High-Octane Mecha Pirate Space Fantasy. Basically.
Disclaimer: I wonder if the storyboarders for KH write their own fanfictions...
"A little rusty, but it'll do."
A small, dark figure examined what would be a junk piece of metal to anyone else up to a soft, tinted blue light. A spindly little machine, no bigger than what the elders called a Dog, and curiously fashioned after one, was the figure's purveyor of light. It cocked its bulbous, metal plated head to one side, "sniffing" the device, a function not entirely for theatrics. The machine processed the information streaming through its hard driven brain, giving off a series of clicks and beeps in approval. "You like it, boy?" the figure spoke softly to his machine companion, "I'll clean it off for you, good as new, promise."
In response, the machine dangled its useless back leg in hopeful assessment of the cracked rotator cuff currently linking the appendage to its body.
Something shuffled a few yards away. The blue light flicked off and both of the scavengers sunk down into the heaps of trash metal and darkness. A wide beam of bright light roamed over the hills of junk, barely scathing the figure and his companion. Luckily, they both looked indistinguishable from garbage.
A loud voice carried over the black yard, not intended for the scavenger, but heard none the less. "Thought I heard some Intels out there," a man was calling to his companion, trudging his way down a slope of refuse, "freaky little things."
"Don't be daft," a softer voice called in response, "it's probably just some regular old rats or something."
"I don't know about you but I haven't seen a real live rat in 3 decades," the conversation was carried further into the distance until it disappeared.
"Lets get the hell out of here," he pocketed the rusting rotator cuff and slunk his way opposite the junkyard patrol. Scavenging was a serious crime, especially if it could be traced back to any kind of Intel related activity, and the boy wanted to keep both of his hands firmly on his wrists for the rest of his life. The pair ducked through a hole in the back fence, just a few minutes to spare before they turned on the falselights.
"Please tell me you were not slinking around in the trash again," the elder brother admonished his littler one. "You smell, you know that?"
Roxas rolled his eyes, the machine beeping and trailing after him down a narrow, dim staircase into their little hovel that the boy liked to call his "workshop". Any tradesman would be repulsed by the name, if not enraged enough to burn the makeshift hole out of the earth. Still, the projects that lay, even the half finished ones, strew across the small tables were impressive enough to make any craftsman blush.
Sora watched the hobbling mechanic creature, dragging a useless leg behind him. The boy felt a mix of disgust and pity for the thing, but mostly pity. "You're gunna get him taken away from you one of these days if you're not careful. Intel like that is some serious stuff."
"He's not Intel," Roxas huffed, bending and scooping the creature into his arms, "and his name is Shadow."
"Pft, if he's not Intel then I'm a Nighter."
"You could've been," Roxas mumbled under his breath. He set the happy little creature on his workbench, stroking its metalic back. To Shadow, he whispered, "Alright time to go to sleep. You'll be up and moving about with a fancy new cuff before you know it." Gently, the machine rested its head onto the table as Roxas flicked the switch on the underside of his belly, tucked behind a plate. The bright yellow eyes slowly powered off. The boy set to his work quickly, no time to spare before he had to head out to his Night Work, removing the entire leg from the socket, wires dangling. He fastened a small headlamp above his eyes and set about cleaning the old part.
Night Work was required of him, and every other citizen assigned to the Nighters of Old Earth as his duty to society. This work began immediately after schooling and, depending on how stupid or bright you were, school could end at any time. Many kids were pulled out of Middle Years to start work on Harvest and Farms, Roxas was pulled out in the middle of his Late Years, due to his truancy, apathy and general shitty attitude towards his teachers who had had just about enough of him. He was placed in Mech Industry, with regards to his talent for mechanics and sciences. It was a bullshit job with hard, long hours and no satisfaction. He basically tuned up the machines that were used for Farming, or sitting on assembly lines next to the worst smelling disfigured men who would tell gruesome stories of appendages lost to the ever moving belt line, waggling their stumpy hands at him. Although...not as bad smelling, Roxas had the mindfulness to notice, as he probably smelled.
"Roxas, Falselights are on," Sora hollered down the hole.
Resigned, he sighed, pushing himself back from the workbench. Shadow would have to stay asleep for a little while longer, he'd be safer like that anyways. He shed his disgusting garb and threw it down a laundry chute, which would gobble up his filth, churn it in disinfectant and sanitizer, and deposit the folded lump on his bed. The Night Work uniform was horribly hideous, a loud orange jumpsuit with reflective tape along the waistline like a belt. No one could disappear into the dark in that garb. Citizens were a precious commodity, especially after all the Resettling. Old Earth was old news, and no one wanted to live there anymore. The only ones who stayed were those that didn't have a choice.
"Here's lunch," Sora placed a lightweight paper bag in his hands. Rations were low this month. "If you could pick up some eggs on your way back that'd be fantastic."
"I'll see if there's any left."
Roxas shoved the heavy wooden door open, it groaned on its joints. "When're you gunna fix that door? You play all day in your basement with your toys but you cant do a damn thing useful around here."
"You're my brother, not my wife," Roxas quipped, smirking when Sora stuck his tongue out at his younger brother. "You fix it."
"Whatever," Sora chimed nonchalantly, returning to his dishes and other housework.
Roxas stepped out into the Falselight.
Compact, brilliant globes hovered in intervals about 30 feet apart, each one a story off the ground, giving off a light that looked and felt like a tiny sun. Falselight, so it was called, were adaptations of the lights made for people who had seasonal affective disorder, aka people who needed more sunlight but didn't get it either due to the climate or their Shut-In habits. After Overpopulation hit its peak, everyone was divided. Daylighters and Nighters.
Bathing in the light of the second suns, Roxas, the Second Son, begrudgingly set out to his Citizens Duty in the darkness he was assigned to since birth.
Comment, like, hate, do whatever floats your boat.