In twenty two years, Dante had seen the rise and fall of many a great men; Old Haggard, who worked ceaselessly from birth, only to be crushed by a falling piston operating the Great Machine. Michael Blue, a young lad who's lungs filled up with the deadly gases spewing from numerous pipes.
Dante’s father had also been a victim of the machines, falling to his death, to be crushed by the gears in which he had oversaw. It was a terrible irony, one best not dwelt upon.
For nearly a week now, Dante had the company of screams while he worked. Something terrible was going on in the upper city. He just hoped that it does not spill over into the Industrial District. A sharp screech cut through the air, mingled with fear and rage, joined by a thousand others. He grimaced; although life down here was excruciatingly hard, very little actually troubled them. Taskmasters from the upper city very rarely came down, and when they did it was to issue commands to men like Dante’s father.
He was glad for this. As his father’s son, people came to him with their problems, which was difficult enough to do through his work, but at least he didn’t have what they had.
Suddenly, Dante saw his world in a new light. For all his life, he had viewed the outcasts and dwellers of the lower city to be the worst of the worst, the people who dwell in the maws of hell, yet he was wrong. Life in the upper districts, were you had no job or life, was by far a more stygian prospect than work in the Industrial District.
And for this, he was glad.