Wake of Devastation -Earthquake plot- [Kay]

I'm a slacker, go whichever way the wind blows
Those just tuning in I'm just letting' you know
That I'm a slacker

Matador had never been on the train before, so that was something. Not much, though. During the hour-long trip he eavesdropped on conversation, and surmised that not all the miners in Two were so lucky. Those deemed close enough to the border with One had been marched like a troop of Peacekeepers. He smiled at that, thin lips pinched and just barely widening. He could've used the exercise, but it was much nicer, and faster, to be flown over tracks. The district went by in a blur, first familiar and then not so much. He'd expected to find it more interesting, but really, it was just the same, all the way into One, until the buildings closest to the epicenter came into focus, piles of rubble and scattered belongings.

This he found fascinating, to see the debris and junk people collected laid out bare. He wanted to paw through it, judge them harshly, but it would take entirely too much time, for too little gain. Still, he amused himself with the minutes he had left, watching pink blankets and plastic crowns and wooden swords race by. Life laid out so plainly; he wondered if it would be the same in the arena.

They were shuffled off the train quickly, sequestered in a makeshift ring. They were counted, given a quick set of directions, and then told to select a jacket and pick, which had undoubtedly traveled with them. He picked up the first jacket he came across in the queue, but the pick took longer, until he found one with a long enough handle. Anything shorter and his shoulders and bunch up. He carried it with the iron skimming the ground as they trudged over a mountain of earth. From the top, it was easy to see the twisted ruins of the mine. This struck him much more forcefully than the shattered homes. This was home to him, in a way, the tunnels sprawling and connected. It could have just as easily been him down there.

Only it hadn't been. Some other poor schmucks had given their lives to nature. He did not feel sympathy, just relief. And it was such a fucking mess. They'd been there a week, at least. Matador stepped out of the marching line, bent at the knees so that he would be less noticeable to the few managers. He dug his fingers into the earth, a dusty version of his home's dirt. And when he looked over his shoulder, he found another boy observing rather than working. His mouth moved, and Matador thought he might've said disgusting, which was strange and also quite similar to what he'd been thinking.

Matador left his pick on the ground as he stood and casually walked over to the boy's side. No one seemed to care that he was watching and not working, and he didn't exactly look like management material, but then his skin was too pristine to have ever been in the mines. "Quite the operation they've got running here," he said as casually as he could manage, his light eyes shadowed under dark brows. His gaze flickered over the boy before returning to the mine shaft. "Guess that's why they brought us in from Two." Fishing, that's all Matador was doing.