Colorless Clay

The slums of Aeris-9 never slept.

Even at night, the city glowed in broken neon—sputtering signs that hung crooked above alleys, their colors bleeding into puddles of rain. Smoke rolled down from the upper districts like poison clouds, staining the air with iron and ash. Factories hummed without pause, pressing steel into weapons, walls, and waste. Beneath it all, in the skeletal maze of crumbling buildings, lived those the city had forgotten.

Among them was a boy named Clay.

He walked barefoot over cracked pavement, stepping around puddles slick with oil, his eyes dull and empty. He had lived in the slums for as long as anyone could remember, though none could recall him laughing, crying, or even frowning. Clay did not smile when others teased him with scraps of food. He did not cry when hunger hollowed his stomach. He did not flinch when fists struck him.

He was a boy made of nothing.

And the people feared nothing.

The Market

The night market pulsed with activity when Clay arrived. Makeshift stalls stretched across the street, their tarps sagging with rainwater. Men and women bartered with voices loud enough to drown the factory hum. Dried rations, rusted weapons, salvaged wires—anything could be sold if it kept someone alive another day.

Clay drifted through the crowd like a ghost, his thin figure unnoticed by most. He carried no coins, yet vendors did not chase him away. They had tried once before, shouting at him to leave, throwing rotten fruit at his feet. He had stood there, motionless, until their anger ran out and turned to unease. Since then, they let him wander.

At one corner, two older boys snickered as Clay passed.

“Look at him—dead eyes again.”

“Bet he’s never felt a thing in his life.”

One shoved Clay’s shoulder. His body tilted with the push, but his expression never changed.

“Creep,” the boy muttered, though his laugh cracked at the edges.

Clay continued on, indifferent.

Myles

“Clay!”

The voice cut through the noise of the market. From the shadow of a leaning streetlamp stepped Myles, tall and broad-shouldered, his jacket patched with old leather. His beard was uneven, his grin wide despite the filth of the slums. Where Clay was hollow, Myles was fire.

“There you are,” Myles said, clapping a hand on Clay’s back. “I’ve been looking all over. Thought you’d wandered into the factories again.”

“I wasn’t lost,” Clay replied flatly. His voice carried no frustration, no warmth—only words.

Myles shook his head, amused. “One of these days, you’ll learn what it feels like to worry. But until then, I guess I’ll do enough worrying for both of us.”

He guided Clay away from the stalls. The vendors watched them go, whispers trailing behind.

“That boy ain’t right.”

“Should’ve starved long ago.”

“No soul in him. Just… clay.”

Myles ignored them, though his hand lingered protectively on Clay’s shoulder.

The Shelter

Their shelter was little more than a gutted building with half its roof caved in. Tarps stretched over beams to keep out the rain, and broken furniture served as walls. Inside, a dozen faces turned toward the newcomers—children too young to fend for themselves, scavengers missing limbs, elders whose eyes had grown cloudy.

Clay moved through them silently, carrying a bundle of wires he had scavenged earlier. He set them beside the heater, an old contraption that sputtered weakly. Without a word, he began repairing it, his hands moving with practiced precision.

The others watched.

“He doesn’t even blink when it sparks.”

“Strange boy…”

Myles sat nearby, sharpening a blade, but his eyes kept drifting to Clay.

When the heater finally whirred back to life, weak warmth filling the room, the group murmured thanks. Clay did not respond. Gratitude was wasted on him; he did not feel pride, nor joy, nor anything at all.

But he had done it because it needed to be done. That was all.

Stories by Firelight

That night, when the rain thickened and the heater glowed, Myles began his usual routine. The younger children gathered around, waiting for stories. His voice was rich, carrying over the crackle of fire.

“Long ago,” Myles said, “people could feel everything—love, sorrow, rage, joy. They painted the world with it. You could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Every tear, every laugh, every smile—it meant something.”

The children leaned closer. Clay sat apart, staring at the flames.

“But what’s love?” one child asked.

Myles smiled faintly. His eyes flicked toward Clay before he answered.

“Love,” he said, “is the brightest thing you’ll ever see. It’s dangerous too—strong enough to burn, strong enough to heal. When you have it, you’d give up everything to protect it. When you lose it, you’d burn the world down just to have it back.”

The children went quiet, eyes wide.

Clay tilted his head. “What color is it?”

The question silenced the room. Even Myles seemed caught off guard.

“Color?” he repeated. “Maybe red. Maybe gold. Maybe… all of them together. Hard to say. But you’ll know it when you see it.”

Clay nodded slowly, filing away the answer. He had never seen red. He had never seen gold. For him, the world was only gray, and words were hollow.

Yet something in Myles’ voice lingered with him, like an echo of a feeling he could not reach.

Later that night, as the shelter fell into uneasy sleep, Clay wandered outside. The rain had thinned to mist, and the streets were empty save for broken neon buzzing overhead.

He paused when he felt it—an odd ripple in the air, as if the world had inhaled and held its breath.

Across the street, a figure in a long cloak drifted between shadows. Its face was hidden, but Clay’s empty gaze locked onto it. The figure did not move like a man. It bent around the lamplight, its presence making the colors of the signs dim and flicker.

Clay did not understand fear. But for the first time, his chest tightened in a way he could not explain.

The cloaked figure vanished into the mist, leaving only silence behind.

Clay stared at the place where it had stood. He felt nothing. Yet deep inside, something shifted—a crack forming in the hollow shell of his being.

Tomorrow, he would learn what color truly meant.