Max Parker was a genius.
At least, he liked to think so.
Sure, his room looked like a science fair exploded in it. And sure, the Wi-Fi went down twice a week because he kept "borrowing" bandwidth from the neighbor's satellite dish to scan for encrypted military chatter. And yes, he may have accidentally fried the microwave once while testing a theory on electromagnetic pulses using kitchen foil and an old vape pen.
But genius is messy.
"Max! Are you trying to kill this house?!"
The voice came from the kitchen. His mom. Always one octave below snapping.
"No, Mom! I'm trying to elevate it," Max yelled back from his bedroom.
A loud clatter echoed down the hall—Max's failed DIY gravity gun had just rolled off his desk and smashed into a stack of plates he "borrowed" for calibration.
His mom stormed into the room, hands on hips, apron still on. "You broke more dishes? That's the third time this month!"
"Technically, the fifth," Max muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"I said third! Definitely third."
She glared. "What did I tell you about playing mad scientist in here?"
"It's not mad, it's visionary," Max said, adjusting his crooked glasses. "Also, if you think this is bad, you should see Tesla's lab. The guy burned down a building."
"I work two jobs, Max. Two. Jobs. So we don't end up in a cardboard box, and you're in here building one out of ramen boxes and duct tape!"
"It's a portable Faraday cage. In case of electromagnetic attack."
"Oh my God."
She turned around and muttered something about "this boy needing Jesus and a job."
Max sat cross-legged on his bed, pushing aside old comic books and a homemade "Time Traveler's Checklist." He glanced around at the peeling wallpaper, the cracked window that never fully closed, and the ceiling fan that made an unnerving clicking sound every thirty seconds.
Yeah... maybe not so middle class.
From outside, a car backfired. A dog barked. Somewhere, a couple argued about who stole the last chicken nugget. The soundtrack of the neighborhood.
"I just want you to act like a normal kid, Max," his mom said, coming back into view. "Get your grades up. Make some friends. Stop talking about shadow governments and lizard people."
Max stood. "They're not lizards. They're highly-evolved reptilian beings from Zeta Reticuli. And I have friends. Online."
She rubbed her temples. "Go outside. Get fresh air. Touch some grass, for God's sake."
"Maybe I will."
"Fine."
"Fine."
He stormed out of the house with no plan, no backpack, and absolutely no sense of direction.
But that was Max. He rarely needed a destination—just a direction and a reason. And the reason today? Pure rage. Also boredom. But mostly rage.
He stomped down the cracked sidewalk, past the corner store with the flickering neon "HOT SNAX" sign, past the old barber shop where Mr. Daryl still used a cash register from the 1800s, and down toward the outskirts of the city.
As he walked, his thoughts started to drift. He thought about how Superman was a loser on Krypton but a god on Earth. He thought about how no one believed Galileo either, until they were building satellites based on the stuff he got arrested for. He thought about how maybe, just maybe, he was just one freak accident away from becoming the smartest man alive.
That's when the smell hit him. Burnt rubber. Moldy plastic. Rotting... something.
Max looked up and realized where his legs had taken him.
The dump station.
Massive mounds of trash. Jagged towers of rusted appliances. Crushed cars stacked like Lego bricks. A haven for rats, secrets—and in Max's mind—possibly alien technology.
He grinned.
"Today might be the day," he whispered to himself, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's find something that doesn't belong."
And just like that, he dove in—digging through old TVs, cracked monitors, random coils of copper, and the occasional disturbingly intact baby doll head.
He was elbow-deep in a pile of shredded circuit boards when he heard footsteps crunching behind him.
Max spun, yanking his hoodie hood up like it would hide him from assassins.
"Who's there?! I'm armed with... knowledge!"
A boy stood there, holding a beat-up bike, sweat-matted hair clinging to his forehead.
"Relax," the boy said. "I'm just... here."
Max narrowed his eyes. "You followed me?"
"You're in a public dump."
"Don't change the subject," Max said, pointing at him suspiciously. "You one of them?"
"One of who?"
"The suppressors. The narrative managers. The people who delete Wikipedia edits about the moon base."
The boy blinked. "I just got dumped by my girlfriend. I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."
Max paused. Then nodded, satisfied. "You don't have the eyes of a liar."
"Thanks... I guess."
"Name's Max," he said, offering a dirt-smeared hand.
"Alex," the boy replied, shaking it reluctantly.
And just like that, without another word, the two started scavenging together.
At first, they didn't say much—just occasional grunts and curses when stepping on something sharp. But then the jokes started.
"Bet this toaster's from Area 52," Max said, holding up a busted appliance with a fried circuit board.
"Don't you mean Area 51?"
Max looked at him like he was five. "That's the one they want you to know about."
Alex snorted. "I think this TV just tried to bite me."
"Careful. Some of these CRTs are haunted."
They kept digging, occasionally tossing things into a shared "maybe cool" pile. They found a cracked VR headset, a Walkman filled with ants, and something that looked suspiciously like a taser attached to a toothbrush.
Time passed. Sunset bled across the sky in burnt orange and purple.
Eventually, both boys dropped beside each other on the dusty ground, panting, sweaty, and laughing.
"This is... insane," Alex said between breaths.
"I know," Max replied, eyes still on the clouds. "Isn't it awesome?"
They lay there in silence for a moment, staring up at the bruised sky, looking like two idiots who had just survived a trash-based apocalypse. Neither of them had found anything remotely superhuman.
But for the first time all day... neither of them cared.