Heavily armored trucks roared through the desolate streets—though calling the muddy paths "streets" felt like an insult to the term itself. Towering buildings lay toppled over one another, their ruins forming an endless sea of rubble. Half a century ago, this was a thriving city, home to thirty-seven million people. Now, you'd be lucky to find a few thousand.
Most survivors lived in government-issued tents—meager shelters provided by the tax monster before abandoning them altogether. Not entirely, though; trucks like these rolled through every two or three days, a faint lifeline to the forgotten.
Each truck bore the emblem of a crimson sun. Simple, yet unmistakable to anyone not living under a rock. The convoy raced at full speed before screeching to a halt in an open clearing. Soldiers disembarked in unison, their austere uniforms and helmets concealing any trace of humanity.
The soldiers formed a line. One of them, carrying a megaphone, stepped forward and barked, "Everyone! Food distribution will begin shortly, followed by checks!"
Others spread out with megaphones, echoing the same announcement across the area.
Like cockroaches stirred from the shadows, people began crawling out of their makeshift shelters—some from under piles of rubble that served as their homes. They moved slowly at first, wary and desperate.
Everyone knew the drill. The officers wouldn't leave until the checks were complete. No check, no food. So nobody refused the checks.
Among the line of malnourished figures was a scrawny young man, his tattered rags barely covering his lower body. Blood smeared half his face, and the swelling on his left eye made it impossible to tell if he could even see out of it. He limped forward, clutching his side, cursing and groaning under his breath.
Arthur was in no condition to be here.
"Why are they here again?" he thought bitterly. "Can't they see what they did to me yesterday?"
He knew nobody cared. Nobody ever cared. But today annoyed him more than usual. This was the first time the rations came twice in a row. That never happened.
Arthur was still reeling from the beating he'd received yesterday. Yet there was no way he was skipping the food. Only a lunatic would. And Arthur wasn't crazy—just hungry.
Yesterday, he'd made the mistake of refusing to hand over some of his rations to the local gang. They beat him senseless for it and stole everything he had.
"I'll kill them someday," he vowed silently. "And I'll make it painless."
After what felt like an eternity, it was finally his turn. A table stood in front of him, with a nurse sitting on the other side. Her face was hidden behind a white mask. A few surgical tools, some gauze, and a long staff-like device sat on the table. The staff looked like a scepter but had a reverse-curved blade in place of a finial.
Arthur knew exactly what it was for.
The nurse glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable behind the mask. Then, with a cold, disinterested tone, she asked, "How many times have you been checked?"
'At least ask why I'm such a mess, you heartless wench. Aren't nurses supposed to be kind?'
Arthur sighed internally. Unlike most slum dwellers, he wasn't originally from here. Not that it mattered now.
"Seven," he muttered, the words slurred through broken teeth. He extended his right hand, palm up, for the nurse to inspect.
The nurse picked up the scepter in one hand and a small blade in the other but paused. She set the blade aside—there was no need for a fresh cut. Instead, she grabbed a piece of gauze, cleaning his palm carefully to reveal a deep, jagged laceration.
'This is what I get for trying to stop a knife,' Arthur thought grimly.
The nurse pressed the scepter's tip into the wound, gently pushing deeper before pulling it back. The device hummed faintly as she wiped it clean with a tissue.
"You can go and collect your ration," she said, her tone as cold as ever.
Arthur moved on. It was always like this. The officers never explained what the scepter did. But everyone knew what happened when it reacted—they took you away.
Runebounds.
That was the word. The officers were searching for Runebounds. Arthur, now seventeen, had been checked eight times. He'd grown up in a world where disasters were normal—earthquakes, tsunamis, acid rain. He'd heard stories of a time when these events were rare, but those days were long gone.
Decades ago, the Earth had changed too quickly for anyone to adapt. Tectonic plates shifted violently, continents drifted apart, and the ocean swallowed three of the seven continents—half of Africa included. And then came the Runebounds.
'What is a Runebound, anyway?'
Arthur wondered, not for the first time.
Nobody in the slums truly knew. Once someone was taken, they never came back. Rumors swirled—slaves, lab experiments—but none of it made sense. Why would the government need Runebounds specifically?
But logic didn't matter here. In the slums, the choice was simple: take the food and live another day, or refuse it and die. Hunger always won.
Arthur collected his ration—a small sack of rice and a packet of synthetic paste. A masked soldier handed it to him.
'Where am I supposed to get clean water to cook this?' Arthur shook his head, clutching the sack tightly.
The soldier towered over him, but it wasn't that he was short in height. Arthur was hunched over, his battered body refusing to straighten. He limped away, the pain gnawing at him with every step.
Taking the ration, Arthur limped away from the crowd as fast as his battered body allowed. After a short distance, he collapsed near the edge of the clearing, leaning against a pile of rubble. His hands trembled as he ripped open the synthetic paste packet, scooping a fingerful of the grayish mush into his mouth.
The taste was metallic and bitter, almost as if someone had blended iron filings with chalk. If mixed with water, it could technically be eaten with rice, but Arthur didn't have the luxury of cooking. Besides, he knew the rice wouldn't last long in his possession.
'The hoodlums will take it anyway,' he thought bitterly, shoving another fingerful of the paste into his mouth. 'Might as well eat this disgusting crap now.'
The paste offered no satisfaction, but it was better than nothing. It was his only lifeline in a place where the strong preyed on the weak.
As Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a sudden announcement echoed through the clearing.
"Attention! Everyone, return to the trucks. We will be conducting another check. Additional rations will be provided to those who participate!"
Arthur scoffed, his lips curling into a grimace. 'What are we? Dogs? They toss scraps and expect us to wag our tails. Humiliating!'
Grumbling under his breath, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled back to the gathering area. He clutched his bag of rice tightly, vowing to protect it for as long as he could.
When he returned, the lineup was already forming. This time, a smaller, heavily armored van had joined the larger trucks. Its elevated wheels and reinforced plating made it look more suited for a battlefield than a slum.
Arthur's eyes narrowed as he noticed someone stepping out of the van. It was a woman—not a soldier, but someone far more striking. She moved with an air of authority, wielding a staff that looked more like a weapon than a tool.
Her golden hair was braided to her waist, gleaming under the pale sunlight. Her sapphire eyes were cold, piercing through the filth and despair that surrounded her. She wore a black leather bodysuit that hugged her figure, accentuating her sharp, commanding presence. Over her shoulders was a long coat emblazoned with the emblem of the crimson sun.
Arthur's breath hitched. 'She's beautiful...' The thought slipped unbidden into his mind. It wasn't just her beauty that stunned him—it was the sheer contrast. In a world of dirt and decay, she looked untouchable, almost divine.
When his turn came, Arthur reluctantly stepped forward, avoiding her gaze. His palm, smeared with remnants of the synthetic paste, trembled as he extended it over the table.
The woman raised her staff, a polearm-like device with a curved glass blade etched with intricate runes. But just as she was about to begin the check, she paused.
Arthur followed her gaze and realized, to his horror, that his palm was still sticky with paste. Flustered, he wiped it on his tattered rags, revealing the deep laceration beneath. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he held out his hand again.
The blade of the staff touched his wound, sending a chill down his spine. Arthur braced himself, already planning how to stash the extra food. 'It's just another routine check. Nothing new. Just give me the rations and let me go...'
But then, something happened.
The glass blade shimmered faintly, a reddish hue glowing along its edges. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the woman noticed immediately.
Her piercing eyes locked onto Arthur's, and for a moment, he felt the weight of her scrutiny.
Before he could make sense of what was happening, the world around him blurred. His legs gave out, and darkness swallowed him whole.
'How original... losing consciousness before something life changing or important is going to happen, not cliche at all!'