The arcade where he worked stood in what used to be a vibrant shopping district. Now, half the storefronts were boarded up, their owners having fled to safer regions or disappeared into the chaos of the war. "FUNZONE" flickered in neon blue above the entrance, the burnt-out bulbs spelling "FU_ZO_E" instead—a fitting metaphor for the half-functioning world around them.
Inside, Shinji was already busy, his weathered hands restocking prize counters and running diagnostics on temperamental game cabinets. The old man's head snapped up at the sound of the bell.
"You're finally here? Usually beat me to opening." As Mateo stepped into the fluorescent lighting, Shinji's casual greeting died on his lips. His eyes traced the burns and bruises mapping Mateo's skin. "Damn kid, what the hell happened to you? Got caught in an explosion or something?"
The word 'explosion' sent a flash of hellfire across Mateo's mind—screams and heat and the smell of burning. He pushed the memory away, irritation flaring that Shinji had unknowingly hit so close to the truth.
"Just. Give. Me. Ten. Minutes." Each word escaped between labored breaths as Mateo collapsed into a gaming chair that protested with a symphony of creaks. No customers yet, but the place still needed cleaning.
He examined his injuries under the harsh arcade lighting. The strange slime had numbed his right arm somewhat, but angry red blisters, burns and cuts wrapped around his skin like a grotesque bracelet. His black shirt hung in tatters while his jeans had somehow survived with only minor damage.
"Need bandages?" Shinji's voice carried genuine concern. "Got some in the back."
"Yes, please." The words felt like surrender in Mateo's mouth. Since the incident that took his brother and mother, he'd made surviving alone his personal creed. Needing help felt like betrayal.
But reality had been chipping away at that resolve—the instant noodles from the old lady yesterday, his quirk saving him by mere seconds, and now Shinji's help. Each small act of dependence felt like a personal failure.
Shinji returned with a battered green first-aid kit. Mateo knew why the old man helped him—he'd overheard enough conversations to piece together that Shinji had lost his son in the early days of the war. Something in Mateo must have reminded him of his child, explaining both the arcade job and the occasional extra pay slipped into his envelope.
"How'd you manage this mess?" Shinji muttered, examining Mateo's knuckles. The left hand was worse—torn through and charred black, the heat partially cauterizing the wound. Blood still seeped slowly from where he'd torn muscle. "I'm no doctor, but basic first-aid won't cut it here."
"I'll be fine, Mr. Shinji." Mateo's politeness emerged through gritted teeth as the antiseptic stung his raw flesh. "Just do what you can."
"You're a good kid, Mateo." Shinji's gruff voice softened slightly, a small smile appearing beneath his shock of white hair. "So how'd you end up like this? Don't seem the type for fights. Someone shake you down for cash?"
Mateo almost said, 'You think I look bad? You should see the other guy,' but held back. "Some people just like picking fights with kids they think can't fight back." He echoed Brett "Iron Knight" almost verbatim.
"If that's true, I'm glad you're still breathing. Most gang fights around here don't leave survivors." Shinji applied cooling lotion to the worst bruises and stood up. "Should've gone to a clinic, or home to rest. Why drag yourself here?"
"Because—" Mateo stood and retrieved a broom from the corner, despite his hands screaming in protest and his body begging for a week of uninterrupted sleep, "—I still have work to do."
Shinji stared at Mateo's determination as he began sweeping up wrappers and empty cans, shaking his head in disbelief. "You do not get paid enough for this."
Then, barely audible: "You remind me so much of him."
Mateo pretended he hadn't heard as he continued gathering trash.
Hours passed, and the nearly-dead arcade gradually filled with people. A cluster of older teens had claimed the corner by the fighting games, their loud voices a contrast to the calculated movements of their fingers on the controls. They weren't there for the games so much as the hustle—each match accompanied by folded bills changing hands, whispered odds, and occasional hostile glares when someone couldn't pay up.
Mateo kept his distance but stayed aware. Those guys operated in a gray area Shinji tolerated—they spent money and didn't break anything, but their side bets created a tension that could erupt if someone lost too much. Whenever they noticed Mateo watching, they'd flash mock salutes or make exaggerated movements, treating him like the kid they assumed he was.
He focused on restocking the convenience fridge—a ancient appliance that seemed to warm drinks rather than cool them—while keeping one eye on the group. Experience had taught him when to disappear into the back room and when intervention might be necessary.
Shinji's gaze still checked on him periodically, watching for signs of collapse, but Mateo's resolve remained firm. Work today, earn enough for the ticket—that was the plan.
"They're broadcasting the Atlas Academy entrance announcement today. Planning to watch?" Shinji mentioned casually after they finished restocking.
Mateo's pulse quickened. "What announcement?"
"This year's recruitment details. Word is they're changing the admission process." Shinji wiped his hands on a rag. "Government's desperate for new heroes. Last month's casualties hit hard."
"When's it airing?"
"Noon. We'll put it on the big screen." Shinji gestured toward the massive display dominating the back wall, typically reserved for tournament finals. "Might draw a crowd. At least give us some sense of the government's game plan. Practically the apocalypse out there!"
Shinji forced an awkward laugh at his grim joke, and the tension in the room thickened.
By eleven-thirty, a small crowd had gathered. Most were teenagers like Mateo, though few shared his intensity. They played half-heartedly, constantly glancing at the blank screen that would soon connect them to whatever Atlas Academy had prepared.
What was the AA planning now? Mateo's thoughts raced. Higher admission fees? Tougher qualifications limiting the program to only the most elite potential heroes?
He clenched his fists instinctively, pain shooting through his injured hands. He'd worked too hard for this. What if some bureaucratic change derailed everything?
At precisely noon, the screen flickered to life. The Atlas Academy emblem—a stylized 'A' superimposed over a globe—filled the display momentarily before revealing a woman in her forties with sharp silver-blonde hair and penetrating black eyes.
"Citizens of the Alliance," she began, her voice weighted with authority. "I am Headmistress Eliza Atlas. Today, I speak not just as the leader of Atlas Academy, but as someone who understands the fear and uncertainty that has become our daily reality."
"Right," muttered an older guy nearby, rolling his eyes. "After this speech she'll go back to her penthouse apartment, eating whatever fancy shit rich people eat these days."
Scattered agreements rippled through the group, but when Eliza Atlas continued, the arcade fell silent, games forgotten.
"For generations, Atlas has trained the heroes who protect our society. But the conflict we face demands more from all of us. The attacks have intensified. Our defensive lines have been tested. Many brave heroes have fallen."
Images flashed across the screen—burning cities, rescue operations, memorial services. Mateo's injured hands tightened into fists at his sides.
"Therefore, effective immediately, Atlas Academy is implementing Emergency Protocol 17. We are opening our doors to all citizens between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five who wish to serve."