Chapter One: Shit's the same
The sky was a dull gray, clouded with layers of smog. Falcon woke up to the constant hum of machines and distant shouts, the sounds of Trash No. 45 coming to life. It was still early, but the city was already awake. Neon lights flickered in the streets below, casting an eerie glow over the wreckage that was this district.
Falcon's bed was a pile of old fabric and broken crates, anything he could scavenge and pile together to sleep on. His fingers, long and lean, brushed the gritty surface of the floor as he rose, already feeling the burn in his muscles from last night's haul.
The smell of the trash was almost a comfort now, something his senses had become numb to. Rotten food, broken electronics, torn clothes—this was his life. The trash was both his curse and his salvation. It was the only thing keeping him alive.
Out in the alley, the trash heaps were already being picked through. He wasn't alone in the wasteland of scraps—everyone in Trash No. 45 had to hustle. The better your haul, the better your chance at climbing the ladder of Authority.
Authority wasn't just some political bullshit; it was power. It was how you bent the world to your will. People fought for it in different ways. Some were born into it, their bloodlines coursing with inherited power. Others—like Falcon—had to claw their way to it.
The streets here were filled with the weak and the broken, those with little Authority or none at all. The low tier, that's where Falcon and the others stood. But it didn't matter. Everyone was trying to survive. And to survive, you needed more than just strength. You needed knowledge, cunning, and the ability to outsmart whoever came after your scraps.
As Falcon made his way into the piles of refuse, his eyes quickly scanned for anything useful. There were the usual bits: wires, broken screens, and ruined appliances, but there was always something new hidden among the wreckage. One thing people didn't understand was how to read trash. It wasn't just a matter of finding anything. You had to know where to look, how to pull out the hidden gems buried underneath the trash.
"Yo, Falcon!" a voice called out from behind him.
Falcon turned to see Kato, a lanky guy with more scars than muscle, waddling over. Kato wasn't much of a threat, but he was quick with his hands and always knew where the best hauls were.
"You're late today. What's wrong, can't find anything good?" Kato chuckled, flicking a piece of trash at Falcon.
Falcon didn't bother to smile back. He didn't have the time. He had to move fast if he wanted to make it to the drop-off zone before the bigger gangs started claiming their territory.
"Busy," Falcon said, his voice flat. "Not here to talk."
Kato shrugged. "Your loss. But there's a new scrap I found last night. Some kinda—"
"I'll catch it later," Falcon cut him off, already stepping past Kato, moving toward a pile of discarded tech.
He bent low, his fingers deftly sorting through the wires and broken devices. There it was: a small, silver box with strange markings. His heart beat a little faster. This was it. This was the kind of find that could give him an edge.
His fingers brushed the surface of the box, feeling the smoothness of it. It wasn't just some random junk. There was something about it.
Before he could inspect it further, a shadow loomed over him. Falcon tensed and looked up.
"Hey, trash boy." The voice was sneering, low, and it was unmistakably Marco, one of the local bullies who liked to pick on the weak. He wasn't alone. Marco had brought two of his lackeys along, both with scowls on their faces.
Falcon didn't flinch. He was used to this. They were here for a reason—bullies always needed someone to pick on to feel big.
"What's this?" Marco said, eyeing the silver box in Falcon's hand. "You think you found something special? That's just junk, boy. You're not worthy of it."
Falcon's eyes didn't leave the box, though. He could feel the aggression in the air. These guys weren't just here for a scrap—they were here to take. Marco had a way of pushing people around, but Falcon knew how to play the game.
"I'm not interested in your bullshit, Marco," Falcon said, his voice calm but firm. He didn't look up.
"Is that so?" Marco stepped closer, his boots crunching on the debris beneath him. "How about you hand that over and I'll let you walk out of here without getting a nice reminder of who runs things."
Falcon's mind was working fast, his gaze flicking between Marco and his two friends. He was outnumbered, sure, but he wasn't stupid.
He could feel something shift in the air as his Authority started to stir, a low hum at the back of his skull. It wasn't much yet—not compared to the real heavy hitters of the city—but it was there. His fingers clenched around the box. Maybe this was the moment.
"You really want to do this?" Falcon asked, his voice quieter now. He could feel the tension rise, and for a moment, everything seemed to slow down. His instincts kicked in.
Marco didn't seem to expect the calm response. He hesitated for just a second. That was all Falcon needed.
Falcon surged forward, shoving Marco back hard, sending him stumbling. Marco wasn't prepared, and his goons flinched. Falcon's voice dropped lower, a harsh whisper.
"You'd better turn around before you regret it, Marco. I'm not afraid of you. You're just a bully with no real power."
Marco glared at him, lips curling in a snarl, but his hands were already raised in surrender. "Fine. Keep the damn box. It's just junk anyway."
"Good decision," Falcon said coolly, letting the tension fade as he straightened up.
With that, Marco and his lackeys slinked off, cursing under their breath. Falcon exhaled slowly, his heart still racing, but now there was something new in his chest—confidence. He wasn't just some trash picker.
He was someone who could make it.
As he tucked the silver box into his coat, he looked out at the horizon. His journey had just begun. And in a city full of people fighting to rise through their Authority, Falcon knew he had his own path to follow.
Later that afternoon, Falcon made his way toward the school—the place where the city's power players trained, learned the rules, and fought for position. It was mandatory, no matter where you came from.
As Falcon entered, he didn't look like much—just another ragged kid from the lower districts. But inside, he felt something stir. The world was waiting, and he was ready to take it on his terms.
To be continued...