"You can't draw blood from a stone," or so the saying goes. Alongside this, there is another truth of the world: "No matter how many times you check the refrigerator, food will not magically appear." Such was the reality Yamir was quickly becoming familiar with. It wasn't that he was irresponsible, or that he couldn't care for himself, rather it was the kind of nervous action you kept doing because there wasn't much else to do.
He closed the door and turned. His new apartment lay bare. It had the essentials, a bed, small couch, miscellaneous lamps, but for all it had, what it didn't have said more. There was nothing that said it was home. True, he had only been there for a week, but without the little pieces of clutter it felt more like a hotel room than an apartment.
"- and with this latest expedition, the lands to the southeast are expected to be reclaimed by the end of the month. In other news-"
The screen on the wall cut out. He hadn't really been paying attention anyway, more focused on the freshly installed job app on his scroll, but there was one thing that had bothered him about the city and its newscasters. They felt so disconnected from the outside world. Back at the orchard every grimm attack was personal. Even if it wasn't on your land you probably knew someone who was there, and in such a small community the loss of even a small homestead was felt everywhere. It meant fewer working hands, less food, and fewer lien coming into town. Here, everything was distant, no names were given, no shortages were listed, and they spoke of weeks, if not months, into the future rather than on making it through the next few days.
Images of black and red and white snapping teeth and distant roars and smoke and screaming and-
"This isn't working," he said with a growl.
He had come to the city to find a job so he could help ease the burden of rebuilding. His family was lucky, they had all survived. Sure, they had their scrapes and bruises, but they were alive. Even so, the farm was a total loss. He hadn't seen it in person but he knew that the trees, their livelihood, were gone. The fire made sure of that.
With that thought Yamir stood. He wasn't going to find a job sitting around here twiddling his thumbs, so he slipped his gray and white hoodie over his head and made for the door, sparing only a brief backwards glance at the empty room as he left.
"Thanks again for the help!" Yamir called over his shoulder with a small wave. He had gone into the shop to ask if the owner needed any extra workers, or knew anyone who did. The short, balding man with small eyes was kind, being from the country himself, but his small shop didn't require more than two people to run properly. What he was able to do though, was direct Yamir to the job boards in the town square. They tended to be updated long before any small time app, and it carried the implication that the applicant was actually willing to get out and get to work.
That said, it was nearly half an hour before he finally reached them. The tall buildings and unfamiliar streets were more than a little disorienting. More than once he had to stop and ask for directions. It was frustrating, but at the same time it gave him hope, because even with all its differences from his home, the people here were still just that, people.
Gradually the buildings shortened, giving way to a more open style that showed more of the sky. The town square was more of a large park than anything else. Its most prominent feature, of course, was a large fountain. Crystal clear water danced around its edges, and at its center stood a great statue of the the last king of Vale, sword drawn, shield planted in the ground at his feet, and chest puffed out under his armor. Yamir doubted anyone actually ever posed like that, but it was an impressive display none the less.
Off to the right he spotted his goal, a large section of cobblestone walkway lined with large, transparent blue screens. Different screens had different types of jobs. Construction, retail, a few boards were even dedicated to more office related fields like accounting and sales, but by far the largest section was for hunters. Regardless of the economy or war or plague or any other factor, there would always be people that needed protection or grimm that needed killed. Further, the boards displayed which hunters had taken what jobs, and even how long they had been gone, no doubt implemented for the benefit of friends and family.
As he took in the scene, Yamir observed a man approaching the boards. He was tall and thin, but what stood out the most was a royal blue overcoat that hung to his knees. It was what signified that he was a hunter. It wasn't a rule but hunters almost always dressed in bright, extravagant clothing - clothing designed to draw attention, designed to alert those around them who to go to for help; or who to avoid in a fight.
Yamir, however, headed for what he knew best - the board marked landscaping. He had worked the earth for most of his life, and was certain he could apply his craft here. The list was depressingly short. Most of the jobs were temporary, only one or two weeks at most, and none of them paid all that well.
"Ugh," Yamir sighed, shoulders drooping. From here he considered just picking one at random and seeing where it led, but just as he was going to select the job, the screen gave a brief flicker as the board updated. It took a moment to process what had happened, but the list looked more promising.
He scrolled through the new jobs, occasionally glancing at the details, until one appeared that he couldn't help but gawk at.
"Beacon," he murmured under his breath. Initially, it was the pay that caught his attention. It offered wages rather than an up-front payment and ending payment like most of the other work, meaning it was long term. Tapping the screen, he read, "Seeking experienced groundskeeper for Beacon campus. Must show basic skills and be available for overtime. All applicants will be subject to an interview and background check. Preference will be given to candidates displaying familiarity with specialised equipment."
The high pay made sense. Beacon Academy had a large campus, and all the hunters and huntresses in training were bound to make a mess of the place. It would also mean taking a bullhead to and from town every morning and evening to get to work. Unless, of course, they had live-in groundskeepers who just stayed on campus full-time and only really went to town on their days off.
Whatever the case, this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Yamir held his scroll to the screen until it gave a chime and displayed a message that he had an interview scheduled at noon on Thursday. All that was left now was to go back to his apartment, make sure his clothes were absolutely clean, and sharpen his billhook.
The city looked much different at night. After finishing in the square, Yamir had decided to familiarize himself with the city. This involved wandering the streets and trying to memorize the locations of hospitals or interesting looking shops. He'd also bought and consumed a hotdog from a rather dubious cart. Whether this was a good idea would be seen in the morning.
As it was, the sun had just set. Lights flicked on, casting the streets in a pale orange glow. Gradually, Yamir made his way back to the familiar streets around the square. From there he began retracing his steps along the path he followed that morning.
It was as quiet and serene as he had seen the city. A faint breeze blew discarded flyers and empty wrappers along the street. When he closed his eyes, it almost felt like home. Then came the alarm. It was a sharp, shrill noise that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It reverberated off the walls, seeming to come from every direction.
Heart hammering inside his chest, Yamir pressed forward. It was several blocks before he finally saw the source of the alarm. From Dust Till Dawn, the shop he'd visited at the start of the day. Yamir rushed inside, to find the store empty. Everything not nailed down was either smashed or taken. A series of muffled grunts lead him to the shopkeep, bound and gagged behind the counter.
It took three minutes to untie the shopkeep. It took one minute to call the police. It took five minutes for the police to arrive. It took four hours for the police to finish their questioning and send Yamir home.
Apparently, Yamir was five minutes from running into the gang that hit the place. They had been methodically working their way through every dust shop in town. They showed him a seemingly endless parade of photos, mostly of men in black suits and red ties. Try as he might, he could barely distinguish them from one another, let alone tell who they were. The only one who stood out was a lanky man with flaming red hair and a white suit. Even in the mugshot the man had a smirk that said he was exactly where he wanted to be.
And so Yamir made his way home, double checked that his door was locked, and unceremoniously collapsed onto his bed.
Yamir glared into the bathroom mirror, cool blue eyes meeting his reflection. Here he was just a few scant hours from what could be the most important interview of his life, and he looked a complete mess. His hair was chopped, almost literally, short. It was hopelessly uneven, bits sticking out in seemingly random directions, and it refused to lay flat regardless of the amount of water he dumped on.
The days following the dust shop incident went by in a blur. The morning after, Yamir had woken to the light coming through his window, nearly ten in the morning. Usually ,out of habit, he rose with the sun. Ready to get to work before the heat of the day set in. The late night had sapped his energy, and the late awakening left him feeling lethargic for the rest of the day. Leasury switching between channels occasionally stopping on some extravagant game show or a horribly over-acted soap opera. It was while eating a bowl of instant noodles that he heard a news station give a report on the break-in.
They were known as the axe gang, a group of small time thugs that had just recently started making waves. They'd started growing when a new leader had stepped in. Roman Torchwick, the man from the mugshots with the white suit. That same mugshot was on the screen now, and as it faded the screen panned out to show a map of the city of vale. The map had red points scattered across it marking the shops that had been hit. In just a few months nearly half of the stores dealing in dust had been hit. From the SDC direct shop with its pearly white decor, to the smaller mom and pop shops like the one yamir had visited yesterday, no one was being spared. Worse there was no real pattern to how or when the shops were hit. The city itself wasn't feeling much, it had its own reserves. It was the individuals who were feeling the strain. The real issue was that many of the shops catered to hunters and carried weapons grade dust. The kind of stuff you needed a licence to purchase; and if there was one thing you didn't want, it was for the local gangs to start throwing around the unbridled forces of nature.
The following day was a bit more routine. Yamir woke to his alarm at six, threw on some sweats, and went for a jog. It was something he'd started just a few days ago. It wasn't the same as hauling in a basket of apricots for breakfast while watching the sunrise, but it got his heart pumping, and that was good enough. This followed by a shower and some toast, made for a decent start to the day.
Finally, it was time to get to work. The interview was tomorrow, and everything needed to be perfect. So after setting the machine in the buildings shared laundromat he retrieved his billhook and set about it's maintenance.
It was the only thing he could grab from his room before they had to evacuate, a gift from his grandfather when he had turned twelve. The blade was just over a foot long, the last two inches curving in to help with pruning the trees. Along the spine was a segment of thicker steel that also came to a point to be used as an axe on the thicker limbs. It had been forged in Vacuo, the rich dust veins crossed and mingled with the iron beneath the surface and resulted in a much more durable steel. But the most impressive part of the tool was the shaft. It was hollow and broken into segments which would fold in on one another, eventually folding parallel to the blade itself. They could even detach allowing for internal storage; some fishing line, a hand chain saw, the bottommost segment even served as a sheath for a small knife.
As he worked, his grandfather's instructions from when he was first given the tool flowed in. "If you want it to really last, ya can't just sharpen it. You'll just leave the edge thin and brittle if ya do that. No, what ya need to do is peen the blade, stretch out the spine to the edge so it don't get to thin. Now just take that block, the one with the metal bit juten' out, and one of the smaller hammers. Now if ya hit to hard you'll just leave dents, to soft and we'll be here all day. That's it, just enough to sound like a bell. Now when you go to sharpen it, make sure the whetstone is a bit damp, otherwise you'll end up scratchin' it to all hell. Go just enough so you can feel the burr on the other side with yer thumb, then flip it and work it back smooth. When yer finished take a rag and rub it down with some Linseed oil, keep it from rustin' and it wont poison the plants."
His chores finished, Yamir stood before the bathroom mirror. His hoodie and jeans were spotless, His boots completely free of the usual dirt and grime, and his billhook pristine. He just needed one final thing. A haircut.
Yamir had no one to blame but himself. He hadn't wanted to waste money at a barber or salon when things were already so tight. He hadn't thought of the implications of thinking "how hard could it be?" as he went to cut his own hair. His scroll buzzed, the alarm reminding him it was time to leave. Regardless of what he looked like he still had an interview to attend, and brothers be damned if he wasn't there early.