@ EnTrappt

He walked the decaying streets; his curious expression masked a lifetime of hardship. The city of Bethada spread before him, a tangled maze of buildings and passages clinging to the surface of Mool. This settlement-turned-city once thrived as humanity expanded throughout the galaxy but was now an almost forgotten backwater outpost. A thin crescent of reflected sunlight hugged the horizon as the sun dipped behind the gas giant, casting the lunar city in a soft glow. “Hey, Mr. Fannec!” A voice from across the street hailed him. The human scowled; he hated being called “Mr. Fannec.” He waved an arm in acknowledgment but didn’t break stride, eager to leave the concrete and steel jungle behind for the day. Robert Fannec grew up in a crowded housing unit on Mool, raised by his grandmother, while his mother went to work long hours to scrape by. From a young age, he learned that life was difficult and one should take respite where possible. He lived on the outskirts of Bethada City, barely getting by, as he grew up in poverty. His mother worked to exhaustion but failed to improve their living conditions. “Ya know, Bobby-boy,” said Pete, the local unkempt homeless man whom Robert was friendly with, “This world is reminiscent of a less-than-ideal sandwich, the bread stale and the cheese nothing to write home about. One is left pondering if their hunger is clouding their judgment or if there isn’t much to be thrilled about.” Robert met the man when he first arrived in Bethada as a young teen; although Robert would not consider them close friends, a particular understanding drove him to keep checking up on the older man. Indeed, life was a struggle for Pete, an elderly citizen, amidst the chaos of the metropolis. Plus, they’d talk about random topics such as music or history during their visits, which made those times personal rather than plain help alone from Robert. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he replied, half-smirking. “One day, we’ll get some fresh ingredients around here.” “Ha! I’ll believe it when I see it.” Pete laughed, shaking his head. “Me too, Pete. Me too.” The heaviness of the town’s stagnant air pressed on his back as he nodded and walked down the street. Robert’s face contorted as he inspected the town. It resembled a knockoff designer watch; instead of shoddy craftsmanship and cheap parts, it had abandoned storefronts and peeling paint. He let out a hearty chuckle at the comparison. As he wandered through the decrepit streets, he wondered what treasures lay beyond these crumbling walls. “Damn shame,” Robert said, taking in the breathtaking landscape before him. “Nature got the memo about beauty, but Bethada sure didn’t.” “Hey, Rob.” One of his coworkers waved as they clocked into their shift at the local industrial farm. “You daydreaming again?” Responding with a grin, Robert shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn coveralls. “Hey, Dave. The way this place looks, it’s a wonder we haven’t all packed up and moved to a better neighborhood.” “Tell me about it.” Dave chuckled, pulling on his protective gloves. “But then, who’d keep these machines running? They’re almost family, after all.” “Only if your family is a ragtag group of misfits held together by sheer willpower.” Robert’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “You got me there.” The atmosphere was filled with the howl of steam, engines, and other loud machinery as their shifts began; the high-pitched note of pressure released into a valve opening providing a familiar backdrop to their daily lives. The other workers chattered about their outside lives, which was a welcome distraction from the monotony of work. Family adventures, weekend getaways, and hobbies or creative outlets were among the stories shared to describe how they spent their spare time. Robert kept his distance as snippets of their conversations reached him. For Robert, the idea of discussing personal matters with his peers was uncomfortable. He struggled to bridge the gap between himself and his co-workers, unable to relate to their shared interests in such pastimes. They were experiences he could never relate to, as he had grown up too fast due to his family’s financial struggles. As a result, he put more effort into getting along with the machines than with his fellow humans. He considered the equipment to be more dependable than any human friend, even if some machines were beyond repair or had been handled in a careless manner. But for him, the genuine excitement started when the work whistle blew, signaling the end of another grueling day. “About time!” He wiped the sweat off his face. He often daydreamed about heading to the range to take out some frustration. “Man, you love that shooting range, don’t you?” Dave’s voice had a hint of envy. “Sure do,” Robert said, shrugging off his coveralls. “It’s the one place where I feel like I’m actually in control and not another cog in this rusted-out machine of a city. I don’t have to worry about life, exes, debt, nothin’.” “I’m hopeful that one day you’ll be able to leave this place behind. Start off somewhere new.” Dave said, slapping Robert on the back. “Here’s hoping.” His eyes were locked on the horizon as if he could see himself leaving this hellhole. He was off to the local shooting range, where he could pretend everything still had order. After almost being run over by a white hover van while crossing the street, Robert arrived at his sanctuary’s shooting range. The aroma of gunpowder, battery acid, and cut grass mingled as he reached his usual spot. Robert found it delightful compared to Bethada City’s typical mildew and burnt leather odor. “Alright, let’s dance,” he said, loading his trusty rifle with practiced ease. His rifle was a simple affair that allowed Robert to vent his frustrations on targets. He was a decent shot; at least, that is what he thought of himself. Squeezing the trigger, firing off round after round. The targets quivered under the onslaught—a symphony of destruction played by the percussion section of his life’s dull and sad orchestra. When he was still a teen, he found abandoned buildings around Bethada. He’d take his rifle and practice shooting at bottles, furniture pieces, walls, and whatever appeared. His mother and grandmother were furious when they found out, but that didn’t stop him from terrorizing bottles and paper targets. “Take that, you cylindrical bastards,” he said, landing a satisfying shot on the smallest target. He was absorbed in his practice, not thinking about his lackluster life. His rifle was a standard design of a powered weapon. The long barrel gun accelerated hunks of metal via a magnetic rail system, unlike other, more exotic armaments that used energy to produce high-speed plasma rounds. The sound of a round from this rifle would startle any man. “Still the targets, if I had to guess,” came a raspy voice behind him. Turning around, Robert saw Pete. His beard was a patchwork quilt of gray and white strands, and his clothes had more holes than fabric. Pete lived near the range because he realized the people who would frequent such an establishment would be well-armed and well-disciplined, making it a safe spot compared to other less savory locations. “Ah, Pete, my favorite critic,” Robert joked, setting down his weapon. “What brings you here today?” “Same thing that always does,” Pete said, scratching his chin. “The sweet sound of gunfire, the scent of ambition, and a hankering for some ol’ fashioned conversation.” “Still working on that novel?” Robert knew that Pete had been “working” on it for years. “Indeed, young Robert. Though I fear my magnum opus may never appear in daylight, trapped as it is in the literary purgatory between my brain and the page.” “Hey, at least it’s got company in there, right?” Robert laughed at his joke. “You’ve got a ton of unwritten works in there, right?” “True enough,” Pete said, a sparkle in his eyes and tales left untold. “Speaking of company, how’s your aim today? Plan on shootin’ repo-men?” “Pretty good, if I do say so myself. The grouping on the smallest target isn’t the best I’ve done, but overall, I hit what I’m aiming at.” Ignoring the quip about Robert shooting repo men. Embarrassed that he could not manage money as well as other people. He still wasn’t able to constrain his urges to buy things he couldn’t afford. “Ah, a prodigy in our midst!” Pete performed a mock bow. Robert didn’t always know how to handle Pete. So the younger man looked at him with an odd expression. “You remind me of my son.” A sad smile flickered across Pete’s weathered face. “He was an odd duck, too, always tinkering with machines and dreaming big. He went off to work in the mines when he was a boy. Never saw him again after the collapse.” Pete shrugged, fidgeting with a broken timepiece in his hands. “Sorry to hear that. How old would he be?” “About your age, I guess.” “I bet I would have liked him.” “I would like to think so, too. You’re both good kids.” After a brief conversation about Pete being unable to find one of his friends, they exchanged farewells. Robert packed his rifle into his worn bag and exited the street, where he focused on his thoughts and started making his way home. The sun and planet started to set, and their fading orange light gave the sky a beautiful hue. Robert took in the scenery as he strolled, not paying attention to one of the sleek white hover vans that had become so popular in the past months. It zipped away through the air as he watched before returning to his thoughts on what he would have for dinner. The building he lived in stood like a weary sentinel at the town’s boundary, a hodgepodge of mismatched bricks and creaking metal that had long ago lost any semblance of architectural grace. Despite its weather-beaten exterior, the residents maintained a veneer of pride, as evidenced by the door with a fresh coat of paint. Upon entering his small apartment, Robert was greeted by the neutral aroma of cleanliness, not too sterile but not fragrant enough to be noticeable. The scent was as unremarkable as beige. A fragrance that announced, “I am clean and functional, but please don’t expect any frills.” He lived alone, which was considered a luxury tantamount to owning a solid gold toilet brush. He cherished living alone, deeming it a worthwhile trade-off to sacrifice financial stability for solitude. His independence was threatened when he received an eviction notification last week. It had been weeks since his rent had been due, and the creditors were no longer in the mood to accept any more late payments. Unless Robert could find a way to earn the money necessary for back-rent and tenancy fees, he would have to pack his belongings and leave his beloved apartment for good. Robert switched on his computer to search for night jobs but was soon distracted by a video that had popped up. The government shared an informative clip, motivating citizens to be proactive and responsible financially. Robert recognized a humanoid alien named Damian Krestov, with pale yellow skin and a texture Robert couldn’t place; he didn’t know where the man was from. He almost spoke to Robert as if aware of his situation. Damian spoke about taking responsibility and believing and trusting in yourself when times are demanding because one must never give up hope. As he spoke, Damian gestured enthusiastically to express himself and emphasize his points. This man believed every word that came from his mouth. After watching out of curiosity, Robert realized that it was all a propaganda video in disguise; he didn’t pay enough attention to understand the actual goal of the ad, but he knew it wasn’t ‘just an ad.’ His green eyes fell on a colored flyer that someone had slipped under his door while he was stretching out his legs. It bore the headline: “Prestigious Shooting Competition on Zorath!” Beneath the flashy text, an illustration portrayed a muscular figure raising a gun in triumph while standing on top of a mountain of defeated foes. Robert scoffed; he was skeptical of such an over-the-top advertisement, and one delivered on paper door-to-door. Still, a twinge of excitement hit him as he read the details: a grand prize of one million credits and a chance to become a professional shooter, whatever that means. Despite his initial skepticism about the ridiculous flyer, his heart raced at the thought of escaping his less-than-ideal life on Mool, proving his skills, and making enough money to not worry about those debt collectors. Questions swirled in Robert’s mind, but none could snuff out the flame of hope that had ignited within him. As he crumpled the flyer in his hand, he imagined the look on Pete’s face if he were to win the competition and return to Mool with a million credits and a newfound sense of freedom. “Who designed this? A five-year-old with a crayon?” Robert scoffed. Yet, despite the ridiculous presentation, he couldn’t ignore the Sub-Lunar Protective Service logo, a shield with ‘SLPS’ stamped in the bottom right corner. “What is a government agency running a shoot for?” It wasn’t news to Robert that the agency would run events, but it still perplexed him why. “Alright, Fannec,” he said, attempting to rationalize the situation. “Let’s say this is legit. You’ve spent your whole life shooting targets at the range. You can leave this shit moon and pay off some debts.” As he weighed the pros and cons, his eyes flicked back to the grand prize: one million credits. With that money, his life could undergo a complete metamorphosis, rescuing him from this decrepit city and launching him into an existence he had only imagined. But was it worth the risk of taking time off work? He was already behind by several weeks’ rent and couldn’t afford time off. “It’s a risky gamble.” He thought. “But it might be my ticket out of this mess.” He rubbed his temples. “Why couldn’t they have made a normal ad instead of this cartoonish mess? Is this some cruel joke?” Deep down in his subconscious, he was aware he had already decided. His desire to escape was far more potent than any doubts he might have about the competition’s legitimacy or his abilities. “Okay,” he said, preparing himself for the decision ahead. “Worst-case scenario, I lose the apartment, and I’m the laughingstock of the city for a while. Best case, I walk away with a million credits, which would pay off all of my debt and buy me a new life somewhere else.” “Alright, let’s see what kind of mess I’m getting myself into.” Pulling up the competition details on his comm device, he scrolled through the information, his eyebrows furrowing with each new bit of it. “It’s scheduled during storm season on Zorath. Do these event planners even know how to read a weather report?” The thought of traveling to a distant planet during its tumultuous storm season made Robert’s stomach churn. He had never left Mool before, and while he was confident in his shooting skills, everything else about this trip was uncharted territory. This kind of shoot requires more than marksmanship. To outsmart his rivals, Robert must think fast and use the landscape and surroundings to gain an advantage. Storms would make that difficult, and Robert didn’t practice a lot of situational shooting. Sniper shooting was his strong suit, which he practiced most. “At least it’ll be a memorable experience.” Robert couldn’t shake off his hesitation. His worries extended beyond the storms. He would be up against marksmen who possessed more shooting and life experience. He stopped pacing and stared at his reflection in the window. The city lights of Bethada flickered in the glass, casting a melancholy glow over his face. His eyes were tired but resolute. The competition didn’t worry him; the entry fee wasn’t refundable. The price was going up soon to encourage more people to register early. He had to decide, and quick. “I guess if these guys are dumb enough to hold a shooting competition during one of the worst storm seasons in the Confederation, then they’re dumb enough to let me win.” He chuckled, imagining the event planners huddled over a meteorological terminal, unaware of the impending storm clouds. The United Confederation’s government should have caught such an obvious detail. Perhaps they thought the turbulent weather would excite or challenge the competition. Which would be something that a management or administrative employee would think of. “Perhaps the storms will scare off some of the competition,” his mind was scrambling with images of seasoned marksmen fleeing in terror from the torrential rains and howling winds. “Yeah, I bet half of ’em will drop out before they even fired the first shot.” His chest swelled with newfound confidence. Sure, he had never left Mool before, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hold his own on a strange, stormy planet. After all, he spent countless hours honing his skills at the local shooting range. And he always dreamed of fleeing the drudgery of his dull life in this rundown city on a forgotten moon. “Alright, enough daydreaming,” he chided himself, shaking off his momentary lapse into fantasy. “Let’s make this official.” Robert picked up his comm device and navigated to the registration page for the competition. He paused for a moment. The magnitude of the decision he was about to make was massive. He would have to prepare for missing out on some income. Once he registered, there would be no backing out, no second-guessing. The entry fee was substantial, but it would have to be bought on credit, like everything Robert paid for. With a final deep breath and a surge of determination, Robert tapped the ‘Register’ button on his comm device. A cheerful confirmation message popped up on the screen: “Congratulations! You are now officially registered for the Zorath Shooting Competition!” It was followed by information about equipment checks, times, and locations. “Well, this will be fun.”