chess scott, district ten
Sept 11, 2019 22:36:30 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Sept 11, 2019 22:36:30 GMT -5
me, i was holding all of my secrets soft and hid
pages were folded, then there was nothing at all
so if in the future i might need myself a savior
i'll remember what was written on that wall
pages were folded, then there was nothing at all
so if in the future i might need myself a savior
i'll remember what was written on that wall
The first time you see Chess Scott, she has a torque wrench in one hand, a half-empty bottle sloshing in the other, and grease smeared from her knee to well above the hem of her shorts. Tall and lean, with her braid coming undone and calloused fingers, she perfectly fits the description of a mechanic. For the briefest of moments you’re intimidated, until she puts down the bottle (which you realize is cream soda) and swipes at the grease self-consciously. In the battered mechanic shop at the scraggly corner of the district she maneuvers the mess of tools, machinery, and parts (which, in your opinion, make it look more like a junkyard than a shop) with ease, coming to meet you in the doorway.
“I was busy,” she explains abruptly, awkwardly. Word has it that she prefers talking to machines. Avoiding your gaze, she pulls out a battered book filled with scrawling, chaotic handwriting and opens it to a page that has what looks like about a square inch of spare space. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s our tractor.” Her pen hovers over the blank space, waiting, and suddenly you feel awkward, too. “It’s just not running like it used to.”
The silence expands between the two of you for far too long before she glances up from the still-blank space, raising one eyebrow. “Not running like it used to?”
“It gets hot.” Still she writes nothing, so you flounder on. “And - and it’s bumpy.”
“Change the oil recently?”
“Last month.”
“Has my pa looked at it?”
You can’t help but flinch slightly. Once one of Ten’s best mechanics, Liam Scott is now an infamous alcoholic. Chess has been the one to fill his shoes. At seventeen she’s made a name for herself, but it’s well known that most of the money that she earns ends up spent on beer or something harder. Some claim that they occasionally see her duck into Ten’s dusty old antique shop by herself every now and again, but no one knows what she buys. “He hasn’t.”
She must have seen your reaction, because she suddenly puts down the book and pen. “I won’t look at it until my pa does. He’s the expert.”
“We were hoping - ”
“That’s non-negotiable.”
Another well known fact - Chess’s loyalty to Liam is unwavering, despite his descent into alcoholism and the fact that he isn’t even her real father. Her adoption happened too long ago for anyone to remember the exact details. Some say she was a doorstep baby, others say that Liam went to the orphanage specifically searching for a kid to put to work. All you remember was how proud he had looked when he told people her name. Francesca Elizabeth Scott. As if she was some Capitolite baby rather than an orphan destined for a life of hard labor.
Lucky for Chess, she took to the work. Even when she was young Liam boasted about how skilled she was, about how she knew how to hold a wrench before a pencil. It was when he started being drawn to the bottle that her skills really began to shine, though. In Liam’s absence Chess proved to be every bit as talented with just about any machinery put in front of her, from tractor engines to medicator metering pumps. You’ve never met her until today - she spends most of her time holed up in the shop - but word travels fast in Ten. You trust the rumors.
As your eyes catch on the bruises blooming over her forearms, you pray they aren’t all true.
“We can’t - ” You pause, faltering. “We can’t afford to take it to your pa.”
Another thing Chess was famous for - she charged less than any other mechanic in the district. Less than Liam, even, although you’re sure he doesn’t know that.
She takes a swig of her cream soda and pauses, considering you. Her eyes are startlingly clear and direct when she actually meets your gaze, and you find it's you that has to resist the urge to look away. After a long moment she heaves a sigh, opening the book again and scribbling something down in that little space. “Fine. Monday, 7:00PM. Don’t be late.”
The tightness in your chest eases slightly, and you try to offer a smile. “Thank you.”
She puts down the book and turns back into the shop without addressing you again, though you think you hear her mutter, “Don’t thank me until I’ve unclogged your damn cooling fin.”
Rumor has it that she is awkward, brilliant, stupidly faithful, and well on her way to becoming the district’s best mechanic. But as you glance down at the open pages of the book and catch snippets of poetry written in graceful, swooping letters, and as you ponder the fact that the stain on her leg looked suspiciously more like ink than grease, and as you notice that among the rusty parts and strewn tools are browning old books that are beginning to fall apart at the bindings, you realize that the rumors about Chess Scott just barely scratch the surface.
we don't eat until your father's at the table
we don't drink until the devil's turned to dust
never once has any man i've met been able to love
so if i were you, i'd have a little trust
lyrics: we don't eat, james vincent mcmorrow
we don't drink until the devil's turned to dust
never once has any man i've met been able to love
so if i were you, i'd have a little trust
lyrics: we don't eat, james vincent mcmorrow
