**Chap 2 – Taking Off**
Due to hazardous weather and irregular climatic changes, it suddenly began to pour heavily just after the sun set on the horizon. Crey, who had just reached the shop—situated in the messy suburbs of this part of the Outer City—was completely soaked within minutes. He quickly entered the shop and, in one swift move, stripped off his wet jacket, wearable tech, and shirt, revealing his thin, lithe body before heading to the bathroom to freshen up.
*"Uncle, I'm in a very bad mood and very, very sincerely hope you haven't eaten my share of dinner. Or else…."*
From inside the bathroom, Crey shouted while turning on the faucet for a cold shower. He was famished, and knowing his uncle's annoying pranks, he wanted to warn him upfront not to mess with him tonight. But his shout was met with silence in the shop-home.
After a quick shower, where he washed up his bloodied hands and few scratches here and there. Minor enough that he didn't even bother to bandage them, confident them to be healed by themselves soon enough. He watched ghost of his face in the blurred bathroom mirror, though those eyes seemed to be speaking something to him he unnaturally moved his own gaze away, losing staring contest with his reflection delebratily.
What had he done new that he can't match his own eyes? It was just hypocritical move on his part and he knows it. But sometimes it is better to pretend their is nothing under the covers even if you can see silhouette of object beneath it. Or that's what he was thinking of right now.
Crey walked out in loosened clothes after the quick shower and immediately noticed a plate on the table, covered by another plate. Suspicion boldly crept into his mind—his dinner was untouched while he was away? He forced himself to dismiss the thought, wanting to believe, for once, that his uncle had no plans to mess with him tonight.
Yet, instead of feeling relieved, an ominous premonition settled over him as he approached the table. Sure enough, beside the plate lay a neatly folded physical letter and a single key. Seeing actual paper in today's digital world was rare, so he picked up the letter without hesitation and skimmed through it quickly. He scoffed as he went through it...
In short, it said that since Crey was now nearly nineteen, he should enroll in the Military Academy for further education—where his uncle had already secured his admission. It also mentioned that he'd left some gifts in the locker. The letter dripped with manipulative encouragement, urging him to become an "excellent Evolved Fighter—with his own Exo Armor." It concluded with a very *uncle-like* threat: he'd already eaten Crey's food *and* sold the shop, leaving him no choice but to go.
*"Oh! Hell no…"*
A panicked shout escaped the boy's lips as he lunged for the covered plate. Just as he feared, it was empty—only greasy smears remained, no doubt deliberately left behind to taunt him. Crey collapsed onto the couch in shock, muttering every vulgar profanity he could think of at his uncle.
*'The bastard took off and even sold the shop. And if throwing me to the streets wasn't enough, he had to pull this vulgar prank on me—knowing it's the third day in a row I've gone to bed starving. No… he did this specifically to set a hat trick for making me sleep on an empty stomach.'*
Crey rubbed his temples in frustration, but his eyes were sharp, already calculating his next move. Still, the thought of his old man's shrewdness made him curse again. A surge of anger boiled up as he stood.
*"...F*ck you, old man! And the military school? To hell with it! You think I wasn't prepared for this? I've wanted to leave for ages—stayed out of sympathy. But you…"*
---
**A few miles away…**
A middle-aged man with piercing green eyes and short brown hair sneezed as he drove a hydrogen powered cheap car along the underground highway. He grumbled wondering about which *son of a bit*h* was cursing him—then suddenly smirked, remembering exactly who it should be.
---
Crey eventually calmed down after ransacking the shop for food or anything of value. But to his dismay, nothing salvageable—let alone edible—remained. He stood and muttered aloud mostly thinking to himself,
*"I've got secret savings for exactly this scenario—enough to open a new repair shop or buy this junk heap back. Hmm… no. Better to move to a new city and start fresh. Knowing him, he'd probably set up a series of pitfalls here for me anyway."*
After turning the plan over in his head, he relaxed, reassured by its feasibility. He packed his essentials in ten minutes flat. Soon, he stood outside the shop—the place he and his uncle had called home for the last two years. Now, in a single night, both had abandoned it, each heading their separate ways. The irony? Both had planned this for ages but stayed together out of some stubborn, unspoken loyalty.
Crey stepped out with a light backpack and his usual gear—though this time, his pockets were heavier with currency. He hailed a maglev cab, gave the address for the Inner City's *real* Night City Airport, and urged the driver to hurry. Entering the Inner City cost a fortune, but luckily, Crey had a few *trinkets* to cover the fee.
At the Inner City checkpoint, an Enforcer officer inspected his identification documents. Crey handed over his IDs along with a few glass marbles. The officer's eyes gleamed as he pocketed them in one smooth motion before waving the cab through.
Those "glass marbles" were the new practical currency in this era of traceable digital money. Portable energy sources, they could power androids, robots, or even serve as weapon cores. Essentially, they were modern-day batteries—delivering massive energy in pocket-sized form via controlled nuclear fission. Rare and expensive, they surpassed even gold or diamonds in value, often fueling the black market.