Wild Hearts Old Cogs

[Elnora Heidrick]

While roaming around the first region of Wild Hearts, players will likely hear an odd clunking sound coming from the dark corners and hidden areas. Upon investigating, hunters will discover one of Wild Hearts' most useful tools: Tsukumo. These small, round robots serve the player as a battlefield assistant that provides several benefits over the course of a hunt.

Tsukumo are found in every region of Wild Hearts, though only one will visibly accompany the player during a hunt. That's not to say the player should stop looking once they have found one. There are 50 Tsukumo in each of the five regions, with each individual robot providing a single unit of the material needed to upgrade the player's companion Tsukumo.

Tsukumo acts as a customizable hunting companion that provides several benefits while fighting Wild Hearts' various kemono. The benefits they provide can be broken down into the following four categories:

Aside from joining the player in their hunts, Tsukumo will also populate certain campsites in the world. These will usually be the bigger hub campsites, as opposed to simply putting down a campfire in the wilderness.

The game lists 50 individual locations where Tsukumo can be found in the Haragasumi Way region. Azuma as a whole has five areas that each contain 50 Tsukumo, brining the total number in the game to 250.

Tsukumo are often found tucked away in remote corners of Azuma. They can be found at the top of a climbable wall, and they can be found in the ruins of the structures that dot the landscape. Taking the time to thoroughly explore each subsection of a region will usually reward the player with several Tsumuko.

Finally, players struggling to locate Tsukumo can also listen for their unique sound. Though the sound itself is a strange mix of robotic and organic, it is very much one-of-a-kind and will not be mistaken for anything else when heard. It can be described as being something of a robotic croaking that emanates from Azuma's hidden recesses.

The player's Tsukumo can be upgraded at the basic campfire. Setting up the fire is a basic Dragon Karakuri skill learned very early in Wild Hearts. Aside from setting up a campfire in the wild, the player will also have one in their Minato residence. To view the Tsukumo upgrade menu, simply approach a fire, hold down L2 when the 'warm yourself' prompt appears, and choose the "Enhance Tsukumo" option from the menu.

The upgrade menu features the four previously mentioned attributes: Attack, Defense, Assist, and Threader. The player can upgrade each one of these forms, leveling them up and improving their associated stats and skills. Upgrades cost very little at first, but each subsequent level will require more of the required material, which in this case is a unique resource known as "old cogs."

Finding old cogs is a relatively straightforward process, though this does not mean collecting them all with be easy. These rare items are acquired each time the hunter 'befriends' a new Tsukumo. This means the number of old cogs remaining in a region is directly tied to how many Tsukumo has been discovered.

Upgrading Tsukumo, especially in the early game, is one of the primary ways to increase the hunters' thread count. This is the basic resource that determines how many of Wild Hearts' karakuri the player can construct without needing to refill. Check the bottom of the upgrade menu to see the increased thread count.

The oil industry was visible all around me in Calgary. I watched my friends head into the University of Calgary's pristine Schulich School of Engineering to attend classes in the hopes of one day working in that sector. Downtown, I saw the Louis Vuitton-clad masses funnelling into gleaming buildings owned by giants of the oil and gas industry.

But as a student of music working in the arts, I felt detached from it. The closest I ever got to the gears and cogs of Alberta's energy sector was attending opulent Stampede week parties thrown by oil companies. My understanding of what it meant to work in oil and gas was a fat paycheque and a lavish downtown desk job.

Somewhere in my distant thoughts, I had a vague notion that a slightly nefarious place in the far reaches of the province was perpetuating this grand machine. Calgary and Fort McMurray seemed only peripherally connected; the latter was certainly not connected to me.

It was the early and uncertain times of the pandemic and the Fort McMurray Catholic School Division was offering me a job. After finishing my undergraduate degree at the University of Calgary, I spent several years working and travelling before getting my education degree in Edmonton. I was keen to start teaching.

I was first struck by the rugged abandon of the landscape. For most of the five-hour drive past Alberta's capital, there is not much but rolling hills, thick pine forests and a smattering of lakes. Then we reached Fort McMurray itself, proudly sitting on the banks of the powerful Athabasca River that carved its way through the city.

As Highway 63 descended into the expansive river valley, we saw the city unfold in front of us. Its small downtown core was completely enfolded by nature. A thick canvas of trees clung to the steep slopes of the river except where large patches revealed the wounds of the near past. The wildfire of 2016. The flood of 2020 that happened just a few months before we arrived.

We passed over the roaring Athabasca and started our climb up the other side of the river bank. The forest continued to envelop us but it's full and vibrant over there, untouched by the fire. I was so aware of the nothingness around me.

An abundant community of people balances the wild emptiness. It's a vibrant mix of Atlantic Canadians, Indigenous peoples from the nearby First Nations and Mtis communities, and other people who've arrived from all over the world.

Those from Newfoundland did so loudly by inviting us to shed parties and feeding us potato salad that looks like mounds of brightly coloured playdough (it's delicious, by the way). We came to understand that shed and garage are interchangeable terms and our new East Coast friends like to host parties in both. I'd go for runs in my neighbourhood and see garage doors open and ready to welcome guests, the flag of Newfoundland and Labrador proudly hanging inside each.

In one corner of the school, I taught English to students who had recently arrived in the country. For an assignment, I asked them to write about their heroes. One student wrote of his mother, who came on her own to Fort McMurray for work and eventually earned enough money to bring over her husband and children from the Philippines. As I read through the accounts from other students, I realized this story is not unique.

Down the hall, I taught English and a career and life management course to teens who had grown up in Fort McMurray and whose families worked "on-site" at the massive oil operations to the north and east of the community.

When classroom discussions turned to topics surrounding climate change, some students become defensive, leading me to feel that I was threatening their parents, their family's livelihood, or their own future employment. I strove to remain unbiased and offered them space to shape their own informed thoughts and opinions.

Our school regularly invited First Nations and Mtis community members to share their knowledge with staff and students. Through them, I learned how to lovingly harvest and braid the sweetgrass that grows naturally in town. I learn about bannock-making and beading and try my hand at both.

I heard firsthand accounts about communities and people being relocated. I was given the opportunity to engage with cultures so deeply connected to the land I stand on and I received it as a privilege.

Sometime around May, the winters abruptly ended and the weather became hot. My husband and I would sit on our patio and our conversations would be momentarily interrupted by the roar of trucks from the street. After the noise dissipated, we'd hear children laughing in the playground beyond the trees near our apartment.

Over our two years in Fort McMurray, I missed my friends and family in central and southern Alberta, but the highway can be dangerous and the drive was long. The pandemic led to many suspended flights from the Fort McMurray airport so it was difficult to get out. I talked to my colleagues about feeling homesick and learned that many feel the same. Missing birthdays and holidays took a toll and I increasingly felt like I was stuck on an island.

When I started to tell people, they did not want to hear our reasons for leaving. It's a conversation that is all too familiar to them. Instead, they wanted to tell me why they choose to stay: the wild swathe of nature to explore, great schools, good jobs, the rich community, and the chance to offer their families a good life.

I no longer imagine Fort McMurray veiled in thick smoke and molten lava; I see a bright collective of people that constitute a unique place I hold a fondness for. I am thankful for the time I spent in Fort McMurray; for the people I met, the stories I was gifted, and the perspective I was given.

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