my wrist watch.

I hope I make it in time. You never do know in this city.

Each block looks much the same as it used to. Chrome statues remain with once-great names etched on the surface in shining letters. McDougal’s Land Trust. Razon Corporation. Utanoshi. I blink, remembering where the little gardens were, perfectly kept with bright pink and yellow flowers. All that’s there now is garbage obscured by plumes of smog.

I inhale, almost slamming into a neon orange shoulder. It is a woman in a horrifically vibrant pantsuit, bedecked in sapphire jewels and a matching red ascot. She grumbles and wipes the soot from her forehead.

I quicken my pace, determining the best route to take. I have come this way on many occasions, but this one feels different, more… urgent.

Cars of all shapes and sizes are packed bumper to bumper on the streets adjacent to my sidewalk. I slip my hand into my shirt again, toying with the medallion hanging around my neck: a red, heart-shaped locket with contents most precious to me.

Just touching it eases my worries and I glance up, tuning into the sound of a broadcast displayed on the massive computerized panels mounted to the government center tower. “As always, traffic is at a standstill,” a man dressed in a suit as blue as the sky announces, hand shaking as he points to a visual behind him showing all the major roads in Malpolis. “It’s a slight improvement from yesterday but I wish I could give you better news. If possible, consider forgoing whatever activity you have scheduled tonight as that new construction begins on the west sector.”

People on the streets boo, holding picket signs. They, like the others, are dressed in a rainbow sea of fashion. It’s ugly, if you ask me. All the frills and vibrancy and mismatched aesthetics. But I’m not the one who knows about such things. Only Rick’s Couture decides what is in style and inspires the looks of everyone, except a few who refuse to wear them.

I wipe my sweating palms, listening to the protestors as they scream in front of the broadcast screen. “No more houses, we need more food!” they chant in unison, marching in circles. Their words remind me of the grumbling in my stomach. When was the last time I ate?

I hurry my pace, weaving through a hundred more workers returning from their day in the office. Horns blare next to me and a teenager hysterically cries, rolling down her window. “I can’t do it anymore!” she screeches to the driver in front of her. “I can’t stand this city!” To my surprise, she accelerates and slams straight into the bumper in front of her, crumpling the car. Angered yelling ensues and I shut out the sound, refusing to gawk.

I have something far more important to do this evening and I suspect I will be late, even if I go straight there.

I am just about to turn the corner when I hear a familiar melody on the tele-broadcaster. I halt in my tracks, enraptured by the images flashing on the screen. “Thanks to the famous Hallen Corporation, we are all lucky to live in such beautiful homes.” Houses of brick, steel, and wood fade into the animation one after another.

“Including all the places we know and love.” Goodfellow’s Grocery Store, Rick’s Couture, and Affordable Autos flagships appear next with the narration.

Smiling people stand and wave as the popular logo spins into the video image. “Thank you, Hallen Corporation, for all that you do for the city of Malpolis.”

I absorb each moment of the advertisement, memorizing every detail. Raised voices wake me from my stupor. I clutch my locket again in a panic. “How dare they!” an enraged protester shrieks. “Those monsters have been ruining this city, hurting us all!”

I shake my head, alarmed and deciding to not engage in this spectacle either. Positive opinions or not, Hallen Corporation did build everything in Malpolis except for the skyscrapers still in downtown.

It became too dangerous to live here because of the rioting. Half the buildings burned and many lives were lost. People clamored to live outside the city limits where it was safer and housing developers tried to meet the demand. Most of the construction agencies went bankrupt because they invested too much capital and couldn’t recoup it. Hallen Corporation emerged as the ultimate developer, consolidating all its competitors into one strong, fierce corporation.

I step over another crumpled food tin on the sidewalk, careful to not let it dirty my shoe. Love it or hate it, Hallen Corporation is here to stay and has given all of us homes and stores in a post-war world that desperately needed rebuilding.

Scanning the green street signs, I discern the one I want. Adjusting my route, I raise my wrist again. The clock’s hand ticks along patiently and I stand straighter, readying myself for the remainder of the journey. I pass the Wasteland now, the city territory characterized by its rubble and ash that were once grand sights to behold. I dislike this area because it’s where the riff raff live, the meager and poor individuals who could not afford to do anything else. They made their choice - work three jobs to make enough money to afford a normal lifestyle, or find plastic sheets to hide under and eat food from dumpsters like rats.

That is what happened when the sectors consolidated. Hallen Corporation built all the infrastructure. Rick’s Couture became the sole retailer which remained, offering its luxurious outfits to the masses. Affordable Autos and Goodfellow’s Grocery Store are the only entities that remained to sell the sustenance for survival in Malpolis - transport and food.

The past several years have been strange times for certain, but I’ve been learning to take it in stride.

At last, the glow of the blue letters I admire shine before me, casting away the night’s setting darkness. I rush towards the joyous site, thumb stroking down the medallion at my chest. The bronze revolving door spins without a creak and the warm air of the lobby whooshes towards me as I enter. “Hello, sir, we have been expecting you,” a handsome, sharply dressed man says, wearing the company’s green. “Right this way.”

Giddy, I let him escort me to a bank of elevators, savoring the sound as the button clicks and a bell chimes when the doors slide open. Plush red carpets line the hallways when I step onto the thirtieth floor. I exhale at the sight of the boardroom. A beautiful mahogany table shines with fresh polish and matching wooden chairs. The meeting attendants already wait for me, a spot beckoning.

I take my seat, nervous and yet relaxed returning to my favorite place.

“Are you ready to hear the results, Mr. Chairman?” my analyst asks me, quivering where he stands. From my intimidation, or upsetting news? I wonder.

I release a breath, glancing at each individual in turn. My colleagues, fellow creators of the city that has sprawled far past its original borders.

“Of course,” I say politely, wanting to revel in this moment.

The others nod and the analyst begins the presentation, queuing up graphics on the projector. “This quarter, we’ve had promising trends across all sectors. Automobile revenue has tripled and daily commutes have increased to three and a half hours on average.”

I smile, as pleased as my accomplices.

“This, paired with the optimal placement of new Goodfellow’s Grocery locations along the Highway 72 expansion, has increased grocery sales by thirty-four percent.” My long-time partner, Sal Anderson, presents a smug expression.

He, like myself, and everyone at this table except for the analyst and Rick Mitchell himself, wear muted gray and black suits. We are the only individuals in this whole city who can afford not to don the outrageous outfits and custom order colors of our choosing.

“Mr. Mitchell, I think you already know, but your raised prices across all product lines have resulted in significant profits, far surpassing predictions.” The analyst clicks the remote, showing a line graph with a sharp spike. I hold my breath, wishing to see similar outcomes in my sector.

I grasp the locket under my shirt. “Lastly, thanks to you, Mr. Hallen, and your genius decision to construct all new homes another twenty miles from the downtown work sector, productivity is up fourteen percent across all jobs and per capita spending rose by an astounding seventeen percent.”

My heartbeat skips. A massive success. Years ago, it had been wise indeed to build all homes far from the city and refuse to construct any workplaces outside of downtown, thus forcing residents to waste many hours commuting. This created a huge demand for vehicle repair and maintenance.

My colleagues at the table conspired with me to locate the essential food and clothing locations far away from neighborhoods and workplaces, so the poor, helpless souls in this city have no choice but to spend all their waking hours driving around, paying whatever it costs for supplies because they are desperate to survive.

The commutes and work consume their days. Nothing exists for hundreds of miles beyond this city, thanks to the catastrophe. It is impossible to escape.

A city of monopolies and no other options. Manufactured, logistical inconvenience at its finest. The beautifully profitable plan we call intentional urban sprawl.

The analyst wipes a beat of sweat from his forehead, attempting to remain calm. “Across all four sectors, operating expenses as a proportion of revenue have fallen by five percent.” He advances to the next slide which depicts a list of factors split onto a pie chart. “This is primarily because new hires are accepting lower pay and an increasing number of individuals are seeking out second and third jobs.”

“Why is that?” Bobby, notorious owner of Affordable Autos, asks.

“Our research suggests that with longer commutes, gas consumption is rising and consumer spending increased due to raised Rick’s Couture sticker prices.” I nod, already knowing what he will say next. “This resulted in higher demand for additional work hours to compensate for the greater expenses.”

How ironic, that my analyst must be one of those individuals he reports about. I pay him as meagerly as the others on my staff.

Conversation ensues and I tune it out, waiting for my favorite part. At long last, the presentation signals that the moment I have desired for the past three months has finally arrived. “Gentlemen,” the analyst says with gravity. “It is time to update your counters.”

I slip the chain around my neck out from under my shirt. I study the locket in my hands, shaped like a human heart, an exact replica of the actual veins and arteries. A reminder we all wear to symbolize that we are the lifeblood of this city. We are the creators of everything that happens here.

I thumb open the locket by releasing the metallic catch along its side. The small screen it contains glows green, pulsing as I wait for the results to sync.

A new number flashes and the analyst announces, “Congratulations, gentlemen, on this quarter’s success.” Pure elation floods through me as I observe the profit I made the past three months. My colleagues murmur their own excitement.

I close my eyes, clutching it tight. I sear the figure into my mind, proud to wear this token of my achievements until the next quarter.

Malpolis. The name is lovingly taken from its residents. It translates to “bad city.”

Perhaps for them, but for me….

It is superb.