Dylan cleared up the scraps of leftover material in his room as best he could. There wasn’t anything he could do about the hole in the wall right now, so he ended up leaving it for tomorrow. He would grab a poster or two from the store when he returned from his scavenging run. He had to hope that neither of his parents would come into his room in the meantime. He hid the exo arm under his bead when he heard his mom calling him down for dinner.

Dinner was somewhat awkward. He didn’t want to say anything because he was worried that his excitement would give away that he was up to something. His father had just shot his plan down today, so his parents were probably expecting him to act downtrodden. He did his best to fill the role, eating slowly, avoiding eye contact, everything he could think of.

His parents seemed disinclined to talk to him, likely giving him space after the rebuttal that took place earlier that day. Eventually, he was finished eating, and he returned to his room.

Dylan struggled to fall asleep that night. He knew that it would only benefit him, but his body seemingly did not disagree. He ended up tossing and turning into the wee hours of the morning (at least that’s how it seemed to him), but eventually, the next morning was upon him.

He grabbed his backpack, stuffed his exo arm in, and departed. His parents likely wouldn’t worry about him, as it was normal for him to disappear for a few hours at a time. He was often out walking around, or locked in his room, or some other such activity that kept him away from other people. That didn’t mean that their tolerance was limited. They would still get worried if he took too long, so he had somewhat of a time limit.

It was a bright, sunny day outside. The sky was clear and blue, and there was a pleasant breeze. He couldn’t have asked for better weather. Having to make the trek in the rain would suck.

As he walked past his driveway, he saw his neighbor, Mr. Oakland, walking into his house, carrying a refrigerator on his back. It had to weight several hundred pounds, but his neighbor was carrying it was if it was no more than 40. Mr. Oakland was one of the rare few with powers. He had a lower level strength and durability power, which allowed him to perform superhuman feats like the one that was currently going on in front of Dylan's eyes. He also suspected that it was why he could still work a construction job deep into his 50’s without pain or injury.

He saw Dylan, and took one hand off of his burden to wave, a bright smile on his face. Dylan waved back, sending him a bright smile.

The walk to the landfill was just far enough to be inconvenient, but close enough to be achievable. The walk was nearly three miles, through the edge of the city and then into the plains that surrounded it.

Dylan didn’t live in a big city. It was only home to about 200,000 people, so getting in and out was fairly easy here, as opposed to a metropolis like L.A. That being said, with Dylan’s below average size and fitness level, it took him nearly 30 minutes to make it two miles to city limits.

He was starting to rethink his choice. He took a moment to gather himself, and pressed on. He had already come this far. It was most of the way there. The way back would surely be easier, as he would be riding high on the elation of his haul. He needed these materials. He didn’t have much of a choice, unless he wanted to be stuck pumping out cheap products for a company for the rest of his life. It was another 15 minutes before he made it to the landfill. Taking the exo-arm out of his backpack, he slid it on, reveling in its genius. It still didn’t make him feel stronger, but he knew what it could do now, thanks to his unplanned demonstration the day before. He was much more careful with it now. Who knew what would happen if he accidentally bumped his arm into his ribs, for example. He didn’t want to kill himself with his own invention. That would be far too stereotypical (not to mention extremely painful).

There was a chainlink fence around the perimeter of the landfill, and it was topped with barbed wire. The fence was covered in rust, and he took a hold of it in his armored fist, and started to pull. He felt resistance for the first time, but after a few seconds the metal shrieked and gave way. The road and entrance to the facility was on the other side of the landfill, so nobody should be around to hear or see him. Even if they did, hopefully the sight of his arm would be enough to deter them from trying to stop him. Normal people knew not to mess with supers unless the situation was desperate, and him taking things people have already thrown out would hardly count as such.

There was certainly a possibility that he would get a superhero called on him, but unless he actually killed someone, it was unlikely to result in anything serious. Formators were valuable, and nobody wanted to antagonize them. If the company got on his shit list, and he ended up making something valuable in the future, it might cause conflict. Some of the most successful companies in the world were made by Formators, and there had certainly been tales of them founding companies and ruthlessly outcompeting other’s they had a past grudge against.

Plus, he was a super, and a young one. They didn’t generally get penalized for minor crimes. Even someone with an average power could cause a huge headache. It meant that young supers could get away with a lot more than they maybe should, but few were willing to step up to correct them. If you didn’t have powers yourself, then you stood to lose more than you stood to gain.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He pulled the meshing of the fence off further, peeling it up and to the side. Once the gap he created was large enough, he slipped in under, sliding his backpack in after him, to avoid it getting caught on the rough spikes left by the severed chain.

He hadn’t really noticed the smell until it hit him like a train. His eyes watered, and he started coughing at the unexpected blast of sulfurous odor. Dylan resolved to finish his scavenging trip as quickly as possible. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

He avoided piles of things like looked like mushy foods, instead looking for the matte or shiny surfaces of electronics. Despite the fact that they were supposed to be recycled, people still threw them out, and the company responsible for the landfill didn’t really care. They couldn’t canvas all the trash they took in to see if everyone was following the regulations.

This worked to Dylan's advantage, as he had a decent chance to find what he was looking for. He quickly found an old microwave sticking out of the heap. It was trapped under some other junk, so he stuck his mechanized arm under the rubble that was trapping it, quickly flipping it off. Dylan didn’t think he was going to get tired of the enhanced strength his creation provided him anytime soon.

Once it was free, he did his best to wipe it off, before taking out a bunch of trash bags he had packed into his backpack. He layered several of them together, before dropping the microwave in. He could probably hold one or two more big items, and a few more small ones, in his backpack or in the bigger bag with the larger items. He grabbed a watch, an old flashlight, and some other various small electronics.

A few dozen feet away, he spotted something sticking out of a large pile of trash. It looked to be a circular object, dark, and shiny. Curiosity piqued, he started walking over. After clearing out the trash around it, it was revealed to be a fairly large drone. It looked to be in good shape, except for a few scratches here and there.

How did it end up here? Nearly two feet across in circumference, it must have been at least a thousand dollars. There was no controller, but it would certainly serve as an excelled source of parts.

A crunch rang out behind him. Whirling around, he saw a man, standing among the trash, walking closer. Dylan immediately stammered out an apology.

“I-I know I’m not supposed to be here, and I’m really sorry, I’m justlooking for partstotrainmypower I-”. His words started to come faster and faster, before they cut off. The man in front of him wasn’t a worker.

The man was wearing dark, stained clothing. His boots were leather, also stained. His hair was cropped close to his head. He had a large tattoo on his face. On his hip, a knife sat, sheathed. His fingers tapped on the hilt. He had a cruel smile on his face.

“Say kid, that thing on your arm. It looks awfully nice for a kid like you. Where’d you get it from?”

Dylan swallowed, starting to realize the depth of his predicament. While most people wouldn’t antagonize supers due to the fear of future reprisal, well, if you killed the super, then there would be no need to worry. Especially not if that super wasn’t even registered yet, in a junkyard he wasn’t supposed to be in, miles from his home, where nobody knew he was.

“I made it myself. Wh-why do you ask?”

The man's smile grew. Dylan knew he made a mistake. He’d just revealed there wasn’t some older super giving him items. If the man had though that one of Dylan’s parents or relatives was the person with the power, then he might have been more hesitant. Even if he killed Dylan, it was possible that he would be tracked down. Superpowers could do all sorts of things, and it was never safe to assume that you couldn’t be found by someone sufficiently motivated. But if Dylan was the only one there, alone in a junkyard, chances were that motivation wouldn’t exist. Most likely, it would go to the mundane police, who would search unsuccessfully for him before declaring him as missing.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give it to me, huh, kid? I think some buddies of mine would like it”.

The man had started walking closer. His feet drew a steady rhythm as he approached. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Dylan knew he had to act fast, before the situation got even more out of control. He lunged forwards, swinging at the man. The thug, unprepared for the sudden aggression, couldn’t move out of the way fast enough. Dylan’s fist didn’t make contact with his torso, but it hit a trailing hand, causing a nasty crunch to ring out in the air.

The man let out a scream, stumbling back a few steps. He let out another yell when the blob of jelly that used to be his hand tried to grab his knife. He started fumbling for it with his left hand, trying to get it out of the sheath.

“I’ll kill you, you little shit. Gut you like a fish, for my motherfucking hand.”

Dylan ran towards him, this time going for center mass. The man didn’t have the ability to dodge anymore with his injuries. Dylan’s gauntleted fist hit him right in the middle of his chest. A snap, like that of a tree branch breaking, rung out through the air. The main was rolling around on the ground, blood spurting from his mouth. Even his eyes were bleeding.

Dylan stood there, dispassionately. After a few more seconds, he turned around, and put the drone in his sack. He started on the walk back to his house when the man's wheezing started to fade.

The journey back was mostly a blur. He recalled seeing blood on his mechanized arm, and wiping it off on the grass, but not much beyond that. Nobody was outside when he returned to his neighborhood.

His parents weren’t home, either. He walked up the stairs, stuffed the arm and the bag of scavenged materials under his bed, kicked off his shoes, and laid down, staring at the ceiling.

When his parents called him down for dinner, he didn’t answer. He fell asleep not long after, but in a cruel reflection of the previous night, this sleep was turbulent, and filled with visions of the day’s events.

He awoke, covered in sweat, wondering if his dreams were already over.