victor stone { p e a c e k e e p e r } fin

Good morning, Vic.

"Booyah!"

Insatiable clicking- man, I love my job. Old hip hop playing in the corner room radio, window open and it reminds me a liiiiitle bit like home. Not too much, no time for all that nostalgia, too busy being the best fuckin mechanic around here- too cocky? Ah, who cares! A little bit of a lot of things going my way, I'm not complaining. Now, I'm not superstitious to the max or anything, but karma's cashing in some favors now and it's just - correct. 

Morning capitol ringing through the window, I woke up at four this morning, nuts yeah- I stole all the clocks in our apartments. Two in the kitchen, two in my room, the one in the living room, Nimian's - always sleeps through it anyways, sorry dude - Soren's and Satya's. Not Ravenna's, that's okay- another topic for another day. One from the east hallway, blah blah you get the drift but, okay hear me out here this; ya ready? Nah. 

Can't be, huh. 

Okay okay, it is my great pleasure to present - for the first time, anywhere. Ever, the thing we've all been waiting for, my greatest, bad assest, coolest hottest grandest invention yet: err, shit I don't have a name for it. Alarm uhhh, instant, no no, hmm. Something to do with time- OH, oh yeah! Alright, ladies and Soren, I'm proud to present: clock't. Have you ever wanted to leave a friendly reminder for your peacekeeper roommates but knew they'd never check their communicators? Have you ever wanted to make sure somebody had a great morning, but couldn't find any paper to leave a note and somehow couldn't text it to them? 

Neither have I, but now we can! Well, everybody but Ravenna- oh, oh ho ho ho that topic. 

She locks her door when she sleeps. 

Crazy, crazy I know but Nimian and I have tried; I'm over here, busting my mornings programming everybody's clocks to read input codes just for only four of us to be able to use them. I tried to pay Nimian to steal her clock for me but even home girl couldn't do it, so that means it has to be impossible. 

Nah, haha, I'll just have to ask her. Pile of around fifteen alarm clocks all ticking in unison under the weight of the old radio, the only problem here is some people (Soren) only have four digit analogs here, a problem that I'm too lazy to fix. What he gets for buying the cheapest alarm clock, can't afford scrolling interfaces? Guess you're stuck with a four-character limit mister. Y'know, I remember being in the academy with Soren, back when he was Mr. Capitolite big shot #1 in the class, but I'm fine with my fourth placement. 

Four's my lucky number! 

And see, I'm a pretty charismatic guy, Nimian and I started off at the academy, but I think I talked to Soren and Ravenna maybe twice the entire four years. Can't really blame them, muscle guy with a metal arm and leg from district three? Not a great catch line, but hey, I made it work. I'm here, baby! Fuckin cost me an arm and a leg - no pun intended - but y'know what? I always knew I was destined for coolness. 

The alarm blares, red analog good morning peeled in my eyes off beat to the other clocks, wish I could program them all to recognize emoji's, ah hell. One step at a time, I'll probably just buy us all matching clocks; best part about being a titan? Pay checks, I mean, I'm a gracious shopper, humble backgrounds and all that but this? This is rags to riches and I don't regret anything. See, district three I wasn't shit, and I can say that because I'm still not shit. 

It's funny looking back, I always thought I'd be here.

My father and I were boxers, home trained and grown like whiskey- he taught me everything. Fighting, left hooks, rewiring machines, loving myself and I'm still trying to be the man he was. I always thought I was missing something, something I needed to become a man, it's hard for a broken kid to understand how to not be scared of the world. And I knew, little Vic may not have been talented but kid was smart enough- peacekeepers don't have to pay for shit! Well, we do, but it's a living. Not an existence, not surviving, not boxing for profits and choking down the rest -- there's things I can actually do now. 

There's ways I can actually help. 

And I always wanted to, nothing changed there. Boxing and tinkering around, trying to make any money I could to buy my neighbor her medicine, my father new pants, my girlfriend some flowers; I was the street version of a jack of all trades. Learned to fight when I was five, cook when I was six, sew when I was eight -- the domestic swiss army knife. Nothing changed either, not through bullet wounds, lost limbs and family death, hell. I don't want to think about this. 

05:30 -- catching me off guard, exploding behind me and I near damn screamed. Not Nimian's, no way she tries to wake up this early, maybe Satya? Probably missing out on her morning yoga, HAHA oh man, I thought I'd beat the clock on this one. Well, beat the clocks, oh well, I scratch under my eye. I can still surprise them, hopefully, just the small things like- oh man breakfast. I gotta hurry up, Nimian beats me to the kitchen? Tofu, tofu nightmares, tofu hell - no, no way. I keep up with the ticking, screwing apart probably the kitchen analog and whistling to the radio. 

I always loved music, back in district three I'd do this all the time. Fixing up our sink with the window open, jank radio cutting between songs and static and I'd try my best to whistle along. Ya know what they say, music makes the heart sing, even I can relate to that, Cyborg and all- ha, told them all to call me Stone and I still got stuck with that. Guess being unnatural is natural with me. 

They called me Cyborg because I'm only fifty percent me. 

Nimian backed me up, being a five foot tall wingman and all, said she'd fight for me if it were a big deal but it wasn't. Something I just had to get over, ghost limbs, robot limbs, human limbs- telling me over and over that I wouldn't make top five well I am. It's the thing I couldn't ever tune out, from the first bullet wound to graduation ranking; I wasn't supposed to make it this far. 

Poverty kids and cyborgs aren't meant to succeed. 

My father resisted. 

I remember laughing with him that morning, waking up early and getting dressed to work, him preaching around "another good morning,

and another great day!"

 

We didn't eat breakfast, couldn't afford it. And I remember getting ready to market off useless shit, things I repaired slightly and tried to sell to anybody who'd listen to a broke sixteen year old. Walking down the corner ways of district three, box of junk in my hands. It was an orange morning, and I remember my father standing up for him. For me, for him, for something- something he cared about, peacekeepers stopping us, him starring them in the eyes. I can't remember what was said, can't remember what they tried to arrest him or me for but I remember the impacts. The first screaming, bullet breaking air as my father cocked back to punch the first white-suit, I couldn't process. The first thing I was taught was fighting on instincts. 

Surviving on instincts. And I tried to be slick, smart, my dad was shot first, the smartest man I ever knew. At the time I knew better than to look, but I still tried to do something, be fucking stupid and kick somebody's ass - I remember the first impact shot. Started off as a whistle, screaming with the first shot in my elbow and the second in my knee before they grabbed my dad. 

Good morning, Vic.

And another great day to be alive.

I tried to laugh it off, isn't that nuts. I mean, initially I cried, a lot. The old lady I bought medicine for taking me in, her husband dragging me from the alleyway, yelling out to me "you Andris's kid?" and I kept screaming into my own blood, apparently that translate to yes. But they saved my ass, letting me sleep in their guest room and hitting me up with any left overs they had, and I cried a lot. A shit ton. I didn't stop crying for a month, I swear, up until I started working again. 

But I tried to laugh my way out of it after a while, just some credibility after all the crying they had to put up with. 


"I'm a junk-professional, don't worry about me."

"Shit, might as well call my first kid Gangrene."

"Just call me Cyborg at this point."

Anyways, becoming a peacekeeper cost me an arm and a leg -- I'm not joking. Gangrene's a fancy name for bullet poisoning and it's a bitch, but I got through it; well, half of me did. Cutting off the dead parts and surviving on with what I had, I learned how to work around it at first, then learning how to work with it. Building a prosthetic out of an old couch, wire frame and some bandages -- considering I did that shit one handed, I deserved my titans place dammit. I never figured out how to make one that responded finger-wise, street-mechanics can only take you so far. 

Lucky for me peacekeeper pay checks take me a little bit farther, huh.

I slap the clock's dialogue face, some times a gentle persuasion's needed with these types of things; sitting for a second waiting for the message to pop up- oh, didn't press enter HA, okay okay waiiiit for it. The last one in my hands, a second delay before good morning, Vic, flashes.

Booyah.

Only four hours? Ah yea, that's pretty good, I switch the text for good measure, programming the five of our numbers into the recognition- it'll be fine. Satya's already awake, the capitol along side her and I don't got all day here! I can sneak past her alright, Nimian and Soren still sleeping -- Ravenna's clock tampered, fine. Not forever, but for now whateve, I got some clocks to return, my back popping as I get up. 

And the radio still plays, gentle as is while I stacking the clocks all in one box, useless modifications but it's practice. Seven a.m. and the life outside my window continues, prosthetic fingers holding onto the window sill and everybody keeps walking, talking, being. My alarm goes off, red analog flashing as I look back,

good morning, Vic.

And another good day to be alive.