Given Up

March 24th 2102

15:40

'I wasn't there when the Merge happened. Not because of anything tragic or heroic — I just wasn't born yet. From what people tell me, it sounded incredible. The world before the Collision had everything: towers that touched the clouds, machines that could fly, even cities that glowed at night.

Now, those stories sound like fairy tales told over rust and smoke. Cities lie in ruin, the sky's gone pale, and the climate swings like a drunk pendulum. In a matter of weeks, the whole planet reshuffled — like a kid forcing all the wrong puzzle pieces together.

Still... the New World isn't all bad. There's mutants now and also some level of magic so it's pretty mixed. To the north, endless deserts. To the south, forests. Does it make sense? No. But is it true? Also No. I've never traveled more than just outside my town in the neighboring areas. Yet scattered everywhere are — the Heaps. Mountains of waste from the Old World, piled so high they scrape the clouds. Junkyards of broken dreams... and the occasional treasure.'

"Yeah... that seems like a good start to my diary."

Ukira Iteza — the 11th of the 12 Zodiacs. Nothing special. Just a scrap kid living on the edge of poverty, digging for anything valuable enough to get him through the week. He doesn't have much left in this world but his sister... though that's enough to keep him moving.

His nocturnal-black boots crunch against the junk below, soles perfect for avoiding rust and tetanus. His gloves — torn, half-sewn, barely holding together and are more for style than survival.

A sharp siren rings in the distance, cutting through the silence. Then comes a chime — the signal that scavenger hour's over and Ash Hour is about to begin.

"There goes my afternoon,"

Ukira sighs.

"All that hunting for nothing."

He turns toward the city gates, boots clanging softly against the scrap. Beyond the walls, the scent of metal fades into dust and smoke. Folk music hums through the streets — lazy drums, a looping melody, and someone shouting about "fresh fruit" which most likely isn't fresh at all.

A faint spark escapes his fingertips, charring the tips of his gloves (not that the damage really drastically changed them all that much). He stares at the smoke curling up from the burn, lets out another sigh, and shakes his hand.

The road ahead is littered with footprints, boot prints, and tire tracks — the same dirt path he always trudges along, half-hearted and lost in thought.

That's when he spots them: a few silhouettes waiting where the road bends — familiar, and never in a good way.

It's Vann Unuk and Juro Kor. Stereotypical bullies — the kind you can read like a book. Hot-headed, easy to set off, and definitely carrying some kind of daddy issues.

"Oi, Iteza! Thought we told you not to use this gate especially not while we're still around!"

The voice isn't exactly raspy — more like someone who's pretending to of smoked half his life and thinks that gives him authority: That's Unuk. He isn't particularly strong, just loud. But he does have one advantage over our Mc: no one is allowed to know what Ukira really is.

Most people see him as some ratty scrap kid with a bad attitude and a blank face.

Kor, on the other hand, has no issue making sure everyone knows about him. He's linked to Hercules — and he never shuts up about it. Especially the obnoxious name he gave his power: Colossus Hide. Which is ironic, because his power is the only colossus thing about him his short stature and aggressive attitude makes him like a Chihuahua. Always mouthing off around town, bragging that he's

"Keeping the junk in the Heaps."

Whatever that's meant to mean.

Kor cracks his knuckles like a typical bully and then proceeds to scoop a handful of sand from the roadside up. It swirls up his arms, hardening into a coarse, earthen armor that crawls across his body like a living shell. Grain by grain, his skin vanishes beneath a mimicry of the earth's crust, the gauntlets on his arms gleaming like the armor of a not-so-holy knight.

Ukira just stares — unimpressed. Same routine as always. Unuk steps forward next. His affinity's with Serpens — he calls his power Venom Veil. Like his pal, everyone in Cogtonn already knows that. He's got a Water and Earth alignment, though it's less about either and more about the acidic mix between them. By blending minerals from the ground with his water flow, he brews a toxin strong enough to eat through steel, and even worse against a person.

And just like Kor, he's a massive douche.

"Hey! We're talkin' to you, duster!"

Ukira doesn't answer. He just keeps walking, eyes half-lidded, boots dragging a lazy rhythm in the dirt.

That's when they rush him.

Two shadows close in — and in the next second, a fist connects square with his jaw. His head snaps to the side. Blood mixes with dirt.

The pounding drums mimic the fists launching in to Iteza's head and body— each beat syncing perfectly with the ache behind his eyes. But it's all worth it. At least that's what he tells himself.

It's all worth it for Aoi — the only thing he has left. As long as she's safe... as long as she's okay... he can keep pretending. Pretending he's just another weak scrap kid. Although to most of the town he just seems like some weirdo masochist who likes being beaten up.

Ukira collapses onto the dirt, mumbling half-formed curses as the world blurs around him.

18:27

He's not in a hospital or surrounded by cute a pair of busty nurses or even the minimum of a bed with pillows. He's hanging halfway out of a corroded dumpster, with a rat chewing on something uncomfortably close to his ear.

The sky above him darkens, the air thick with the smell of oil and rot. His head feels like it's packed with sand, every breath scraping his lungs raw. Each exhale forces a cough and each cough spits out a bit of what's left in him.

Ukira stumbles upright, grabbing a bent metal pipe for balance. Every step is a crawl, every breath a shove forward. For all he knows, he was run over while he was out cold. Wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened this week.

Eventually, he reaches the Hiyokanata Inn — his "home." Which he sells whatever junk, corpses or stardust he finds to cover the rent.

No one expects a sixteen-year-old to work himself half to death just to survive. Not in the Old World, anyway. But this isn't the Old World. This is the New One — and pity doesn't exist here.

Pity gets you killed.

Ukira drags himself up the narrow stairs, one hand still clutching that makeshift cane. He fumbles with the key, finally pushing the creaking door open.

It's a shared room — small, dusty, half-lit by a cracked neon sign outside the window. But it's his. And right now, that's enough.

Ukira kicks off his boots, letting them thump against the floor, and collapses onto the bed. His jacket slips halfway from his arms as he stares up at the ceiling. Thoughts drift — petty frustrations, fleeting wishes, things that could never really change. He lets the blank ceiling swallow him whole, the weight of boredom pressing against his chest like heavy fog.

The haze breaks with a sudden burst of energy. A sudden loud squeal as well as a sudden loud door slam- Aoi, as she launches herself toward the bed corner, excitement exuding from every movement. Ukira can't help but smile.

Her dark hair fans across her face, hiding the markings and scars that aren't uncommon in the colonies. Her eyes — spiraling yellow at the back, blue-black at the center. For one brief, fleeting moment, the world outside the Inn disappears.

"Why are you just staring at me, creep?" she laughs, her voice sharp with amusement.

"I... just missed you today,"

Ukira admits, the words warm and raw.

He wraps her in a careful embrace. For once, the pain of the day feels far away.

They settle back into their respective beds — small and cramped, but safe. Sleep overtakes them quickly, carrying them both through the fragile peace of the New World night.