It was hot in Rotten City. Really hot. Too hot. The corner of the sewer where Smog slept had turned into a damn sauna, with the couch soaked in sweat and the walls dripping with impossible humidity. Even the stench had gotten worse. Normally, Smog's place was somewhat shielded from the worst of the sewer fumes, but in that suffocating heat every breath felt like a lungful of poison and rot. He couldn't stay there all day—not unless he wanted to melt into a puddle. He had to get out, find some shade, some breeze, anything that didn't feel like slow-cooking. June was always like this in Rotten City. July would be worse.
It was almost noon, and Smog had been lying for a couple of hours on the roof of a building, hidden under the shadow of a giant water tank. It could've been a relaxing setup, if he didn't feel like he was slowly steaming alive. He almost believed he was turning into a fancy little dish: "Smog, lightly steamed and served on a bed of greens." He laughed to himself, picturing it being served at some high-end joint. Would anyone actually eat him? Or would they just throw him out there too?
He stopped laughing. There wasn't a single gust of wind up on that roof, and even the birds had disappeared to who knows where. What would he eat for lunch? Didn't matter. He wasn't that hungry. His mind started to wander, drifting back to the last few weeks. Smog didn't usually think about the past—actually, he probably never did. But now... now he kind of wanted to. He felt like it was worth it. He closed his green eyelids over those yellow eyes and let the memories come back. Not a whole lot, sure—but compared to the endless nothing he used to live through, it felt like a lot.
Twice, he had stopped pickpockets from pulling off their dirty work. First time, it was an old lady. Second time, a couple of tourists. Both times, Smog had taken care of the punks fast. The first one got an elbow straight to the mouth. The second—well, Smog had kicked him square in the chest. He didn't stick around to see what happened after. He just left. Despite the good deeds, no one had been grateful. The old lady called him an abomination and fainted on the spot. The tourists screamed and ran. Smog wasn't too hurt by it. Let's say... just a little.
You were definitely hurt, Smog.
Another time, he'd ended up at the docks. There were about ten men down there, meeting for what looked like serious business. He tried to listen in, but he was too far away. All he could do was watch—briefcases, weapons, two different groups, definitely not friends. Then the shooting started. Smog had no clue why, but bullets were flying everywhere, so he jumped in. Didn't matter who the good guys were—he figured, if they were all shooting, they were probably all bad. Didn't take him long to bring them down. The ground was a pool of blood. Some bodies full of holes, others with bones shattered beyond repair. The shattered ones? That was Smog's work. He only took a bullet to the calf and one to the chest. Nothing serious. He'd heal.
You tore through them like a joke... What a strange little freak of nature you are, Smog.
He stopped thinking about the past. Time to think about lunch. He climbed down into the alley where, some time ago, he'd met the red-haired girl. Lately, he went there whenever he had the chance, without even knowing why. But he did know why. He was hoping to see her again. She wasn't there that day—just like she hadn't been there ever again since that night—and Smog didn't find anything good in the dumpster either. The next five bins were empty too, so he figured he'd skip lunch. Maybe he'd have better luck at dinner... all he could do was wait.
There was one more thing Smog liked to do, aside from staring at people from the sewer: he read the newspapers people left lying in the street. In Rotten City, that wasn't hard. People tossed every kind of crap right onto the sidewalks. The garbage was so overwhelming, everyone thought, "One more piece won't make a difference."
Anyway, he got lucky that day. Found a paper still in one piece, not even a page missing. He didn't know what day it was from. Sure, the date was right there—he could read—but without a calendar or any kind of routine, the numbers meant nothing to him. Still, the condition of the paper suggested it hadn't been tossed long ago. The front page screamed a headline in giant block letters: "Explosion at the Atomsville Nuclear Plant."
Atomsville was a small town, not far from Rotten City. Apparently, some serious shit had gone down at the plant. Total destruction. No survivors. A terrible tragedy, the article said. Smog didn't really know how to feel about stuff like that. He figured he should feel bad... but honestly, he didn't care all that much. But if he'd been there, maybe he could've done something. Saved someone. Anyone. He could've been a hero. Or he would've just been blown to pieces. Felt his body ignite, disintegrate, until he was nothing but a pile of white ash. So easy... just one second, and you go from being to not being.
That's what you want, isn't it, Smog? You don't want to be a hero. You just want it to be over. Admit it!
He stopped thinking. In that heat, too much thinking made it feel like his brain was starting to smoke. The rest of the day passed without much to report. By eight in the evening, though, hunger had stopped knocking politely at Smog's stomach and had started using a battering ram. He headed to the river on the east side of the city, hoping to find a fish or two. He moved quickly through the sewers, climbed out of a manhole, and soon was just steps from the water.
The neighborhood seemed abandoned. Usually, the bars were crowded with kids, and the streets full of cars. But today? Nothing. No one. The river had never looked so tempting. Despite the floating trash and its inky-black color, on a day like that, the idea of diving in was more than tempting.
He slipped into the water and started swimming upstream. It wasn't a hunting strategy—Smog didn't have strategies—he just wanted to move, burn off some of that restless energy. He didn't get to do that often. On the streets, he had to stay hidden. In the sewers, everything was so filthy it killed his motivation. But in the water it was different. In the water, he could swim for hours, and no one would ever see him.
He'd been swimming upstream for maybe ten minutes. The evening sky and the dark water made it impossible to see, so he kept bumping into big rocks. Sure, swimming felt freeing, but the hunger was gnawing worse than ever, and he hadn't seen even a single tiny fish since diving in. It was like life in the river had just... vanished.
Disappointed and frustrated, Smog was about to turn back when he caught a brief flicker of crimson light in the water, just a few meters away.
He froze.
What the hell was that? A fish? But fish don't have red eyes...
Thrunch!
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain exploded in the middle of his face, just a hair away from one of his huge yellow eyes. Something sharp had pierced him, and the water around him was already starting to cloud with blood. He could taste it.
Instinctively, he brought his hands to his face, but smashed his wrist into some kind of metal rod. The rod must've been part of whatever had lodged into his skull, because touching it made pain shoot through him so hard he teared up. His tears mixed with the blood and the dirty river water, turning into a revolting, gory soup.
What the hell was happening? Had he been harpooned? Who the hell would attack him? He didn't have time to figure it out. Something grabbed him by the neck and started dragging him downward—hard—toward the riverbed. Definitely not a fish. Fish don't grab you by the throat.
It all happened in seconds, too fast to think, too fast to fight. Smog was overwhelmed, panicked, confused, frozen with fear. His back slammed into the rocks at the bottom of the river, and whatever had grabbed him tore the harpoon from his face with a sickening rip.
You scared, Smog? Don't tell me a big, bad monster like you is pissing himself right now!
The harpoon tore into his flesh again, punching through his gut. Smog—snapped awake by the agony—finally managed to react, reaching for whatever had attacked him. His claws closed around it, and just as he'd feared, it wasn't a fish. Whatever it was, it had the shape of a man.
"Impossible," thought Smog. "humans aren't this strong." And yet, as he struggled desperately to defend himself, he could make out two arms, two legs—clearly human.
There was no time to question how a mere man could overpower him so easily, because the figure slammed two fists into his nose and yanked the harpoon back out of his bleeding gut. Those punches would've knocked him out cold if they hadn't been slowed by the water—and any second now, the blade could strike again. He had to move. Now.
Luckily, Smog grabbed a rock and smashed it hard against the attacker's skull. The mysterious man froze for a second—his blood mixing into the disgusting brew—and the monster used that moment to break free and shoot upwards toward the surface.
He almost made it, when a hand grabbed his leg—and the harpoon struck again, straight into his back. The man pulled Smog out of the water, but not with his hands. He lifted him by the harpoon alone, impaling him like a fork through a too-rare steak.
Only a few seconds passed, but to Smog, it felt like hours. He hung there, suspended in the air, helpless on that infernal weapon driving deeper into his spine. He wasn't burning—but he was about to become a kebab. Just a few more seconds and his weight would push the tip clean through his chest.
He looked up at the sky. He knew he shouldn't, but in that moment it was the only thing he wanted to do. He wanted to see the stars. To pretend he was somewhere else. But there are no stars above Rotten City, and Smog fell back into the river, feeling his flesh slide down the shaft of the harpoon. He'd been run through, front to back.
Then, something inside the monster caught fire. Maybe it was pain. Maybe hunger. Or maybe just a wild, hopeless instinct to live. Whatever it was, Smog—still pierced by that cursed metal—started thrashing wildly, kicking his cruel attacker aside. It was dark, darker than pitch, but he knew exactly where that man was: right in front of him, far too close.
He slashed the water with his claws, striking out blindly, and felt them rip into something soft. Flesh. He'd hit him—maybe not fatally, but he didn't care. Smog didn't waste the chance. He bolted for the riverbank, swimming faster than he ever had before.
Every meter felt like an entire ocean. The rod in his back stabbed him with every move, and knowing that thing was chasing him filled him with pure, unfiltered fear. He reached the edge and ran. He didn't stop. He didn't care if he was seen, or if he had to barrel through the sewers. He didn't care about anything except getting away.
When he finally reached his lair—certain he'd lost that horrible superhuman—he collapsed to his knees. Exhausted. He tore the harpoon from his chest and almost blacked out from the pain. He wasn't used to wounds. He wasn't used to being physically tired. He was feeling things he'd never felt before. And sadly, those were things he would keep feeling for the rest of his life.
He didn't make it to the couch. He dropped face-first onto the dirty floor and passed out.