Living on the Ground is no easy feat. The cities can be rough, with theft and muggings and auctions to buy less than normal products; yet somehow they're safer than polluted zones. Trash Beasts, creatures made of garbage and brought to life by Anima from negative energy, threaten the lives of those who stray to close to their turf. There are Cleaners, though you haven't seen them before, you've heard that they can kill the Trash Beasts using 'Vital Instruments,' or 'Jinkis.' Those who can activate Vital Instruments are called Givers.

It's a whole thing. You never cared to research it; survival is more important than learning about some random do-good, item obsessed people. You don't have stability, living off what you can find. What you do have, you keep close, as it isn't much. Your whole life can fit into a ratty backpack. Talk about luxury. It's the kind of conditions that make you wonder what life on the Sphere is like. The floating place where all the trash comes from. Most people hate Spherites; the people who live on the Sphere. But hating people you can't see seems like a lot of wasted energy. Maybe that's why there are Trash Beasts to begin with.

Having little to your name means you spend a lot of time in alleyways waiting for more fortunate people to be easy pickpocket targets. You know it's wrong, but it's steal and live, or be morally correct and die. And technically, survival isn't wrong, is it?

Your eyes trace the people who are walking along, most of them is ratty clothes much like your own. However, a man in an off-white, long jacket with bright, upstyled blonde hair and a carefree look strolls by. He has a cross body bag, over his left shoulder, hanging by his right hip. His right hand has a cigarette between two fingers, and he puffs it lazily. His left hand holds the handle of a white, worn umbrella. An easy target if you've ever seen one.

You fall into step behind him, careful to be as mundane and boring as possible to avoid drawing attention to yourself. You ease your way closer, fingers reaching lightly for his bag. You manage to slide your hand into the pouch and close your grip around a bag that is clearly full of coins.

Bingo, you think to yourself, but suddenly the man stops, tossing his cigarette and closing his hand around your wrist and removing your hand from his bag as he turns to face you. You see black and red tattoos on his fingers, covering his arm and clearly covering a good section of his torso. His eyes are narrowed, a glistening gold. When he speaks, his voice is slightly rough from the smoke, but still seems to flow like honey.

"What do you think you're doing?"