Bab 1: STRAY
What is Youth?
Does it happen before the age of 10? 20? 30?
How does it feel to experience the fervor of youth? Is it like drugs? Is it addicting? Did every child in the world get to experience it, or were there just a few who were lucky enough to have a taste of it?
Maybe it was the opposite. Perhaps, there were just too many of those who had the short end of the stick, those who had bad luck.
"Hey, stray, get me a pack of cigs," called one of the local thugs in the streets. The thug tossed a cent to him, unaware if that amount of money even amounted to much.
As if his money was even enough to buy a pack, Stray complained in his mind. If he talked back, he would only receive a beating of a lifetime. Every beating was like a lifetime. At this point, Stray could only succumb to his fate… or die trying to fight it.
"I guess I have to steal again," Stray whispered to himself, not really keen on fighting his fate with a more violent means. For all he knew, staying alive was his only avenue to fight the so-called inevitable fate of one day dying here in the slum, as every stray did.
"Sigh," pushing the worries to the back of his mind, Stray focused on himself. "If only… heroes were real." Punching the wall with his small fist, Stray set his mind straight. He couldn't fail such a small 'errand' mission like this.
With the high walls of the buildings surrounding him, Stray felt too small. Forget the several residential houses of various architecture. Even if compared to a rat casually crossing the streets from canal to canal, Stray would similarly feel just as small.
Being barely an eight-year-old kid, it was natural for Stray to feel small.
In the next five years, Stray continued being Stray. The only solace Stray had in those five years was the bits of pirated movies he was smuggling, all of them about superheroes.
How fun would it be if there were really heroes who would willingly save his worthless life? It was Stray's luck he managed to finish watching Avengers: Endgame. At least that would pacify his soul from the fact that he couldn't watch the following movies or TV series anymore.
Stray knew… at the age of 13, he would be chopped up for organs.
Stray didn't even feel any surprise or fear as the thugs strapped him into a bed, injected him with anesthesia, and introduced him to the very medical professional who would chop him into parts. It wasn't so bad. In a sense, it was liberating.
To any criminal syndicate, healthy organs were quite an enormous source of income thanks to the various hospitals and rich folks needing them.
All too suddenly, the world in front of Stray became white.
No longer was Stray in straps, but instead, he was standing in the middle of this white world. Stray felt his insignificance again, reminding him of the high buildings that surrounded the streets from his place.
"Is this the afterlife?" It was a rhetorical question, but someone answered nonetheless.
"Maybe," an old man with white hair and cool sunglasses appeared before Stray in this white world. "You had a hard life… Too hard…"
!?
"Yeah, I know…" Stray nonchalantly replied back. "After all, it was a stray's life."
As if the great will of the universe was pushing him, Stray started opening himself up to the old man.
"Stray isn't my name. It's just that I got used to it too much, and the name they are calling me stuck. Apparently, I can't remember the name my mom gave me anymore. According to the neighborhood, my mom died an early death due to a terminal illness— I was five at that time.
"The gang around my place took me in. Of course, it wasn't done through kindness. They gave us jobs— they made us beg in the streets for money, made us smuggle drugs and bullets, and when we didn't meet our quota: they made us their personal punching bag.
"The only silver lining is that I don't have anyone to care for me anymore— that means, no one has to worry about my welfare unlike the other kids in the gang who were forcibly taken away from their parents as payment for their debts.
"Despite the harsh treatment, we were fed quite well— from time to time, we even received health check-ups from professional doctors. Again, not done in kindness… They just wanted us, their goods, to remain healthy and undamaged."
Stray mourned in silence as he recalled the terrible memories. Being at death's door did a lot of things to the brain. Even someone as unfeeling as Stray was not invulnerable to these emotions… no matter how deep he buried them.
Slowly, tears gathered in his eyes, the only thing Stray could see now was a blur. The pain… he had been suppressing it for a very long time. In that short duration of five years, Stray only had those pirated movies to cling to.
"Do you… like heroes?" The mysterious old man spoke in his unchanging even tone.
Though Stray's eyes were blurry, his ears worked just fine.
"Huh?" Baffling, but Stray didn't ignore it. "H~ik…" With a small whimper, Stray thought hard about an answer to the old man's question.
After a long time of contemplating, Stray finally arrived at an answer he could find satisfaction with. Wiping the tears away from his eyes, Stray resolutely gazed at the old man.
"I expect heroes to be weak. But contrary to the fact, they appear to be strong— so in essence, heroes are a scam. A scam I am willing to believe. Even though they are fiction, I am willing. Because more than physical existence, they are symbols."
*Clap *Clap *Clap~
"For being such a loyal fan, let me give you a new lease on life." The old man snapped his fingers… and Stray was gone.
The next thing Stray knew was that… he now had a name… and he was now... an American.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone