In the living room of his small apartment, Strakh sipped a lukewarm beer from the twelve he'd bought and left outside his refrigerator after the incident. He gazed at the bloodstains on the floor, then took a long swig, emptying the can. He grabbed another and opened it, pondering his situation.
"My debt is 12,379 As. The minimum wage is 4 As per day. I'd need more than 3,000 days of work to pay it off, assuming I don't eat or pay any bills—practically impossible. The highest-paying jobs I could hope for are, firstly, as a decontamination worker in high-risk radioactive zones, which pays up to 18 As a day. Although, I could also end up developing a chronic illness from prolonged exposure, so I'll rule that out for now." Joining the special forces is complicated, but entering as a recruit and rising through the ranks step by step is more likely. The pay is better than what I earned in the meat farms, although it's also more dangerous. Others can always appear and end your life in an instant, in addition to the high crime rate in the lower precincts. Even so, it's my only real alternative." He downed a second can of beer in one gulp and said to the monitor in a firm voice,
"Monitor, exercising my right to free will, I demand my enlistment in the 52 District Security System."
"Are you sure about your decision? Do you understand what it means to enlist in the 52 District Security System? Do you understand that you will have to abandon your civilian life and will not be able to request your discharge?"
"I understand the implications. Enlist me in the Security System." —Subject 17 12273000 14, named Strakh Strange Cazanova, is registered in the Security System. Please report to the Sixth Precinct Station on Monday, August 3rd, for your entrance exam.—
"Monday? That's in 16 days. I have to prepare." With a leap, he got up from the armchair and left his house, determined.
"The Montecristo"
In the bustling streets of the lower suburbs, the main street of the Seventh Precinct is filled with shops, stalls selling stolen synthetic fruits, prostitutes flirting in broad daylight with anyone who lets themselves be seduced, and gigolos accompanying the district's wealthy residents. Secondhand goods, stolen items, and illegal merchandise are all for sale.
With a firm step and a hard gaze, Strakh walks through these streets, venturing into the most hidden alleyways where the deepest depravity and the worst scum lurk. He knocked twice on a metal door deep in an alley. A window opened, and a pair of eyes stared at him, questioning him with indignation.
"What do you want, kid?" said the voice from the other side.
"What a stupid idea," he thought before replying sharply, "I'm looking for Bran."
"There's no Bran here," said the voice before closing the window. Strakh pounded furiously, yelling, "Damn it, Brander! Stop messing around and open the damn door!" as he nearly tore the metal door apart.
"It was you, Strakh! Sorry for the trouble, come in," said a young man with brown hair from a high window. "Darla, open the door, come on!" Then the heavy metal door opened, revealing a staircase and a tall, dark-haired woman.
"At the end of the hall, the door on your left," said the woman in an apathetic voice. "I know where it is," Strakh said, his voice like a razor blade.
At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway was dark and smelled of damp. He reached the door numbered 4 and turned the handle. In an armchair facing a small table sat a man with curly hair, pale skin, covered in tattoos, and a muscular build.
"I heard what happened to your father. It's a shame. He was a great guy. I'm surprised you survived. I knew you were tough, but I didn't think you were this tough," the man said. "And Brand?"
"He's in hiding. The security dogs are looking for him for smuggling. Why are you here?"
"I need money, and I thought Brand could help me out."
"More than he can give me, but I just need enough to survive until August."
"Brand can't help you, but what kind of big brother would I be if I didn't help the one who was Brand's benefactor for so many years?" He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wristband, and said loudly, "Monitor, send Strakh Stranger Hunter 350 Aces."
A notification on Strakh's wrist confirmed the transaction.
"What are you going to do now, Strakh?" he asked in a softer voice. "You'll always have a place here with us."
Strakh looked at a photo on a small shelf in the entryway. It showed Brand, his sister, Logan, his father, and himself in the junkyard after finding some magnetic skateboards. He sighed. "I'm going to survive, that's what we do," she said as she turned her gaze back to Logan. "Say hi to Brand for me," she murmured as he left the room.
"If I want to reach the final stage of the exam and join a brigade, I'll have to dedicate my time to training my body, since it's quite weak. I have about two weeks to get into acceptable physical condition." He went back out onto the main street of the seventh precinct and walked calmly toward the gate that connected to the sixth precinct.
Thus, Strakh began his days by getting up at 5:15 a.m., having a beer and a grade C synthetic steak for breakfast, and going for a run through the district's dust-, smoke-, and microplastic-polluted streets starting at 5:45 a.m. He would run for 15 minutes at first before running out of breath, rest, and run again, repeating the process until midday. He would then return to eat steamed genetically modified vegetables and do sit-ups, squats, and push-ups until he was exhausted and fell asleep on his living room floor. After a week, he was able to run in 35-minute intervals, and by Friday of the second week, he could run for an hour straight before getting tired and needing a break.
"I need to rest," he thought as he finished his exhausted workout.
"I'll rest tomorrow and Sunday, so I'll be fresh for the exam," he thought before saying in his apartment's living room, "Monitor my health status."
"Strak Stranger Hunter's health status is level 8."
"What are the chances I'll pass the Security System entrance exam?" he asked while lying on his living room floor.
"Sorry, that information is not available."
"I figured as much."