Prologue: Humble Beginnings

Truth or false is the logic that dictates the fate of many around the globe. As time changes, old infrastructures get torn down and replaced by new companies teetering on a tightrope of stocks. Politicians get switched out by their more youthful twin, who schemes along with billions of taxpayer money. Countries crumble to ruin, only remembered within the history books, which have long since been outdated.

Only one human thing remains, ambition. Every last person is clawing after something they've only seen in their wildest imaginations. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't admit that I'm also chasing after these meaningless dreams, despite knowing its futility. America could care less about the goals of its people; instead, they'd feed businesses, which only serve to snuff out the stragglers. This is evident in the city where I've lived and grown up.

This city has a unique name known commonly as "Scrap City." The town thrives off of cheap labor and factories. Labor and goods are dirt cheap because the only people sent here are criminals who couldn't fit inside prison walls across the globe. Criminals pile up daily as there is always a shipment of recruits once a month.

Ever since the push for an eco-friendly environment, countries across the globe have scrambled for dominance over titles. The cleanest country must be the perfect utopia, they thought, but with a lack of centralized industry, nobody could do it at the time. That's when a proposal to deal with overpopulation seemingly aligned with the eco-crisis. Thus, Scrap City was born.

Where are our humanitarian rights? It's non-existent.

While the city is centralized within the coastal borders of America, Scrap City has been deemed a sovereign country. This is due to the United Nations creating Scrap City as an artificial island rather than using an existing island, circumventing most laws. Although America is considered the supplementary government, they embrace a hands-off approach.

Scrap City never caught media attention because companies flood the news outlets with lies telling people that the criminals being locked up here are being held with a quality life. While we're given our personalized room, these aren't marketed truthfully. According to the media, we live in luxury suites that are fully furnished and made to help the citizens integrate themselves back into the world using modern technology.

While that might sound good on paper, make that on the scale of about four thousand square miles using a giant skyrise apartment-style, and the quality drops significantly. This practically transforms the rooms into bare holding cells. Most newcomers are packed into them like sardines in overcrowded and unsanitary living conditions. It's rare for anyone to have a space for themself, but it's only a matter of time before that person gets a roommate.

Those unlucky enough to get shipped in while the boarding rooms are filled aren't any better. Depending on which ward you live in, the refineries will be right next door. Long-term exposure is bound to leave your lungs scarred without any proper equipment.

It only worsens when the prisoner comes from a foreign country with zero exposure to English. It's not as if other languages become obsolete; unless you want an Enforcer to teach the hard way, it's best to learn as quickly as possible. Even the mention of the Enforcers leaves a bad taste in everyone's mouth.

Enforcers themselves are the people who are meant to "protect the law," but in reality, they're a group of mercenaries intended to keep us in. A majority of them come from military backgrounds, making them daunting foes. Getting as far as the walls enclosing the city is a miracle itself.

Prisoners who were even close to making it near the walls of this city, they'd usually be hauled back by their necks. Once you enter the city, you are subjected to a particular marker on your face that tracks activity and sends it straight to law enforcement. Everything is documented by law enforcement, including your face, and repeat offenders aren't treated nicely, that's for sure. The only way to move about the city is to know programs to jam the signals or get to the city's heart where the black market resides and remove it.

Lucky for me (or unlucky), I was born into the city. Clean and unmarked, the only downside is that I can't leave. The Enforcers have a tight vise around the city by issuing drones, surveillance systems, and a wall of concrete about a mile high. They mark those who've once they come of age, which's as soon as you're born.

So, my parents did the only thing they could do. Sent me to the underground black market, even if it meant their lives. Orphaned with many other children like me, I had to fight tooth and nail for meager scraps. These scraps slowly turned to meals as I grew experienced over time.

Learning to fight in this city is key to survival, and the market only takes care of you until you grow feet to walk on. It's been eight-teen years since I was brought into this city. I was a respected hunter for the market by the time I turned eight years old before leaving due to an incident that I was involved in that shook the market to its very core when I was fourteen. I could never get over it to this day.

The year is 20XX, and nothing good has changed for us. Cybernetic enhancements run rampant through both law and criminals alike. Synthetic humans dance among us as snitches for the law, practically impossible to tell from the real thing. The gangs sprinkle in the narcotics, keeping the human trafficking in check as they work in tandem to keep a tight vise on money flow.

Death has only increased as gang activities skyrocketed, and they branch off into factions that war against one another. It's killed or be killed. Gangs serve as your protection and status. Whether any of them are good, it's just a matter of perspective.

Everyone from my childhood (or just the foundations of one) has died or joined one of the gangs. Luckily, I'm neither one of them, but at least I have a few who've stuck around me with me. We're the stray dogs that roam the streets. No future, no past, only the present created by our fists.