Deep in the slums, far away from the clear air and green parks of the ultra-wealthy, lies the utter trash of humanity, forgotten by the rest of the world. A boy starved from his harsh circumstances was staring up at the stars, as no matter where he was in the world, this was what he shared with the rest of humanity. Dark brown hair covered one of his eyes as he lay shivering on the dead grass. He wondered if he would even survive the night, as his torn-up clothes did little to protect him from the elements. All the luck the boy had tonight was used up when he found a grassy spot beneath a tree.
Earlier that day, he was beaten again.
He didn't remember how many times this had happened; it was not new. Although recently, the last ruler of this region of the slums was killed in a turf war with a different region, leading his ambitious lieutenant to take his place.
The previous boss was already ruthless enough, but with his replacement, the beatings became more common.
*****
The boy was walking around; this was nothing new.
He had a frown on his face with his eyebrows knitted. He was lamenting his situation as usual. He was muttering under his breath.
"How long am I going to live like this?"
He then remembered something that had happened earlier that week, and chuckled slightly.
"Well, I guess it's better than actually being dead."
As the boy was lost in his own world, he heard a familiar voice and took a deep sigh; it was the new boss, who was here for the tribute.
"Here we go again. I guess some things never change," he whispered.
The boy braced himself for whatever would come next.
"Here is the tribute, sir."
It was a few bills that the slums required for protection, and what they called "residency."
"Oh, thank you, but that won't be enough anymore."
One of the men behind the boss, the biggest of the group, walked past the boss and made his way to the boy.
Without another word, the man punched the boy
"OW! What the fuck was that for?"
"You'd better watch your mouth, boy!" the man yelled after making his way behind the boss once more.
"The tribute may attempt to protect you from the other regions, but it won't protect you from me." A smirk started to form on the boss's face with the last couple of words.
"Whatever, how much more do you want?" The boy sighed.
"Double."
The boy was shocked, but he quickly regained his composure.
"And how many people have you gone to this week that have been able to pay that?"
"No one."
"And you thought that I would be different?"
"It's not about being different or special, it's just the new way that things are around here."
"Well then, can I have extra time?"
"This place isn't filled with bodies yet, and I think you know why that is."
The boy was somewhat relieved.
"How much longer?"
"Next week, I'll be nice, like I was to everyone else, and only make it triple the normal, just to match Jack's old tribute."
With that, the boss and his entourage went to find their next victim.
*****
The boy had enough to pay the new boss's outrageous tribute, but did not feel like giving to him just yet. he would use his measly sum to spoil himself until the day came.
Whatever that meant.
The only entertainment he had in his life was the book that he had found half ruined, but still readable.
But that was where his luck ended. To his misfortune, he was going to die soon, and it wasn't going to be from the elements, or maybe they would get to him first. Even if he survived the weather, his death was inevitable, unavoidable, and closing in.
He was sick, not the average cold or fever; he was infected. He had the cough. Blood, so much blood, his hands were constantly painted red, not with a paintbrush, but something he was born with, his mouth.
He wasn't going to last much longer; he would die there.
Closing his eyes, he clutched his only real possession. Even though his eyes had been closed since finding the spot, rest had not found him. Giving up, he slowly moved up until his back was against the tree.
"Prometheus", this wasn't the first time the boy had read the title. It was a relic of the old world, once readily available in commercial stores. The one thing that the boy knew before reading the book was that Prometheus was the god who created the human race.
The boy never believed in anything because no so-called god had ever tried to improve his shitty situation. The only thing the boy had left was his mind; his body was damaged, and his parents were dead.
But that was 14 years ago, the boy was now 17, he remembered their smiles, but it had been a distant memory for a while now.
And soon enough, he, too, would be dead.
Unless he survived, but that was impossible, even among the people who had been trained from birth for that very moment, they only had a slim chance of survival.
But, no matter how much the boy could dream, tonight he would sleep.