In the undercity, the likelihood of a person committing murder exceeds ninety percent, with over eighty percent of children under ten wielding pistols and taking lives. The reasons young boys and girls pull triggers and fire hammers vary, but the most common is simple: “Kill or be killed.” That’s the first phrase they utter.

  Some fire to protect someone, others to save a loved one from danger, or because their fragile pride or meager self-esteem was wounded. But those who kill for such reasons don’t survive long in the undercity. In a place where lawlessness and violence reign, where the strong prey on the weak in a cancerous survival-of-the-fittest logic, a single moment of weakness marks you as prey, to be devoured to the bone.

  The strong show no mercy, even to children. To them, kids aren’t to be protected—they’re quarry. A child’s untainted body, free of toxins or drugs, is worth a fortune. Properly processed, it’s a golden goose for profit.

  For a child, gripping a gun and taking lives is a survival tactic, self-defense. No one questions the act; it’s accepted as normal. In a dark alley, a boy fired a gun, killing a stranger. Pulling out a rusted multi-tool, he began detaching the corpse’s mechanical prosthesis.

  Filthy, ragged. Sunken cheeks, dark circles under exhausted eyes. Pitch-black pupils screaming of no dreams, no hope. Reeking of stench, his brown skin caked with grime and dried blood, the boy deftly removed the coded external armor, glanced at the corpse, and fired another bullet into its forehead for good measure.

  Warm blood trickled down his cheek. Pink brain matter splattered the concrete wall like a pointillist painting. The empty casing, trailing faint gunsmoke, arced through the air.

  He didn’t want to live, but he didn’t want to die either. As long as he lived, pain gnawed at his marrow like a formless plague. The desire to avoid death coursed through his organs like a curse. Contradictory desires and wishes—why struggle so wretchedly?

  Madness would’ve been easier. Discard reason, live by instinct—it’d be far simpler. Like other kids, he could’ve turned to drugs, surrendered to violence, and lived free of mental anguish. Trust no one, suspect everyone, shoot anyone deemed an enemy. Living meant taking, and being taken from. The boy didn’t question it.

  Yanking out the prosthesis’s circuit board, he disconnected its wiring. As he worked methodically, a mechanical hum echoed in his ears.

  “So, this the right place?” a voice asked.

  “That’s what the comms said, but man, is that guy caught up in some mess again?” another replied.

  “Don’t care. We just need to grab what the boss wants.”

  Three voices. Sensing danger, the boy dove into a dumpster, curling up and clutching his knees.

  Adults with mechanical prosthetics. The creak of steel and hum of machinery. Trembling, the boy hugged his pistol like a talisman, closing his eyes and breathing minimally.

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  “Hey, look at that,” one said.

  “…The guy who killed him should be nearby. Find him!” another barked.

  Gunshots shook the dumpster, buildings crumbling around him. The adults, clad in mechanical prosthetics, fired wildly, tearing apart hiding vagrants with screams and shrieks.

  He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live… Maybe it was wrong to wish for life after killing and looting. But if he hadn’t killed, hadn’t stolen, he’d be the one dead. Karma, self-inflicted consequences—whatever. The boy wanted to live, his teeth chattering.

  “—!”

  A sharp pain stabbed his abdomen. Touching it, he felt warm blood gushing from a bullet wound.

  Screaming, he burst from the dumpster, face pale. Before him stood three mechanoid men, their eyes burning with hatred and rage. A gangster, mouth covered by a liquid-cooling mask, grabbed the boy’s head, lifting him. “You the one who killed him?” he asked, pointing to the corpse with a hole in its forehead.

  “N-no, I—”

  The man’s steel fingers prodded the wound, and the boy screamed in agony, hyperventilating as he met the man’s dull mechanical eyes.

  “One more time… Did you kill him?” the man growled.

  “P-please, stop! H-help—”

  His right arm was crushed with a dull crunch, blood and flesh staining the gray asphalt crimson.

  “Yo, sell this kid to the Flesh Crucible?” one asked.

  “Idiot, kids are worth more tamed. This is training. What, never disciplined a dog?” another sneered.

  “Deal with undercity strays? Nah,” the third scoffed.

  His vision blurred, the men’s mocking laughter ringing. His lifeless right arm dropped the pistol, clattering into a blood pool.

  Begging or calling for help was futile. In the undercity, kindness marked you as weak, stripped of everything and killed. No one moved to save the boy; onlookers merely watched from afar.

  “Whatever. Hey, kid, we’re generous. Join the gang as a soldier, or die here. What’s it gonna be?” the man taunted.

  “…”

  No parents, no name. No reason for being born. All he had was the desire to live, the wish to avoid death. Shame, weakness—those were luxuries the undercity didn’t afford. Ruthlessness was supreme.

  “Big men ganging up on a kid? You got no shame, huh?” a voice interrupted.

  The boy, about to surrender, saw an old man.

  A worn cowboy hat, a bullet-scarred gray coat. Military boots splashed through puddles, blue light glowing in his mechanical eye. The old man drew a high-caliber revolver from his coat and, without warning, shot a mechanoid clean through the forehead.

  “Who the hell are you?!” a gangster shouted.

  “An outdated cowboy,” the old man replied.

  Two shots rang out, dispatching the remaining men. Approaching the dying boy, the old man pulled an ampoule from his waist pouch, filled a syringe, and flicked the needle upward, pressing the plunger.

  “Kid,” he said.

  “…”

  “One question. Wanna live or die? Which is it?”

  The boy’s eyes darted between the steel sky and the old man. In a faint, barely audible whisper, he murmured, “I wanna live…”

  The old man’s scarred face broke into a grin.

  “Good choice. Here’s the deal: I save your life, you help with my work. Call it an employment contract. What’s your name, kid?”

  He injected the liquid into the boy’s neck. Sensing the boy’s situation—living in the undercity’s alleys—he fell silent.

  “Nah, my bad. No offense meant. How’s this? I’ll name you Danang. Not bad, right?”

  “…”

  “The drug’ll kick in soon. Don’t worry, it’s not narcotics—something better. A ruin relic, rare stuff. Be grateful, Danang.”

  The boy—Danang—felt his eyelids grow heavy, slipping toward sleep. The old man hoisted him onto his back, uncaring of the blood staining his coat.

  The thick back reeked of cigarettes and gunsmoke. The hum of his mechanical prosthesis lulled Danang like a lullaby as he drifted off.

  “Sleep, Danang. Tomorrow’s a whole new life. Gonna get busy,” the old man said.

  Bidding farewell to the alley’s stench of blood and mold.