Boarheaded

You know, I never give myself enough credit.

I'm the first person in my family in a generation, maybe two, hell, maybe even three, to have gone to college. I've had a very successful career, I'm easily respected, and dare I say, I'm a damn good-looking man.

Though there have been some hiccups along the way.

Quite a few, actually.

But such is life, I suppose.

I wasn't much of a scholar in school. Not that I wasn't smart, mind you. The intelligence was there, the wisdom was there, but I suppose the two never quite found a way to connect. That disconnect was just wide enough for a scholarship to slip right through my fingers.

Better luck next time, I guess.

But I refused to be beaten.

Boarheaded. At least, that's what my grandmother used to call me.

So, I enlisted.

That's right, yours truly joined the United States Marine Corps.

I won't lie to you. It was grueling work. But as a young African American man trying to find his footing, I figured it was one of the better chances I had at leveling the playing field.

As it turns out, I had quite the knack for combat.

Pretty good at it, too.

Expert marksman, superb at martial arts, and I even competed on behalf of the military from time to time. Who would've thought that the same kid who spent his weekends obsessing over fantasy games would turn out to be a halfway decent soldier?

Well, I suppose swinging imaginary swords around had to count for something.

After my stint was over, I finally got what I'd been looking for.

College.

A full ride, paid for in its entirety.

All it cost me was my soul.

Naturally, I chose something I found interesting: engineering.

As a kid, I'd spend hours taking apart television remotes, radios, and whatever other unfortunate electronics happened to find themselves within arm's reach. Putting them back together was another matter entirely, especially when I couldn't remember where all the screws went.

But that was the fun of it.

I wanted to understand how things worked. More importantly, I wanted to understand how to make them better.

Not just for myself, but for everyone around me.

A little idealistic? Sure.

But if a man can't dream, what's the point?

With the stick-to-itiveness I'd learned in the military, I managed to finish my degree. Grueling as it was, I got through it.

Unfortunately, nobody had bothered to inform me just how competitive the engineering field actually was.

So, after all that hard work, where did I end up?

A soulless corporation.

The Daven Hill Group.

A very small, locally funded operation that was desperately trying to claw its way out of the hole that small-town businesses sometimes find themselves in.

Architects, general contractors, project management, that sort of thing.

Our position was something like a go-between. We'd coordinate contractors, negotiate deals, manage projects, and occasionally pretend we weren't all one bad financial quarter away from complete disaster.

Nothing made those people happier than making a sale.

It was a startup, if ever a startup existed.

Naturally, because of my instincts, I rose through the ranks.

They called me a natural.

They called me dependable.

They called me whenever something went wrong, which, for the record, was rather frequently.

Eventually, they even gave me a promotion.

I'd have preferred a raise.

But nevertheless, through stupid company outings, pizza parties, working in the rain and snow, and selling both the company and myself to anyone unfortunate enough to listen, we actually started making traction.

So much traction, in fact, that we were eventually invited out to California.

One of our representatives had managed to make contact with a foreign establishment operating out of the state. They were apparently interested in our services.

Why?

Your guess is as good as mine.

I was selected to serve as our envoy.

Again, why?

Beyond me.

But there I was, banner in hand, standard waving in the wind, prepared to sell the merits of the Daven Hill Group to anybody willing to listen.

When I entered the meeting room, however, I was greeted by an interpreter and two Japanese gentlemen sitting side by side.

One was bespectacled, with a rather pleasant expression.

The other?

Stone-faced.

Not a smile. Not a sneer. Not so much as a twitch.

I began my presentation.

I spoke about my company's experience, the projects we'd completed, and the services we could offer. I spoke about my military background, my leadership positions, and what it meant to do something right the first time.

I even threw in a few old adages my great-grandpappy used to tell me.

The bespectacled gentleman seemed to find my anecdotes amusing once they were translated.

The stone-faced fellow didn't share quite the same outward enthusiasm.

Nevertheless, I persisted.

Boarheaded, remember?

There I was, a six-foot-two Black man, practically yelling at two Japanese businessmen to hire a company I wasn't entirely convinced should be hired.

It was a strange situation.

So I decided to use another tactic.

My grandfather had taught me a little trick when negotiating deals.

You name a price so exorbitantly high that the other party has no reasonable choice but to refuse.

A cheap trick, admittedly.

But sometimes the best way to escape an unreasonable situation is to make yourself the unreasonable one.

Surely they'd decline, and we could negotiate down to something that made sense.

At least, that was the plan.

Unfortunately, this had the exact opposite effect.

Apparently, the gentlemen interpreted my ridiculous asking price as a demonstration of confidence.

If I thought so highly of my company and my own abilities, then surely we must be worth the money.

And they, naturally, wanted the best.

The stone-faced gentleman leaned forward.

For the first time since the meeting began, he spoke directly to me.

In perfect English, no less.

"You're hired."

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're hired, Mr. Hunt."

Well, shit.

I hadn't expected that.

Still, I was a businessman, and a businessman never lets an opportunity slip through his fingers.

I quickly straightened myself, put on my most professional smile, and accepted.

We discussed the terms of the agreement, shook hands, and began arranging the project's next steps.

Naturally, I asked when they wanted me to get started in California.

The two men exchanged glances.

Then they chuckled.

Not the funny hee-hee, ha-ha kind of chuckle.

No.

The eerie kind.

The kind people make when they know something you don't.

As it turned out, nobody at head office had thought it was important to tell me that the actual project was located in Japan.

Japan.

Of all places.

Now, don't misunderstand me.

I'd always wanted to visit Japan.

I'm a big nerd, and I enjoy quite a few of the products that country produces.

Especially dark fantasy games.

I'd name a couple, but I'm sure you know exactly which ones I'm referring to.

I enjoyed them so much, in fact, that I took an interest in actual swordplay.

Much to the chagrin of everyone who knows me, I am also an enjoyer of LARPing.

Live-action role-playing, for the uninitiated.

Yes, that means dressing up like a knight and hitting other grown adults with pretend weapons.

And yes, I thoroughly enjoy it.

If the weather permitted, every Sunday I'd try to get out to the park and participate.

Of course, I'd never admit that to certain members of my Black family.

They'd roast me without end.

According to some of them, the acceptable hobbies for a Black man were basketball, rap music, skullduggery, and the creative examination of Black culture.

Four things.

That's your lot.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy some of those things, but I was really into fantasy.

When I first saw Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings as a kid, something clicked.

I knew that was it.

I had to be part of worlds like those, by any means necessary.

Hell, I used to sneak out as a kid just to play Dungeons & Dragons.

I still remember my very first character.

Elroy.

An orc.

Naturally, he was badass.

A paladin, when the dice permitted it, and the sort of man everyone could depend on when things got ugly.

I loved that character so much that I eventually brought him out of the pages and into my LARPing adventures. I even took him to a few medieval and Renaissance fairs.

Had the armor and everything.

Perhaps I'm getting sidetracked.

My point is, fantasy was a big part of my life.

And moving halfway across the planet meant leaving a lot of that behind.

But Japan!

The land of anime, manga, and all manner of fantastical things!

Surely that would make up for it?

Well, after some convincing, I agreed to relocate.

All expenses paid, of course.

Housing, transportation, relocation assistance, the works.

Still couldn't afford to give me a raise, though.

Go figure.

The Japanese company also made something rather clear.

They would prefer to conduct all business directly through me.

Apparently, they found the Daven Hill Group's management a little slimy.

I concurred.

Wholeheartedly.

And so, for the very first time in my life, I boarded an airplane headed overseas.

Japan, here I come!

Japan was beautiful.

Absolutely breathtaking, really.

The architecture, the food, the countryside, the conveniences of modern life.

It was everything I'd imagined.

For about two weeks.

Then reality started setting in.

You see, visiting a country and actually living there are two entirely different things.

I'd originally considered living in Tokyo, but the hustle and bustle of city life was a little too much for me.

So I settled somewhere on the outskirts.

Close enough to get into the city when I wanted, but far enough that I wouldn't be consumed by it.

A reasonable compromise, if I do say so myself.

Unfortunately, there were still a few complications.

For starters, I was a six-foot-two Black man walking around in places where people weren't accustomed to seeing six-foot-two Black men.

I received quite a few strange looks.

Some curious.

Some uncomfortable.

A few that made me wonder whether I'd accidentally grown another head.

And, naturally, I didn't speak Japanese.

Not particularly well, anyway.

So there I was, standing in stores and restaurants with Google Translate pulled up on my phone like a damn fool.

It would've been considerably easier if I spoke the language.

Unfortunately, my level of weeb had never quite reached that point.

All I had to show for my adolescence was an emo phase in seventh grade, when I'd lock myself in my room and listen to Paramore with little snippets of Kendrick Lamar mixed in between.

An interesting time in my life.

Not particularly useful for international business.

I was, quite frankly, feeling ostracized.

Not by everyone, mind you. I met some wonderful people, and there were plenty who treated me kindly.

But being different all the time gets exhausting.

Even the simplest interactions sometimes required extra effort.

And if I'd been a more social creature, I imagine the loneliness would've destroyed me.

Fortunately, I'd already developed a certain resilience.

The Marines had taught me a thing or two about being uncomfortable.

Still, I digress.

Since I wasn't exactly living the nightlife of my dreams, I began focusing more heavily on my work.

I have a personal rule.

If you've spent a year at a job and gotten really good at it, you should probably start looking for something else.

A new challenge.

Something to keep you growing.

Unfortunately, I'd been at this particular profession for several years now.

So much for that rule.

But I was committed.

And if I was going to spend my time building something, I might as well build it properly.

I used every bit of leadership experience I'd gained over the years to ensure that the people around me had what they needed.

I wanted the project completed.

Not simply for the company, but for the workers who'd invested so much of their time into it.

I suppose I've always been that kind of person.

Even when it comes back to bite me in the ass.

Funny thing, though.

For the life of me, I can't quite remember what it was we were building.

A facility of some sort.

Industrial, certainly.

There were explosives involved.

Maybe for clearing debris? Excavation? You'll be surprised just how often explosives can enter the conversation during certain large-scale construction projects.

I remember steel beams.

Concrete.

Containment systems.

A whole lot of expensive machinery.

But the finer details?

Strangely fuzzy.

I suppose that's not particularly important anymore.

What matters is that something malfunctioned.

Something went horribly, terribly wrong.

And now?

Well.

Now I find myself here.

Three seconds.

That's how long I have left.

Three seconds before the detonation.

The entire facility has gone critical, alarms screaming through the halls while emergency systems struggle to contain whatever catastrophic failure we've managed to create.

I've already gotten everyone I could out.

That much, at least, I'm sure of.

The trouble is, I'm still inside.

Behind me stands a reinforced security door.

A very expensive, very durable security door.

One specifically designed to seal itself during a catastrophic emergency and minimize the damage to surrounding areas.

In fact, I'm fairly certain I was the one who suggested implementing that system.

A brilliant idea, Maxwell.

Truly inspired.

I'd pat myself on the back, but I'm a little preoccupied with dying.

On the other side of the door, several workers are desperately trying to pry it open.

Poor bastards.

They're really giving it their all.

I can hear them shouting my name.

I should probably tell them to get farther away.

But honestly?

It means a lot.

Truly.

To know that these people are willing to risk themselves for me, even now.

I wish I could thank them properly.

I wish I could tell my family goodbye.

I wish I could do quite a few things, actually.

But there's no point crying about it.

I've already cried all I can.

Nothing I do now is going to change what happened, or what's about to happen.

It is what it is.

I close my eyes.

At least everyone else made it out.

At least I managed to do one good thing.

For a man who's spent most of his life wondering whether he's actually accomplished anything worthwhile, I suppose that's something.

A smile creeps across my face.

Heh.

Would you look at that?

I finally get some time off.

BOOOOOOM!

Well.

This is new.

I'm floating.

At least, I think I'm floating.

There's nothing beneath my feet, nothing above my head, and absolutely nothing around me.

Just darkness.

No.

Wait.

Not darkness.

Space?

Am I in outer space?

What the hell is going on?

I turn my head.

Or, rather, I attempt to turn my head.

I'm not entirely sure I have one anymore.

Come to think of it, I'm not entirely sure I have a body.

Now, this is concerning.

Not nearly as concerning as being blown to kingdom come, mind you, but concerning nonetheless.

Am I dead?

I suppose that would make sense.

Although, if this is the afterlife, I must say the accommodations leave something to be desired.

Where's the pearly gate?

Where's Saint Peter?

Where's the obligatory line of recently deceased souls waiting to have their paperwork processed?

Surely somebody ought to be here to greet me.

Maybe this is where I meet the Almighty.

Good.

I've got questions.

Quite a few, actually.

But strangely enough, I don't feel afraid.

I feel...

Warm.

Comfortable.

Almost like being tucked beneath a blanket on a cold winter morning.

Maybe I should just stay here for a while.

Rest.

Lord knows I've earned it.

And yet...

There's something bothering me.

A phrase.

A silly little phrase that won't leave my head.

Boarheaded.

That's what Grandma used to call me.

Stubborn as a boar.

Always pushing forward.

Always refusing to back down.

Even when I probably should've.

Heh.

I wonder what she'd say if she could see me now.

Actually, I know exactly what she'd say.

"Boy, what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?"

I laugh.

Or I think I do.

It's difficult to tell.

But the longer I float here, the more something begins to bother me.

I'm not ready.

Not yet.

I've worked too hard.

I've spent too much of my life trying to get somewhere, trying to become somebody, trying to make something worthwhile of myself.

And just when I finally started getting there...

That's it?

Curtains closed?

Show's over?

Nah.

I don't think so.

I'm not ready to go out like this.

I refuse.

I won't die.

I think...

I think I'd rather—

Wait.

Where am I?

Trees.

There are trees everywhere.

Tall ones, with thick trunks and great sprawling branches that seem to swallow the sunlight.

The air smells of damp earth and leaves.

Somewhere nearby, I can hear the distant trickle of running water.

A forest?

How perplexing.

One moment I was floating in what appeared to be outer space, and now I'm lying in the middle of the woods.

Did I survive?

No.

That wouldn't make any sense.

I'm fairly certain I was just blown up.

Unless...

Huh.

Something about this place seems familiar.

Very familiar, actually.

The trees.

The little clearing.

That crooked old stump over there.

Wait.

I know this place.

Of course I know this place.

This is where my mother and I were exiled.

...

Hold on.

My mother and I were WHAT?