The world changed fifteen years ago.
No one remembers the exact day. There was no grand announcement, no rift in the sky. Just people waking up with strange glows in their eyes and power in their veins. They were called Awakeners.
The rest of humanity called themselves Civilians.
But not by choice.
Fóntas sat near the edge of the underground metro station, her knees hugged to her chest as sparks crackled from a broken ceiling light. The air smelled like rust and burnt oil. Her gloves were caked with grease from her morning scavenging route. She wiped them half-heartedly on her worn trousers.
On the other side of the platform, an awakener in gold-lined boots casually lit a cigarette. The guard beside him wore no uniform just arrogance and a heavy plasma baton strapped to his belt. The air around them shimmered slightly, an aura that marked the awakened. Even standing still, they seemed more real than the world around them.
A child cried somewhere. No one dared to hush it.
Fóntas kept her eyes low.
If you made eye contact, it was seen as provocation. If you ran, it was seen as guilt. And if you fought back…
She'd seen it happen. A man tried to punch an awakener during a heated argument over food rations. His fist landed but the awakener didn't even blink. It was like trying to punch fog. Then came the punishment. They left what was left of him hanging near the old district bridge for three days.
"Only awakened can harm awakened."
It wasn't just a saying. It was law unwritten but brutally enforced.
Some claimed it was the system's doing. Others believed the awakened had simply transcended the rules of flesh. But in the end, it didn't matter. Because it meant those without power lived under it.
Fóntas stood as the train thundered past without stopping. Another ghost line meant only for the higher-tier awakeners.
She slung her bag over her shoulder, the metal inside clanking softly. The scavenging had been decent. Three loose springs, half a wheel blade, and something that might have once been a blender motor.
It wouldn't buy her food. But maybe she could make something. Maybe something sharp.
Even if it wouldn't work on them.
Later, she sat in her workshop. It was more a storage closet, deep in the maintenance tunnels under Sector 12. She'd carved it out over months, hidden it behind false pipes and a cracked vending machine.
Junk was laid out in neat sections. Wires. Screws. Shards. Bottlecaps. Broken frames.
The people above called her the Trash Girl. Most said it with laughter. A few with pity.
But down here, it was her kingdom. The only place she felt like she had control.
She took a rusted rod and hammered it gently against the table. Sparks flew, weak and unimpressive. She stared at it long.
What makes a weapon?
Is it the shape? The intent?
Or the hand that wields it?
Outside, the world belonged to those who could lift buildings and shatter roads. To those who were born or chosen to be more.
But Fóntas had hands that bled. Eyes that watched. And the hunger to make something out of what others threw away.
She gritted her teeth and got back to work.
Tomorrow was another day. Another chance.
And maybe...just maybe...something would change.