As my feet splash on the oil-soaked ground of the alleyway, I barely have time to curse my luck before the blare of engines screams in my ears.

Wind lashes at me like a whip, and I’m stumbling back not just from the breeze but from surprise. Just ahead is a speeding hoverbus, blazing down the road at over 40 clicks above the speed limit and, apparently, uncaring of the fact that it almost hit me. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I am almost too shocked at the whole thing to be angry.

Almost.

Cursing, I brush off my jacket, casting a glance down the road at the still-speeding hovercar. “Damn idiot,” I murmur angrily. The speed cameras in the Undercity are infamously bad— I’ve been charged nearly a dozen credits just for strolling down the street. But apparently whatever moron who drives the bus doesn’t seem to care. Well, that was just what I needed, yet another brush with death.

It’s typical. Routine, almost, with how often it happens. Wake up, almost die, go to sleep, repeat. Another day, another disaster- as if the goddamn universe has it out for me personally.

Now, I’m not saying I’m unlucky. In fact, most would argue my luck is better than most, if you focus entirely on the fact that I’ve been able to survive in this wretched place for so long. But it’s not like I haven’t had to work for it- no, my life has been one spent working, digging through wreckage and selling whatever I find for scraps.

Some call it looting. I call it survival. It’s a crappy job, sure, but at least it keeps me alive, which is more than most can say down here. Still, it’s not many people’s preferred choice of work.

Not that I have a choice.

Free will my a**, nobody has a choice. If they did, they sure as hell wouldn’t choose this — this damp, disgusting place the residents of the Undercity, very grudgingly, call home.

The Undercity. An incredibly creative name given to the incredibly terrible city a couple hundred feet underneath New York. Yeah, you heard me right.

Underneath.

Filled with civilization’s outcasts and misfits, the Undercity is an exact copy of the city and more; more grime, more filth, and more ancient, crumbling technology. Cast in complete darkness, we’re stuck using fluorescent lights and outdated LEDs, just to be able to see our dirt-covered surroundings. You’d think that, after all this time, our eyes would have adapted to the darkness, right? Wrong. We still need light to see, and the only real light we get comes from rifts: jagged tears in the rock above that break just enough to let in a little sunlight.

But those never last long. The Overgrounders always seal them off fast, pouring concrete into them so quickly that there’s barely time to enjoy the warmth.

God, I hate them. Hate their freedom, their happiness. Hate how they have infinite access to everything I want and more. Sunlight, food, medicine. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, eating their leftovers and drinking less water in a week than it probably takes them to brush their teeth.

What a damn rip-off.

As satisfying as it is to sit here and loathe the Overgrounders, it does little to improve my situation, and even less to secure my safety. Even in the supposed security of my current location, danger lurks. Still, as dreadful as the Undercity is, most of its residents aren’t all that threatening, especially here, in the Near-Surface. I have acquaintances here, those I would even call friends, and very few I would call enemies.

But that’s just the Near-Surface. Not only is it closest to the outside by far, it’s home to the upper class of the Undercity; the wealthy, honest-working, goody two-shoes of the city. They’re snobby and prentious and rude and so incredibly lucky.

But all aside, they’re the best the Undercity has to offer. And as the saying goes: the deeper you go, the more dangerous it gets.

Still; two disasters in one day? What are the odds? Incredibly high, apparently.

The first one came this morning- a rift, and a large one at that. It had to be at least a couple-hundred feet wide, casting a beam of light so bright that it was visible from the deepest part of the depths.

And I should know; I was there when it happened.

The cavern had shook violently, a deep bellow filling the chamber. I’d instinctively covered my head in case of fallen rock, even though I knew I was too deep for them to reach. It was instinct— let’s just say I’d been smacked by debris one too many times.

I knew it had to be just above me. The sounds of colliding rocks was so loud my ears were ringing, and I could feel the air beginning to warm. It had to be a good one, it just had to. Who knew what kind of loot there was; old tables, chairs, maybe even a mirror, if I was lucky.

Which I clearly was not, considering it was all gone by the time I’d arrived. The journey up from the depths wasn’t easy, but I’d managed to catch a train and was able to make it up in just an hour.

An hour too long, apparently. Story of my life— I’m always one train behind and five credits too short. By the time I got there, everything had been taken.

No valuable items, no food, hell, there wasn’t even any debris at all. Everything was picked clean by money-hungry looters.

I can’t be complaining though. I am one of those money-hungry looters, just with less money and a lot more hunger.

But that’s beside the point. The point is: bad things happen to me. First the rift, then the bus, and let’s not forget almost every second of my life leading up to this one.

Heading towards the corner at Newbury and Edison, I begin to quicken my pace in frustration- frustration over the goddamn unfairness of it, frustration over-

“Coren!”

My head jerks forward, and I’m snapped out of my thoughts by the very familiar sound of my name. My muscles tense on instinct, my body going into panic mode, but a slow smile spreads across my face as I begin to put a face to the voice I heard. As a mop of curly brown hair rounds the corner just ahead, my suspicions are confirmed.

Waylon.

Ten years old and annoying as hell, Waylon is a particularly lucky individual that I would consider, well, family. He’s been shadowing me since he was 7, popping up with news about rifts or looting areas, grinning like a fool each time. Most people down here try to ignore kids like him, and believe me, I tried. But he grew on me regardless. I give him food, scraps, batteries, anything I can spare. In return, he gives me information.

It’s a fair trade. Better than fair, honestly. In truth, I’m not quite sure either of us would’ve been able to survive without the other.

Waylon slows to a stop in front of me, curls damp with sweat. He’s practically floating on air, bouncing from side to side on the sidewalk and nearly vibrating with excitement despite his exhaustion.

“There’s— near the outskirts— fast as I could,” he stammered, doubled over and very obviously out of breathe.

I lean against a nearby lamppost, a barely-contained smirk on my face. Waylons always like this; it’s as if the engine inside him never runs low on fuel. It’s laughable, really.

“Get a breath in, Waylon. We have all day.”

“But we don’t!” he snaps , hands waving the air in frenzied excitement. “Not if you want to make it time.”

What the hell is he on about?

“Make it in time?”

He scowls, crossing his arms so tightly his annoyance seems to seep into the air around him.

“Make it to the rift”

Remember when I said Waylon was irritating as hell? Yeah, well, I wasn’t lying.

“The rift?” I ask, already shaking my head in exasperation,“m “You mean the one that everyone picked clean hours ago? The one that’s already been sealed?

He just grins.

“Not that rift,” he says, and I swear I can see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “the other one.”

I blink.

The other one?

“What the hell do you mean other one?” I can feel something twist in my gut, a mix of excitement and nerve and something else. Hope, probably. The stupid kind. The kind that never ends well.

“It happened right after the first,” Waylon replies, stepping forward and lowering his voice as if we are sharing some great secret, “I thought it was just aftershocks in the beginning, but I saw it Coren, it was different. It was so small, barely cracked at all. But things definitely fell through, and I was the only one around.”

I just stare at him.

Could he be lying? Sure. Could he be hallucinating the entire thing? Absolutely. But most importantly; he could be telling the truth.

My teeth are biting the insides of my cheeks and it takes everything in me to hold back my smile. It’s almost embarrassing how thrilled I am at Waylon’s discovery; but this could be the chance of a lifetime.

God, I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about him.

Maybe I’m not so unlucky after all.