Chapter 1: Scars of Gratitude.

The night pressed heavy on the land, the wind carrying an eerie stillness through the endless mounds of Mount Trashmore. Shadows danced over heaps of abandoned debris, relics of a forgotten era. Amidst this emptiness, a lone woman stumbled ahead, her body shaking with fatigue and her unsteady steps.

Her clothes clung to her thin frame, torn and stained, little more than rags. Her hair hung in wild tangles, framing a face etched with years of neglect and despair. Once, there might have been light in her eyes, a spark of life, but now they darted frantically, wide with fear and confusion.

She hugged her swollen belly, her breathing catching with every wave of pain coursing through her. She ground her teeth, sinking onto her knees on top of a heap of debris, jagged edges of shattered glass and rusted metal pressed within her palms. Hours passed as she struggled against the agony, her cries lost to the wide emptiness surrounding her.

Then, with one final wrenching scream, the air was split by a new sound, the piercing cry of a newborn.

The woman stared at the baby in her trembling hands, her breaths shallow and uneven. The baby wailed, small fists shaking against the cold night air. For a moment, her face softened, her lips parting as if to say something. Her hands moved instinctively, cradling him closer to her chest.

“Shh,” she murmured, her voice hardly perceptible, trembling from the burden of tiredness. Her eyes flicked about, probing the shadows as if something could suddenly spring out at her. “Be quiet now, or we’ll get in trouble. They’re watching… they’re always watching.”

The baby cried louder, his voice cutting through the silence like shattered glass. She winced, clutching her head as though the sound were clawing at her very soul. Her whispers grew frantic.

“Stop it. Please, stop,” she hissed, her voice shaking, accidentally inflicting scratches on the baby's scalp. “I can’t, I can’t do this.”

Her hands trembled violently as she bit through the umbilical cord, her teeth scraping against it with a grim determination. Placing the baby down on the mound of trash, she stumbled back, her face twisted with something between guilt and fear.

“The trash will keep you safe,” she muttered, her words a frenzied chant. “It keeps everything safe. It keeps secrets. This is better. It’s better this way.”

The baby’s cries grew fainter as she backed away, her bare feet crunching over the debris beneath her. Tears streaked her face, but she didn’t stop. She turned and fled into the shadows, her sobs and laughter echoing faintly in the distance.

Hours later, Laurie Grimwald climbed the same mound of trash, the dim light of dawn casting her shadow over the debris. She moved with practiced ease, her sharp eyes scanning for anything salvageable, metal, glass, fabric, anything she could trade for a few coins.

Life hadn’t been kind to Laurie. Once, she’d dreamed of more, of becoming an evolver and finding her place in the world. But dreams didn’t feed you, and society wasn’t interested in giving chances to someone poor, plain, and unwanted. She had learned to survive in the margins, scavenging from the world’s leftovers and making what little she could.

Laurie wasn’t just a scavenger. Beneath her rough exterior was a quiet resilience, a strength forged through years of rejection and hardship. People often overlooked her, dismissing her as another desperate survivor of a ruined world. But Laurie had a sharp mind and a heart she rarely let show. She had lived through pain and loss, yet she refused to become bitter. Instead, she found purpose in the small acts of creation, repairing discarded objects, crafting wigs, and piecing together fragments of a life from the broken shards of the past.

As she sifted through the trash, a sound stopped her cold, a faint cry, weak but unmistakable. She straightened, her heart pounding as she turned toward the noise.

“Is that…?” she whispered to herself, her voice trailing off as she hurried toward the sound.

The sight stopped her in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat. The infant rested on a heap of trash, his tiny body trembling with every shallow breath. His head was covered in wounds, raw and bleeding, and his cries were weak and rasping, drained of strength. Laurie's hands moved up to cover her mouth, and for a brief moment, she remained motionless, unable to process the heart-wrenching scene before her.

"Oh, you dear thing," she eventually murmured, her voice trembling as she sank to her knees. She extended her arms and lifted the baby into her embrace, her rough hands surprisingly tender. He was so petite, so delicate, and his little face was marked with dirt.

Laurie’s stomach churned as she examined the injuries. Someone had done this. Someone had left these scars, cruel marks of pain inflicted on a defenseless child. Her mind raced as she held him close, her body shielding him from the cold wind.

“Who could do this to you?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

The infant whined, his wails diminishing as Laurie held him tightly. Without hesitation, she started to hum a gentle, recognizable melody, one that her mother had sung to her during her childhood. The melody spilled from her lips instinctively, wrapping them both in its warmth.

“There, there,” she murmured, swaying gently as the baby’s sobs turned to quiet sniffles.

For years, Laurie’s life had been defined by rejection and survival. She had learned not to hope for more, not to expect kindness or purpose. But now, holding this baby boy in her arms, she felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

“I’ll call you Nix,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “Like the night, dark but full of light and mystery.”

Bundling him in her scavenged shawl, Laurie began the long climb back to her home atop Mount Trashmore.

The sky hung low, smeared with the residue of an era long gone, where nature fought to reclaim a world ravaged by human greed. Among the towering mounds of waste, hidden high on Mount Trashmore, a makeshift home stood. It was barely more than a cave, but it provided shelter, warmth, and a place filled with memories.

Inside, the walls of the cave were patched with salvaged metal and wood, forming a fragile barrier against the elements. Bundles of fabric and blankets created a modest sleeping area, while makeshift shelves held tools, containers, and the wigs Laurie crafted from discarded hair. A small fire pit cast a flickering glow, warming the space and banishing the chill that crept in from outside.

Laurie laid the baby down on her bed, wrapping him snugly in her thickest blanket. She sat beside him, her gaze soft as she watched his tiny chest rise and fall with each breath.

For years she had fought for herself and nothing more, barely surviving on resilience and determination. Now, she had something to fight for other than just survival.

“Don’t worry, little Nix,” she whispered, brushing a finger gently over his cheek. “You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you.”

She began to hum the lullaby again, the melody filling the small cave with a warmth that seemed almost out of place in the wasteland outside. For the first time in years, Laurie felt a fragile but persistent hope. In this tiny child, she had found a light worth protecting.

Sixteen years later, Nix had grown strong, his body shaped by years of climbing the treacherous terrain of Trash Mountain. His sharp features and piercing eyes gave him a face that many would find striking, but the scars atop his head told a different story. Laurie often recalled the moment she found him, those scars were already there, etched into his delicate skin.

For Nix, the scars weren’t a reminder of pain or haunting violence but a quiet symbol of his connection to the mother he never knew. Whoever she might have been, those scars stood as proof that she had carried him into the world, no matter how fleeting her presence in his life had been. He didn’t hold resentment in his heart; instead, he carried gratitude for the chance to exist, finding strength in the belief that, despite her absence, her actions had given him the life he now fought for.

The scars disrupted the growth of his hair, leaving it patchy and uneven. What hair he had grew wildly, defying any sense of order, as if it, too, bore the chaotic spirit of his beginnings. The combination of his rugged features and the scars gave him an air of someone shaped not just by the harshness of his environment, but by his resolve to find meaning and gratitude in even the smallest of blessings.

Despite his disheveled appearance, Nix exuded a quiet strength. His scars and wild hair only enhanced the aura of resilience he had developed from years of enduring the harsh environment of Trash Mountain. Every climb, every struggle had not only honed his body but also fortified his spirit, making him a figure of determination and grit.

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This unyielding strength was rooted in a habit cultivated during his childhood. Granny Laurie, his caretaker, had advised him to channel his negative emotions into exercise, urging him to turn pain into power. At first, it was an outlet for his frustrations, but over time, it became more than that, working out turned into an addiction, a relentless pursuit of strength and health in a world that demanded both for survival.

Whenever they ventured into town to sell Laurie’s wigs or trade recyclables, Nix would watch children his age with bright, shiny toys bought by loving parents, symbols of comfort and wealth he could only imagine. Yet, jealousy never consumed him. Laurie had taught him an invaluable lesson: if life didn’t give you what you wanted, you made it yourself.

One afternoon, as the sun set behind the distant skyscrapers of waste, Nix sat outside their cave-home, his hands busy with his latest project. Scattered around him were discarded metal scraps, bits of wire, and broken plastic pieces. His newest creation was a makeshift slingshot, its handle carved from a sturdy tree branch he’d scavenged near the mountain’s base. It wasn’t much, but it worked. And for Nix, that was always enough.

He glanced toward the other corner of their small home where a simple trap lay, designed to catch small animals. He had been working on it for weeks, tweaking the mechanism to ensure it would catch something they could eat. Fish, birds, or even a mutated rodent, anything to lighten the burden on Laurie. Life was difficult enough without having to worry about food. Laurie always said that, in this post-apocalyptic world, people survived only by adapting. Nix had taken that lesson to heart.

“Done with that toy, boy?” Laurie’s voice broke through the evening quiet. She stepped out from the cave, wiping her hands on her scavenging clothes, a patchwork of fabrics meant more for practicality than appearance.

“Yeah, Granny. It works, see?” Nix showed off his slingshot, pulling back the elastic strap and releasing it, sending a small stone flying into the air. It wasn’t just about making toys for fun. His creations often served a purpose, whether for defense, survival, or just to ease their hard lives.

Laurie chuckled, though her voice was tired. “You always did have a way of making things out of nothin’. Better than those store-bought toys anyhow.”

Nix smiled, but the envy still lingered beneath the surface. He didn’t resent the life they had, but sometimes, he couldn’t help but dream of more. Yet whenever he felt that way, he reminded himself of what Laurie had taught him: if you want more, you have to work for it.

As the evening crept in and the stars began to blink in the polluted sky, Laurie prepared a simple dinner. Tonight, it was a stew made from scavenged vegetables and the remains of a bird they had trapped earlier that week. Nix’s handmade traps had been a small blessing in their lives, catching food in a world where survival was uncertain. He watched as Laurie ladled the stew into two worn bowls, her face lined with the years of struggle and sacrifice.

“Granny, one day I’m gonna make sure we don’t have to live like this,” Nix said suddenly, his voice determined.

Laurie looked up, her eyes soft but full of wisdom. “You’re already doin’ that, Nix. Every time you make somethin’ outta nothin’, every time you help us catch food or fix somethin’ broken, you’re buildin’ a better life. We don’t need to be rich or fancy. We just need to survive, and you’re doin’ that better than most.”

Nix nodded, though deep down he knew he wanted more than just survival. He wanted to live, to thrive in a world where he wasn't defined by the garbage with which he'd grown up. For now, it might be very, very distant, and all he knew was to construct and build, toys and traps and a life all one could hope for

As the night deepened and they sat in the glow of their makeshift fire, Nix looked out over the expanse of Mount Trashmore. Somewhere out there, in the ruins of the old world, lay the future he'd create for himself and Laurie. That wasn't going to be easy, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that hard work could take even the most broken things and make them whole. For now, that would be enough.

The next morning, Nix woke up with the first rays of sunlight filtering through the cracked window of their small home. He quickly washed up and returned to his cramped space, barely large enough for his single bed and a narrow strip of floor to walk on. He slipped into his clothes, practical for scavenging, but still neatly kept, a quiet tribute to Laurie’s teachings of pride even in poverty.

As Nix stepped outside, a determined expression set on his face. He walked over to his trusty scooter, "Scootie," a patchwork vehicle he'd pieced together from parts scavenged at the junk graveyard near the foot of the trash mountain. He patted it affectionately. "Alright, Scootie, let's get to work," he muttered with a smile. He had made sure Scootie was in top shape, always keeping it well maintained to avoid any breakdowns. The scooter could go as fast as 30 km/h, perfect for the 15 km distance ride to the nearest trade station.

After the train ride, he arrived at the school station and hopped back on Scootie for the final leg, another 10 minutes to school. As he approached the familiar alleyway near the school, his path was blocked by a group of teenagers wearing clothes that screamed trouble, leather jackets, oversized chains, and arrogant smirks plastered on their faces. These were his regular bullies.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up today,” Jared sneered, his towering frame blocking Nix’s path. His voice dripped with mockery as he leaned in, his shadow stretching across the alley. Behind him, the rest of his gang tightened their circle, effectively trapping Nix. The alley behind the school was their usual spot, a secluded area where no one would interfere.

“Got anything good for us today, trash boy?” Jared asked, his arms crossed in mock patience.

Nix’s hands gripped the handlebars of his battered scooter, Scootie, so tightly his knuckles turned white. He didn’t respond. He had learned long ago that silence was his best defense. Words only fueled their cruelty, and fighting back physically was a battle he couldn’t win. His quiet wasn’t cowardice; it was survival.

Once, he had tried to stand up to them. At Laurie’s insistence, he had reported them to the police. For one glorious day, he thought things would change. But the very next day, Jared and his gang came back, their vengeance swift and brutal. That lesson had been enough to keep him quiet ever since.

The group sensed his tension and fed off it, their taunts growing bolder. Ryan, a freckled boy with a mean streak, stepped forward and snatched the lunchbox from Scootie’s basket. “What’s for lunch today? Granny’s famous trash stew?” he asked with mock enthusiasm, flipping the lid open.

The gang erupted into laughter as Ryan held the lunchbox aloft like a trophy. “Oh, look! It’s... ugh, what even is this?” he added, wrinkling his nose.

The laughter was sharp and biting, cutting deeper than any punch. Nix clenched his jaw, swallowing the bitter lump that rose in his throat. He thought of Laurie, who had woken up early to pack that meal. She never mentioned the missing food or his bruises, but Nix knew she noticed. He hated worrying her, almost as much as he hated these boys.

Jared snatched the lunchbox from Ryan and, without a second thought, dumped its contents onto the ground. The food splattered onto the dirty pavement. “Oops. Guess you’ll have to eat straight from the trash later. Fitting, huh?” Jared smirked.

The anger inside Nix burned, but he buried it deep, forcing himself to stay calm. He stared at the ground, focusing on the cracked pavement beneath his feet. If he let that anger show, they’d only hit harder. He had learned to take it without flinching, without giving them the satisfaction.

“Say something, trash boy!” Jared barked, stepping closer and shoving Nix backward. Nix stumbled but quickly caught himself, refusing to fall. Falling meant weakness, and weakness only encouraged them.

“Nothing to say? Fine,” Jared muttered, before slamming a fist into Nix’s stomach. The impact drove the air out of Nix’s lungs, and he doubled over, gasping. Jared grabbed him by the collar, shoving him hard against the wall. “Remember this next time you think about skipping out on us.”

The punches came next, sharp and calculated. Jared and his gang knew where to hit so the bruises wouldn’t show. Each blow was precise, meant to hurt but not leave evidence. Nix clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out, even as his ribs screamed in protest.

When they finally grew bored, they let him drop to the ground like a discarded toy. Jared spit on the ground beside him. “See you tomorrow, trash boy,” he said with a grin as they walked away, laughing and high-fiving like they’d just won a championship.

Nix lay there for a while, catching his breath. Pain pulsed through his body, but he forced himself to sit up. He winced as his ribs protested the movement. Laurie would notice if he wasn’t careful. She always did.

As he sat there, Granny Laurie’s words echoed in his mind, soft but steady. “Everyone has their own battles, Nix. Sometimes people do bad things because they’re hurting inside. That doesn’t excuse it, but it helps us not carry their hate as our own.” She had smiled at him that day, her calloused hands resting gently on his shoulders. “Think of them like sandpaper; they may scratch and hurt you a bit, but in the end, you end up polished and they end up useless. Reserve your strength for when it matters most, fight back only when your life is truly at stake.”

He repeated those words silently like a mantra, the sharp edges of his anger dulling slightly. Granny had taught him to understand people, even the ones who hurt him. It didn’t erase the pain, but it gave him perspective, and perspective was power.

When he finally made it home, Laurie was at the small wooden table, humming softly as she worked on mending an old jacket. Her face lit up when she saw him. “Hey, Nixie. How was school today?”

Nix forced a smile, lifting his scooter as if it were a shield. “Got a flat tire. Fell off Scootie trying to ride it. I’m fine, though.”

Laurie’s gaze lingered on him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Hmm. Looks like it was a rough fall. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Nix lied quickly, rubbing his arm as if brushing off dirt. “I just need to patch Scootie up.”

Laurie didn’t press further, but her eyes softened with worry. “Alright, just... be careful, okay?”

“Got it,” Nix replied before retreating to his room. Once inside, he locked the door and peeled off his shirt. Standing in front of the cracked mirror, he inspected the damage. Bruises were already forming, purple and yellow spreading across his ribs and stomach. But he had gotten better at taking the hits, better at twisting his body to avoid the worst of it.

He grabbed a small notebook from under his pillow and flipped to a blank page. Picking up a pencil, he wrote down what he’d learned today: Block ribs faster. Keep head down. Use legs to absorb force when shoved.

This was how he fought back, not with fists, but with strategy. Each day, he found a way to make the next encounter less painful. Over time, the bruises became smaller, the damage less severe. Laurie noticed less often, and Nix took that as a victory.

That night, lying in bed, Nix thought about the bullies’ laughter. It echoed in his head, loud and cruel. He clenched his fists, anger bubbling up again. But then he remembered Laurie’s words from years ago: “When life knocks you down, you get back up stronger. Even if it’s just a little stronger each time.”

The next morning, before the sun rose, Nix woke up and went to the backyard. His ribs ached, but he started doing push-ups, his movements slow and steady. Each push-up was a step toward becoming someone who could fight back, not just for himself, but for Laurie.

As the years went on, the beatings continued, but Nix adapted. He became quicker, tougher, and smarter. He learned how to dodge, how to deflect, how to endure. The bruises became rare, the pain less frequent. He never stopped hiding what happened from Laurie, though. She didn’t need to know.

But in his heart, Nix held onto a quiet determination. One day, he’d be strong enough to stop them. One day, he’d make them regret every punch and insult. One day, he’d protect Laurie from ever worrying about him again.

For now, he’d take it one step at a time. Just like she said.