Arthur’s heavy eyelids fling open to the unconscious body of Joe on the hospital bed. It has been four years now, and he hasn’t displayed any signs of waking up soon. He can’t help but lose confidence day by day. 

Still, a part deep within believes that a miracle will descend at some point. Standing up from his seat, his orbs turn to the mirror. Darkish brown skin, brown eyes, curly hair, and glasses that allude to how much of a nerd he is! Finally, nice simple breeches, with a sleek black coat. 

He strokes his chin, wondering how he’d look with a goatee. Nevertheless, Arthur’s gaze turns back to Joe, a smile manifesting. “Hey Joe. I’ve uh…recently completed my master's for Stridedynamics. And now I hope to get a place in the Scientific Life Dispute Organisation.”

“Wish me luck”, he’d say, striding away as he waved back to his friend. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure he’d get the spot in the organisation. Three weeks have passed, with no response. 

Minutes pass. . . 

The silver moon beams down upon the industrial streets, the sound of gears rotating, the train’s vocals, and smoke arising from the factories that began to burn away coal.  

Ferissa has been a country of rapid industrialisation for decades, far surpassing Constinia at that point. The reason for its progress is that the economy often discourages private ownership of wealth. 

This means the country has an utmost priority. It’s to improve itself, scientifically and technologically. Arthur….welcomes this change. But some can be very contentious against Ferissa’s new ideology. 

As he makes his way through the street, passing from person to person, guard to guard, he lands by his doorstep, slotting his keys through the opening, and the door unveils the way-

Oh no. . . Three, Two. . . One-

Expectations were hovering above his head. A flying dropkick? A choke slam? A kamekameha? The freaking RKO that his mother can copy frame for frame? She is a big Landy Orton fan after all. The curly-haired six-foot man ponders the possibilities. Then he hears nothing.

Huh…this is weird. My face should be ten layers in the ground by now. . .

It starts. That twisting feeling in his chest, like something has gone wrong. Immediately, he goes into the corridor, the lights still lit. 

“Mother! It’s the son you love to bully with your wrestling moves. . .”

No answer. 

Arthur takes a step…this time steeped in caution, turning to the right, where the kitchen is. He can hear the sound of the boiling pot. And smell the…really alluring meal that's being cooked up.  

Creak!

A sound ushers near him. Right, left.. downward–his eyes flicker, then upward. . .

A monstrosity remains latched onto the ceiling. A snarl that would put any beast to shame. A physique, though normal, is deceptively powerful! She drops down, her leg a blur as she sweeps her son’s legs!

THWACK!

Arthur’s vision starts to spin, quickly falling sideways.

Before he even lands, his mother’s fingers conjoin together. Then a ritualistic chant ploughs the corridor and neighbours. 

“One Thousand Years Of Death!” In a flash, they press into Arthur’s behind, spiking him upward into the air, before he lands uncomfortably on his backside. 

“...Aah crap, my buttocks! What gives?” he asks. 

“HOHOHOHO! Of course, it’s motherly love, silly! You were out for too long, I was worried sick.”

“Ah yea–don’t worry. Was just there longer than expected.”

Arthur’s face turns sour, looking down upon the ground. His mother walks over, bending down and setting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Arty, I’ll be here always.” Instinctively, she reels him in for a warm hug. Arthur melts in comfort, knowing his Mother would be there always to support him–or well, pulverise him into dust. 

“Thanks mother…but–”

A comical wheeze pushes out from his lips, already starting to hear a vicious crack in his back. At this point, will he even be able to walk by thirty years old?

“M-my back--”

“Aaah! My passion got the better of me! How could I resist when you’re just so so so cute, my little baby! “ A part of Arthur feels like he shattered. Though wholesome…he couldn’t help but cringe at what he was hearing. 

Isn’t he in his mid-20s? 

Immediately, Arthur springs back onto his feet, beginning to walk to his room. “I’ll be quick, then back around to make dinner. Don’t burn the kitchen down!”

Getting to his room, he’d open the door, and various pieces of his equipment lay by the table. From his magnifying glass, optical microscopes, biomech interface gloves, and stride energy spectrometer. Everything was laid in an organised manner, their glistening pristine look highlighted by the room’s vivid hue. Not even a strand of dirt or dust was left on them. 

The bed creaks slightly as he sits down, his eyes swinging to the book that's patiently waiting for him when he comes back home. The clock ticks. Each one is a bit monotonous. 

Arthur could indulge himself in his textbook. The inner and outer workings of Stridedynamics. After all, one man couldn't know absolutely everything.

So why?

Why wait here, doing nothing?

He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was fear. An apprehension that gripped his chest. One that said 'What if you don't get picked for the Scientific Life Dispute Organisation?'

Ever since Arthur graduated from university and completed his Master's, it was the organisation he targeted more than anything else. People like them shaped this world...for the better. To him, there were no greater heroes than the pioneers of science and innovation!

At the corner of Arthur’s room, there was a prism-shaped printer, adorned in gold. It’s what he used for typing documents. But by pressing a button or adjusting the mode, it can alternate into the receiver state. 

Under this state, the keyboards mashed by themselves instinctively. 

Arthur had worked it so that it would operate under a particular state.  

That 'state' was only when the Scientific Life Dispute Organisation sent him a message. 

His face lit up as the printed paper began to emerge. 

It was here. His dream. His future. It felt like countless deals with demons were made to attain this opportunity!

And God forbid, should it be some stupid prank from his mother. . .