By the time I realized it, a month had already passed.
Hiding inside my hat. Recycling discarded items. Contemplating how and why was I here. Then repeating the process.
That cycle continued every single day for an entire month.
During that time, I moved carefully through the Backstreets, learning as much as I could about where I was and how this world functioned. And what I learned did nothing to ease my anxiety. If anything, it made everything worse. The only thing keeping me from slipping into depression was my Mood Candy Quirk.
Apparently, people could spontaneously turn into monsters.
Out of nowhere.
It was considered extremely rare—but not impossible.
Which meant it could happen at any time.
Still, there was a small piece of hope.
From what little I could overhear—without making it obvious that I was listening to other people's conversations—there were organizations known as Wings. If you somehow managed to join one of them, your life improved significantly. And unlike most things in the Backstreets, the Wings didn't discriminate simply because someone was born there.
Anyone could apply.
But there was a catch.
If you wanted to join a Wing located in another District, you had to physically travel there.
And the Districts weren't small.
They were the size of the state of Texas —some even comparable to small countries. Large enough that you needed a car or some form of transportation just to cross one. And that was assuming the District you wanted to go to was next door.
If someone wanted to travel from District A all the way to the Outskirts—also known as District Z, or No Man's Land—they would be traveling for an unimaginable amount of time.
The only reason anyone could cross such massive distances with relative ease was because of the Warp Trains run by W Corp.
And those weren't cheap.
After weighing my options, I came to a simple conclusion.
Sending a résumé to L Corp would be the safest choice.
I needed stability. Spending a large amount of money just to travel to another District—only to apply for a job I wasn't guaranteed to get—would be foolish.
Applying to Lobotomy Corporation made the most sense.
But it wasn't just about money.
Employees were given a place to live. A secure facility. No need to worry about being hunted every night in the Backstreets. And upon retirement, employees could receive a Nest ID, retirement benefits, and healthcare.
That sounded more than good.
It sounded necessary.
It was common for people from the Backstreets to lack official identification. Without an ID, options were limited. Doors stayed closed.
Opening my own shop wasn't viable either. Taxes existed even in the Backstreets, and missing payments meant severe punishment from the Head.
Even in another world, the old saying still applied:
Nothing is certain except death and taxes.
You'd think living in a place as lawless as the Backstreets meant avoiding bureaucracy.
You'd be wrong.
I saw firsthand what happened to someone who failed to pay.
I had been walking down a side street when an Arbiter approached a portable food stand. Calm. Silent. Imposing.
The Arbiter asked the vendor if he had paid his taxes.
He hadn't.
Apparently, he couldn't afford the full amount.
Let's just say…
He wouldn't be worrying about taxes ever again.
That settled it.
I applied to Lobotomy Corporation as a handyman and janitor.
Surprisingly, it didn't take long for them to respond.
I got the job.
However, they weren't very specific about what type of job I would actually be doing.
I was instructed to report to an offshoot facility rather than the main headquarters for orientation and training.
When I arrived, something immediately felt off.
We were directed to take an elevator down—deep down—along with several other new hires.
The descent felt long.
Longer than it should have.
When the elevator doors finally opened, we were greeted by a long hallway lined with massive, bulky metal doors. The entire design reminded me of something straight out of an SCP containment site.
Sterile.
Industrial.
Sealed.
People in lab coats and armed security personnel escorted us into a conference room equipped with a projector.
There, we were informed that our roles could change depending on the day or situation. One day, we might be assigned to "produce power" by entering the rooms behind those massive metal doors. The next day, we could be cleaning bathrooms or repairing equipment as long as we have the skills for the task. So we don't need to worry about being assigned to a task if we lack the knowledge to complete such tasks.
That didn't sit right with me.
The janitorial and maintenance duties were explained clearly enough.
The power production process, however, was vague.
Too vague.
Details were glossed over. Certain explanations felt intentionally avoided—like entire sections of information were being deliberately omitted.
Another warning signal went off in my head when we were handed lab coats.
And handguns.
I stared down at the weapon in my hands.
Why would we need guns in a power company?
End of Chapter Three.