The morning air in Sector 12 carried the bite of soot and exhaust.
It hadn't rained in weeks. Not real rain, anyway just the gray chemical kind that stained your clothes and left a taste like old batteries on your tongue. But the real storm came in the form of patrols.
Fóntas crouched near the edge of the alleyway, eyes locked on the street just ahead. She clutched her bag tightly, metal clinking softly inside.
Two awakeners walked lazily down the road, armored in coats dyed with symbols of minor factions. Laughing. Drunk on power and something stronger. A civilian girl about ten steps away flinched at their presence and turned to leave...
Too slow.
One of the awakeners flicked a hand. A gust of unseen force sent her tumbling to the wall. He laughed louder. The other one picked up her satchel, rummaged through it like it was a toy chest.
No one moved.
Fóntas didn't either. She just watched. Jaw clenched. Nails digging into the strap of her bag.
She'd learned early. Justice was not for people like her.
After the two were gone and the girl ran off sobbing, Fóntas exhaled like she'd been holding in a scream.
Then kept walking.
---
The junk market was a pit of collapsed metal and ambition. Scavengers wandered the maze of rust and tarps, voices muffled by the groan of moving gears and barter yells. Fóntas kept her hood low, slipping past sellers until she reached her usual spot near the edge of the scrapyard.
"Back again?" the stall owner asked. Grizzled. One eye. Reeking of oil and false kindness.
Fóntas nodded. "Blades? Springs?"
"Some. You got anything good?"
She pulled out the blender motor. The man examined it, whistled low. "Functional?"
"Don't know."
He tossed her a half-eaten ration bar and a roll of gauze in exchange. "That's charity, girl. Next time, bring something that bites."
She didn't reply.
As she turned to leave, a rough shove knocked her sideways.
"Oi," came a sneering voice. "Still crawling outta your rat-hole, Trash Girl?"
Fóntas looked up to see Darik, one of the local awakeners not strong enough to join a real faction, but strong enough to bully civilians without consequence. A weak, cruel man made powerful by a system that rewarded cruelty.
Behind him stood two more. Laughing already.
"Still making forks into swords? Hoping one stabs a god?"
"Leave me alone," Fóntas muttered.
"Oh, she speaks." He leaned close. "You know what I think? I think you keep making your junk weapons 'cause you're hoping, hoping you'll awaken one day."
She didn't respond.
"You won't. You're nothing. You're just like this trash you keep hugging."
His hand reached out, trying to yank her bag away.
She moved by instinct.
A sharpened pipe from her side holster slammed into his wrist.
It bent.
Didn't break. Didn't even scratch.
But it made him pause.
"Cute," he growled. "Still doesn't work, though."
He backhanded her. She hit the dirt. The bag spilled as blades and tools clattering across the ground like dead birds.
He stepped on one of the pieces.
"You wanna know what real power feels like, Trash Girl? It feels like not bleeding when people fight back."
Then he walked away.
Fóntas stayed on the ground, lip bleeding, arms shaking. She didn't cry.
She picked up each piece. One by one.
Even the broken ones.
Especially the broken ones.
---
That night, she sat in her hidden workshop again. Bandaged. Exhausted. Face bruised and eyes full of quiet rage.
She picked up a jagged cog. Ran her finger along the edge.
"What makes a weapon?"
She whispered it now like a prayer.
"If I keep trying… will it ever be enough?"
The ceiling light flickered overhead. Something buzzed faintly in the air. A static charge. A spark along her glove.
She didn't notice it yet.
But the world had started watching.
Something old had stirred.
And for the first time… it noticed her.