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Bang! Thud!
Creak!
The noise echoed through the narrow alley, each sound louder and sharper than the last.
Craaash!
A small figure tumbled into a pile of cans, the crash scattering trash and muck. Wet dirt smeared across his skin as he hit the ground hard, pain lancing through his skinny arms and legs.
"Keep dreaming, loser!"
"Abandoned boy!"
"Trash!"
The taunts echoed, cruel laughter fading into the distance as his tormentors splashed away through the filthy alley.
The boy stayed sprawled in the muck, his body trembling. He bit down hard on his lower lip, yellow eyes burning with frustration. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles scraping against jagged bits of metal and broken glass.
I'll get them back. One day, I'll make them regret it.
The thought burned in his mind, fierce and wild.
His chest heaved — not with sobs; he wouldn't cry — but with the effort of holding himself back. His jaw tightened as he forced down the boiling anger surging within him.
The stench hit him all at once, sharp and rancid, clawing its way into his throat.
His stomach churned violently, and he gagged, a sour taste rising to the back of his mouth.
Not here. Don't throw up here. Don't let it win.
With shaky limbs, he dragged himself out of the pile. His palms scraped against broken glass, but he didn't flinch.
Pain was just another part of living here.
City E
The boy glanced around, trying to get his bearings.
The alley was the same as every other one in this cursed place— dark, cramped, and reeking of decay. Trash piled high in every corner, rotting into grotesque shapes.
He half-expected a monster to crawl out of the heaps, its body stitched together with scraps of metal and filth.
Above the crumbling walls, a rusted sign hung crookedly.
"Road 4," he muttered hoarsely. The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
Not that it mattered. The signs mocked more than they helped.
His stomach churned again, and this time, he couldn't stop it. He slapped a dirty, bloodied hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as he forced the nausea back down. The coppery taste of his own blood mixed with the stench, making him gag harder.
Where's Road 1 again?
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and blood across his face. His legs wobbled as he pushed himself upright.
He didn't know how far he'd been thrown this time, but he needed to get back.
"Left," he muttered, forcing his legs to move.
His sister's voice echoed in his mind. Most people go right without thinking. So, when you're lost, go left instead.
He thought of her sharp eyes and teasing smile, the way she always seemed so sure of herself— even though she couldn't handle being anywhere near the Lettered Cities.
The boy forced his legs to move, each step squelching in the muck. The deeper he went, the worse the stench grew. His breath came in shallow gasps, his head pounding.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't. In City E, stopping meant giving up.
And giving up meant becoming just another pile of trash.
The boy stumbled down the narrow street, his thin frame swaying as though the strings holding him upright were fraying. His feet dragged, catching on bits of broken pavement and debris littering the ground.
Then, through the haze, something shifted.
A faint glow caught his eye, small but steady, like a stubborn ember refusing to die in the dark.
He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus.
Ahead, amidst the chaos of the crumbling city, a space opened up— clear and deliberate, as if the filth of City E had been pushed back by unseen hands.
At its center stood a small wooden house.
The sight made him stop. It didn't belong.
The house was old and weathered, its walls warped by time, but it stood intact, defiant against the decay surrounding it. The ground around it was bare, the trash swept aside to form a rough circle.
A single window glowed faintly, spilling warm light into the cold night. It shouldn't have been comforting— it was too clean, too deliberate —but something about the light drew him in.
The boy's stomach tightened.
His instincts, honed by years of survival, screamed at him to back away. Nothing in City E came without a price.
But his legs were already moving, exhaustion pulling him toward the house like a magnet. Each step felt like a gamble, the light growing brighter with every shaky breath.
He reached the edge of the clearing, his body trembling from cold and fatigue.
The boy hesitated, yellow eyes scanning the house for danger.
Then his knees buckled.
"Ah!" he gasped.
The ground rushed up to meet him, but before he could hit the dirt, a hand gripped his arm— strong, steady, unyielding.
The boy grunted, twisting to see who had caught him.
An old man stood before him, his hunched frame wrapped in tattered layers of cloth.
His face was lined with age, his skin sagging, but his eyes— sharp and cold blue —bored into the boy with an intensity that made him freeze.
The man said nothing at first, his grip firm as he helped the boy to his feet. The boy's legs wobbled, barely able to hold his weight, and the old man adjusted his hold with surprising ease.
"Do you want help, boy?" the man asked finally, his voice rough and indifferent.
It wasn't an offer; it was a statement, devoid of warmth or malice.
The boy stared, words caught in his throat. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his body was too far gone. The firewood he'd clung to slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud in the dirt.
"I can give you a place to rest," the man continued, his tone unreadable. "But you'll owe me."
The boy tried to speak, but his vision blurred, the world spinning faster. He felt the man's grip tighten as the last of his strength gave out.
And then— darkness swallowed him whole.
~
The boy woke up.
His body screamed in protest, sharp aches flaring from every limb. It felt like someone had pounded him into the ground and then set him on fire for good measure.
His eyes fluttered open, the dim light around him making his head throb.
The pain wasn't a surprise— he could guess where he got the bruises and cuts. But the real question was where he was.
The air smelled faintly of something… warm.
A mix of herbs and something metallic, like rust. He blinked, trying to move his head to look around, but his neck wouldn't budge.
Panic surged through him.
He tried to lift his arms, but they were bound. His legs wouldn't move either. A quick glance downward—and the realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
He was wrapped.
From head to toe, layers of thick bandages cocooned his small frame, leaving only his face exposed. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as panic clawed at him.
Why was he wrapped up like this? Was he alive? Or was this some kind of sick joke?
Then, he heard it.
From somewhere nearby, the soft clinking sound of a ladle stirring a pot. The faint rhythm of metal against metal carried through the air, followed by a low, tuneless humming.
A voice.
Someone was singing.
The boy froze, his heart pounding in his chest.
The old man. It had to be him.
What does he want? Why am I here?
The boy clenched his fists— or tried to. He couldn't feel his hands under the tight bandages. His breathing quickened, his yellow eyes darting around the room.
He needed to get out of here.
He tried to sit up, straining against the stiffness in his body. But the effort only made him wobble. His thin frame tipped sideways, and before he could stop himself, he rolled off the bed.
Thud!
The impact wasn't as bad as he expected, but the boy still winced, biting back a groan. The bandages muffled most of the fall, but now he was sprawled awkwardly on the cold, hard floor, staring at the faintly flickering ceiling light above him.
The humming stopped.
The boy's blood ran cold as the sound of footsteps grew louder, each step slow and deliberate.
He gritted his teeth, his body trembling as the shadow of a person stretched across the floor, creeping closer.
But...
There, standing in the doorway, wasn't the old man.
It was... something else.
The boy froze, his yellow eyes widening as he took in the metallic figure looming over him. Its head was shaped like a smooth, rounded balloon, a face crudely etched onto its surface.
The "face" shifted unnaturally, flipping a full 180 degrees. The smiling expression disappeared, replaced by one of exaggerated shock.
"Oh my god! He fell!"
The robot's voice was high-pitched and jittery, its tone dripping with over-the-top concern. It immediately lunged forward, scooping the boy up with the ladle it was still holding.
The boy's body tensed, instinctively flinching away from the heat.
The robot froze mid-motion, its face flipping back to a neutral smile.
"Oops!" it chirped, pulling the ladle away too quickly.
Clang!
The ladle smacked into something— or rather, someone.
"Ow!"
The old man from before stood in the doorway, rubbing his head and glaring daggers at the robot. His blue eyes burned with irritation, though his expression remained eerily calm.
"K8-7A," he growled, his voice dripping with warning. "Careful, or you'll split my head open."
The robot, apparently named K8-7A, tilted its head, its balloon-shaped face flipping again to a wide, happy grin.
"I could never kill you even if I wanted to, Karl!" it chirped, bursting into a laugh that sounded like the most generic robot laugh imaginable.
"Ha. Ha. Ha."
The boy blinked, his mind struggling to process what was happening.
He stayed silent, his small frame trembling as he slowly began to inch backward, trying to put some distance between himself and the strange duo.
But the old man's sharp blue eyes caught his movement immediately.
"Don't tell me you're running away," Karl said, his tone dry but firm. He crossed his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. "Can't handle a little work? Heal up and work for me."
The boy froze again, his back pressing against the wall.
"W-work?" he stammered, his throat dry.
Karl crouched slightly, his towering frame seeming even more imposing as he leaned closer. "That's right, kid. A place to rest, food in your belly, and bandages on your scrawny little body. But nothing's free in this world."
"Especially not in City E," K8-7A chimed in, waving the ladle like it was emphasizing the point.
The boy swallowed hard, his mind racing.
He didn't trust them— not the indifferent old man, not the cheerful but clumsy robot. But his body was too weak to run, and the promise of rest and food gnawed at him like a cruel temptation.
Whatever it was, he needed to check first.
"What kind of work?" he managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper.
Karl straightened up, his gaze unreadable. "The kind that keeps you alive. You'll see soon enough."
The boy's stomach twisted, but he nodded faintly.
What choice did he have?