Before Hunter headed home, he stopped by Mrs. Margaret's, letting her know that he would be gone for a while. She gave him a big hug and told him that she really appreciated all of the work he had done for her, and that he had made her life much easier.
They laughed over how they’d first met, Hunter was barely 12 years old at the time and had told them that his dad was an artisan who had just moved to the city and was looking for work. He asked them how much they usually pay for artisans, and said he’d do it for half the price. They were skeptical at first, but Hunter said he’d do the first job for free. He’d been taken advantage of a couple of times before that. Rejection was a familiar friend by then, he knew that the sting would fade. But rejection and deception were different. Rejection stung, but deception felt deeper. It was hard to stay motivated. He was about to give up and try to find another strategy when he finally came across Mrs. Margaret's shop.
But people like Mrs. Margaret and her family had been good to Hunter. Good enough that it encouraged him to continue looking for new clients. Soon enough, Hunter had at least two small jobs a week, which would be enough to feed himself. By the time he had to start paying rent for the house, he had more than enough jobs to keep him going. It all started here, at this toy store.
Hunter was touched by the reminiscing, and it reminded him of how strong he could be when it counted. It also reminded him that it was important to have good people to rely on in hard times. Where Hunter was going he had no one. He would be starting from scratch. But he knew that ruminating over what he would be losing wouldn’t do him any good. He’d had a few moments like that over the last few years and was trying his best to avoid a self-sabotaging spiral. He had to stay positive.
Hunter wanted to stick around for a bit longer and make sure that all of Mrs. Margaret's constructs were in good shape, but he didn’t have much time. Before he walked out the door, she handed him another 50 credits and told himself to come and visit if he ever came by their part of the city in the future. She assured him that the store wouldn’t be going anywhere so long as she was still alive to fight for it.He needed to get home and pack, tonight he would leave for the Capital. The competition was going to be difficult, but he wasn’t worried.
Before sending him off, Joyce had told him that the competition was going to be focused exclusively on designing and creating constructs. The first round would be about pushing their fundamentals to their limit, while the next two rounds would be about pushing the teams creativity and problem solving skills. Joyce said that most teams prepared all year for this competition— although the specifics of the rounds would be announced during the competition, the general pattern was the same.
Know your basics inside and out, is what she said. They weren’t just focused on results, they wanted a reliable result and an experts touch, they want to see if the competitors understand the art in artisan. He was going to be going up against future industry leaders, and the Council of Corporations knew it. This time, it was Oberon’s show, but this contest and others like it would cycle around the various Council Domains, the hosting corporation gained the advantage in the first offer to the young talents, and that’s on top of the prizes for placing in the top 3.
So although Hunter would be more visible than ever before, and he was sure that the men and women behind his fathers death would know about his existence once more, Joyce assured him that Oberon would be keeping an incredibly close eye on how the contest unfolded. Young talent was highly prized and corporations preferred to get those youths through a good school and transform them into an obedient cog as soon as possible.
She didn’t quite frame it like that, but Hunter could read between the lines. These are the mega-corps, after all. Vast, bureaucratic dreadscapes, built to pierce the sky and cast shadows that suppressed the creative soul of the world.
That being said, working for one of those would be a better fate than being a victim of the Comics. At least he could guarantee some degrees of freedom as part of the Oberon corporate structure.
His increased visibility during the competition and whatever came afterwards would be balanced out by increased security. This was Oberon Enterprises, not a local, family-owned convenience store. The amount of resources the company commanded would make any overt action against any of the youths at the competition an ill-advised operation. It occurred to him that if he wanted, he would have freedom even earlier, without officially signing a contract with Oberon. Maybe while he’s at the Barnum Academy of Excellence, he would his mind about his direction.
The Comics wouldn’t allow him to do that. Neither would any of the alternatives he could think of. He assured himself— for the thousandth time— than this was his best option. Hunter felt the pressure, but he wasn’t afraid. His textbook knowledge might be lacking, but constructs were practically his lifeblood. Synergies had presented him with opportunities to take shortcuts that would improve the end result of most projects that were put in front of him. It’s what kept people coming back to him— he did good work despite his handicap. Despite what the world thought about affinity ratings, he would prove that his expertise was valuable, and that his affinity rating was irrelevant.
When he got home, he nodded at the Comics who waited outside his door. It was important to respect them, no matter how much disgust and anger their presence inspired within him. No one in the neighborhood would challenge the Comics directly. They sneered at him as he walked by, and he heard the words ‘skeleton’, and ‘stick bug’ muttered under their alcohol-stained breaths. Hunter was used to it. It still stung, old memories of rejection that he didn’t like to touch would aggravate, he’d find new reasons to avoid contact with most people. At least when he could avoid it. Fending off starvation and exposure to the elements had a way of focusing the mind.
He was always tall for his age, but the AR deficiency, or whatever caused it, seemed to inhibit muscle growth. That, and the fact that he could only afford enough food to survive, and not much else in the way of luxury, meant that he was unnaturally thin and frail. Hunter had always had problems with bruises, broken bones, and dislocations while growing up. He’d learned how to be careful as he grew older, and his bones did strengthen a little bit, but he still needed to be vigilant about where he stepped. He was never out past dark, and he was always careful about how his environment was set up.
A bad injury could mean that he couldn’t work, and no work meant no food.
So it was best not to give the Comics any reason to find trouble with him. He accepted the insults with as much grace as he could. If he managed to trigger their aggression, he would find no savior. The cops wouldn’t be called, no one would complain. Hunter tolerated the jeers as he walked past them and unlocked his door, and ignored them when they told him that he had one more day before they made his choice for him.
“32nd Street ain’t a place for fools, kid. You think we’re fools? You think you can ignore us forever?”
Hunter felt tempted to comment on the irony of a comic denouncing a fool, but his self preservation instincts took over and he focused on unlocking his door and getting inside the house in one piece.
As the door closed behind him, Hunter took a deep breath.
They would leave in a few hours, like they normally did. And then he would never have to deal with them again.
Hopefully, he’d be out of their reach for good. Although he was loathe to admit it, working his ass off to impress the corps was infinitely more desirable than having to be associated with these clowns.
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Besides, winning the corporation and joining Oberon Enterprises would just be the first part of his plan.
Getting out of Sanctuary was his true vision. That’s what he needed to focus on.
Before this competition landed in his lap, the dream of leaving the pull of the world’s gravity seemed like nothing but a dream. He could still innovate, and push the boundaries of being an artisan, but he would do it locked to the ground— forever unable to step foot on strange new worlds, and see things no one had ever seen before.
But everyone knew that Oberon Enterprises pride themselves on their out-world expansion. If there was anywhere else that Hunter could have such a high chance of achieving his dream, he didn’t know about it.
He clapped his hands to cut interrupt his train of thought, shifting his focus towards what he had come back home to do— get the hell out of this city. To do that, he would need to pack.
Hunter didn’t have much in the way of bags or boxes to pack his stuff into. He strained to think of anything that he could use to bring what he needed to the capital city. He had a backpack that he could fit some of his tools into, and a few small boxes lying around the basement from old deliveries of spare parts. There was also a small carry-bag he’d brought at a grocery store a couple of years ago on a whim, convincing himself that he was doing his part to contribute to a better environment, and then promptly forgetting that he’d bought it until now. He could fit a couple of pairs of clothes into that.
A backpack, 3 small cardboard boxes, and a carry-bag.
He nodded to himself. It would be enough. The competition would only last the weekend, so he really only needed three sets of clothes to last him Friday to Sunday. If he needed anymore after that, he figured he’d just use the prize money to buy some more. The doubt started to rise again, the ever-present tension in his chest trying to let him know that what he was doing was absolutely insane, but he forced is attention away from it. It was irrelevant at this point.
He’d committed. One way or another, this would decide his future.
He paused, and remembered that there was another item he’d be carrying with him. In the corner of his room, fit snugly between his workbench and his closet, was a dark silver-grey briefcase, the same one that Jimmy had given to him all those years ago. He’d said that his father had given it to his boss, but refused to tell Hunter who his boss was and what his relationship to Hunters father had been. He’d spent some time trying to open the briefcase, but the material was too strong. The only way he’d be able to open it would be to unlock it, but it was locked by a passcode. So far, he hadn’t been able to guess what it was. Every few months he’d search his memories as far back as he could to try and find anything that could be a clue.
There were many times where he doubted whether the briefcase ever came from his father at all, and that it wasn’t some elaborate scheme concocted by Jimmy and his employer.
Not that Hunter could deduce what that scheme might be, but there were three things Hunter was certain of in this world, one was that his father was innocent, two was that Council corps could only ever be trusted to serve their own self interest, and three, Jimmy’s employer was probably someone highly placed in one such corporation. Maybe Hunter served as a way to frustrate a rivals plan. As far as Hunter knew, the last few years of his life he’d served as an unwitting pawn in some grand game of political chess.
He couldn’t prove it, and his ‘benefactors’ hadn’t asked anything of him, or threatened him in any way. In fact, it was almost as if Hunters’ wellbeing had been a chore they’d checked off of a list and then totally forgotten about. It was completely out of character for any corporation that Hunter had heard of.
So, either Hunter was forgotten, or they’d been up to date about Hunters situation the entire time. Hunter could only hope for the former option, yet something within him recoiled at the thought, and he laughed.
It was absurd, he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it, and yet there it was. How had he never seen it before?
He couldn't tolerate being forgotten, nor could he tolerate being known. But all he could do was shrug it off. It didn’t matter, did it?
He had an objective, and he’d decided that it was worth the risk. That was what mattered now.
Packing took longer than he’d thought. He warred with himself over what he’d wear, and which tools he’d need. In the end, he would take all of his custom stuff, and he would bring some of his own batteries. He had a few that were fully charged, and some with partial charges. He’d leave the ones that were completely discharged back home, as recharging them to a state of usefulness would take too long.
As far as his custom tools went, the most useful ones that he’d built into his workbench would have to be left behind as well, except for one that he could detach and carry over his shoulder. He couldn’t justify leaving it behind, as it acted as something of a third arm which could speed up his workflow tremendously. It was a heavy piece of equipment for Hunter, but he figured he could get someone to help him move it.
After getting everything packed up and placed by the door, he decided to read to kill the time before Joyce’s people arrived.
Hours passed, the sun went down, and the Comics left. Hunter waited. He kept looking out the window, waiting, hoping that every passing headlight would turn towards his cul-de-sac.
Hunter felt tempted to give up hope, as the hours passed by, almost convincing himself that it had all been a hazy dream born of a desperate mind. He let the familiar feeling of dread live in his chest for a while. He deserved it for getting his hopes up. But as soon as it rose, the grief dissipated.
He felt an odd sense of relief. His fate was decided. He would have to give the Comics his answer tomorrow morning.
Yet, he remained glued his seat, watching out the window. That soft ember of hope refusing to lose its flickering glow.
At just before 10pm, a large black SUV turned into the the cul-de-sac. Hunters heartbeat felt like it had accelerated a hundred-fold in the span of a second. He felt a surge of adrenaline.
This had to be them, right?
Sure enough, the SUV stopped in front of his house. The driver and his passenger stepped out and walked to his front door. Hunter had the door open before they could knock.
They seemed taken aback. Hunter could imagine how he looked, wide-eyed, slightly winded from the arduous jog across the 25 feet between the corner of his living room and the front door. He could see them clearly now from the light that shone out from his home. A man and a woman, both dressed casually. They both wore denim jeans, the man wore a white Oberon Enterprises’ t-shirt, and the woman had a studded leather jacket. She seemed the friendlier of the two, with feathered hair, large hoop hearings, and an easy smile. The man on the other hand appeared a bit more visibly guarded. Scanning the surroundings, eyes analyzing every detail.
“Hunter Koar?” The woman asked.
“Please tell me you’re here to take me to the Capital,” Hunter said between breaths.
“Yes, sorry for the delay. I take it this is all stuff you’re taking with you? You know its only for a few days, right?”
Hunter decided not to tell them the whole story.
Hunter considered the home he’d lived in for the last few years, and felt a sense of sadness. This was probably the last time he’d ever seen it, and as much as he’d grown to hate the neighborhood, this house had sheltered him during the worst of times and the best of times. He’d had so many small victories here, so many discoveries, so many dreams of what the future could look like if he somehow got the chance to soar.
The sentimentality took him by surprise. He would miss this place, but he figured that as far as those illusive chances go, this was as close as he would ever get.
Hunter turned off all of the lights and locked the door, got in the SUV, and left the cul-de-sac at the intersection of 32nd Avenue and Truss for the last time.
The key to that house felt heavy in his hand. Not physically, but there was a sense of significance to it. He studied it as the luminescence of passing streetlights strobed through the windows, the shadows cast through the windows constantly shifting and resetting. Not physically, but there was a sense of significance to it. Before, it had just been a key. He’d always been careful with it, knowing that if he’d lost it he probably wouldn’t get another one. He’d been close to losing it a few times, each time felt just as apocalyptic as the last. But this was a different kind of weight.
He was glad that he’d made the decision long ago to create a necklace out of twine, threading through the head of the key. His father had once said that it was important to remember your story, who you were, and who you’d become. The key would be his way to remember this place, the circumstances that brought him here, and his dreams of something better. He placed the key back around his neck and relaxed.
In two days, he felt like his life had changed completely. He knew he was just imagining it. The future was still unwritten, he would still have to push himself to win the competition. However, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d just done something important. He’d trusted himself. He’d found an avenue to improve his situation, and he’d taken it.
No matter what, he’d make sure that this opportunity bore the fruit he needed it to.