The world where I live

Raindrops fall from the artificial sky, heavy and slow, as if the air itself is weighed down by despair. The rain is toxic, stained gray by the endless smoke rising from the factories and incinerators in the Outskirts. People say, “We’re safe from the Condemned!” or “The demons won’t get us here!” But no one talks about the protection we’re missing: protection from ourselves.
I stare at a puddle on the ground, and in it, I see my reflection. My brown eyes are so dark they’re almost black, like the melanin has abandoned my face. I wear a black beanie, frayed and dirty, something I dug out of the trash years ago. My pale skin is smudged with dust and streaked with toxic rainwater. The air mask covering my nose and mouth is flimsy and transparent, just like everything else here in the Outskirts. Meanwhile, the elites wear high-tech masks, so advanced they look like they’re from another planet. Poverty clings to me from head to toe: a torn tank top, faded shorts, and bare feet. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m Danme, Danme Arkanji. And this is my life.
My black hair falls into my face, whipped around by the strong wind. It reminds me of how Mercil, my brother, cuts my hair with a rusted pair of scissors he found in the trash. Even so, my hair’s a mess, about five fingers long. But when you’re living in squalor, who has time to care about looks? I’ve got this white streak in my bangs that I’ve never cut. It’s like a flaw, a disconnect. Just like it, I don’t fit into this world.
— Come on, Danme. You’ve been staring at that puddle for like fifteen seconds — Mercil snaps, pulling me back to reality.
He’s my twin brother, my only blood. The only difference between us is that every hair on his body is white, from head to toe. He’s dressed in rags too—a long-sleeve shirt with burnt edges, dusty shorts, and dirty bare feet like mine. Just like everyone else in the Outskirts, he wears an air mask. One day, he explained to me that the mask filters out the toxic rain. Without it, our lungs would collapse, and we’d be dead. It wasn’t always like this. Four years ago, the pollution got worse, brought on by the elites. A wave of respiratory diseases swept through the Outskirts, killing hundreds. I watched people die in front of me, choking, desperate. Now, even the elites are feeling the toxicity. Is this some kind of revenge for those who died?
— Go ahead, I’ll catch up — I tell Mercil, adjusting my mask.
So, where do I live? On Estrela, a space dome orbiting Earth, sold as humanity’s last hope. A place far from the Condemned falling from the skies. But, as always, not everyone could afford that promise. Out of Estrela’s 300,000 inhabitants, 20% are the elites. The other 80%? That’s us—the poor, the illegals, the forgotten. The government dumped us in the Outskirts, where we scrape by however we can. Earth down below is hostile, uninhabitable. Up here, at least we can breathe. But is this even living?
— Then hurry up — Mercil says, starting to walk. — You know if we’re late, we lose the room.
— Yeah... I know — I reply, understanding his anxiety. He doesn’t want to sleep on the floor with roaches again.
— Psst! — Someone calls out from a dark alley. — Hey, kids, you wanna buy some Mist? — The man opens his coat, revealing black powder with purple glints, syringes filled with a bluish-black liquid, and a metallic inhaler cartridge—a rare sight in the Outskirts. They say Mist is a drug synthesized from genetically modified fungi, so potent it can destroy a lung in seconds.
— Not today — Mercil says, giving a quick nod and pulling me along. — Think we shook him off. He’d have kept bugging us until we caved.
— You think Mist’s any good? What’s it even like to use that stuff? — I ask, curious.
— Unless you wanna fry your brain and get hooked, don’t even think about it — he replies, serious. Mercil always knows more than I do. He’s always got his nose buried in old books.
— You’re right. Heard it gives you a nasty trip — I say, glancing around at the misery surrounding us.
People shuffle back and forth, dressed in rags and tattered clothes, some with makeshift metal accessories. The style here is what the history books call “punk,” some counterculture movement from Old Earth. But here, it’s not a style. It’s survival. The houses are piles of metal and concrete, stacked on top of each other, forming dark, dangerous mazes. Pipes and exposed wires snake along the walls and floors, having already killed unsuspecting kids. The sky is always overcast, and the stench of mold and death hangs in the air. This is the place the elites dumped us in.
Artificial sunlight rarely reaches here. When it does, it’s so intense that the violet rays can give you skin cancer in seconds. Plenty of people died before they figured that out. Now, we avoid going out on sunny days. Corpses are a common sight on the streets, and the smell of decay mixes with the toxic rain, creating an endless cycle of disease. Is Earth worse than this? Maybe. But here, we’re living in hell.
— Danme, you seeing what I’m seeing? — Mercil nudges me, pulling me out of my thoughts.
— What? — I ask, distracted.
— Check out that guy up ahead — he says, nodding toward a man who stands out in the crowd.
He’s huge, almost seven feet tall, a mountain of muscle and metal. His arms are cybernetic, gleaming faintly in the dim light. On his bald head is a tattoo of a crescent moon covered by an eclipse. He radiates danger, like death itself is following him.
— That guy’s Blood Moon — Mercil whispers. — A crime syndicate. Guys like him have all the advantages over people like us.
— Where are you going with this? — I ask, intrigued.
— Just thinking, Danme. Imagine the cash that guy’s pulling in... — Mercil watches the man with a calculating look, like he’s already plotting something.
This was when I was 14. And this was how my life started to change. This was how I became a criminal.