Atlas had never gotten a chance to know his father.
His mother hadn’t talked about him, much. “When you’re older,” she would say, as if she didn’t know that she her body was falling apart at the seams, and there would be no “older” for the both of them together.
She had died with the secret, buried somewhere that wasted away faster than even her body had. She couldn’t speak, by the end of things. She couldn’t tell him, even if she had wanted to.
Atlas was certain she didn’t want to. He just didn’t know why.
For a few years, Atlas let himself believe that he might come back. That some miraculous twist of fate would lead his father through the door of that very orphanage, and miraculously, Atlas wouldn’t be an orphan anymore.
Could he admit that, even to himself, even now? That the thing he longed for most was to be someone’s son again?
He knew it was stupid, even while he was doing it.
He did it anyway. Almost every day, from the day his mother died on. He woke up in the morning, and his chest ached with the desperate need to belong to somebody.
Atlas remembered every day, fresh and new, the hard truth:
He was alone.
___
The first round of tests for the recruits were brutal.
Atlas didn’t know how else to describe them. They were mobility focused for now, forcing even support hunters to demonstrate a suitable capacity to avoid obstacles and defend from long-range attack.
And the consequences were real — he’d seen more than one bloodied face or unnaturally angled arm as participants hobbled weakly from the field.
No one seemed to react to it. Not much. They only stepped to the side to seek treatment, stopping their participation long enough to have their separated flesh or bone knit back together by Portal Group medics. Then they were immediately hauling themselves back onto to the field, determined to finish the task.
Was all of this for him?
For the higher ups?
Was Last Bastion that much of a prize?
Whoever it was for, there were no warm-ups. It had begun with projectiles shot at high speeds, forcing immediate reaction to avoid injury, and had now progressed to an obstacle course so high and perilous that it seemed like someone may die before the day was out.
It was...menacing.
If it weren't already, it was becoming abundantly clear how hard he would have to work to reach even the most basic level of appropriate training as a member of Last Bastion. He would have to suffer, to stand confidently among the real hunters of Portal Group.
Atlas had a feeling he wouldn’t have much choice in the matter. Not that it seemed like a bad idea, if he was meant to go back to a place like that horrifying S-Grade.
That was something he would worry about later.
For now, Atlas needed to decide who would be joining him.
He had his eye on a few hunters, in particular. The sort with a chip on the shoulder, or something empty behind the eyes. He knew the look of a desperate person — he’d been one of them for long enough to know.
Other than Hera, a support hunter name Miron, with hair so light it almost looked unnatural, made something in his chest throb.
He reminds you of you, the less helpful part of his brain told him. He looks like he is waiting for a savior. For a purpose.
Will you walk through the door for him?
His Skill was the ambiguously named [RECONSTRUCT] — but he was an A-Class, like the others.
If you don’t help him, will anybody else? Or will he be stuck waiting?
Except, Atlas had to be smart about this, too. He wanted to build a team he could help, but he couldn’t afford risking others’ lives to do it. One misstep and he would end up like Charon — broken, abandoned, and responsible for the loss of the lives he’d been trusted with.
Still, his instincts had served him well in the past.
After some time, vacantly watching the trials progress, there was one other hunter who drew his attention, though it took him a second to realize why.
She reminded him, remarkably, of Senka.
It wasn’t a one-for-one match. Her hair was longer, and her expression softer. She didn’t seem to possess an assassin type Skill, either. Not with a Skill named [BLIZZARD].
For all her Skill professed coldness, she seemed the most social of the recruits he’d paid attention to. Friendly. He thought, abruptly, that she was someone that Ace would get along with well.
It would be difficult to know who to choose no matter how long he thought on it, and he couldn’t help but think these trials were all for show, anyway.
Everyone here was an A-Class. Managed and certified “sane” and competent by Portal Group. They’d been offered an opportunity to participate, ostensibly, because Portal Group wouldn’t mind if they ended up on Last Bastion.
Was it possible that this was an olive branch?
Atlas wasn’t a trusting person. That had been bled out of him early, long before even his mother died.
But there wasn’t an especially good reason to think that the others in attendance would get much out of this. Not when the rest of Portal Group knew the ins-and-outs of the hunters under their command better than Atlas ever had.
Maybe it was a carrot, rather than a stick. A way to try and get him to snap less at his leash, and focus more on the things he could control.
He didn’t especially…like that. But it was better than the alternative: having no say.
“Who is making the final decision on the recruits?”
Izar seemed surprised that Atlas had spoken at all. He cleared his throat, keeping to his side of the box. “It wasn’t shared with me, per se, but if I had to guess? You. Anyone A-Class and above who received the invitation has a history of performing well in their role.”
“So they didn’t give me anyone they aren’t willing to grit their teeth and bear?”
“No. I would suspect that the ones who are here are at least…suitable.”
Atlas looked back down at the field. At the rigorous test they had begun now, involving some sort of one-on-one combat with hunters not competing.
Hera’s retaliation was savage. The grass beneath her feet was blood-soaked, red enough that it was harshly discolored, even from up here. To the side, a waiting Miron worried over the line of partners leaving her — brutalized and unsteady.
“Hera Vidar,” Atlas said. “Miron Anton. Dajana Kovac. I want those three.”
Izar didn’t seem surprised that Atlas had already made his decision. If anything, his voice was resigned. “Are you certain? You don’t know anything about them.”
“Of course I do.”
Apparently, his curiousity was enough for Izar to overcome his evident desire not to speak to Atlas right now. “What could you possibly know about them? They are tiny dots on a field among dozens of others.”
“Beyond what my Skill shows me?”
Atlas pointed at Hera first.
“I know the look on her face. It was common, where I grew up. Don’t act like you don’t recognize it, either. She’s angry. Chip on her shoulder. She’ll be resistant at first, being led by someone new and inexperienced. But angry people are usually the most lost. When the team shows her we’re not going anywhere, that we can be trusted, she’ll be as devoted as anyone. She wants somewhere to belong.”
Don't think too hard about that one, Atlas.
Miron was next. “Scaredy-cat, but wants desperately to be useful. He’s well-trained, but he hesitates. It’s because he’s never felt good enough. We had kids like that, too. They just needed the right moment to break out of it. We’ll find his.”
Atlas paused, then met Izar’s gaze. “Dajana. She’s Senka’s sister, isn’t she? She’s exceptional. She also feels like she’s been overshadowed all her life. She overdoes things. Too friendly. Too aggressive in combat. She’ll do something dangerous one of these days.”
Izar blinked. Hard. “How did you know they were related? They don’t share a last name. Half sisters. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Izar, you’re still not getting it. Why do you think I can read people so well? Do you think it’s a fun party trick?”
He hesitated. “Well, no.”
“Zig could tell you why.”
Izar narrowed his eyes and looked away. “Yes, yes, Zig gets you. I know that, Atlas. You have made it very clear who you prefer.”
“Zig could tell you why, because he figured it out that first day at the orphanage.” Atlas swallowed, resting his fingers against the glass. It was cold to the touch. “The thing that people who have been hurt crave the most is honesty. The most honest part of a person is the part they can’t control. The part they can’t lie about.”
“Zig was honest. He didn’t like me. He punched me about it.” Atlas pointed at Izar.
“You’re not honest, Iz. Even if it’s for good reasons, you lie. You hide. That is why we’ll never get along.”
“I’m honest, Atlas.”
“Lie.”
Atlas stood from his seat abruptly, putting his hands in his pockets thumbing the cover of his lighter. “If you’re right, tell them I want Hera, Miron and Dajana. If you’re not, I guess I’ll see who they pick.”
Atlas left the box the same way he’d come.
He wasn’t interested in watching the bloodshed any longer than he had to.
Not even if it was for his benefit.
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