Early Life and Background
Theodore Linette, known as Theo, was born into a family that had called Veridian City home for generations, their roots stretching back before The Great Collapse changed the world. His grandparents, James and Clara Linette, had been small business owners in what was then called Seattle, running a diner in the city’s industrial district.
When the Collapse hit, plunging the world into chaos with climate disasters, economic ruin, and the rise of AI corporations. They adapted, relocating to the newly formed Veridian City, a bleeding metropolis built on the debris of the old world. By the time Theo was born, the Linette family had long since Americanized their names, blending into the city’s melting pot while holding onto their noodle stall in NeonGrit, a grimy district in the Fringe, a zone with perpetual neon lights casing on the streets at night.
Theo grew up in the back of that stall, a narrow space wedged between a holo-ad repair shop and a low-rent brothel, the air thick with the scent of synth-soy broth and burnt circuits. His parents, Michael and Sarah Linette, were third-generation Veridianites, their lives molded by the city’s post-Collapse divide: The Core, where the elite thrived with cutting-edge tech, and The Fringe, where the rest scraped by. Michael handled the cooking, his hands steady as he stirred vats of phở, while Sarah managed the customers, her sharp eyes catching every thief who tried to slip away without paying.
At 5’4”, Theo was small but wiry, his lean frame developed by years of running through the rough streets of NeonGrit. Life there demanded sharp instincts and a tough attitude, both of which Theo had in spades. He sometimes stammered when nervous, but his street smarts and quick thinking kept him ahead in the dangerous the Fringe.
To the outside world, Theo radiated positivity, offering a warm smile and kind words to the stall’s customers, especially the downtrodden, like the weary Dolls or street kids, who needed it most. But inside, he carried a quiet pain, feeling worthless in a city that seemed to value only the brightest stars, his depression a heavy weight he hid behind his cheerful facade.
Struggles as an Artist
From a young age, Theo turned to art as an escape. He’d sketch on napkins during slow hours at the stall, drawing the jagged outlines of NeonGrit’s skyline, its towering holo-ads flashing against the smog or the hunched figures of customers nursing their bowls. His parents, though supportive, were pragmatic. “Art won’t pay the bills, Theo,” Sarah would say, her voice firm but tired. Still, they bought him cheap paper and pencils, hoping it would keep him away from the Shadow Traders and pimps who prowled the district.
By twelve, Theo was obsessed with painting, mixing scavenged paints to capture the lights of the Fringe on scraps of cardboard. He dreamed of joining the ranks of Veridian’s Core artists, whose vibrant murals adorned the city’s wealthier districts, their work projected on massive holo-screens for all to see.
Despite his dedication, Theo’s paintings never stood out. He practiced every night, studying techniques from pirated art files he found on the dark web, but his work lacked the natural fire of true talent. To the stall’s regulars, his pieces were decent. Good enough to hang in a dive bar. But to those who understood art, like the Core curators who occasionally scouted NeonGrit for fresh talent, Theo’s work was unremarkable, a pale imitation of the brilliance they sought.
He entered local contests at fifteen, saving up to buy better paints and staying up late to finish pieces he hoped would finally shine. The judges—often jaded artists or Core gallery runners, barely glanced at his canvases.
“Too stiff,” one said, tossing his work aside. “No soul,” another muttered. Their words cutting deeper than Theo let on. He watched as other artists, with their effortless strokes and raw talent, took the prizes he’d dreamed of. The gap between his effort and their greatness gnawed at him, a quiet ache that grew with every rejection.
To his parents, he’d show his work with a fake grin, masking the ache of feeling inadequate, though he struggled to express how much their support meant. He cared for them deeply but found it easier to share his warmth with strangers.
A Turn to Photography
At nineteen, Theo’s father suffered a heart attack, the stress of unpaid debts and endless shifts breaking him. The stall closed, and Sarah took up cleaning jobs in the Core, leaving before dawn and returning after midnight. Theo dropped out of school to work odd jobs, delivering packages, cleaning gutters, scrubbing floors at dive bars. Anything to keep their apartment’s lights on. Painting became a luxury he couldn’t afford, his brushes gathering dust as surviving took over.
One humid night, while delivering a package to a bar in NeonGrit, a client tipped Theo with a beat-up camera instead of cash. Theo didn’t care for photography, seeing it as a mechanical trick, not true art like painting. But he was broke, so he started shooting portraits to make a quick buck, capturing the faces of NeonGrit’s downtrodden: a weary Doll under the night’s light sign, a street kid’s defiant glare, a vendor’s slumped shoulders after a long day.
To his shock, people loved them. His photos weren’t technical marvels, his hands shook, the lens was scratched, but they told stories of the Fringe’s quiet despair in a way his paintings never could. Locals began buying them at alley markets, drawn to the haunting honesty in each frame. Theo found a niche, shooting portraits that captured the city’s soul, even if he didn’t feel like a “photographer.” The label felt wrong; he still admired painters, their natural talent a fire he’d never had, a brilliance he longed to be near.
An Artist in NeonGrit
His small fame grew in NeonGrit’s underground scene, his prints traded among bar owners and collectors who saw the Fringe’s grit in his work. One photo, a stark portrait of a lone figure vanishing into a neon alley caught the eye of a collector who owed a debt to Cam, a Shadow Trader running “Fringe Frames,” a back-alley gallery. Cam didn’t care about art; he cared about profit.
The collector, desperate to settle his debt, passed Theo’s print to Cam, who saw its raw appeal. “This sells,” Cam grunted, tracking Theo down. He offered to stock Theo’s photos, not out of kindness, but because they moved product in a city craving authenticity. Theo, wary of Cam’s shady dealings, accepted out of necessity, knowing this was his only shot to keep his art alive.
In a city that chewed up dreamers, Theo Linette held onto his view of beauty with the same cunningness that kept him alive in the Fringe, chasing the spark of true a true talent he’d never found in himself, drawn to those who burned brighter than he ever would.
