James "Wicket" Marker's Questionnaire

Wichita, man. Born here, probably gonna die here unless something wild happens. I don’t really see the point in runnin’ off somewhere else just ’cause the weather’s better or the grass is greener. Wichita’s got grit, you know? Like… people earn their living here, and they don’t fake smile at you on the street. They leave you alone unless they mean it. I got this little rowhome in South of the city; cracked brick, peeling paint, window box full of dead herbs I swear I’m gonna replant someday. Inside? Floor’s all rugs over busted hardwood. Smells like incense and old weed. Guitars on the walls. One couch too broken to sit on right. It ain’t much, but it’s mine for sure.

Wichita’s still Wichita, right? Beat-up, broke in places, loud in others, but still kickin’. Corp logos everywhere, sure. Some neighborhoods are straight-up bought out by one megacorp or another, but most folks still just tryna live their lives, eat good, breathe, stay outta debt, keep their shoes dry when it rains. You can’t go two blocks without seein’ some Marrietta-Wesson billboard or a H.I.M. drone liftin’ steel beams, but this world’s still spinning. Trash day’s still Thursday.

I’m just a gas station cashier, you know, nothin’ fancy. I clock in, scan a bunch of snacks and cigs, make change, smile at the regulars who come through. Wichita has got that hustle, so some days it’s slow, some days it’s a rush, but it pays enough to keep the lights on. Most of my money goes to rent and weed, can’t say no to chillin’ after a long day. Sometimes I grab some decent coffee or snacks, maybe a six-pack if the mood’s right. No big spendin’. Just the simple stuff that keeps me grounded and sane in this crazy world, even if it means no buffets.

Ambition, huh? Honestly, I’m not chasing no corporate ladder or flashy titles. What I really want is to pull back the curtain on all these megacorps screwin’ us over, HIM, Nemours’, Marrietta-Wesson, all of ‘em. They paint themselves as saviors, but they’re just vultures in suits, feeding off chaos, turning this city and the Gate into a damn playground for their greed. I want people to see it, really see it; not just the billboards and ads, but the ugly truth behind the works, the experiments, the corruption.

Would I kill for that? Nah, that’s not my style. But I won’t shy from gettin’ my hands dirty if it means exposing them. Death? I’m chill with risking it if it’s for something bigger than just me. Wichita is my home. I’m down to shake the foundation if that’s what it takes. But I’m no fool; I know how to stay low and strike smart. It’s a long game, and I’m playin’ for keeps.

Yeah… I think the thing that really flipped the switch for me was the first time I stole somethin’. Wasn’t some big heist or movie scene, just a crate of whatever from a supply shipment meant for one of those corpo drives. They make a big show of “helpin’ the needy,” but I saw the numbers. Half of it was goin’ right back to them in some tax dodge. So I took it. Not for kicks, just ‘cause I was curious if I could, and so were a couple friends.

That was the moment I realized this whole system’s fake. Charity’s a PR stunt, and survival’s on you. I stopped trustin’ the big names after that. Changed how I looked at everything; law, ownership, authority. You either scrape by playin’ their game, or you take what you need when they ain’t lookin’. I been doin’ a little of both ever since.

Alright, three people in my life, yeah? Okay, here’s how it breaks down.

First one’s Mikey “Skids” Alvarez. Skids has been my boy since we were kids, always rollin’ around South Wichita on junk bikes we fixed up with scrap from behind the bodegas. He’s a mechanic now, kinda. Mostly works under the table fixin’ generators and hacked scooters for whoever’s got the scratch. Closest thing I got to family who chose me, you know? Dude’s paranoid as hell, talks about Charon Life implanting RFID chips in newborns, and honestly, I’m not convinced he’s wrong. If I’m goin’ into the fire, Skids is who I call.

Then there’s my brother, Derek. Older by three years. Went corpo, works some cubicle job for Nemours’. We don’t talk much. When we do, it’s usually fights. He says I’m wasting my life, I say he sold his. Classic. Sometimes he leaves gifts at my door, and I sometimes accept them. Sometimes I leave burning bags of shi-

Lastly, there’s Miss Renee. Runs the corner shop up the street. Used to give me free coffee when I was broke. Looks out for me, even if she pretends she don’t care. I owe her. Big time.