The Draft of Fate

Luck's alarm clock blared at 6:30 AM, an abrasive siren that signified the start of another indistinguishable day. He lay there for a moment, a thin sheet tangled between his legs, his eyes staring blankly at a ceiling stained with the ghosts of water damage. His room was small, the walls cluttered with peeling posters of old science fiction movies, relics of a childhood spent dreaming of distant galaxies and adventures that seemed as far away now as the stars themselves.

The city of Neo-Eden never truly slept, but mornings in the scrapyard district were as close to quiet as it ever got. The sounds of distant traffic were a soft murmur compared to the daytime cacophony. In the half-light, Luck's apartment felt like a capsule adrift in space, insulated from the vast world outside.

He pushed himself out of bed, his body protesting with dull aches from yesterday's labor. Standing in front of the mirror, he splashed cold water on his face, watching as droplets cascaded down his unremarkable features. His hair was a matted tangle of dark curls, his skin the color of over-steeped tea. Dark circles hung under his eyes, not from any restless night, but from a lifetime of them.

As he dressed in his work attire, a grey jumpsuit that was once blue, the fabric worn down in patches from use, Luck's fingers brushed over the insignia on his left arm – a broken gear, the symbol of the Misfortune Wraiths bloodline. It was a mark that made him a pariah in a world where the lineage was everything. Where others bore the crests of dragons, phoenixes, or even the revered techno-mages, Luck bore the emblem of breakdowns and mishaps. It was said that those of the Misfortune Wraiths lineage were born under a bad sign, that chaos clung to them, an unshakable curse.

As he made his way to the kitchenette, the screen on his fridge flickered to life, displaying the time, weather, and his current account balance, which was as dismal as ever. He poured himself a cup of synth-coffee, a bitter concoction that was affordable on his salary. The drink was hot and jolted his system with a semblance of wakefulness.

Leaving his apartment, he locked the door with a tap of his wrist against the digital lock. The hallway was narrow, the lights flickering in a lazy staccato. As he descended the stairs, he nodded to Mrs. Henley, his neighbor, who was on her way up, her arms laden with grocery bags. Her lips twitched in a reluctant smile, the only acknowledgment he'd receive. People tended to keep their distance, and Luck had long since stopped taking it personally.

The scrapyard was a twenty-minute walk from his building, a sprawling expanse of metal and machinery that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a graveyard of technology, where the bones of a once-great civilization lay in rest, waiting to be picked clean by those like Luck, who made their living scavenging through the remains.

Luck's job was simple: sort and dismantle. He was good at it, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he stripped wires, removed chips, and cataloged useful parts. His boss, Mr. Galway, said he had a knack for finding the good stuff amidst the rubble. It was one of the few compliments Luck ever received, and even that was tinged with the unspoken superstition surrounding his bloodline.

As he worked, his colleagues kept their distance, throwing surreptitious glances his way. They'd chat amongst themselves, their voices a blend of excitement and apprehension as they speculated about the upcoming Centennial Battle Royale (CBR). It was a topic that Luck avoided, a grotesque spectacle that saw individuals fighting to the death for the entertainment of the gods, as some called the elite who watched from their towers. The participants were always chosen from among those with strong or unique bloodlines, warriors bred for combat, and the chances of someone like Luck being chosen were slim to none.

Or so he believed.

The siren's blare that tore through the scrapyards was unlike any other – a wailing that signified a draft for the CBR. Work halted abruptly; the clang of metal and whir of machinery gave way to an ominous silence. Luck felt a curious twist in his stomach as he watched drones descend like harbingers of doom, their screens flashing with the names of the chosen.

He wiped the grime from his hands on his jumpsuit and joined the gathering crowd. The drones hovered above, and one by one, names were called, each followed by a cheer or a gasp from the crowd. These were the elite, the proud bearers of strong bloodlines. Luck's gaze fell to his feet, a safe space from the frenzy, until a silence fell so suddenly it felt like the world had stopped spinning.

"Lucas Kismet," the drone's synthetic voice echoed, and it took a moment for Luck to realize that it was his full name being called. His heart skipped a beat, the blood in his veins turned to ice. There had to be some mistake. He looked up, his eyes locking with the emotionless camera of the drone. Around him, murmurs swirled into a cacophony of disbelief and schadenfreude.

His colleagues began to back away, as if misfortune was contagious, and right now, Luck seemed to be the host of an epidemic. Mr. Galway, with a furrowed brow, approached and clapped a heavy hand on Luck's shoulder. "Looks like your luck's finally turned, boy," he said, though whether it was meant to be ironic or comforting, Luck couldn't tell.

The walk back to his apartment was a blur. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts, each more frantic than the last. Being drafted meant leaving everything behind – the scrapyard, the flickering lights, the tang of rust and metal that seemed permanently etched in his nostrils. It meant fighting, killing, surviving... if he could.

Back in his room, the reality of the situation set in. He glanced at the insignia of the Misfortune Wraiths on his arm. Was this the chaos they spoke of? Was his bloodline the reason for this cruel twist of fate?

On his old, worn-out screen, he pulled up information on the CBR. The list of previous champions read like a pantheon of heroes, each with their bloodlines boasting names that sparked fear and respect. Then there was him – Lucas Kismet, the bearer of broken gears, whose only companion was bad luck.

As night fell, the city outside his window came alive with neon lights and the ever-present hum of life, but for Luck, it felt like the eve of the apocalypse. The CBR was not just a battle; it was a spectacle of power, and he was to be a pawn in a game played by gods.

He tried to sleep, but rest was elusive. His mind was a battlefield, his thoughts enemies he could not silence. When morning came, it was not with the blare of his alarm but with a solemn knock on his door. It was time for Luck to face his fate, whatever that may be.

As he opened the door, he was met by an officer in uniform, his face impassive. "Lucas Kismet," he stated, not a question but a verdict. "It's time."

Luck took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold, the broken gear on his arm catching the light one last time before he was swallowed by the dawn. He didn't know what awaited him, but as the door to his old life closed, a fire ignited within him, a spark of defiance against the cruel hand of fate. He would survive the CBR, not as a hero, but as Luck – and perhaps that would be enough.