@ EnTrappt

Robert’s fingers danced over his gear with an intensity that borders on neuroticism. He scoffed as he discovered a malfunctioning piece, proof that things hadn’t blown up…. yet. “Well, aren’t we lucky today?” he smirked. He had called off work for the next few days to prepare for the shoot. Surrounded by an array of weapons and gadgets spread across the table and the counters, he flicked through the holographic profiles of his competitors. As one face dissolved into another, he came across a disqualification because of an illegal weapon modification. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Guess he didn’t double-check,” he said under his breath. Robert then logged onto the network, browsing for supplemental information on the competition. Ads for protective gear and specialized weapons popped up with increasing frequency, providing a momentary distraction from the task in front of him. But he resisted their allure, focusing instead on his research as he weighed each piece of data. He scrolled through articles by past competitors and vendors, gaining valuable insight into strategies and techniques that have proven successful against varying weather and environmental hazards associated with the Zorathian climate. “…ernment program to help those who need it the most, the less fortunate of us living…” Robert turned off another ad that had popped up, eager to check out a video about Zorath to research the competition. He scrolled through the pages of content before coming across a comprehensive overview of the location. His eyebrows furrowed as he read the report: “Heavy storms, gusty winds, and low visibility” were some conditions mentioned in the overview. Later, after some lunch and more research, Robert found himself at the shooting range on the city’s outskirts, the steady rhythm of gunfire punctuating the air. His focus narrowed as he aimed at a target, finger tightening around the trigger. Before he could fire, however, a swarm of scavenger drones descended upon the range, mistaking the targets for scrap. This happened often enough that the other patrons in the range cursed with familiarity. None of them could do anything; the drones were United Confederation’s property, and it was best to let them do their job, no matter how bad they were at it. Most of the time, they were bad at their job because of the United Confederation’s program where a drone would fly around to find derelict AIs, robots, Synths, and Mechs, then ‘reprogram’ them to do a job none of them were designed or built to do. “Perfect,” Robert rolled his eyes. “Another day in this scrap-filled paradise.” Targets now obscured by the cloud of buzzing drones, Robert strode back towards the city, irritation simmering beneath a facade of amusement. He eyed the bright projected billboards advertising luxury items as they hovered above the heads of the homeless huddled in the shadows. The juxtaposition of opulence and desperation was not lost on him as he navigated the streets of Bethada. His observant gaze lingered on the empty spaces where the homeless had once sought shelter, now nothing more than hollow reminders of their absence. “Did they win a ticket to a better place or a one-way ticket out?” A grin appeared on his face. “Maybe they got ‘recruited for a special program.’” Robert’s thoughts drifted to Zorath, the capital planet where the tournament would soon occur. He imagined gleaming spires and pristine streets, contrasting against the grimy reality around him. “Must be the shine that hides dirt under the rug,” he smirked. With ease, Robert wove through a narrow alleyway, opting for a shortcut he had committed to memory. His every step echoed off the crumbling walls, punctuated by the distant hum of neon signs and the steady drone of traffic above. The sun cast long shadows over the cluttered streets of Bethada as Robert wove his way through the throng of people, their voices a cacophony against the hum of hovercraft engines. Amid this chaos, an array of alien individuals stood out in the crowd: many species with hued skins ranging the color spectrum, elaborate head crests, and iridescent wings spaced among the otherwise human throng. He headed towards Pete’s hangout for some advice. “I always have pleasant talks with Pete.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. As he rounded the corner, he almost collided with a city official in a sleek uniform, the insignia gleaming on his chest, a promise of power. A sneer played at the man’s lips as he regarded Robert with contempt, not at all hidden. “Watch where you’re going!” The official tugged at his impeccable cuffs, speaking in Myndulitus, the primary language of the Confederation. “Of course, your highness. Wouldn’t want to sully your fine suit.” In a world where most of the population was human, the official stood out like a beacon at night. His skin was an earthy brown mixed with spots of green in a striped pattern. His head was covered in tiny feather-like hairs that appeared to shimmer in the sunlight like the wings of a moth. The texture of his skin was unlike anything Robert had ever witnessed in person before: soft and downy like a newborn chick, yet so stretched that it almost appears like worn leather. Each feather on his head seemed to have a life of its own, moving this way and that as if swaying to some unheard song. “Your kind should learn some respect,” the official sneered, eyeing Robert’s worn clothes and the weapon slung across his back. “Respect is earned,” eyes narrowed, Robert speaks in a human language almost standard on Mool. “When you do something beneficial for this city, this moon, or this system, I’d consider it.” With a dismissive sniff, the official turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Robert to shake his head and continue. “Ah, the charming ‘leaders’ of this wonderful United Confederation.” As Robert reached Pete’s ramshackle dwelling, the makeshift door creaked open to reveal the old man’s weathered face, his eyes twinkling with mischief as they sat together in the unorganized hut. Pete leaned in, sharing whispered rumors about the capital city’s ‘benefits’ for the homeless. “Word has it they’re offering them a better life, but no one who’s gone has ever been seen again,” Pete confided, his voice grave. “But it could be anything. That Mr. Foreman feller and his gang have been making more appearances around here. He’s not known for taking people, just the normal drug lord and gangster stuff, but who knows?” “Sounds like a dream come true,” Robert deadpanned, “if you dream of never being seen again. I heard that guy likes to street fight, or at least he used to before becoming a big shot.” “Yup.” Pete nodded with a somber expression. A lull in the conversation opened up, and both men settled into a comfortable silence. Robert had been friends with this man for a while, and at that moment, the younger man realized the bond between the two meant a lot to them both, more than he thought. “I wasn’t always like this, you know.” Pete’s eyes were distant, breaking the silence. “I used to have a little shop in town that sold parts and gadgets. But business went south after some personal stuff.” “I didn’t know that. What happened?” “Oh, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you take care of yourself on that trip of yours. Are you sure you want to enter that thing? I’m aware money’s tight for you, and those entry fees aren’t cheap.” “Too late now, already paid, no refunds.” He let the statement stand on its own. “I’ve got to go grab some food. Thanks for the conversation, as always,” Robert clapped the old man on the shoulder to get out of talking about his poor financial decisions. He forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and started walking home, trudging along the gritty pavement and dodging clumps of trash. Screeching vendors and angry curses made the air heavy around him. The oppressive atmosphere was a physical weight on his back as he walked. At home, Robert hunches over his weapons in his kitchen, calibrating its intricate components. The rifle can mimic firing without expending any ammunition. It’s meant for the maintenance and troubleshooting of the complex equipment but can be used for some practice when no other options are available. “Alright, let’s give this a go.” He raises the weapon to his shoulder, aiming at the makeshift target tacked to the wall. His finger brushes the trigger, but as he’s about to fire, the weapon emits a shrill beep and seizes up, a tiny spark almost singeing his eyebrows off. “Close shave,” Robert notes examining the malfunctioning device. “Guess the universe must still have plans for me.” With a sigh, he disassembles the gun, searching for the cause of the malfunction. Discovering the faulty connection takes little time, and he works to fix it. As he works, his mind drifts back to his earlier conversation with Pete, the unsettling rumors gnawing at him like an itch he can’t quite reach. “Damned if I know what’s really going on.” His nimble fingers make quick work of the repair. “But I’m not about to end up another missing soul in this scrap heap of a city.” The weapon was at last fixed, and Robert returned it to the workbench, satisfied with the results. His muscles tensed with anxiety, and a nagging restlessness gnawed at him from within. He realized sleep will be elusive tonight, so he reached for a bottle of vintage wine, its age etched upon the faded label. “This old bottle has seen one hundred years of neglect.” He chuckled as he eased out the cork with a gentle pop. “Though I suppose my regrets haven’t been around as long as that.” Pouring himself a generous glass, he slumped into a rickety chair, allowing the liquid to wash over his tongue and warm his insides. The familiar buzz of intoxication embraced him, dulling the points of his anxiety but doing little to stifle the parade of thoughts that marched through his mind. “Sleep’s overrated, anyway.” He took another sip of the wine. It appeared to him that tonight would be another sleepless one. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” The first light of morning creeps over the horizon, casting a pale glow upon the cluttered room. Robert’s eyes flicker open, heavy from the impact of a sleepless night. The lingering waft of wine still sits at the back of his throat, offering little comfort now as he pushes himself into a sitting position with a groan. “Nothing like a night’s rest to face the day,” he rubs his eyes as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His stomach growls in protest, demanding sustenance after a long night of anxious pacing and swirling thoughts. “Alright, alright,” he says, heading to the food synthesizer nestled in the corner of his cramped apartment. “Let’s see what culinary masterpiece you’ve got in store for me today.” He punches a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast into the machine, then waits for the device to hum to life. Instead, it sputters and spews a gloopy mass of unidentifiable matter onto the waiting plate. “Ah, a surprise meal,” he eyes the mess with suspicion. “Just what I didn’t order.” The sight of the unappealing concoction destroyed his appetite; he dumped the plate into the trash and made his way toward the door, determined not to let the setback ruin his day. As he stepped out into the hallway, he almost collided with Mrs. Tarnowicz, the nosy neighbor who lived in the apartment next door. Her beady eyes fixed on him with thinly veiled curiosity. “Morning, Mrs. Tarnowicz,” Robert said, attempting to sidestep her. “Robert!” She pronounced, blocking his path. “I heard about that competition you’re entering. Quite the opportunity, isn’t it?” “Opportunity? That’s one way to put it.” The corners of his mouth tugged into a wry smile, knowing that Pete couldn’t refrain from gossiping to everyone he talked with. “I might return famous or not at all.” “Such a brave young man,” she clucked, shaking her head in either admiration or pity, before stepping aside to let him pass. “I’m the most courageous person around here, as everyone knows.” He chuckled to himself, swaying his head as he continued down the hallway and stepped out into the warm morning air. He liked to go for walks in the morning. The movement helped him clear his head. The city is still coming to life, though a few early risers already populate the street. Robert makes his way downtown, passing block after block of crumbling buildings and bustling cafes. His stomach rumbles again as the aroma of croissants fresh from the oven drifts towards him from a nearby bakery. He debates momentarily, then decides that a bit of indulgence wouldn’t hurt. After all, he deserves it after the disaster of a breakfast he had earlier. He steps into the quaint little shop, the air inside thick with the butter and sugar aroma. A young woman stands behind the counter, her bright blue hair in a messy bun. She smiles at him, revealing a set of crooked teeth that somehow only add to her charm. “What can I grab for you?” Her voice was soft and almost shy. The woman’s unique beauty captivated Robert’s attention, leaving him blushing. He composed himself, trying to appear nonchalant. “One croissant, please,” His voice betrayed his nerves. “Sure thing.” She reached for a buttery, flaky croissant and placed it into a to-go bag. Robert handed her a few coins, and she looked up at him with a warm smile. “I hope it makes your day sweeter,” she said, giving him his change. With his face turning redder by the second, he stammered his thanks and headed out the door. Taking a deep sigh, he stepped out into the street, replaying their brief interaction and wishing, not for the first time, that he had a single personable bone in his body. Robert pushes his door closed behind him with the heel of his shoe and surveys his room. The morning light lances through the gaps in the heavy drapes, tinting everything a subtle red. His apartment is composed of simple furniture salvaged from yard sales and the trash that line the roadsides. The furniture pieces are scattered about the room as though he had finished moving boxes into place and had rushed to put them to use. With a sigh, Robert shoulders his gear and steps out into the bustling city streets. For a moment, he wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake by even considering entering the competition. With a smile, he says, “Here’s to pursuing wealth and an unpredictable future.” Robert’s footsteps echoed against the sleek, concrete, metallic pavement as he left behind the city’s buzz. The urban setting gave way to a landscape of sprawling, modern architecture. Skyscrapers pierced the sky, their spires casting long shadows across the moon’s surface. Neon signs flashed in the distance, illuminating the converging dreams and dystopia of Bethada. A rustling noise drew his attention. He turned to a scene of several white hover vans parked nearby, their engines emitting a soft hum in the midday air. It appeared they were picking up some homeless people standing on the side of street corners, and he raised an eyebrow. Although he didn’t know what these vehicles might be used for or who was behind them, something about this situation didn’t sit right with him; a nagging sensation deep in his gut warned him not to trust whatever was happening here. However, he had a timeline to stick to; otherwise, he might stop to think about the situation. He headed to what the welcoming package called the “launch site,” where the equipment and shooters were inspected and verified. This prevented synthetic beings, AIs in biological-like bodies, from entering the competition. The weapons were checked to conform with standard rifle specifications, and the competition barred any modification for auto-targeting or AI implementation. Which Robert was okay with, as he couldn’t afford an AI-equipped rifle regardless; even on credit, he’d tried. Approaching the competition’s launch site, Robert marveled at the massive structure before him. It loomed overhead like a giant monster, its steel arms reaching out as if to embrace, or perhaps ensnare, those who dared to enter. “Welcome to the belly of the beast,” he thought. As he stepped through the entrance, a technician greeted him with a friendly smile and an electronic clipboard. She got straight to work on checking his rifle, her fingers tapping away at the screen with practiced efficiency. In a futile attempt at small talk, she asked, “First time?” “Is it that obvious? Promise to take it slow?” A smirk played on his lips. His tone was light, but his thoughts churned with anxiety. “Ah, don’t worry. They say the first time’s always the hardest. Remember to trust your gear, and you’ll be fine.” “Trust my gear…” He briefly mulled over her words before responding with humor, “My gear never fails, especially with a pretty lady.” The technician blinked, surprised by his clumsy attempt at being flirtatious. “Uh, thanks? I guess?” she said, unsure of how to respond. With a final tap on her clipboard, she nodded. “Well, your gear checks out, Mr… Fannec, is it?” “Robert, if you please.” He suppressed a shudder of distaste at the formal address.. “Alright then, Mr. Fannec.” She returned his gear with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Luck out there.” “Thanks, I’ll need it,” he said, shouldering his equipment and stepping further into the launch site. As he walks away, he thinks perhaps luck will be the only thing keeping him in the competition. He walks to a body scanner, a circular platform with four enormous lights in front. It scans Robert as he steps into the light circle. This isn’t new to him or most of the competitors. In every job he’s ever started, he’s had to prove that his biology is natural. He never understood why; what did it matter if he was an AI or not? Not that he liked AIs, but that wasn’t because they were inferior. After proving he is an ‘evolved being,’ a massive holographic screen above the launch site entrance flickers to life, displaying a news report on the looming storm. Robert gazes at the swirling, dark clouds projected overhead, his eyes narrowing as he processes the information. “A storm’s coming. Pity it can’t solve the city’s problems. But it might wash away some grime.” With a shake of his head, Robert pushes aside thoughts of the competition and focuses instead on the job. He wants to visit Pete before heading back home. After navigating the streets once more, Robert arrived at Pete’s. The area in the elderly man’s cobbled hut appeared more organized than usual as Robert stepped inside. There was no evidence of the old man’s typical messy existence. Robert moved closer to get a better look when his chest tightened with dread. No sign that anyone had even been here. The space appeared abandoned, with only traces of dust particles remaining, as though years had elapsed since it was last inhabited. Robert keeps his calm composure, but deep inside, regret creeps in, and even tears start welling up. Assuming the older man took the government assistance with heavy feet, he shuffles out from a room where memories will remain forever locked within its emptiness, whispering, “I hope you’re okay. I’ll miss you.”