borrowers / marceline & astrid

marceline jeon .

"thought i was the only one,
turned out i was everyone"

The girl (Aster? Astrid? Astrid.) starts talking to me like it's the easiest thing in the world. Now that she's close, I'm sure I'm on the right track with the name. 

Don't worry, I won't snitch. 

To that, I say nothing, but meet her eyes affirmatively. I have no reason to trust her, but no reason not to either. Going along with it is the most sensible option — it's not like I could run even if I wanted to anyway. I smile momentarily before I turn my attention back to my ankle. I shrug in response to her question. As a rule, I keep my troubles with my joints to myself. No fuss that way. 

"It doesn't hurt," not per se, anyways. I try putting my weight on it, and I'm met with a sharp, insistent streak of pain for my trouble. I shrug again, playing off the wince that flashes across my face. "It happens sometimes. I can walk." This time I try out a couple of steps, chin stuck up in the air, eyes forward. It's sore, I'll admit just that much, but since it's only my ankle I can limp along by myself just fine. "In an hour or so, it'll be back to normal."

When I get home, I'll ice it regardless of if it's feeling better or not, just to be safe.

"Astrid," I repeat, nodding as her name and face lock into my mind. So I was right; patterns and association are just about the only thing I'm useful for away from my workbench. A beat later than I should, I add, "I'm Marceline. I think... we might have met at school."

She's friendly, to the point that I'm a little suspicious, but it's probably just my adrenaline flaring up from being seen.

I clutch the strap of my bag, pull it open just a tad, and look in. I haven't been that lucky today. Inside of the patchwork bag, mixed up with my knitting, my purse, and all the rest, are five tightly folded rejected dresses. I chose them for their colours and patterns mostly. At this time of year we're working with a lot of velvet and silk for the never ending New Year party season, which won't be great for regular babywear, but can be turned into real special little gowns, that sibling after sibling will use on rare special days. Without all of the additional hoops and various undergarments people would wear them with, the dresses are actually pretty easy to roll up nice and small. The whole endeavour is far too sentimental to even begin to explain. I shake my head.

"Oh?" Despite myself, I'm curious. Other people's work is something I typically admire from afar. I don't like to ask about it, but this is practically an inviation to. "Do you remember what you did with it?  But no, nothing like that I'm afraid. Some faulty dresses I'm going to use to..." I let the sentence trail off and shrug away whatever's left hanging. I clear my throat, give my ankle another stretch, and feign interest in something over Astrid's shoulder. "Well, there's more in there if you want to take a look." I glance back at the dumpster. Instead of looking at Astrid in the eyes, I focus on her eyebrows instead. Close enough. "But be quick if you do. Peacekeepers usually come around not long after this."

marceline jeon .

"thought i was the only one,
turned out i was everyone"

I crack a smile, just for a second, at the way she describes her blanket project. "I know what kind you mean. I bet it's still nice, even if it's simple." And I mean it too. In our short conversation so far, Aster has been nothing but gleamingly candid. I imagine anything made by her possesses some of that same clear aura, and that it translates into warmth. Anyways, as a rule, I always say that, "A blanket is always nice." 

Maybe I should crochet a blanket to go with the baby onesie... if I have the time. I have school two days a week, and then work for the rest.

A thin dust of awkwardness settles on us after Astrid's careful little laugh, but I don't elaborate on my plans, but she sweeps it away again with a simply-given request: Could you watch my back? One of my eyebrow cranks up before I can control it, but I nod in reply nonetheless. I don't think she even saw. While Astrid's jumping in, I drag myself over to the dumpster and take up my post outside. With my arms folded over my chest, I feel more conspicuous than ever — I should've just persevered and limped past Astrid in the first place. Stupid ankle. I pass the time by rolling it gently in one direction, then the other. It doesn't help much. 

Astrid pops up. Emerging from the dumpster with her big pretty eyes, lit up from within by the joke she's preparing, she reminds me of a summer-coat stoat, slinking out of a burrow with its spoils. I smile, softened by the mention of a sister. A younger sister, I'm guessing. I'm well past the point of jealousy, but I still think to myself that it would've been nice to have an older sister like Astrid. 

"Ew," is all I can say when she holds up the hat. I wonder if it's supposed to be like that or if one of the new starters messed up really bad. Most of the contents of the bin is made up of the fresh meat's mistakes, so probably. The definition of mistake is extremely broad. Sometimes even the most easily fixed garment gets thrown out by a temperamental manager, and of course the costs come out of your pay.

I'm about to laugh, and about to tell Astrid it's time to go when I hear the sound of heavy footfall from up ahead. My eyes narrow and I gesture for her to get down, underneath the clothes. The chute for this bin is just for textile waste, so there's no risk of mess. Even if there was, I'd take mess over getting in trouble with officials any day. 

"Peacekeepers," I hiss. I don't sound like myself; suddenly my voice is sharper, more pressing. "Hide. Hide, and we won't get caught."

I toss my bag into the dumpster ahead of me and then pull myself up and over, head first, by my clammy hands. As I scramble to pull the lid shut, catching it with my hand so it closes softly, without a tell-tale crash, I curse under my breath. This hasn't happened to me in years. If I'd just had the sense to leave, or to tell Astrid to move it earlier, or, better yet, not even suggested she goes rooting around for herself, then neither of us would be here. I hold my breath. I can't help but imagine the dumpster cartoonishly breathing along with me, the walls expanding then coming in tight on top of us. 

Somehow, even though I know this is just their routine, that they were going to come by here anyways, I can't help but feel like it's my fault for thinking about the wages people have already lost on these clothes. In that sense, I'm not just stealing from the factory, which I have no issue rationalising, but from my colleagues. Enough. I close my eyes to focus on listening.