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There’s no reason for anyone to even see him. He got a look at himself in the shiny side of a passing groundcar on his way up. The “nice” clothes that the sisters at the mission helped him find hang off him, meant for someone twice his size, and his hair’s too long because it’s been too cold to have someone help him shave it close to his head.
He’s small, half-starved, just another unwanted kid. Not the big guy on the holo-ad in front of him. But he’s got to try. Gotta shoot the moon and see if he can make it. If he doesn’t, no one else will do it for him.
Ben swallows, curls his toes in his too-big shoes. He has to try. There’s no other way and he might as well use what being born down by the docks got him.
Blair says they’ll take him. Blair doesn’t remember the last time someone with some little bit of power had turned them away–because she had been huddled in his lap, half out of it with fever. But he does, just like he remembers carrying her a dozen blocks that day.
If he doesn’t try, they can’t turn him away. Gotta shoot for the moon, because he’s not getting anywhere without that. He reaches toward the door and it slides open to admit him, letting warm air from inside hit his face, and steps into the recruiter’s office.