Mikey stared out at the slums.
"Geez..."
His voice was barely more than a breath. His eyes roamed the chaotic sprawl—concrete towers stitched together with wire and rusted scaffolding, clotheslines hanging between crooked balconies, street smoke curling into the sky like ghosts.
He had never seen anything like this.
He had never seen poverty.
Not really.
He followed behind Bobo, who stomped forward with steady, thunderous steps, parting the crowd with his sheer presence. Mikey stayed close, brushing shoulders with strangers as they moved through narrow corridors between buildings.
The deeper they went, the more the city opened up.
A market stretched across a wide plaza, a patchwork of tents and makeshift booths. Vendors called out their wares—roasted meats, hand-stitched jackets, scavenged tech parts, and bootleg Council memorabilia. Colors clashed in every direction. Music played somewhere nearby, a tinny melody from an old speaker perched on a window ledge.
It wasn't exactly a dump. It was rough, sure—crowded and dirty—but alive. It had soul.
Mikey had only ever known the sharp lines of his penthouse, the sterile air purifiers and silent elevators. This place? It breathed.
And strangely… he kind of liked it.
Council drones buzzed overhead like lazy hornets. Occasionally, he caught sight of Council soldiers in black-and-red armor patrolling the streets, eyes hidden behind visors. Even here, their grip remained.
Bobo finally came to a stop at a food stall made of old scrap metal and faded awnings. A small woman stood behind it, maybe in her seventies, with wrinkled hands and a bright toothy grin—well, mostly toothy. What teeth remained were yellowed and proud.
"Good morning, Bo!" she said, squinting up at him.
Bobo grinned. "Mornin', Paula."
"The usual?"
He let out a booming laugh. "Yeah, the usual."
She turned and reached into a cooling unit behind her, pulling out a massive hunk of meat—thick and steaming from some kind of smoker. Mikey couldn't tell what animal it came from. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Then, without a word, Paula and Bobo extended their wrists. A soft beep sounded as their wrist-chips synced.
Transaction complete.
Mikey blinked. He hadn't expected them to use the same currency system out here. But of course they did—this was still Council territory, even if it looked like another world.
Paula's eyes drifted to him.
"And who's this young pup? Don't tell me you're still picking up strays, Bo."
Bobo laughed again, deeper this time. "Son of a friend," he said, tossing Mikey a sideways glance.
After the exchange at the market, they continued weaving through the maze of the slums. Bobo's footsteps were like quiet thunder, always steady, while Mikey limped along behind him, doing his best to keep up.
"Where are we going?" Mikey asked, adjusting the strap of the bag over his shoulder.
Bobo glanced back, a grin in the corner of his mouth. "Told you I'd get you a bed, didn't I?" His eyes flicked down at Mikey's limp. "Don't worry—we're almost there, kid."
They turned down a narrow alley, the concrete walls closing in around them. At the end was a heavy steel door, half-rusted and painted over more times than Mikey could guess. A panel slid open with a shick—a rectangular eye-slit revealing nothing but shadow behind it.
A woman's voice rang out, blunt and guarded.
"Who's there?"
Bobo chuckled like he was used to this routine. "Luce, it's me."
There was a pause.
Then the door unlocked with a heavy clunk and creaked open.
Standing there was a woman, maybe in her late forties, with sharp cheekbones, golden-blonde hair pulled back into a loose braid, and piercing blue eyes that could cut glass. She wore a tight black tank top and olive-green cargo pants, a holster strapped to her hip like it belonged there. One hand rested lazily on her waist, the other pushed the door open wider.
"'Bout damn time, old man," she said, giving Bobo a quick once-over. "And what's with the suit? You look like a meatball trying to be a senator."
Bobo stepped past her without breaking stride, holding up the bag from the market. "Had an errand. Picked up something along the way."
She raised a brow. "That meat better be good."
He kept walking, tossing a smirk over his shoulder.
"Wasn't talkin' about the meat."
Luce tilted her head, confused.
Then Mikey stepped into view behind him.
He gave her a small, unsure nod as he passed.
She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly. Something about him stopped her cold—like a memory she couldn't quite grab. Her expression softened, just slightly. She gave him a small nod back, quiet and respectful.
Mikey didn't say anything. He just followed the sound of Bobo's boots heading down the stairs inside.
Luce stayed in the doorway for a beat longer, watching the kid disappear into the shadows of her home, a strange look passing over her face—like a storm cloud drifting into view, slow but certain.
Mikey followed the creaking stairs down into what looked like a converted basement. The walls were concrete, patched in places, but clean. A small heater hummed softly in the corner, and the faint smell of cooked meat and engine oil hung in the air.
Bobo was already sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting on his belly. He tilted his head toward a corner of the room where an old but sturdy bunk bed stood against the wall, neatly made.
"There's your bed, kid," he said, voice low and easy.
Mikey stared at it like it was a gift from the heavens.
"Finally..." he muttered, his voice barely audible, and trudged across the room before collapsing onto the bottom bunk. He sank into the mattress like it was the first real thing he'd felt in days. His arms stretched out limply, eyes already fluttering closed.
Bobo started to say something else—"Get some rest, and when you wake up we can—"
But he stopped mid-sentence.
The kid was out cold.
Gone before the sentence finished, his chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. He didn't even take off his shoes.
Bobo leaned back with a low sigh, scratching his beard. "Yeah... figured," he muttered to himself with a faint chuckle. Then he looked at Mikey for a long moment, eyes softer than usual.
"Sleep while you can, kid. You're gonna need it."
Mikey passed out the second his head hit the pillow.
Time slipped past him—an entire day and then some. He didn't stir. Not for the creak of pipes, not for the rumble of footsteps overhead. The weight of exhaustion, of grief, held him under like a tide.
And then, he dreamed.
It began with laughter—distant, echoing, pure.
He was a child again, skating across ice in the dome. His mother and father glided ahead of him, holding hands, their coats trailing behind them like wings. Cold air flowed gently around, and the sun gleamed golden against the polished surface of the ice.
He smiled. For the first time in what felt like years, he smiled.
"Wait for me!" he called, skating harder toward them.
"I'm coming!"
But as he reached out, something changed.
The sky darkened in an instant. The gentle chill turned suffocating and hot. Ash fell like black snowflakes. The ice beneath him shifted, groaned, then turned to chrome—cold, lifeless, and cracked with burning seams of red fire.
His parents turned around.
His father's face was half-gone, scorched black and blistered. One eye socket hollow, the other sagging and glassy. Smoke curled from the collar of his coat.
"Why didn't you warn me?" Desmond's voice was low, brittle with betrayal.
"Why didn't you listen?"
Mikey stumbled back on the ice—no, the metal—slipping.
"Dad, I—I didn't know—"
"It's your fault I burned."
His father's voice became louder, warped.
"You watched them kill me and did nothing."
He took a step forward, dragging a charred foot that left streaks of ash behind.
"You're a coward, Michael. A murderer."
Mikey shook his head violently. "No, I—I tried—"
His mother turned next.
But her face—her soft, gentle face—was gone. Replaced by a glitching blur of static and light, warping like a broken hologram.
Her voice came fractured, cruel.
"You killed my husband?" The words hissed like steam.
"How dare you. How dare you call yourself our son."
Her head twitched. The static flickered.
"You were a mistake! A burden!"
Her voice had never risen in real life. She had never shouted.
But now it cut through him like blades.
Mikey screamed—"No! Mom, please! I'm sorry!"
But the fire rose higher. The ice cracked beneath him. Their hands reached out—not in comfort, but accusation.
Then the metal split.
And Mikey fell into the fire.
He jolted upright, choking on his breath, sweat soaking through his shirt. His chest heaved. His hair clung to his forehead. The basement was dim, quiet, still—but the scream still rang in his ears.
He sat in silence, heart racing, the images still burned behind his eyelids.
He was alone.
Alone in the dark.
And the guilt… wouldn't let go.