Hector’s Conjecture and the Singularity | Chapter Five

Chapter the Fifth

Concerning how Hector was battered in his second adventure and misfortune, and how broken he remained, along with other interesting events.

He was already in the forest. Despite the bright daylight, he could not help but feel terrified; he was experiencing something new, just as many adults had warned him throughout his life—telling him he should “live his life” or that he needed to “be a teenager.” Hector considered these ideas senseless rubbish. How could he “not be living” if he was alive? The only way to not live is to be dead, and the only way to not be a teenager is to be a baby, a child, or an adult. Hector found no logic in it, yet there he was, clutching his lead-acid battery and his radio, which he had turned on to listen to whatever songs were playing.

He remembered the group of six boys he believed would jump him. Being in the woods reminded him of them; thus, out of curiosity and a need to satisfy the boredom brought on by a lack of online entertainment, he decided to seek them out and face them, just to clear that bunch of ruffians from his head.

His first mission in this second adventure would be to defeat his recent enemies—all because he lacked the desire to consume alcohol, much less get drunk. While searching, he realized that despite his breastplate, his rifle, his battery, and his radio, he still lacked money. He was determined to end those fools, and if necessary, Hector was prepared to resort to killing them so they would no longer represent a danger to him or anyone else. He was tired of being limited; he wanted freedom, or at least control.

Hector circled the camp, noting that General Javier was missing and that General Mateo was acting normally with the other boys. This was good; it gave him time to slip away. Conveniently, Hector spotted General Javier in the distance. He followed him, keeping his distance, certain the General was looking for the six boys who had run off with the alcohol—those miserable, manipulable wretches. Hector expected an epic, exciting battle, like something out of a fairy tale or an incredibly incredible science fiction novel.

After ten minutes of walking, Javier finally caught up to the thugs. Meanwhile, Hector was beginning to feel a flaw in his breastplate: a terrible cooling system. He was overheating despite being in the shade. He stopped for a moment while the General spoke to the group. He removed the breastplate, leaving on only his long-sleeved Mexican Army green shirt. He tied his jacket around his waist with the sleeves, creating an optimal cover to avoid getting wet or cut by branches.

Now close to the men, Hector’s heat problem was solved, but the thugs remained. He still held his radio and battery, which he planned to use as projectiles to neutralize these “inappropriate” individuals. He hid among the trees like a shadow—though not a very silent one, as the metallic clanking of his breastplate nearly gave him away.

The General was already scolding them. Hector put his radio aside behind a tree, and with his air rifle and lead-acid battery, he stepped forward bravely. He had no idea how to fire the rifle, but he had faith he might land a pellet. He stepped out and shouted:

“You dishonorable people! I have arrived to bring justice for such improper and miserable acts!”

The boys looked at him with confusion, baffled by his strange language. They thought he was just seeking attention. But while the six boys mocked him, General Javier remained calm and approached Hector with perverse intentions.

“What a daring brat you are, Hector. You should have stayed back there. Listen, I’ll give you one chance to get the hell out. Since I haven’t had time to punish you, I promise to lift your sanctions and follow through on Mateo’s proposal to exploit your brilliant mind.”

Hector felt as offended by this as he had by Adrian the Scout. Analyzing his surroundings, he concluded the optimal move was to hit the General in the head with the battery. Hector stepped forward, gripped the two-kilogram battery tightly, and smashed it with all his might against General Javier’s temple. The blow didn’t move him much, but it drew blood and left him kneeling on the ground, his head battered.

The egocentric General was alive but suffering. For a moment, Hector felt nervous, fearing the General might have ties to organized crime and would have him killed in revenge—a common custom of “bad influences” back home.

The other boys stopped laughing when they saw the battery and the General’s bloody head. Some of them, strangely enough, congratulated Hector, boosting his ego. Hector immediately reminded himself that he must not have an ego, as that would make him just another mediocre member of the crowd. He turned his expression from satisfaction to annoyance and shouted at the others:

“And you shall not be saved! I have seen the impure and indecent acts you carry out with those intoxicating drinks! I have come to save you from the terrible diseases of such a malignant product!”

Again, his words carried no weight. They laughed at him.

“What the hell, ‘way’? So what?” one said.

“Yeah, damn ‘puto,’ just here to screw with us,” another added.

“Go away, ‘pendejo,’ you’re not funny, you’re pathetic. You damn autistic.”

Hector did not waste another second. “Listen, you vulgar wretches! This inhuman possession of alcohol brings sin and disease. I will not permit it in my presence! I order you to leave this place immediately, you damn scum!”

“We gave you enough chances. You’re screwed now,” a boy from the group added.

The six approached Hector. Confident in his breastplate and battery, Hector waited for the first blow. He received a shove and a slap that infuriated him. Hector threw a punch that landed on a fat boy’s chest, but it did little damage.

“Idiot! Your fist did nothing!” the fat boy boasted.

“But how!? It must be that vast layer of fat protecting you from my strength,” Hector replied sarcastically.

One boy broke a glass bottle against a stone, wielding it like a sword. Hector was busy trying to wrestle the heavy fat boy to the ground like a sumo wrestler. When the boy with the bottle tried to stab him, the steel breastplate held firm. The boy’s wrist bent painfully, causing him to drop the bottle, but Hector did not escape unscathed—a shard of glass flew up and cut his cheek.

“It’s over! I’m going to leave all six of you crushed on the ground!” Hector screamed.

In the struggle, a boy lay down behind Hector’s feet. Hector, despite his strength training, was no match for the combined push of the others. He tripped over the boy on the ground, accidentally stomping on him. The boy screamed in pain as Hector fell on top of him and General Javier, his back covered by the rigid breastplate.

The impact of Hector’s 71 kilograms and the hard metal surface likely caused fractures and bruises to those beneath him. The remaining three boys joined the others in a “whirlwind of kicks.” Hector covered his head and neck with his arms. Thanks to the breastplate protecting his torso, he received only bruises.

Hector lay there, “milled” just as he had promised to leave his aggressors. His battery was on the ground, his radio hidden. He waited for them to step back, then gathered his strength to stand. He looked at the two on the ground with hatred. He grabbed his battery.

“Take this, you filthy thing!” Hector shouted before stomping on the head of the boy he had fallen on. The boy bled, and the noise alerted the others.

“What’s wrong with you!?” one yelled.

“Come find out if you have the balls!” Hector challenged.

“Come here, then!”

“Hurry up, you’re taking too long!”

A short boy, blinded by rage, charged. He forgot his stature; he barely reached Hector’s ribs. Hector gave him a cruel slap—not with the battery, as he wanted the boy to “learn his lesson” through a proper beating. The torque of Hector’s shoulder sent the boy reeling, and Hector finished him with a kick to the groin that left him unconscious.

There were four left. Hector’s heart raced. He decided to focus on the “disgusting fat one” who stood at the front. The fight continued with fists flying from all sides. General Javier was semi-paralyzed, watching the violence in a daze. Hector managed to hold his own against the heavy boy, while the two slimmer ones tried to grab Hector’s legs to trip him.

“What’s up, ‘joto’?” the fat boy taunted.

“How are you not falling!?” Hector asked.

“Because you’re damn weak, ‘perrita’.”

“Whatever, you ball of grease!”

This insult drove the fat boy into a fury. He pushed Hector down to his knees.

“Ah, what terrible pain!” Hector cried as his wrist twisted under the weight. The other two pounced on him, but the improvised armor held.

Hector had a sudden stroke of “genius”: a kick to the groin. He tried, but failed miserably, giving the fat boy the chance to pin him and start beating him. The direct blows from a single person were more painful than the group kicks. From beneath his aggressor, Hector landed a punch to the testicles that nearly left the boy foaming at the mouth. He rolled away, howling in pain.

“Dog, I’m going to screw you up worse!”

“Go ahead, I’m waiting,” Hector replied, battered.

Hector grabbed the broken bottle from the ground. He lunged at the fat boy and stabbed him with the jagged edges. The wretch’s cronies backed away, terrified by Hector’s aggression.

“Ow! It hurts!” the boy bled.

“Terrible, isn’t it? But you deserve it for being inappropriate!” Hector screamed.

The boy lay there bleeding, alongside the stomped head of his companion and the semi-conscious General Javier. The fat boy’s strength faded; to Hector, the boy’s slaps now felt like nothing against his “unbreakable brick wall” of a face. Finally, the boy collapsed. Hector sat by a tree, watching with pity as the boy struggled to breathe, thrashing like a gazelle hunted by a lion.

Eventually, the pain ended. The boy’s poor physical condition and the deep wounds from the bottle were too much. He lay dead on the ground. (This was Hector’s first murder—how exciting!)

Hector stood up, his pain seemingly gone, recharged by the adrenaline. He retrieved his radio and battery, leaving the air rifle at the scene of the crime. He walked away, tired and knowing that food and water would soon be an issue. He considered himself too “civilized” to steal, except in cases of extreme necessity.

He went looking for General Javier to finish him off. He found him in the distance, disoriented by the earlier blow to the head. Hector approached with a slow, unstoppable pace. His imaginary characters returned to his mind—an epic battle with lasers and supersonic speed.

He reflected on the death he had caused. He concluded it was necessary because they had tried to kill him first. Or maybe they hadn’t, but Hector was too proud to allow anyone to lay a hand on him. He was fulfilling the first parameter of his character: being Unstoppable.

He found the dying General sitting at the base of a tree.

“Look at you, General. So weak and miserable,” Hector boasted.

“You really are an immature rebel,” Javier replied.

“Did you know the terrible crimes you committed recently are going to cost you your life?” Hector asked.

“I didn’t expect this from you. I thought they’d use you as a holster.”

“I can’t believe it. You’re on your deathbed and you won’t even repent? Like in the movies?” Hector added. “You’re truly disappointing. Just drop the junk in your hands; they’re stained with blood.”

“You just got yourself into a huge mess,” the General added. “One that could get you killed. Or rather, I got myself into it and dragged you all in yesterday, I think.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Nothing. Just kill me. It’ll save me from the torture…”

Hector delivered a final blow to Javier’s head with the lead-acid battery. The General fell dead. Hector used his feet to kick dirt and leaves over the bodies to hide them. He returned to the first scene. The thin boy he had fallen on was also dead—his ribcage crushed, lungs and heart pierced by bone fragments. Hector didn’t care. He hid the bodies as best he could, knowing search dogs would eventually find them. He couldn’t hide it forever.

Though it wasn’t a true taiga, Hector was curious about the resources in this forest. He planned to find a remote place and set up a small factory to produce some “easy-to-sell substance.” He’d figure out what that was later.

His next mission was to find water to wash off the blood. He remembered the Lake of Yuriria. If he was near Irapuato, he had to walk about 87 kilometers southeast. He would avoid the highways to dodge the authorities, though he figured most police were too lazy to look for him—except maybe his grandfather.

He would guide himself by the road signs from a safe distance of 200 meters, facing whatever insects or snakes lay in his path. He skirted the camp and saw the scouts playing with water balloons—a game he had no interest in. He hated “strange” things, like the embarrassing pumpkin costume he was forced to wear at age five. Even at fifteen, he felt a strange nostalgia and anger that the “glory days” adults talked about were longer than his entire life.

Hector had now circled the camp and reached the highway. Battered but resilient, his journey into the unknown had begun. He was Unstoppable…

…"

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