Yukio

By Kiarash Karimian Dowlatabad

He kicked aside discarded items and garbage bags, frustrated and hopeless. His Chinese peers were getting ready for final exams, hoping to be accepted into their desired universities. But he had more vital issues to think about. He had searched through every single e-waste container, even checking the regular trash bins. Not a single broken electronic device was in sight. Not even a damned one, for God's sake. The best he found was an old, broken smart monitor, its shattered screen the only thing left after someone had already stripped its internal components.

He let out a bitter smile and tossed it aside. Today, also, wasn't his lucky day!

"This damned disease has even affected people's trash," Yukio thought. Just a few months ago, people threw away anything that was even half-broken. Three years had passed since the last pandemic was extinguished. Yukio stood frozen for a moment, drawn back to the days before the news of a new wave of the pandemic spread.

"We will pass this period, too," he thought, fastening his mask. The thought was barely complete in his mind when he recalled something the old junk dealer in his neighborhood had said earlier that morning: "Things have gotten worrying, son. People are even holding onto T800 robots long after their expiration dates."

It had been decades since regular toothbrushes were phased out, replaced by the T800, the cheapest robotic toothbrush on the market. Designed for three months of use, according to its manual, it should have been discarded by then. Yet, lower-income individuals often recharged the robot's 7-millimeter detergent cartridge multiple times at select outlets, extending its use for months. The sales director at Xiaomi Hygiene Products had jokingly—and cleverly for marketing purposes—named the toothbrush after the lead character from Terminator, a very old Hollywood classic. 

Since the last wave of the pandemic, finding anything useful among the trash had become nearly impossible. People now dismantled broken items themselves, salvaging usable parts to sell to electronic junk dealers. 

It had been over sixty years since the world encountered the first pandemic of the 21st century. A decade later, the American economic downfall had begun.

No one in the "American neighborhood" of Shenzhen, the electronic megacity, remembered the once-glorious days of the United States anymore—except for Old Joe, who spent most of his time drunk. His tales of America’s economic dominance felt as distant as ancient Persian myths.

Professor Marvasti, an Iranian historian from Tsinghua University, had once hosted a popular podcast series about Persian legends. He had dreamed that one day Iran's 1.5-million-square-kilometer desert would be more than a playground for radical ideological militias and the rulers of the Islamic Emirates of Iran and Afghanistan. Similarly, Joe's stories, though they only dated back half a century, felt as if they were from centuries ago. Few people who lived through those times remained alive to verify Joe's memories. 

In recent days, Yukio had been searching the outskirts of the city, scavenging through the ruins where discarded electronic items were dumped. He had seen dozens of waste pickers like himself, all of whom returned home each night empty-handed and dejected. Tonight, despite the risks, he had decided to check out the incinerator site and search through the trash containers. 

For years, stories had circulated about scavengers who stumbled upon valuable items at Shenzhen’s incinerators and became wealthy overnight. Though Yukio had never personally met anyone like that, he had heard plenty of tales about those who went missing—or about the hunter robot that the incinerator plant was utilized by. 

He focused his mind, took a deep breath, and headed toward the last container. He had been struggling with focusing issues for a while. His playful mind started fantasizing anytime and everywhere, causing him problems, especially when he needed to be meticulous. To get through the next pandemic wave, he needed to procure vaccines for himself, his mother, and his younger sister, who was a defective hybrid. The vaccine package cost 170 Sinobits, roughly equivalent to two months' wages for a European technical worker in Shenzhen. Therefore, he needed to remain focused.

For some time now, Sinobit had become the most powerful and trusted global currency, setting the standard for transactions worldwide. After the World Bank banned cryptocurrencies, the Chinese government enhanced the digital yuan, which had replaced the falling dollar, with encryption and tracking capabilities via the central bank. They introduced it to the global market under the name Sinobit. 

Like most Japanese residents in Shenzhen, Yukio made a living by assembling robots, computer equipment, or parts of smart household appliances—usually discarded by the Chinese—and selling them to junk dealers. He was hardworking and talented, and his income was better than most of his neighbors. When luck was on his side, he would visit the affluent southern and southeastern suburbs over the weekends, scavenging e-bins outside homes for discarded domestic robot parts. Using those parts, he would assemble robots and usually sell them to the neighborhood junk dealer. 

The elderly Hong Konger who ran the shop was a fair buyer and typically paid well. In return, on one occasion, when Yukio had been lucky enough to find a highly advanced tablet discarded by a Chinese woman who had been influenced by the HOPE Mode, he sold it to Daniel at a reasonable price. Both of them benefited greatly from the deal. This event fostered a deep friendship between them. 

By the end of the 21st century, humanity’s most expensive form of entertainment was HOPE. The HOPE Mode was created by connecting a human neural network to a specialized computer known as the HOPE Machine, allowing the individual to enter a virtual world designed to deliver joy and pleasure based on their preferences. Euphoria, a sense of freedom, the thrill of flying, liberation from all constraints, ecstasy, prolonged orgasm, adventure, adrenaline rushes—these were the experiences people who had tried HOPE described on TV programs to the masses. 

However, only the Chinese and Koreans were allowed to use the HOPE Machine. Its system was reportedly engineered to function exclusively with Chinese and Korean genetic markers. Yukio had learned this from what happened to Takeda. 

Takeda was a hardworking fisherman in their neighborhood whose Japanese mother claimed she had conceived him with a Korean man. One day, Yukio heard from Daniel Li, the junk dealer, that Takeda’s employer had replaced him with a robot. That same day, Takeda sold everything he owned and bribed an identity verification officer at ChinaCorp to enter the HOPE Machine as a registered Korean citizen. 

After leaving the framework, Takeda had gone insane. He would laugh all day and spend his nights at the docks, getting drunk and shouting. People speculated that he couldn't handle such intense euphoria, but a neighbor had overheard Min Soo, a Korean gatekeeper at the seventh-level entrance of ChinaCorp's central building, saying that Takeda's Japanese genes had prevented his nervous system from fully syncing with the HOPE Machine, causing neurological disturbances. 

By then, it was clear that the Chinese and Koreans had become the superior races of the 21st century. 

Yukio was reflecting on these thoughts as he approached the final container. He opened it. 

"Damn it! This is medical waste." 

He had been hoping to find one of the infamous traps he had heard of, baited with something valuable, but it seemed that wasn't going to happen tonight. 

"Maybe that's why there's no sign of the hunter robots around the incinerator area!" 

Not even the garbage-collecting robots were present. 

Exhausted, frustrated, and somewhat worried, Yukio cursed himself more than anyone else for his bad luck. Just as he was about to shut the container, he heard a faint sound. He looked back inside. His night-vision goggles revealed only a few rats scurrying inside the container. 

Switching his headlamp to its digital laser diode (DLD) mode, he turned it on. The DLD lights were extremely bright, casting focused beams that were invisible except along their direct paths. However, they had a drawback—they malfunctioned in electromagnetic environments, flickering on and off. 

He stepped back from the container to let his headlamp stabilize. It flickered back on. From that distance, something at the bottom of the container gleamed faintly. 

To himself, he muttered, "Under DLD light, there's only one thing that glows phosphorescent like that—marine nano-coating!" 

The coating was applied to protective cases for transporting sensitive and highly valuable hardware overseas from the port of Shenzhen. Its unique property allowed lost shipments to be located, even with minimal light in complete darkness. 

With severe climate changes caused by human activity, maritime storms had become heavier, more dangerous, and—worst of all—unpredictable over the past thirty years. Ships caught in monsoons or whirlpools often had to jettison their cargo to improve their chances of survival. As a result, high-value shipments were placed in specialized waterproof cases with this unique coating. These cases could even be located deep underwater using DLD light. 

The cases themselves varied in construction depending on the importance of the contents. High-performance CPUs exceeding 1,600 terahertz, manufactured by ChinaCorp, were transported in ultra-durable plastic cases. Critical components were placed in beta-chrome cases, made of a lightweight yet bulletproof metallic alloy. 

"Maybe the magnetism is coming from that object too!" Yukio adjusted his headlamp to shine from a different angle. The phosphorescent glow remained unchanged. 

"I can't believe it... it's still glowing." 

Despite Daniel the junk dealer's warnings about a new virus and the next wave of the pandemic, Yukio hadn't brought the proper protective gear for handling medical waste that night. 

"That Daniel! Always seems to know everything in advance. I should've listened to him and brought my protective suit. At least I should've worn special gloves. How careless and incompetent have I become?" 

After berating himself for a while, he reached a conclusion: 

"I'd better go back and get the protective gear. There's no doubt these wastes are riddled with all sorts of viruses."

Yukio turned off his headlamp to avoid drawing attention in case anyone else was around. As he turned to leave, another thought stopped him in his tracks: 

"But what if Aimi finds this thing before I get back?" 

He turned his headlamp back on, shining it directly on the object inside the container. Its beautiful phosphorescent glow left no doubt about the importance of what he'd found. 

"Judging by the magnetism it emits and its nano-coating's phosphorescent glow, this must be a valuable piece. I'm sure there are people looking for it. If they've hired Aimi to find it, she's probably nearby... what an annoying girl!" 

Aimi was Yukio's primary rival in the second-hand computer and repair market. Unlike Yukio, she occasionally engaged in illegal activities, which had considerably improved her financial standing. She also catered to the software needs of Kornienko and his associates, earning the favor of the Russians. This backing gave her an edge that Yukio simply couldn't compete with. 

After the nuclear explosion in Tula, which had reduced Moscow to rubble, a group of Russian billionaires living abroad coordinated to form a powerful mafia organization. They hired surviving Russian intelligence operatives and military commandos to eliminate rivals and dominate illegal operations in several European capitals. Over time, their influence expanded globally, with Russian operatives running nearly every casino and brothel in major cities worldwide. 

The Colombian cartels, Italian Mafia, and Irish mob had become relics of the past. In Shenzhen, the city's mafia was led by Kornienko, a Russian-born Ukrainian immigrant from Crimea. He was a close associate of the Abramovich family and had military training from the Russian army. Except for the Chinese and, to some extent, the Koreans, almost no one was safe from his influence. 

Kornienko also served as a de facto agent of the government. ChinaPol, Shenzhen's special police unit, left him alone, avoiding interference in his affairs. In return, he carried out the "dirty work" that the authorities couldn't be directly associated with. 

Yukio's only stroke of luck in life was his relationship with the old junk dealer, who had a soft spot for him. The dealer often purchased hardware Yukio salvaged from the trash at a decent price. On rare occasions, a well-dressed, generous Indian customer frequented the shop. If Yukio was lucky enough to encounter this man, he could sell almost any scrap he found for a significant amount. 

However, it had been a while since Yukio had seen this customer, except for a couple of fleeting glimpses in the neighborhood. Yukio hoped to find something valuable enough to sell to him, covering at least a substantial portion of his vaccine expenses, if not all of it. 

The thought of how Aimi had managed to secure vaccines for both herself and her sister, Airi, just a few weeks ago filled Yukio with regret. But Airi's smile lifted him to the skies. The situation was so absurd that Yukio found it laughable—like Churchill falling in love with Hitler's sister. 

Airi was a stunning Japanese girl with large, dark eyes that captured all the grace and charm of an Asian beauty. Walking past her felt like witnessing a thousand jasmine trees bloom simultaneously, filling the air with their intoxicating fragrance. Her long, glossy black hair shimmered in the sunlight, and the way it danced in the wind left Yukio mesmerized.

Yukio had even lost an important robotics competition to Aimi because of Airi. He missed his chance to secure the vaccine, all because her enchanting presence distracted him at the worst possible moment. Airi always seemed to bring him bad luck, her captivating smile stealing his focus precisely when he needed it most. 

"If I let this opportunity slip away now, I'll never get another chance, and I'll regret it again!" Yukio thought, steeling his resolve. 

Determined not to miss the opportunity, Yukio returned to the container, resolving this time to enter it. As he approached the doorway, the laser light abruptly shut off. 

"If the metallic walls weren't blocking the magnetic field, half the neighborhood would’ve sought the DLD lights disruption source!" Yukio muttered. Pulling an extra mask from his pocket to prepare himself, he smirked, shook his head, and added, "What an interesting contradiction!" 

For a fleeting moment, the wildest, most impossible, and potentially dangerous thought crossed his mind—so absurd it startled even him. Speaking mockingly to himself as though addressing someone else, he said, "Let's see if we've hit the jackpot with a 'Made by ChinaCorp' box." 

Back in those days, factories in Taiwan state of China, specialized in manufacturing containers, travel cases, and various packaging materials. The island had become the world's hub for producing anything used to transport goods or materials. They even crafted specialized lead boxes for radioactive substance transport. 

The most peculiar box ever made, however, was manufactured by Kiang Company at the request of a Russian client. Crafted from platinum, its intended purpose was never officially disclosed. Rumors circulated that the Russians had ordered it to transport an incredibly dangerous synthetic radioactive element called Techniolium. 

According to speculation, the Tula nuclear explosion was caused by an attempt to produce Techniolium. Satellites had recorded radiation levels exceeding 300,000 Roentgen at the moment of the explosion—enough to obliterate the entire Russian Federation. However, Chinese media later released satellite imagery revealing a strange dark matter in the area, which seemed to have absorbed most of the gamma radiation and energy from the blast. 

More pragmatic experts dismissed such fantastical explanations. They argued that the Russians, the primary buyers of Taiwan's lead boxes, had likely used them for transporting uranium safely. At the time, Russia was the only nation still relying on nuclear energy for power generation despite global bans. Stricken by severe economic problems, they had been using uranium rods from decommissioned nuclear weapons in their century-old, decaying reactors to avoid the costs of clean energy production. These experts believed the Tula event was nothing more than another Chernobyl-like disaster, only on a far larger scale. 

Meanwhile, a dissident Japanese writer named Murakami, who was wanted across China, proposed a completely different theory. Murakami claimed to have sources proving that the Chinese Imperialist government orchestrated the explosion to cripple Russia’s economy. With China heavily investing in Russia since the early 21st century, a weakened Russia would default on its debts. This would leave China free to exploit Russia’s vast mineral reserves, solidifying its dominance as the world’s unrivaled superpower in the 21st century. Murakami believed the Techniolium rumors were fabricated by the Chinese themselves to deflect blame, as only Chinese tabloid media had ever mentioned the element. 

Yukio hesitated after taking only two steps inside the container, suddenly regretting his decision. If the object he discovered turned out to be a box marked "Made by ChinaCorp," it would mean it was something so valuable that the Russians would undoubtedly come after it. 

In the best-case scenario, they would simply kill him to retrieve the box. The second, more terrifying option, was that they would brutally torture him to extract information about any potential accomplices before disposing of him. 

Now, all Yukio hoped to find was a simple corporate processor—nothing more, nothing less. 

"A 1600-terahertz processor is worth more than 700 Sinobits. That means not only can we afford vaccines for all three of us, but we'll also cover our expenses for the next year. Mom won't have to work anymore. That's more than enough for someone like me. If I'm careful, it's worth the risk! I'll make sure nothing touches my skin, take an antiviral shower, and burn my clothes!" 

With utmost caution, Yukio headed toward the source of the phosphorescent glow he had seen earlier. The last container always rested at the edge of the incinerator.

Huan Min, the manager of the waste-burning factory, was a bald, overweight Chinese man who saw himself as a warrior against those who illegally entered his factory and stole garbage-collecting robots. Adding a dash of sadism and xenophobia to his disdain for robot thieves, he regarded all intruders as enemies. His methods for catching trespassers were varied, but they always ended with him savagely beating them. 

His latest tactic had become a deadly challenge between him and the scavengers. Each night, the garbage-collecting robots would place the most valuable item they found in a container, drawing scavengers toward it. Huan Min then had the container positioned at the edge of the incinerator so that even the slightest misstep would tip the container, causing its back doors to swing open and its contents to plunge into the furnace. 

His trap seemed effective, as the disappearance of several scavengers over recent weeks was attributed to this scheme. Huan Min took pleasure in hunting scavengers and burning them, reveling in their demise. While some factory workers indulged his sadistic games, European employees would usually inspect the furnace before igniting it, ensuring no one was trapped inside. To them, Huan Min's bribes weren't worth the guilt of such cruelty. 

Yukio calculated every step carefully, ensuring the container didn't tip to one side. He tossed trash toward the opposite end to maintain balance, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Finally, he approached the source of the glow. From two meters away, it looked like a box. A bit closer, and it resembled a metallic briefcase. It seemed the robots had truly found something valuable as bait that night. 

A wide smile spread across Yukio’s face—a rarity. He could hear his own excited thoughts: "I could seriously impress Airi with this. That annoying sister of hers and her useless cronies wouldn’t just stop mocking me; they’d be proud of my friendship with Airi. I bet even Aimi and her friends would try to hang out with me more. Maybe I’d even teach them a thing or two." 

With an air of confidence, Yukio hefted another bag of trash and threw it to the opposite side of the container. "After buying vaccines for us, I’ll get Airi a gift—something that’ll make her really happy and catch the eye of Aimi and her gang. Let them stew a little!" 

The thought of Airi’s enchanting smile filled his heart with joy. "I can already see the sparkle of happiness in her eyes. She might even kiss me." He shrugged and exclaimed aloud, "Who knows?" then chuckled with excitement. 

Lost in the daydream of Airi’s sweet smile and the magic of her lips, Yukio absentmindedly moved several black trash bags. The last one, he carelessly pushed aside. 

Pain seared his hand. 

"Damn it!" 

A used syringe had pierced his thumb. 

"What kind of careless idiot throws an uncovered syringe into a trash bin?" Yukio hissed in frustration. 

Then it hit him—he’d fallen into a trap! This must be Huan Min’s latest tactic for catching trespassers: killing scavengers with contaminated needles. It seemed Huan Min wasn’t content with simply targeting those who breached the factory’s barbed wire fences—he wanted to harm their families and loved ones too, ensuring no one dared to steal his robots again. 

Yukio’s heart sank. His fate was sealed. He’d be quarantined, burn with fever for a week, and then die in an excruciatingly grim way. 

It was just that morning that Daniel had warned him to be extra cautious, explaining that the virus’s latest mutation had made it far deadlier. Though its transmission was limited to bodily fluids, the disease had become far more lethal. 

Yukio collapsed, overwhelmed by a choking sensation in his throat. It was as if the symptoms had already started, suffocating him and draining his energy. He sat there for an hour, crying over the happiness that now seemed lost—the warmth of his mother’s hand, Airi’s smile. 

"If only I hadn’t been so distracted by thoughts of that girl, perhaps then, I might have noticed the exposed needle." He scolded himself.

A sound nearby caught his attention. It wasn’t the source of the phosphorescent glow—it was a hybrid kitten hiding behind a pile of trash bags. 

Shaking, Yukio rose to his feet. His vision blurred with tears as he searched for the object that had lured him into the container. 

"At the very least," he thought, "maybe selling it could pay for treatment. The TV said one in eight survives after treatment." 

Though he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it, Yukio knew the vaccination process involved an initial two doses, followed by several more over a span of days to months. 

Frustrated and furious with himself, he flung the last two trash bags furiously to the corner of the container. But then, it hit him—he was standing in the final container perched on the incinerator's edge. 

Panic gripped him, and he froze like a statue, ensuring the container's balance remained intact. It wobbled slightly but didn't tip over. Yukio closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. For a moment, everything fell silent—so silent he could hear the chirping of crickets. 

Suddenly a heavy impact shook the container, jolting him from his brief reprieve. 

The hunter robot had detected the noise of the last two bags he'd carelessly thrown against the metallic walls. 

It was too late. 

The container began to tilt, its weight shifting as it teetered over the furnace's gaping maw. Yukio was thrown into the air as the container tipped fully toward the incinerator. 

Desperate, he grabbed the edge of the container, hooking his hand into a small groove. Dangling precariously, he clung for dear life. 

But then, a thought crossed his mind: "I'm already as good as dead. Why endure a week of pointless suffering? Worse, I could infect my poor mother—or that useless Kyoko. Sure, she's always plugged in and doesn't even move, but if she gets infected, all of Mom's faint hopes of reviving her will vanish." 

A wave of guilt washed over him as he thought of his mother, left without his support and companionship. "How heartbroken she'll be," he sighed. 

He imagined a world without himself. "Apart from Mom and maybe Daniel, no one will even notice I'm gone. It's better if I give in to death here and spare my poor mother any further trouble. A few seconds of the furnace's flames, and it'll be over. They say once the temperature exceeds 70 degrees Celsius, you stop feeling anything. It won't even take a minute—probably just a few seconds."

Somewhere in the recesses of his memory, he recalled that the furnace's temperature could reach 600 degrees Celsius in less than 20 seconds. 

Resolved, he closed his eyes and thought of Airi, hoping to ease his despair and fill his final moments with something good. Slowly, he let go of the strength he'd been using to cling to the container's edge. 

Moments later, without a struggle, he was falling toward the furnace floor.

By Kiarash Karimian Dowlatabad