After getting kicked out of the hospital, he now wandered through the empty streets, looking at the flickering streetlights, thinking they were just as unstable as he currently was. As he wandered around the streets, he considered if he should kill himself, thinking it would be better than being an experiment subject for the rest of his life. He found a bench on the street under a single streetlight that was not flickering like the rest and decided to take a seat. Sitting down calmed him a bit. As his relief settled in, he noticed that the stress of his thoughts had made his fingers dig into his palm so badly that they were bleeding. He scoffed and closed his eyes, thinking that he couldn't do anything. No memories, no identity, only a man with a debt that got hit with debt all of a sudden.
Only now did he notice his own body: patient clothing that looked like a pair of rags put on temporarily. He realized he was wearing headwear, yet he couldn't feel it, as if it were one with his body. The helmet covered his whole face and wouldn't come off even if he tried to take it off. He was too deep in despair to think about anything other than himself now.
Footsteps could be heard from afar. An old man was approaching the bench. He saw that someone was already there yet didn't really mind. The old man sat down next to him, a book in his hand. He opened the book right next to another person and read it, enjoying the quiet night and the dim light of the streetlight.
After what felt like an eternity, the old man spoke to him.
"You look like a person with quite the story. Would you mind sharing it with this old geezer?"
The question was polite, just a small chat beginning, but it felt like a way for a person in such a hard place to express his feelings—like a thirsty person finding a cup with no water, yet still grateful for it anyway.
"Story? Sorry, but I don't even know anything of my own,"
he replied politely to the old man.
"A story doesn't need to be long, young man. This book, for example."
The old man paused, then tapped on the book on his lap, looking back down at it before slowly saying,
"This is a story about a person who never gave up in life. Books are both resources for knowledge and encouragement. Stories that have been told and stories that are ongoing are special in their own way. Whatever is bringing you down, you should go and read some books. The library is about two blocks down the road, with two flickering streetlights right there."
The old man pointed his finger toward a nearby road, two streetlights flickering but shining like an escape for a hopeless person. When the man looked back, the old man was taking his leave, giving a goodbye.
"Shall we meet again one day."
The old man's voice echoed as he vanished into the dark. The path he took had no streetlights whatsoever. The man looked up toward the road leading to the library.
"There's nothing for me to do anyway. Reading for the last days of being human and eating leftovers from restaurant trash stashes is fine for me,"
he thought, standing up from the bench and walking down the path to the library.
His hands swung slowly as his footsteps became more steady, his mind settling. Reading books might give him an opening to escape this—knowledge was what he needed to find a way. After about ten minutes of walking, he arrived at the door of the library. The building was old and looked very different from the others. It was decorated with old-fashioned walls and lighting instead of neon lights and dazzling billboards. There was only a wooden board with "Library" outside.
As he walked inside, he saw a librarian reading at the reception table.
"May you find your book in this place,"
the librarian said. They were polite, yet their eyes were locked on the man.
It was obvious that when a dirty man in patient clothing with a rumbling stomach walked into a library, no one would assume he was really there for books. Yet the librarian only scoffed and continued observing, not kicking the man out instantly.
The man went around the bookshelves, searching for books about basic knowledge of the world and books for jobs that didn't need any ID confirmation or background checks. After collecting what looked like a mountain of books, he put them down on a desk and began reading them, much to the impressed eyes of the librarian.
Hours passed as he read, learning about this world and how it worked. This world had no government and was run by big corporations with their own kinds of technology or financial power. Almost all jobs required proper education and extremely strict background checks—except for one.
They were called "Tools," a kind of job that was basically mercenary work but with a system of its own. To become a Tool, all you needed to do was go to the Husky Corporation and sign up. After that, you could start at any time. The only downside was that it was impossible to quit after becoming a Tool, because a retired Tool couldn't get any other job due to their background. Tools had their own ranking system, starting at Grade Ten and going up to Grade One. Those with outstanding strength, insight, or extreme skill in specific areas such as inventing or finance were given a title of their own.
After twelve hours of constant reading, he understood the basics of this world and also picked the name Trout for himself. Deciding to become a Tool, the job paid well and was the only possible one for him to take.
Before he could stand up, his stomach growled. His face was pale, and there was barely any stamina left in him. He let his head fall onto the desk and closed his eyes, sighing out a long breath, wondering how he could sign up for a job to pay back his debt if he couldn't even lift his head to leave the library.
A gloved hand tapped the table. Trout opened his eyes and realized it was the librarian. The librarian looked at him and sat down next to Trout.
"You look exhausted and really have the look of someone who hasn't eaten in days, huh."
The librarian scoffed and put a loaf of bread on the desk. Trout looked at the bread with the eyes of a starving tiger, yet stayed cautious.
"Why are you helping me out?"
he asked.
"It's been a while since anyone spent so much time in the library for actual reading, not for any Tool-related business."
The word "Tool" hit Trout like he had found what he was looking for.
"The library is related to Tools? How so?"
The question caught the librarian off guard.
"Wait… you really came here all of a sudden just for books? That's respectable. But you really don't know this library is for Tools to sell and buy information?"
Now Trout was the one caught off guard. He froze, but slowly a grin grew under the helmet. His hand reached for the bread, and he began eating it, surprising the librarian.
"That's my night snack, you know. I was about to ask if you wanted to share it, but I guess you're even more hungry than I am."
The words hit Trout like a slap in the face. His fingers tapped quickly on the desk like a wagging tail in embarrassment, his other hand gripping tightly. The librarian saw the pathetic look and laughed but didn't do anything to him. He held out his hand for a handshake.
"The name's Sal, librarian of this library and a Grade Six Tool currently working for the Intel Association. This is Section Three of the association, and I'm the only one left working here. Most of the other Tools left, aiming for bigger things, while I stay here looking over the library and working as an information collector and seller."
Sal introduced himself. It was shocking that he held no caution toward Trout, yet it was obvious he understood that Trout couldn't do anything to him even if he tried.
Trout reached out and returned the handshake.
"I'm a person with amnesia. I'm also in debt with Kurtzman Corporation, and if I don't get a proper job in thirteen days, I'll be taken in and used as an experiment subject. You don't mind helping me become a Tool, right? By the way, I chose my name. It's Trout."
Sal burst into laughter, trying not to fall over.
"Trout? Like the fish? Are you kidding me?"
Trout closed his eyes, avoiding Sal's amused expression.
"Could you please… help me become a Tool? I really need this job to pay back the debt I got for no reason."
Sal laughed even harder and tapped Trout on the shoulder.
"Not for no reason, pal. Whatever reason got you into a Kurtzman Corporation hospital is your reason."
Trout sighed.
"About your question—yes, I can help you become a Tool. It's part of my job anyway. But consider things carefully. You have extremely high risks of dying, and you won't be able to get any other job with that background."
Trout nodded without hesitation. Sal looked at him solemnly.
"Then I'll go prepare the files and get your starving body some food. Just stay here, alright? It won't take too long—about an hour."
Sal stood up and walked toward his table. Suddenly, he stopped.
"What are books to you?"
Caught off guard, Trout answered with the first thing that came to mind.
"For now, they're information resources. But I do want to read and learn more about this world to find myself one day."
Sal smiled, as if he had decided something.
"How about you stay here? You've got nowhere to go, and I've got no one to talk to. Sharing food is fine—the association sends supplies often, and I even earn extra selling them."
The joy in his voice was impossible to hide. Trout tapped his fingers on the desk, considering whether this would end well. Sal continued.
"I'll help you become a Tool and teach you the basics. I can also sell intel for you at low prices. Just stay here with me, pal. I even have spare clothing you can wear for extra protection."
The offer was good for someone with no identity, yet that was the problem. Why be kind to a person with nothing? His fingers kept tapping.
"Thank you for the offer. I'd love to accept it—if you tell me what you gain by letting someone like me stay here."
Sal looked at Trout, clearly not expecting the question. He returned to his table, opened his tablet, and began typing.
A few minutes later, Trout spoke again.
"I'm just making sure you won't drag me into deeper debt. I'm not trying to be rude, but it's impossible for me to process all of this without hesitation."
Sal stopped typing and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"This is personal, but fine. I'll answer. I yearn for someone to talk to. Every conversation I have is about information and business. No one in this damn place cares about books or their meaning. Even you came for information, but you didn't demand it—you picked up books instead. You said you wanted to learn more. That's enough for a passion for reading to grow. All I want is someone to read with and talk to. Do I really look that calculating to you?"
After a pause, Trout replied.
"I'm sorry I doubted you. I asked for honesty, and you gave it. Thank you. I understand you a little better now. I don't mind staying, pal."
Sal snapped his head toward him.
"Wait, really? I thought you'd shout at me and leave."
Trout shook his head sincerely.
"I asked a question, and I wanted the truth."
The tension eased, leaving awkward silence behind.
The flashback ended.
Trout sat on a bus, heading back to the library after a surveying mission in the sewer system. He couldn't take killing missions, even though they paid the most—it went against his morals. He had only been a Tool for two days and had completed just one job.
He shook his head, thinking of Sal's smirk when he returned home dirty. Yet his situation was better than when he first woke up. He had made a friend.
The countdown hadn't been forgotten, but it gave him the will to live.
He decided to be someone who would never give up on life.
11 days left until the contract payment was due.