The outskirts of Chaka stank of rust and rot, a graveyard of forgotten things where the earth itself seemed to sigh under the weight of discarded dreams. The dump stretched like a festering wound, a jagged landscape of twisted metal, shattered plastics, and fabrics frayed beyond recognition. The river Pembo slithered through it all, sluggish and murky, its waters thick with the grime of a thousand cast-off lives. Yet, even here, life persisted—people bent with basins and dented buckets, hauling the filthy water as if it were treasure. One woman, her hands weaving through the air like a conductor's, drew the water upward in shimmering, disobedient strands, defying gravity with nothing but will.
But Beast and Nare paid no mind to the strange magic of the adults. They were too busy digging through the wreckage of the world, two scavenger birds with dirt under their nails and hunger in their eyes—not for food, but for wonder.
Nare, small and fierce, crouched like a cricket ready to spring, her bug-eyed glasses—each lens a different shade, scavenged from different wrecks—magnifying her already-wide curiosity. Her dark skin was dusted with the fine powder of crushed electronics, her afro puffing out in wild defiance of the filth around her. The crop top she wore had long surrendered its original color, and her shorts were more patch than fabric. Her shoes—mismatched, soles flapping like loose tongues—were a testament to her resourcefulness. She didn't just look for toys; she sought potential, the spark of something broken that she could coax back to life.
Beast, meanwhile, loomed over the trash heaps like a young giant. At eleven, he was already six feet of wiry muscle, his frame more suited to a warrior than a scavenger. His vest, once white, had long since been baptized in grime, now the color of old tobacco. His sweatpants sagged, and his slippers were more hole than shoe, but he moved with the easy confidence of a boy who had never known softness. He kicked aside a shattered monitor, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, searching for anything that might hold his attention for more than five minutes.
Then—a flicker.
Nare's fingers, quick as a thief's, closed around something half-buried in the muck. She yanked it free with a grunt, and the thing emerged like a corpse from a shallow grave. A robot. Or what was left of one. Its face was a smooth pane of glass, its body a patchwork of dented plating, its limbs twisted in unnatural angles. But its eyes—those glassy, lifeless orbs—flickered. A dim, pulsing orange, weak as a dying ember, but there.
Nare's breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Found one!" she crowed, voice ringing with triumph.
Beast turned, eyebrows lifting. "Dead or alive?"
"Almost dead," she admitted, but her grin was electric. "But not for long."
She rubbed her hands together, as if summoning luck, then pressed her palms against the robot's chest. A hum buzzed beneath her fingers, the sound of something ancient stirring. Then—light. The flickering in its eyes steadied, the dim glow brightening just a fraction, like a candle fighting against the wind.
Nare's own eyes mirrored that light, wide and gleaming. Here it was. A broken thing. A forgotten thing.
Hers to fix.
Loneliness was a slow poison, and Beast had never been good at sitting still with it. The dump site, once alive with the thrill of discovery, now felt hollow without Nare's chatter, without her sharp eyes spotting hidden treasures in the wreckage. The silence gnawed at him. He kicked a broken gear, sending it skittering across the dirt, then exhaled sharply through his nose.
Fine. If she wants to storm off, let her.
But the thought rang hollow. The air was too thick with the stink of rust and rot, the river Pembo too sluggish in its murky crawl. Without Nare, the wasteland was just that—waste.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his ragged sweatpants and trudged after her, his busted slippers slapping against the uneven ground.
The streets of Chaka swallowed him whole.
Here, the earth couldn't decide if it wanted to be mud or dust, shifting between sucking at his feet and kicking up clouds of grit with every step. Trash piled in corners like offerings to some indifferent god—rusted cans, torn cloth, the skeletal remains of machines picked clean by scavengers sharper than vultures. The air buzzed with flies and desperation.
People moved like ants in a kicked nest, darting in every direction, shoulders hunched under invisible weights. A woman bartered fiercely over a handful of wilted greens, her voice raw as sandpaper. A group of kids, ribs visible beneath their threadbare shirts, darted between stalls, fingers quick and light. One of them snatched a half-rotten mango and vanished into the chaos before the vendor could swing his stick.
A madman's laughter cut through the noise, high and unhinged. Beast's spine prickled. The man sat cross-legged in the dirt, rocking back and forth, his eyes wide and unseeing. His teeth were yellow, his grin too wide, like his face might split open if he laughed any harder. Beast edged past him, shoulders tense. Some kinds of crazy were contagious.
The houses leaned against each other like drunkards, held up by rust and stubbornness. Some were blackened husks, scorched by old fires. Others were patchworks of corrugated iron, the sheets warped and brittle, rust eating through them like disease. Graffiti splashed across the walls—crude curses, declarations of love, sprawling murals that told stories Beast couldn't quite decipher. A stick-figure man hung from a gallows. A woman cradled a child with stars for eyes. A word, over and over: HUNGER.
Then—smoke.
It curled into the sky from the center of the street, thick and greasy. Beast's nose wrinkled at the stench. Beneath it, something fouler.
A crowd had gathered, their faces hard, their voices a low murmur. In the middle, a pyre of trash burned sluggishly. A body lay twisted in the embers, limbs curled like a spider's, the remains of a tire still clinging to its waist. The skin was blackened, split open in places to show glimpses of bone.
Beast's stomach turned.
"Thief", someone muttered.
Justice in Chaka was swift and brutal. If you stole, you burned. No trials, no mercy. Just the fire, and the crowd watching until there was nothing left but ash and the lesson seared into their minds.
Beast tore his eyes away. He'd seen it before. He'd see it again.
The alley was narrow and quiet, a forgotten vein in Chaka's grimy body. The usual hum of the streets faded here, replaced by the distant drip of leaking pipes and the scuttle of rats in the shadows. Beast barely had time to register the emptiness before something small and fast collided with him—thud—knocking the breath from both of them.
Moshi.
The boy scrambled back like a startled cat, one hand tucked behind him, his bare feet kicking up dust. He was all bones and nervous energy, his ribs visible beneath his threadbare shirt. His eyes darted, calculating, but Beast was already grinning.
"Well, hello there, Moshi!"
Moshi forced a laugh, too high, too quick. "Beast! Hello!" His voice cracked.
Beast took a step forward. Moshi took one back.
"What you got for me today?"
"Who, me? Nah, sorry—nothing on me today."
Beast's grin widened. "Then what's behind your back?"
Another step. Another retreat. Moshi's heel hit the wall. Trapped.
"Like I said—nothing."
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other. Then Moshi's feet began to smoke.
Beast's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, you little—"
The soles of Moshi's feet ignited—whoosh—and suddenly he was airborne, rocketing upward with a wild, desperate laugh. "Later, Beast!"
For a glorious second, he was free, six feet and climbing—until a hand clamped around his ankle like a bear trap.
"Nah."
Beast yanked him down hard. Moshi hit the ground with a thud that rattled his teeth, the impact punching the air from his lungs. Coins spilled from his grip, spinning through the air in a glittering arc. Beast snatched them mid-fall, pocketing them with a satisfied hum.
"There,"he said, dusting his hands.
"Tax paid. Now you can fly away, little firefly."
Moshi groaned, curled on his side, his fire snuffed out. Beast didn't wait for a reply. He turned, whistling, and strolled off, the coins jingling in his pocket. Behind him, Moshi's sniffles faded into the alley's shadows.
Justice in Chaka was simple. If you flew, you paid the toll.
Beast ambled through the streets, flipping the stolen coins into the air with lazy flicks of his thumb. They spun, glinting dull copper in the hazy sunlight before smacking back into his palm. Each clink was a tiny victory. Money meant options—not many, but more than he usually had. Food, maybe. A proper meal instead of the usual scavenged scraps. New shoes? He glanced down at his battered slippers, the soles flapping like loose tongues. Nah.That'd take more than a handful of coins. Still, the weight in his pocket was a comfort.
The buildings thinned as he reached the edge of the settlement, giving way to a sprawling, sun-blasted field. Dust hung in the air here, kicked up by the scuffle of bare feet and the occasional gust of wind. Thorny bushes dotted the landscape like stubborn sentinels, their branches gnarled and unwelcoming.
In the center of the field, a pack of kids were tangled in a chaotic game, their shouts ringing across the barren stretch. Their "football" was a sorry thing—a lumpy mass of fabric and paper, bound together with fraying rope and blind hope. It barely held its shape, but they chased it with the fervor of champions, their laughter sharp and bright against the grit of Chaka.
Beast watched them for a moment, something twisting in his chest. He recognized the game, the rules unspoken but ironclad. No adults. No outsiders. Especially not him.
One of the kids—a scrawny boy with knees like knobs—looked up and froze. His shout cut through the noise like a knife.
"Beast!"
The game died instantly. The ball thudded to the dirt, forgotten. The kid who'd been clutching it—a wiry girl with her hair tied back in a fraying scarf—scooped it up and held it tight against her ribs, her fingers digging into the makeshift stitching. The others clustered around her, a wall of skinny limbs and narrowed eyes. Five of them, maybe six. All staring at him like he'd come to steal the sun.
Beast tilted his head, his grin slow and deliberate. "Hey."
The tension in the field was thick enough to choke on. Among the cluster of kids, two figures stood out as Beast loomed over them.
Teke was all wiry limbs and sharp angles, nearly as tall as Beast but without the same brutish bulk. His faded tank top hung loose on his frame, the hem frayed from years of wear. There was a quiet intensity in his dark eyes—the kind that came from surviving Chaka's streets too long, too young. His knuckles bore faint scars from fights he'd neither won nor lost, just endured.
Nde'nga stood slightly apart, her dark skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat in the harsh sun. The girl's black dreadlocks swung like pendulums . Her dress—once bright but now faded to a dull gray—hung off one shoulder where the strap had torn. The mismatched earrings dangling from her ears (one a cog, the other a bent spoon handle) caught the light as she squared her shoulders.
Poli, the ball's owner, clutched her precious creation tighter to her hip. The girl was small but fierce, her cornrows pulled back into a tight ponytail that emphasized the stubborn set of her jaw. Her shorts were patched in three places, her bare feet calloused and tough as leather.
"Let me play," Beast commanded, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.
The silence that followed was heavier than the humid air.
Poli was the first to break it. "No," she said, her voice steady despite the way her fingers dug into the ball's ragged surface.
Beast's face darkened. "What?" The word came out like the warning growl of a feral dog.
Nde'nga stepped forward, her earrings swinging. "She said no." Her voice carried a musical lilt that somehow made the defiance cut deeper.
Beast's massive chest rose and fell as he stared at her. For a long moment, he seemed at a loss—his mouth working silently like a fish gasping on dry land. When he finally spoke again, it was with uncharacteristic hesitation. "Why?"
Poli hugged the ball closer. "Because you play rough," she said, her chin jutting out. "And when we ask you to stop, you hit us." She held up the ball slightly. "Last time you stomped ours flat just because you lost."
Beast rolled his massive shoulders. "Oh come on, people get hurt in these games. Makes it fun."
"No they don't!" Teke interjected, his voice cracking with barely-contained anger. He stepped forward, his long arms gesturing emphatically. "That's not fun, that's just you being a—"
"Huh." Beast cut him off with a humorless smirk. "You're gonna side with them?"
Teke didn't back down. "I always have." His scarred hands clenched at his sides. "You suck, man. Like, by a lot." His voice dropped lower, trembling with years of pent-up frustration. "You're a bully and horrible to be around. Only reason I'm saying it now is 'cause I finally got the guts."
Something dangerous flickered across Beast's face. The kids collectively held their breath as he seemed to swell larger, his shadow stretching longer across the dusty ground. He took two heavy steps forward, the earth practically trembling under his weight.
Then—
Teke moved without thinking, planting himself firmly between Beast and the others. A heartbeat later, Nde'nga joined him, her dreadlocks swaying as she tilted her head back to meet Beast's glare without flinching. The metallic beads in her hair caught the light like tiny warnings.
For one endless moment, Beast stared down at them, his breath coming in rough bursts through flared nostrils. The rage in his eyes burned bright—then guttered out like a candle in the wind.
His shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him all at once, leaving behind something that looked almost like... shame.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his normally swaggering steps now heavy with something that wasn't quite defeat, but wasn't victory either.
The kids watched him go, the ball forgotten in Poli's hands. No one cheered. No one laughed. They just stood there in the settling dust, the weight of what had just happened hanging between them like the charged air before a storm.
And Beast kept walking, his shadow stretching long and lonely behind him, until he disappeared around the corner of a rusted tin shack.
Beast stalked through the winding streets of Chaka, kicking at loose stones and muttering curses under his breath. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his ragged sweatpants, shoulders hunched like a storm cloud. Stupid kids. Stupid ball. Stupid—
Then he heard it.
Laughter. Bright and sharp, cutting through the grime of Chaka like a knife.
Familiar laughter.
He turned just in time to see the ragged ball—the same damned one Poli had clutched so protectively—come sailing past his head. A second later, Poli herself sprinted by, her cornrows flying behind her as she whooped. Then another kid. Then another. Nde'nga flew past in a blur of clicking beads and swinging dreads, her mismatched earrings catching the light. And finally, Teke, his long legs eating up the ground as he chased after the others, his scarred knuckles flashing.
They wove through the streets like a pack of wild dogs, kicking up dust and chaos in equal measure. The ball bounced off rusted tin walls, skidded through puddles of questionable origin, and sent chickens squawking out of the way. Locals shouted curses at them—"Ey! Little demons!"—but the kids paid no mind, their laughter ringing off the corrugated metal shacks.
Beast stood frozen, something bitter and hot rising in his throat. They hadn't wanted *him* to play, but here they were, tearing through Chaka like they owned it.
Then Poli drew back her foot and kicked the ball with all her might.
It soared through the air, a tattered comet spinning end over end—
—and smacked straight into the chest of a Karau.
The world stopped.
The laughter died mid-breath. The kids skidded to a halt. Even the stray dogs and scrawny cats froze mid-stride, as if the universe itself had hit pause.
The Karau—Chaka's name for its brutal enforcers—stood motionless, the ball now lying innocently at his feet. He was a squat, thick-necked man stuffed into a sweat-stained blue uniform, his potbelly straining against the buttons of his shirt. His face was a slab of meat, red and glistening under the sun, his small eyes blinking slowly, like a bull deciding whether to charge.
In one hand, he held a baton—not the cheap, flimsy kind, but a solid length of reinforced metal, its surface dented from use.
But it wasn't just him.
Flanking him on either side were two robots.
Machines.
They loomed at least six feet tall, their bodies sleek and silvery, their limbs too smooth, too perfect for the grime of Chaka. White light pulsed from the crevices in their armor, glowing along seams and joints like veins of cold fire. Their faces were smooth plates—no mouth, no nose, just two blank, glowing slits for eyes.
Somehow, the absence of a mouth made them worse. At least the Karau could scream. These things would kill you in silence.
The Karau looked down at the ball. Then up at the kids.
No one breathed.
Poli's hands flew to her mouth. Nde'nga took an involuntary step back. Teke's fists clenched, his scars standing out white against his knuckles.
The Karau's lips peeled back in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Well," he said, his voice like gravel in a tin can. "What do we have here?"
The robots' glowing eyes flicked to the children, their heads tilting in unison.
Beast, still standing a few paces away, felt his stomach.
The Karau's face twisted into a sneer as he loomed over Poli, his baton still raised. "You, you kicked this... this vile amalgamation of shit and increativity at me, didn't you?" he spat, his voice dripping with contempt.
Beast watched from the sidelines, his grin widening. Finally. Justice. Poli had denied him, humiliated him—and now she was getting exactly what she deserved. His chest swelled with dark satisfaction as the Karau advanced on her, his boots kicking up dust.
"Answer me!" the enforcer roared, swinging his baton again.
The metal cracked against Poli's cheek with a sickening thwack, sending her sprawling into the dirt. She hit the ground hard, her small hands flying up to clutch her face. No blood, but the pain was clear in the way her body curled inward, her shoulders shaking.
Around her, the crowd recoiled. A man in tattered clothes stumbled back, his face pale, before turning and bolting down the street. He skidded to a stop outside a rusted shack, pounding on the door until it swung open. Inside, a dimly lit room buzzed with hushed voices. The man didn't hesitate—he charged upstairs, bursting into a chamber where two figures hunched over blueprints.
"Weji! Ngao!" he gasped, sweat beading on his brow. "They're killing a kid down there!"
The taller of the two—Weji—snapped her head up. "What?"
But back in the street, Poli was alone.
She lifted her head, her dark eyes scanning the faces around her—her friends frozen in fear, the onlookers shrinking back, Beast still grinning like this was the best show he'd ever seen.
And then—something inside her shifted.
Fear curdled into rage.
A child's helpless fury, raw and burning, surged through her veins. Her hands, small and calloused, began to glow. A brilliant, electric blue light pulsed beneath her skin, spreading up her arms like liquid fire.
The Karau faltered. "Oh?" he muttered, taking an involuntary step back. "What's this? You're one of those freaks, aren't you?"
Poli turned her face toward him, and the light flared brighter—so intense it rivaled the afternoon sun. Her expression was pure, unfiltered wrath, the kind that made even a grown man's blood run cold.
The Karau swallowed hard. Then, with a shaky hand, he pointed at her and barked to the machines:
"Kill her."
The robots' glowing eyes locked onto Poli. Their smooth, featureless faces gave nothing away as they stepped forward in perfect unison, their metal limbs humming with lethal precision.
Poli launched herself at the machines with a scream that was more fury than fear—a child's defiance against the inevitable. The first robot moved faster than anything that size should. Its metal hand snapped out in a backhanded swing that connected with her small body like a hammer striking wet clay.
The impact sent her flying.
Two meters through the air before she hit the ground with a sickening thud, her body rolling limply through the dirt. Blood sprayed in an arc—some of it splattering across Beast's chest, his arms, his face. Warm. Sticky.
His grin froze.
Slowly, numbly, he looked down at his hands. The blood was dark against his skin, almost black in the harsh sunlight. It dripped between his fingers, thick and slow.
Then he looked up.
Poli was trying to push herself up, her arms trembling. One side of her face was *ruined*—the orbital bone crushed inward, her left eye dangling grotesquely from its socket by a thread of tendon. The bright blue light that had surged through her moments before was gone, snuffed out like a candle in a storm. Her remaining eye—wide, glazed with pain—locked onto the crowd. Her lips moved soundlessly, her small, bloodied hands reaching out.
Help me.
No one moved.
The robots advanced.
The first blow came down like a piston, slamming into her ribs with a crack that echoed off the tin shacks. Poli's body jerked, a wet gasp tearing from her throat. The second strike landed on her spine, bending her backward at an impossible angle. The third—
Beast flinched.
Each impact was methodical, rhythmic, the sound of metal meeting flesh reverberating through the street like a macabre drumbeat. Some people turned away, pressing their faces into their hands. Others ran, their footsteps pounding against the packed earth. But most stood paralyzed, their eyes wide with horror, forced to witness the unraveling of something no child should ever endure.
Then—crunch.
A blow so vicious it shattered Poli's skull like an eggshell.
Beast felt it.
The force of the hit traveled through the ground, up through his bones, and into his chest like a physical blow. His legs gave out. He collapsed onto his ass, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
Across the street, Weji and Ngao arrived too late.
Weji—a tall, wiry woman with a scar running from her temple to her jaw—stiffened, her entire body locking up at the sight. A strangled sound built in her throat, her hands flying to her mouth. But before she could lunge forward, Ngao grabbed her. His dirt-streaked hand clamped over her lips, his other arm wrapping around her waist like a vice.
"Don't," he hissed into her ear, his voice raw. "You can't."
Weji thrashed, a red glow igniting along her skin—flickering, unstable. Her eyes burned with the same eerie light as she stared between the gaps in the crowd, watching as the robots continued their brutal work. Poli was no longer recognizable. Just a broken thing in the dirt, yet the crunch went on and on.
Beast couldn't look away.
The robots didn't stop until there was nothing left to break.
And in that moment, something inside Beast shifted.
This wasn't just horror.
This wasn't just shock.
It was realization. As if right in front of hum was a mirror.