Broken Souls [Anibriar]
Mar 18, 2016 15:49:54 GMT -5
Post by Prenten on Mar 18, 2016 15:49:54 GMT -5
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[attr="class","textstroke"] You know, today someone told me I wasn't human. They told me I was a machine. A robot that ran on the very oil I spent hours dredging up from the earth's crust. Sure, they were joking. They laughed, the four of them. They thought it was a real great joke. I gave a little half-smile and pretended not to care. I was replacing one of the bearings on the rig's outflow pipes, so it was easy to pretend like it didn't bug me.
But comments like those... Man, those comments are the ones that sit in the back of my head until I get home, then keep me up all night.. I tell you, that shit drives me crazy.
Am I too emotionless? I used to be happy. Well, I mean I'm not unhappy now, I think. Whatever the fuck "happy" is anyways. Am I too abrasive? Maybe. But it keeps the guys in line. You've gotta' be tough with them. Otherwise they don't respect you and you've gotta have respect. Especially on Far Horizon. Those guys are ruthless, the ones you have to worry about.
I don't mind working on the Horizon. The Capitol's got it positioned close to shore, so home is just a short boat or helicopter ride away. It's always nice to sleep in my own bed at night. And that's sure as hell what I was going to do tonight.
I stepped off the boat and onto the dock. It was just after 9 p.m. The air was cool, the wind blowing lightly off the ocean, giving the world a salty tinge. This was home. The dock's wooden pylons creaked and popped under the pressure of my footsteps. Somedays I could swear this pier was going to collapse. During the winter I don't use it; too dangerous. The cold makes the wood brittle. But this was the dock I used to fish off of as a kid. Too many memories to let it sit abandoned. Behind me, I could hear the transport leaving. I'm always the last one off, mainly because I come to this pier - but Harry doesn't mind. We've got an understanding.
Most folks use the dock to the south, the new one. It's a synthetic metal port, with big concrete posts supporting one solid sheet of some Capitol-engineered metal that serves as the walkway. Everyone thinks it's gorgeous, the way its silvery finish illuminates the area by bouncing light from light posts and the moon off it. I think it's a little much for a port used to bring in peacekeepers or pick up greenhorns heading to the rigs. Mom says I'm just bitter that Dad helped fund it. Maybe.
Either way, this dock's closer to my house. I reach the front door, insert my key and slip in silently. The lights are off; they usually are. Half the time, nobody's in the damn place. I told Mom I didn't need such a big house when I decided to move out, but she insisted on the brown-brick building with two bedrooms and two bathrooms with a view of the coast. Christ, the amount I'm here, I could've settled for a place with a pull-out couch, a toilet and a stove. But nope. Mama's gotta' have her way; at least it wasn't Dad's money.
I drop my bag and step into the bedroom. A small oak wardrobe contains most of my clothing - whatever else is scattered around on the floor. I look at the clock.
9:13 p.m.
Time enough to go to the bar, I suppose. Maybe hear something interesting, meet a cute girl. Doubt it on the second one.
I slip out of my orange and yellow jumpsuit and toss it into the bin.
Gotta do laundry tomorrow.
I grab my towel and find my way through the darkness into my bathroom and into the shower. Thank god for muscle memory, otherwise I'd be stumbling around like an idiot. I find the light switch, and illuminate the bathroom. It's tile, mostly. Nothing expensive or fancy, but nice enough. The shower is built into the eastern wall, with frosted glass obscuring view. I step inside and hit the water control knob. It's icy cold at first, and I instinctively arch my back to avoid it. The warmth quickly follows, pushing the sweat and grime off my body. By far, this is the most enjoyable part of coming home.
I had found something a little more suitable to wear in the real world, thankfully. A burgundy polo with a thin navy line running across my chest, around and beneath my armpits, meeting again on my back. Over my heart, an anchor of the same colour interrupted the line and swung below it. A nice little touch, I thought, especially with the dark blue jeans I'd found in my clean clothing piles.
Anyways, I'd made my way down to the main road, leading into the District Square. Gracie's Place was the bar - a bit of a hole in the wall, but a place where meeting a friendly face wasn't uncommon. They served decent beer, and sometimes had some of that expensive Capitol liquor: rum, some whiskey, maybe a bottle of that nice amaretto. I'd sat myself at my usual spot, on a high bar stool near the back, farthest from the door but with a good view of it. I could see right down behind the bar counter where they kept the nice bottles, to catch a glimpse of anyone who came in. This stool practically had my damn name engraved on it.
"How're ya'?" Annie asks. She's the bartender tonight, Gracie's kid. Nice enough girl, but she's got her mother's bizarre accent - I can barely understand her most days.
"Ain't seen ya's in a whole," she sputters, smiling cheek-to-cheek. I look up and nod, smiling slightly.
"I'm alright, Annie. I can't complain," I reply, sighing heavily. "I just finished an assignment at the Solar Plant down south. They posted me to the Horizon, for a couple weeks anyways. You'll be seeing me a bit more, now."
Somebody steps in through the entrance, and my gaze shifts, sizing up the new guest.
"Wot? Y'ont wanna work on the Dirty Fed'?" she exclaims, with a sly smile. My eyes snap back to Annie and I scowl in irritation. The "Dirty Fed'" is a nickname for my father's oil rig, the Federal Resource. 'Dirty' because it's anything but, often the cleanest in the waters near District Seven, and "Fed"... well, you can figure that one out. Annie's face softens.
"Sorry love, innit mean ta affend ya's," she says. "Wot can I get ya's t'nite?"
"A beer, please," I answer, softening my own expression this time. No need to be a grump tonight, I suppose...
But comments like those... Man, those comments are the ones that sit in the back of my head until I get home, then keep me up all night.. I tell you, that shit drives me crazy.
Am I too emotionless? I used to be happy. Well, I mean I'm not unhappy now, I think. Whatever the fuck "happy" is anyways. Am I too abrasive? Maybe. But it keeps the guys in line. You've gotta' be tough with them. Otherwise they don't respect you and you've gotta have respect. Especially on Far Horizon. Those guys are ruthless, the ones you have to worry about.
I don't mind working on the Horizon. The Capitol's got it positioned close to shore, so home is just a short boat or helicopter ride away. It's always nice to sleep in my own bed at night. And that's sure as hell what I was going to do tonight.
I stepped off the boat and onto the dock. It was just after 9 p.m. The air was cool, the wind blowing lightly off the ocean, giving the world a salty tinge. This was home. The dock's wooden pylons creaked and popped under the pressure of my footsteps. Somedays I could swear this pier was going to collapse. During the winter I don't use it; too dangerous. The cold makes the wood brittle. But this was the dock I used to fish off of as a kid. Too many memories to let it sit abandoned. Behind me, I could hear the transport leaving. I'm always the last one off, mainly because I come to this pier - but Harry doesn't mind. We've got an understanding.
Most folks use the dock to the south, the new one. It's a synthetic metal port, with big concrete posts supporting one solid sheet of some Capitol-engineered metal that serves as the walkway. Everyone thinks it's gorgeous, the way its silvery finish illuminates the area by bouncing light from light posts and the moon off it. I think it's a little much for a port used to bring in peacekeepers or pick up greenhorns heading to the rigs. Mom says I'm just bitter that Dad helped fund it. Maybe.
Either way, this dock's closer to my house. I reach the front door, insert my key and slip in silently. The lights are off; they usually are. Half the time, nobody's in the damn place. I told Mom I didn't need such a big house when I decided to move out, but she insisted on the brown-brick building with two bedrooms and two bathrooms with a view of the coast. Christ, the amount I'm here, I could've settled for a place with a pull-out couch, a toilet and a stove. But nope. Mama's gotta' have her way; at least it wasn't Dad's money.
I drop my bag and step into the bedroom. A small oak wardrobe contains most of my clothing - whatever else is scattered around on the floor. I look at the clock.
9:13 p.m.
Time enough to go to the bar, I suppose. Maybe hear something interesting, meet a cute girl. Doubt it on the second one.
I slip out of my orange and yellow jumpsuit and toss it into the bin.
Gotta do laundry tomorrow.
I grab my towel and find my way through the darkness into my bathroom and into the shower. Thank god for muscle memory, otherwise I'd be stumbling around like an idiot. I find the light switch, and illuminate the bathroom. It's tile, mostly. Nothing expensive or fancy, but nice enough. The shower is built into the eastern wall, with frosted glass obscuring view. I step inside and hit the water control knob. It's icy cold at first, and I instinctively arch my back to avoid it. The warmth quickly follows, pushing the sweat and grime off my body. By far, this is the most enjoyable part of coming home.
I had found something a little more suitable to wear in the real world, thankfully. A burgundy polo with a thin navy line running across my chest, around and beneath my armpits, meeting again on my back. Over my heart, an anchor of the same colour interrupted the line and swung below it. A nice little touch, I thought, especially with the dark blue jeans I'd found in my clean clothing piles.
Anyways, I'd made my way down to the main road, leading into the District Square. Gracie's Place was the bar - a bit of a hole in the wall, but a place where meeting a friendly face wasn't uncommon. They served decent beer, and sometimes had some of that expensive Capitol liquor: rum, some whiskey, maybe a bottle of that nice amaretto. I'd sat myself at my usual spot, on a high bar stool near the back, farthest from the door but with a good view of it. I could see right down behind the bar counter where they kept the nice bottles, to catch a glimpse of anyone who came in. This stool practically had my damn name engraved on it.
"How're ya'?" Annie asks. She's the bartender tonight, Gracie's kid. Nice enough girl, but she's got her mother's bizarre accent - I can barely understand her most days.
"Ain't seen ya's in a whole," she sputters, smiling cheek-to-cheek. I look up and nod, smiling slightly.
"I'm alright, Annie. I can't complain," I reply, sighing heavily. "I just finished an assignment at the Solar Plant down south. They posted me to the Horizon, for a couple weeks anyways. You'll be seeing me a bit more, now."
Somebody steps in through the entrance, and my gaze shifts, sizing up the new guest.
"Wot? Y'ont wanna work on the Dirty Fed'?" she exclaims, with a sly smile. My eyes snap back to Annie and I scowl in irritation. The "Dirty Fed'" is a nickname for my father's oil rig, the Federal Resource. 'Dirty' because it's anything but, often the cleanest in the waters near District Seven, and "Fed"... well, you can figure that one out. Annie's face softens.
"Sorry love, innit mean ta affend ya's," she says. "Wot can I get ya's t'nite?"
"A beer, please," I answer, softening my own expression this time. No need to be a grump tonight, I suppose...
