Michael Florescent was just twelve when his life was sold away.
Timid, soft-spoken, and frail—these were the words that defined him. His voice barely rose above a whisper, frustrating everyone forced to strain their ears to hear him. The orphanage staff saw him as deadweight, a burden eating their food and occupying precious space. In their eyes, even a common rat held more value.
One night, while Michael slept soundly in his thin-mattressed bed, the caretakers made a deal. The orphanage owed a debt it couldn't repay, so they handed him over to loan sharks from the Undercity—a transaction that barely dented what they owed.
Michael woke to the bite of cold metal against his wrists. His body ached as if he'd been tossed around like a ragdoll. He found himself in the back of a rotting truck, bouncing violently as it sped down an unlit road. The air around him reeked of rust, sweat, and filth.
"Where am I?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "How did I get here? Why am I chained up?"
The truck screeched to a halt. The rear gate swung open, revealing two large men in filthy clothes. They yanked him out and threw him onto the hard ground.
"Who are you people? Why am I here?" Michael managed to ask, his heart pounding.
One of the men spat on the ground next to him. "The orphanage sold you. Said you were the most useless one they had."
"No," Michael shook his head in disbelief. "They wouldn't do that."
"Shut up. Trash doesn't talk," the second man growled.
They shoved a rag into his mouth and began to examine him roughly, checking his limbs and body like butchers inspecting meat.
"Seriously? They sent us this?" the first man complained. "He's not worth a dying rat. I doubt he can even lift his own weight."
Anger flashed in their eyes. The beating that followed was swift and merciless. When Michael finally lost consciousness, they disposed of him in a large garbage container at the edge of the Undercity.
***
Michael regained consciousness hours later. His entire body throbbed with pain as he pushed against the lid of the garbage container. The moment he cracked it open, the sounds of the Undercity assaulted his ears—gunshots, screams, the mechanical roar of chainsaws, and the agonized moans of the dying.
"This place," he whispered, "it's just like the city from Old Man Moon's stories." The realization sent a chill down his spine. Old Man Moon had been one of the few kind souls at the orphanage, entertaining the children with tales of heroes and monsters in faraway places. But this was no story.
Terrified, Michael retreated back into his makeshift shelter, pulling the lid closed. He huddled there, sobbing quietly for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, after about ten hours, the sounds of slaughter subsided.
Hunger finally drove him to venture out. The scene that greeted him was apocalyptic—emaciated people wandered aimlessly among the ruins, while others engaged in acts of cannibalism and debauchery. Horrified, Michael ran blindly until he reached an area that seemed marginally less hellish.
He spotted a man eating something that might have been food. Desperation overcame fear as he approached.
"Please," Michael said, his voice cracking. "Could I have some food?"
The man looked up slowly, studying him with cold eyes. "Where'd you come from, kid? You new here? Don't you know who I am?"
Without warning, the man struck Michael in the stomach, then grabbed his head and hurled him against a nearby wall.
"Don't come near me again, you disgusting cockroach," the man snarled.
Bruised and bleeding, Michael dragged himself away. Further down the street, he found a vendor selling some kind of slimy, unidentifiable food. The smell made his stomach turn, but hunger drove him forward.
"Could I have some, please?" he asked, bracing himself for another attack.
The vendor looked him over. "You look horrible, kid. New around here, aren't you?" The man's voice held a hint of pity. "Most who live here aren't people—they're monsters in human skin. Tell you what—help me work, and I'll give you food and shelter for a while."
For two weeks, Michael worked for the vendor, cleaning his stall and running errands. It wasn't much, but he had food and a corner to sleep in. Then one day, while Michael was working in the back, an argument broke out. By the time he peered around the corner, the vendor lay dead, his throat slashed by an enraged customer.
Shaking with fear, Michael grabbed what little money the vendor had stashed away, along with his own meager earnings, and fled into the night.
***
"What's wrong with these people?" he sobbed as he ran, clutching the small pouch of coins.
Eventually, he reached a quieter area where several gaunt men huddled around a small fire. Their hollow eyes and sunken cheeks spoke of prolonged starvation.
Should I help them? Michael wondered. They need it more than I do. Isn't that what the hero from Old Man Moon's stories would do?*
He approached cautiously and offered them most of his money. "Here," he said. "For food."
The men stared at him in disbelief before accepting his offering with mumbled thanks. Michael continued on his way, feeling a small glow of satisfaction despite his own growing hunger.
Two days later, his stomach cramping with starvation, Michael came across the same men he had helped. But now they were drinking from bottles of cheap liquor, harassing younger children, and—to his horror—participating in acts of violence he couldn't comprehend.
A bitter realization washed over him as he remembered the title of Old Man Moon's cautionary tale: "The Foolish Hero."
Unable to contain his outrage, Michael confronted them. "Why? Why are you doing this? You were starving just days ago, and this is how you use what I gave you?"
The men turned toward him, recognition darkening their faces. One grabbed him by the throat and slammed him to the ground. Blood spattered across the dirty pavement as they began to stomp on him methodically, clearly intending to kill him.
Suddenly, gunshots split the air. Two of the men dropped instantly. The remaining attackers spun toward the source of the shots.
"A little girl?" one of them snarled. "You'll fucking pay for this, you little bitch!"
They reached for their weapons, but before they could take aim, more shots rang out. They collapsed, their bodies adding to the Undercity's daily death toll.
A girl not much older than Michael stepped into view, gun still smoking in her hand. She approached and looked down at his battered form.
"You look horrible," she said matter-of-factly. "Why don't you join us? We call ourselves the Black Feathers."
She extended her hand. "I'm Flowers. What's your name?"
Michael looked at her hand, then back to her face. Despite everything, he felt something he hadn't experienced in a long time—hope.
He grasped her hand and pulled himself up. "I'm... Michael."