A boy without a name stepped out of the shack, his bare feet sinking slightly into the muddy, grassy field. He looked up at the sky, letting out a deep sigh. Then, with a faint smirk, he began walking down the uneven path, his mind heavy with thoughts.
"Why was I born into this utterly atrocious world?" he muttered under his breath.
Memories churned in his mind like storm clouds. His mother, the only family he had ever known, had discarded him like trash. She spent her nights with men from the streets, abused him relentlessly, and took every penny he earned through grueling labor. Fairness was a concept that didn't exist in his life. Each night, as he lay on the cold, creaking floor of his shack, he pondered the cruelty of it all. Around him, the slums were alive with desperation and crime—a haven for people like his mother, preying on the weak and vulnerable.
As he trudged through the narrow streets, his attention was drawn to a scene of violence. A girl, about his age, stood trembling as a man—her father, he assumed—struck her repeatedly. Her curly hair was matted with dirt, her face smeared with tears, highlighting her brown freckles and strikingly blue eyes. She screamed for help, her voice raw with desperation. Yet no one around them moved to intervene. Passersby cast quick glances but walked on, as if this was just another ordinary occurrence in Rubixon.
The boy stopped, his fists clenching as he watched. "How does it feel," he whispered bitterly, "when no one reaches out to you?"
He knew that feeling all too well. He had screamed for help once, too, only to be met with the same indifference. So why should he do anything now? Why save someone else when no one had saved him? The thoughts ricocheted in his mind, a chaotic chorus of anger and apathy.
Yet, as the girl's cries grew more desperate and the blows more brutal, something inside him shifted. His legs moved before his mind could catch up, propelling him forward. He ran toward the man, rage building like a storm in his chest.
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" he roared, grabbing an old, rusty pickaxe that lay discarded nearby. Without hesitation, he swung it. The man barely had time to turn before the pickaxe struck, the force of the blow splitting his skull. Blood splattered across the dirt, and the man's body crumpled to the ground.
The street fell silent for a moment. People stared, but no one reacted. This was Rubixon, after all. Violence was a currency as common as dirt.
The boy turned to the girl. She was a mess, her body bruised and her clothes torn. Yet amidst her despair, there was a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice shaky. "But you can just leave me here to rot. There's no point..."
He knelt beside her, his expression hard. "You're fucking stupid if you think I'm leaving you here," he snapped. "Not on my watch. I was in your place once, and I'm not letting you go through this alone."
Gently, he lifted her onto his back. She weighed next to nothing, her frail body a testament to years of neglect and abuse. As he carried her back to his run-down shack, he felt the weight of their shared pain pressing down on him. They were murderers now, but in Rubixon, that didn't make them special. It made them ordinary.
As they approached his home, he glanced back at the girl. Her eyes were closed, her face still etched with pain but slightly more at peace. For the first time in years, he felt something close to purpose. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him moving forward.
As I walk back into the shack, my so-called "home," I tell her, "My goal, my dream, was to become a pilot for Titania." She laughs at me, saying that only someone dumb enough would pilot that corrupted metal scrap of a robot. I shout at her, "Don't make fun of my desire and my goal!" I snapped back at her.
I don't know why, but the chemistry we had was something I'd dreamed of for a long time, yet always thought it was impossible for someone like me to have. Out of nowhere, under her breath, she replies, "You know I can hear you, right? Hehehe..." My face turns all red from embarrassment as I enter the home, all beat up. We both collapse onto my makeshift bed. She gathers all her energy, climbs on top of me, and says,
"Show me your dream. I'm already on the brink of death from an incurable disease. If there's one thing I want, it's to see how you view the world, and I will be there to support you and help you."
As she flops on top of me and falls into a deep sleep, I guess it's time for me to go to sleep as well.