"It's only a matter of time before the fire you start ends up burning you too," said the boy with snow-white hair, holding his own detached head in one hand as if it were nothing more than a helmet. With the other hand, he calmly ran a comb through his silver strands, as though tidying himself for a portrait rather than a battle. His voice was calm— almost elegant— but beneath that calm shimmered the hum of circuits and low-frequency static. He was a cyborg.
"I've been waiting for that day," said the man standing before him. His voice carried the weight of smoke and fatigue. In his hand, a faint light from a mobile device flickered across his face before he turned the screen off and pocketed it.
"It's time," he murmured.
From his back, he drew a weapon that seemed out of place in this world of neon skies and synthetic rain— a brown rifle, cracked with age and rusted at the joints. Yet those who had seen it in action had never lived to tell its story. The ones who did remember whispered only of the sound— a low roar that split through metal and flesh alike.
The cyborg boy reattached his head with a faint click. Sparks flickered from the seam on his neck as his eyes refocused, glowing faintly blue. His left wrist unfolded into two mechanical halves, revealing a core of plasma energy— alive, unstable, ready to discharge at his command.
They both turned toward the sky.
The horizon darkened— not with storm clouds, but with them.
A cloud of beetles— half metal, half flesh— swarmed in from beyond the broken skyline. Each creature's wings whirred with the sharpness of razor blades, and their compound eyes reflected the pale moonlight like a thousand tiny mirrors.
Without another word, man and cyborg charged.
The sky erupted.
Light and thunder danced.
The world screamed.
---
"'Boom! Then they fought. They destroyed the swarm. After the fight, the cyborg boy kissed the man,'" read a little girl around 9 or 10 in a high-pitched voice, her small hands clutching a tattered book.
"Huh?!" shouted a boybeside her, face red. "When did this turn into one of those Yaoi stories?!"
The girl giggled and waved the page at him. "They say it's based on true events. Isn't that wild? A love story between a human and a cyborg! Both of them are… male, I wonder if Cyborg has Modified extra–" Her cheeks flushed.
Another boy rolled his eyes. "Ew. You read the weirdest stuff."
Before she could argue, a firm voice cut through their chatter.
"Shrimps. Move."
The group froze. They turned to see their Big Brother— a lanky boy of twelve or thirteen, his expression calm but commanding, though he is acting. Despite being barely older than them, he carried himself like a soldier.
The little girl hastily hid her book behind her back.
"We're going to, um… gather mangoes!" she declared.
"We're gathering resources," the boy corrected, folding his arms. His eyes glimmered faintly in the dark— a shade sharper than most. Sharper than they should have been.
"Roger!" the children chorused, saluting with exaggerated seriousness.
---
OLD MORROW CITY
They moved through the shadowed streets of the slum like they are in stealth, weaving between the broken fences and crumbling walls of the city.
At last, they arrived at their target— an abandoned building surrounded by a half-collapsed fence. In its small courtyard stood a proud mango tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit.
"Now," said Big Brother, holding out his hand. "Weapon."
One of the girls placed a homemade slingshot into his palm.
"Ammunition."
A boy passed him a smooth stone.
"Aim. Fire."
He drew the slingshot back with precision, released, and— thud!— a cluster of mangoes tumbled down.
"Reload."
The kids gave more stones.
Stone after stone, mango after mango. The rhythm was steady, efficient. The kids watched with wide eyes as their leader shot fruit after fruit, each hit perfect. To them, he was a hero.
"Secure the resources," he ordered.
"Roger!" they replied, scattering to gather the fallen mangoes into a sack.
Then—
A growl.
One of the boys froze, his small hands still clutching a mango. In the dim light, a shape emerged— low, hulking, its eyes glinting red.
A dog.
Before the boy could scream, a mango shot through the air and struck the dog's mouth.
The dog coughed tried to cough out the mango.
"Enemy detected! Retreat!" shouted Big Brother, grabbing the sack and pulling the others back.
"But we didn't get all the mangoes!" cried a girl.
"If we stay, we're in trouble! Fall back!"
"R–roger that!"
The dog coughed out the mango and ran towards them.
"I'll hold it off— run!"
"Big Brother!" she yelled, tears forming. "Please come back!"
He just smiled and raised his slingshot again as the children disappeared into the darkness.
---
From the rooftop above, a man had been watching the whole thing unfold with a smile. To him, it looked like kids playing with a street dog. But his smile faded as his mobile vibrated in his pocket.
A message blinked on the cracked screen:
[Emergency Alert: Fire in the Slum District 7.]
He turned his gaze back to the direction the kids had run.
"Fire in the Slum?" he muttered.
Without hesitation, he jumped off the rooftop and vanished into the smoke.
---
The children laughed and ran through the maze of narrow streets, clutching their bag of mangoes like stolen treasure.
"Sister's gonna yell for sure," said one, panting between laughs.
"Don't worry," said another. "We'll just tell her we found them."
They turned a corner— and froze.
The street ahead glowed orange.
Smoke rose.
Screams filled the air.
"Fire! Fire! Someone help!" a voice shouted.
The children stared, eyes wide.
Their home— Dream Orphanage— was in flames.
The small wooden sign that bore its name cracked and fell as the roof caved in. The flames reached toward the night sky, painting everything in cruel shades of red and gold.
"No…" whispered the girl with the book.
"Our home…" said another boy, voice trembling.
The Big Brother stood motionless, eyes locked on the inferno.
The sound of collapsing wood drowned out their sobs.
---
The next morning, the streets were silent except for the low murmur of guards in black uniforms.
"No survivors," one of them said grimly, flipping through a small data pad. "But records show seven children unaccounted for. Four boys. Three girls."
The other guard sighed. "Even if they survived… this city doesn't spare anyone, least of all orphans."
He glanced at the charred remains of the sign— its letters barely legible.
Dream Orphanage.
The wind blew, scattering ashes across the empty lot.
Among them lay a burnt scrap of paper— a page from a storybook.
The last line read:
> "After the fight, the cyborg boy 'killed' the man."