Year 3100
They called it Paradise Descent.
On the night the heavens split, the sky did not thunder — it opened.
Light poured down like liquid dawn. Then came the spores.
They drifted upon the wind like sacred ash.
Animals twisted.
Forests blackened.
Cities collapsed beneath panic and mutation.
Some humans died where they stood.
Some awakened to impossible power.
And some… became the things that stalk the wastelands even now.
In the centuries since, the survivors rebuilt behind barrier walls powered by relic energy — fragments of the celestial rupture that had ended the old world.
Within the Neo-Yamato Defensive Zone, survival was not a right.
It was a privilege.
And power decided worth.
Some hunted monsters.
Some became monsters.
And some were sold… so others might live.
---
Refugee Sector 9
The wind carried the scent of metal dust and ration broth.
Aiko Tsukishiro kept her head lowered as she crossed the refugee thoroughfare, her worn beige coat wrapped tight against the chill. Neon warning panels flickered along the barrier towers overhead, casting fractured violet light across the crowded lanes.
People moved in slow lines — hollow-eyed, silent, conserving energy as though even breathing required permission.
She avoided eye contact, as she always did.
Invisible was safer.
A child's thin cry drifted from the ration queue. Aiko paused.
The boy could not have been older than six. His lips were cracked white. His fingers clutched an empty bowl.
His mother stood motionless beside him, eyes unfocused with exhaustion.
Aiko looked down at the ration bread in her hands.
Her stomach tightened.
She had not eaten since yesterday.
You need this.
Her fingers tightened.
Then slowly, she crouched and placed the bread into the boy's hands.
He stared at her as though she had given him the sun.
Behind her eyes, memory stirred.
Her mother's gentle voice:
"Kindness is the last proof we are human."
Aiko swallowed hard and stood before gratitude could follow.
"Eat slowly," she murmured, already turning away.
If she stayed, she might cry.
And tears wasted water.
---
Smoke drifted from the protein vats. The smell was bitter, synthetic.
People whispered.
Food allocations had been cut again.
The Alliance had shifted supply priority to hunter battalions guarding the outer walls.
Civilians survived on what remained.
"Ridiculous," someone muttered.
"Hunters eat so we don't get eaten," another replied flatly.
"Tsk. Try telling that to an empty stomach."
Aiko kept walking.
Her steps felt light — not from strength, but from the hollow quiet inside her.
---
The mechanic shed hummed with low generator noise. Kenji Tsukishiro hunched over a cracked power relay, grease staining his oil-worn uniform.
His hands moved automatically.
His eyes did not.
They were hollowed by a weight he never named.
"Aiko," he said without turning.
"I'm home."
He nodded once.
Silence settled between them like dust.
She noticed the unopened ration packet on the table.
"You didn't eat."
"Not hungry."
It was a lie they shared.
---
Outside the shelter corridor, Elder Genzo stood beneath a flickering lumen strip, leaning on his alloy cane. His face was carved by survival rather than age.
His eyes found Aiko.
"Girl," he rasped. "Stay close tonight."
Her fingers tightened around her coat sleeve. "Why?"
He glanced toward the camp gates.
Debt collectors wore no uniforms.
But everyone knew when they arrived.
"Debts don't disappear," he said. "They get collected… one way or another."
Aiko felt the chill crawl up her spine.
"My father pays what he can."
Genzo's expression did not change.
"Tsk," he exhaled. "In this city, effort and payment are not the same."
He moved away before she could respond.
---
The outer gates groaned open.
Conversations died mid-sentence.
Three armored transport carriers rolled into the camp.
Black.
Unmarked.
Silent.
The air itself seemed to withdraw.
Aiko's pulse quickened.
No insignia.
No Alliance crest.
Only the faint hum of containment fields.
Someone whispered:
"Collectors."
Another voice muttered, "Holy… shit…"
Aiko felt the ground tilt beneath her.
She turned toward the mechanic shed.
Toward her father.
---
Kenji stood in the doorway when she arrived.
He looked smaller than she remembered.
Smaller than a father should look.
"Aiko," he said softly.
His eyes did not meet hers.
Outside, heavy boots echoed across the concrete lanes.
Her heart pounded.
"Father… what's happening?"
He did not answer.
His hands trembled.
And in that trembling silence, she understood.
"No," she whispered. "No… there must be another way."
He shut his eyes.
"Forgive me."
---
Aiko stepped back.
The world narrowed to the sound of her own breath.
Bootsteps approached.
A woman nearby began to sob.
A man cursed under his breath: "Bastards…"
Aiko's pulse roared in her ears.
This cannot be happening.
Not to us.
Not like this.
Her father did not move.
Did not look at her.
Did not try to stop what was coming.
And that hurt more than fear.
---
The transport carriers did not roar like military vehicles. They whispered.
A low hum pulsed through the ground — a vibration felt more in bone than in ear. The sound reminded Aiko of distant thunder trapped beneath the earth, searching for a way out.
She stood frozen in the shelter doorway, fingers curled into the worn fabric of her coat. The corridor smelled faintly of rust, detergent powder, and the metallic chill that came with sealed environments.
Bootsteps approached with methodical precision.
Not hurried.
Not uncertain.
Certain steps — the steps of those who arrived knowing they would leave with what they came for.
Aiko's throat tightened.
Behind her, Kenji Tsukishiro remained motionless.
He did not look at her.
He did not speak.
The silence between them thickened like winter frost.
Outside, voices murmured.
"Collectors… damn it."
"Stay inside."
"Don't make eye contact."
"Tsk… as if that helps."
Someone laughed nervously — a brittle sound that cracked halfway through.
Aiko's pulse hammered. Her instincts screamed to run, yet her feet remained rooted to the concrete.
Run where?
There was nowhere beyond the walls except beasts and dust.
And inside the walls, there were men who came with numbers.
---
Three figures appeared at the far end of the corridor.
They wore matte black exo-coats layered with flexible armor plating, the surfaces etched with faint circuitry that glowed a muted indigo. Their helmets were smooth, faceless, reflecting the flickering lumen strips above like distorted moons.
No insignia.
No Alliance crest.
Only the faint shimmer of shielding technology — far more advanced than refugee sectors should ever see.
Aiko swallowed.
Black-market shielding.
Her stomach sank.
One of the collectors lifted a wrist device. A holographic grid unfolded above it, scrolling lines of data in sterile blue light.
Another scanned door panels as they passed. Soft chimes marked each identification.
Processed.
Catalogued.
The third paused near an elderly man seated on a crate. The man lowered his eyes instantly, hands trembling in his lap.
The collector moved on without a word.
They were not here for him.
Relief rippled through the corridor — thin, fragile, temporary.
Aiko felt the wave pass through the crowd like wind through brittle grass.
No one spoke above a whisper.
Even breathing seemed restrained.
---
Her fingers trembled. She clasped them together to still the motion.
Stay calm.
Calm is safety.
Her mother's voice echoed faintly within memory.
But calm felt impossible when dread moved through the corridor like a living thing.
Her gaze drifted to the child she had fed earlier. He peeked from behind his mother's coat, clutching the last crumbs of ration bread as though they were treasure.
Aiko forced a faint smile toward him.
He returned it.
The small exchange steadied her heart for a fragile second.
Then the collectors stopped.
At her door.
Her breath halted.
---
Kenji inhaled slowly behind her.
The sound was barely audible.
But to Aiko it thundered.
She turned.
His face seemed carved from exhaustion and regret. The lines around his mouth had deepened; his eyes refused to meet hers.
"Father," she whispered, her voice thin. "Tell me this isn't—"
His shoulders trembled once.
"I tried," he said.
The words broke.
"I tried everything."
Aiko's chest constricted.
Memories flickered:
Late nights he did not come home.
Tools sold piece by piece.
Meals skipped.
Whispers with camp officials.
Debt.
The invisible chain.
"Please," she breathed. "There must be another way."
His silence answered.
---
The lead collector activated the wrist display.
A clear, emotionless voice emerged from the helmet's speaker:
"Refugee Sector Nine. Debt recovery order confirmed."
The holographic list scrolled.
Names replaced by numerical identifiers.
Aiko's heartbeat pounded so loudly she could barely hear.
The collector spoke again.
"Processing sequence begins."
Doors down the corridor slid open one by one.
A young man stepped forward from a neighboring shelter, shoulders shaking. His wife clung to his sleeve until a second collector gently but firmly separated them.
"No… please…" she whispered.
The man bowed his head.
He did not resist.
Resistance invited penalties no one could afford.
The collectors guided him toward the transport carrier.
The door sealed behind him with a soft hydraulic sigh.
The corridor fell silent again.
Aiko's pulse hammered.
Her ears rang.
The list continued.
Numbers.
Steps.
Doors.
Processing.
Aiko pressed her hand against her sternum as if she could hold her heart inside.
Please… not us.
Please…
---
Across the corridor, Elder Genzo stood motionless.
His gaze met Aiko's.
There was no comfort in his eyes.
Only the weary acceptance of a man who had watched too many lives taken by systems disguised as necessity.
He gave the slightest shake of his head.
As if to say:
Do not fight.
Survive.
Her throat tightened.
---
Behind her, two women spoke in hushed, trembling tones.
"This is disgusting… selling people like scrap."
"Lower your voice."
"What are we now, hm? Spare parts?"
"Stop. Please stop."
A man muttered, "Go to hell, this whole system…"
Another replied bitterly, "Survive first. Rage later."
"Tsk… if later comes."
Aiko closed her eyes briefly.
Humanity clung to itself in whispers.
---
A small voice tugged at the air.
"Are they taking her too?"
Aiko's eyes opened.
The boy she had fed earlier stared at her, confusion and fear tangled in his gaze.
His mother pulled him close.
"Don't ask," she whispered.
Aiko forced a gentle expression despite the storm inside her.
"It's alright," she said softly. "Stay with your mother."
The lie was kindness.
Kindness was the last proof.
---
The lead collector's helmet tilted slightly toward Aiko.
A soft tone chimed from the wrist device.
Data updated.
Aiko felt the shift.
Like the air itself had recognized her.
The collector's voice sounded again, mechanical and calm:
"Identifier confirmed."
Kenji inhaled sharply.
Aiko felt the sound slice through her ribs.
---
"Aiko…" he whispered.
It was the first time he had spoken her name since the collectors arrived.
She turned.
His eyes shone with a grief too large for words.
"If there had been another way—"
"Stop," she said, voice trembling but firm. "Please."
If he finished the sentence, something inside her might shatter beyond repair.
---
The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
Even the hum of the barrier grid felt distant.
Aiko's senses sharpened unnaturally — the flicker of light overhead, the rasp of fabric as someone shifted, the faint ozone scent from the collectors' shielding field.
Her mind drifted to her mother's words again.
Kindness is proof.
Survival is defiance.
Fear is human.
She straightened slowly.
Her shoulders stopped shaking.
If this was the moment, she would meet it standing.
---
The collector spoke.
"Recovery unit: 47-A."
Aiko frowned faintly.
The numbers meant nothing.
Then Kenji's breath hitched.
Aiko's stomach dropped.
She knew that sound.
The sound of a man breaking silently.
The collector continued:
"Debt transfer collateral: Tsukishiro, Aiko."
The corridor dissolved into distant noise.
Aiko felt as though the ground had slipped sideways beneath her.
Not real.
Not possible.
Her father's knees weakened. He caught himself on the doorframe.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice barely air.
Aiko could not feel her fingers.
Her heart pounded, yet her body felt distant, as though she watched herself from far away.
The child gasped softly.
Someone whispered, "Oh no…"
Another voice muttered, "Damn it…"
Aiko inhaled.
The breath trembled — but held.
She lifted her chin.
"Do I have… time?" she asked quietly.
The collector regarded her for a long moment.
"Minimal."
---
She turned to her father.
For a moment, they stood as they had years ago in gentler times — father and daughter, not debtor and collateral.
"You kept me alive," she said softly.
Tears slid down his hollowed cheeks.
"I failed you."
She shook her head.
"No. You loved me."
Her voice wavered.
"That is not failure."
He covered his face with trembling hands.
Aiko stepped forward and embraced him.
He clung to her like a drowning man.
Around them, the corridor remained silent, as though witnessing something sacred.
She closed her eyes.
Memorizing the warmth.
The smell of oil and metal and home.
Then she stepped back.
---
The collector extended a restraint band.
Aiko looked once more at her father.
Then placed her wrists forward.
Behind her, someone whispered:
"Holy… shit…"
The band sealed with a soft click.
And as the collectors guided her toward the transport carrier, Aiko felt an unfamiliar warmth stir beneath her skin — faint, luminous, alive.
As though something within her had awakened.