The afterparty went late into the night. Sullen music echoed across the warehouse roof as disillusioned twenty-somethings shuffled past each other in the August heat. The smell of cigarette smoke and warm beer mixed with the silent, screaming angst of the partygoers, their masks of indifference haggard and misplaced.

Awkward advances fell flat against the glare of the skyline, the girls alternating coquettish and stone-faced while boys fumbled through vapid conversation, struggling to feign disaffection without blowing their chance at temporary relief from self-loathing.

Dean Fixer stood at the edge of a higher rooftop overlooking the affair. Gazing down at no one in particular, he nursed his beer and tried to guess at the content of the pleasantries. He grew tired of this, his mind wandering instead toward things of substance.

His sketchpad felt heavy in his breast pocket; there were still engineering problems to be tackled. He could barely remember why he had agreed to come out here in the first place. Perhaps it was the respectful thing to do, not to turn down an invitation from those who had taken advantage of him. It pained him to think that the wayward artists down below might never find their place in the world to come. The cynicism on display sickened him.

“Hey! There you are.”

Lucius Delgado strode across the empty rooftop, silhouetted against the floodlights of adjacent warehouses. Once a stablehand in Arizona, now a political activist, Lucius was even more out of his element than the bemused sculptor.

“God, I had to get out of there. Was like giving my soul a fucking acid bath.”

Dean smiled. “I told you, dude. Least you’ve never gotten cozy with ‘em.”

Lucius knew what this meant. He pretended to be smug.

“Well, that’s the price you pay for trusting people, right?”

Dean gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, guess I’ve learned my lesson.”

The smile faded quickly, and his eyes turned back to the miserable crowd. He took a sip of his beer and frowned at the bottle. Lucius sighed.

“Look, you’re better off, man. People suck.”

Dean squinted at him. “Do they, though? I don’t think anyone’s evil. They’re just lonely and insecure. They’re all desperate for something, but they don’t even know what it is.”

“Hey, that’s what makes us different. We know what we want and we know what it takes to get it.” Lucius paused to finish his beer. “I mean, we are still trying to fix the world, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. Conviction had crept back into his voice, but his shoulders sagged as he exhaled. “I can’t help feeling like we’re the only ones left who really have a purpose. Maybe there’s something wrong with us. What if we’re delusional?”

“Maybe we are. That going to stop you?”

“Pfft. No.”

“Well, there you go.” Lucius made a sweeping gesture, half at the sky, half at the dwindling gathering below. “Just because everyone else in the world is lost, don’t mean you’re supposed to be.”

Dean smiled again. Lucius dropped a hand on his shoulder.

“The future is ours, man. But right now, let’s ditch before you get dragged into any more drama.”

“Amen to that.”

The sculptor and the activist walked toward the fire escape, descending from the industrial brightness of the rooftop to the cooler embrace of the street. Dean walked quickly, the first rough sketches of a perfect machine resting lightly in his breast pocket.