I Can See For Miles (Regina)
Apr 12, 2012 17:33:36 GMT -5
Post by Aeron on Apr 12, 2012 17:33:36 GMT -5
The relentless wails and screeches of assorted welding and cutting tools hit various octaves throughout the spacious aircraft assembly hangar, encasing it in a cacophony of shrill, eardrum-grating sounds. Puddles of oil and other kinds of lubricant were not uncommon here, and some of them often graced the crude concrete floor for days on end before being attended to accordingly. The miniature thoroughfares between each work station bustled with workers, and their capacity was nearing the maximum mark. This environment wreaked havoc on the five senses of anyone unfortunate enough to work here, and every single one of these unfortunate people were bound to it by Capitol law. To refuse such arduous labor was tantamount to pleading for a death sentence, or a permanent branding as an Avox. For District 6 was the sole manufacturing center for the Capitol’s transportation vehicles, and the all-powerful latter could not afford to be dissatisfied.
A few of the many workers assigned to this hangar were Aeron Volante and his humble family, although the former’s current status as Reaping age often emancipated him from the dangerous and otherwise limb-severing tasks. It was his last year of eligibility, luckily. Instead, he took to gathering lightweight supplies for his mother and father, which often resulted in a trek between two hangars. Today was no different, and his appearance emphasized that fact. Aeron, who had just returned to the hangar where his mother rivets screws onto the hulls and other parts of hoverplanes, toted an atypical appearance for his District, since his family was considered lower middle-class, often borderlining the improverished side, whereas the rest of the District was upper middle-class. This was because aircraft production was not nearly as lucrative as ground vehicle manufacturing. The assembly of the much-mentioned high-speed Capitol transit trains often brought in the bulk of the riches instead.
Aeron, however, found his muse in heavier-than-air flying machines. He had just finished delivering a pack of bolts to his mother for the second time today, since she had accidentally asked for the wrong size a few minutes prior. She was merely another victim of overwork. The wiry, scrawny teenage boy of seventeen had deduced that he needed a short break, as midday was steadfastly approaching, and the District’s output quota often mounted during that time period. Yet more requirements put forth by the Capitol. Therefore, Aeron needed to conserve what little energy was still dwindling in his body.
With a sharp intake of breath, Aeron groped for his canteen, which was already halfway empty. Without even bothering to peer inside, he drained another fourth of it, leaving an even more meager amount remaining. The water within it had become slightly stagnant during the morning hours, but it was still lukewarm in temperature and perfectly drinkable. Despite the contrast to the Capitol’s cool, authentic spring water, Aeron nonetheless savored the refreshment and newfound moisture residing in his mouth and throat. The dry stickiness that plagued both places had been suppressed for the time being. That sensation was commonplace in District 6’s workforce, and very few spoke in a positive light about it.
Placing the now-lighter canteen back on a nearby workbench, Aeron drew in another breath, this respiration much more clear in tone than the last one. He would allow himself a few more moments to regain his strength, and then return to work. As his back made contact with the hangar wall, a grimace began to form on his weathered face. Sweat still clung to him like beads of tree sap, and he had for the most part adhered his frayed flannel vest and t-shirt to his back from the dried perspiration. That too was a bothersome sensation. To add insult to injury, rain did not visit the District today. Though the hangar was roofed, it occasionally leaked from time to time during downpours. This was often considered a blessing by workers, and it posed no danger to the aircraft being conceived.
As the next several minutes passed, Aeron gradually came out of his fatigued state and back into a labor-ready state. The day was halfway gone, and he was ready to seize the end of it. But to get there, he had to see it through until then. He returned to his original position near his mother, who was now preparing a drill to affix the bolts to a completed plane hull. She spoke to him in the same tired tone, which was laced with stress, fatigue, and longing. Some of the workers called it a “worker’s accent”.
“Aeron, does your father have the next hull prepared? I’ll be done with this one shortly, and I need to keep moving. Otherwise I won’t be able to occupy myself.”
Aeron cocked his head slightly, and responded in an honest and curt manner. He hadn’t seen his father until earlier that morning, when he had claimed he needed no help.
“I suppose I’ll ask him,” Aeron responded concisely. “Surely he’d have something primed for us now.”
There were three aircraft assembly hangars in this section of District 6: one for building and fleshing out the plane parts, one for assembling them, and one for final revisions and painting. Each of these hangars were connected by tunnels, and they were often crowded. One had to maintain focus while in there, lest they bump into something being transported. That had happened once before, and the poor fellow had a concussion. He was out of work for weeks.
Aeron knew these tunnels by heart, and he knew where and when to dodge oncoming workers. The “traffic” often flowed on the right side of the tunnel, though occasionally rush deliveries weave through both sides in a slapdash and somewhat humorous manner. He began his trek to the adjacent first hangar, where his father was stationed. The tunnel was crowded, and he could assess this from hearing alone. Still, he had to get there promptly. With a sigh reminiscent of someone beginning a long, monologue-esque speech, Aeron approached the congested tunnel.
