06-11-2011, 10:26 AM
The orange glow of the sleepy Leeds sun was little more than the whispered promise of light when cast against the noxious smog of the Planet's one, omnipresent city. 2.2 billion souls crawled across close to 361 million square kilometers of pitted, rusting, yet sleepless industrial sprawl. The occasional burnt shells of low-cost apartment complexes punctuated the underlying poverty of people too poor to keep what little they have safe. What buildings stand seem grizzled, beaten, and -if one looked at just the right angle- as if they were hunched over, gazing at whatever structures pass for a building's feet. Most buildings echo their owners, their walls, pockmarked by acid-rain and neglect, serving as a testament to the destitution of the pitiful men and women who lived in, labored behind, and cried against them day in and day out.
Admittedly, these same buildings, these factories and shanty towns, corner pubs and foundries, did not care about the suffering. The city did not sleep, even after its workers' backs were broken.
Such was life for Gordon. He spared a moment to glance out of the bars of the workshop window, then turned back to his work before anyone could notice; a thick, gray rain fell -more chemical than water- whose din was overpowered by the rampant machinery. Beneath Gordon's calloused fingers passed various components of ship to ship rockets, dumb ones with little electronics. His job was to fit a segment of case over the electronics housing, and do it quickly. He did. In fact, he did it innumerable times over the next hour, and the previous hour, and the weeks before and after that moment of fancy in which he gazed out of the barred window and momentarily mused about his meager life. He wasn't anything special, he knew, and he didn't have much to look forward to, but he looked nevertheless, turning that glance into his own little rebellion against the system he was trapped in.
He did his work for an eternity, the only thought keeping him going was the hope that the modest check from BMM would keep him alive long enough to get off of Leeds. Vague ideas of patriotism and fighting the Yellow Menace had little sway over him, he whose only knowledge of life was the mottled, rusting ennui of this dull, gray world, and the poverty which chained him here. Eventually, the bell rung, awakening him and many other workers from their trance-like states. Out they milled, their faces ashen, stained in places with grease and soot; some walked off in twos in threes, but the majority simply wandered aimlessly, dazedly, through their corner of Leeds. Gordon was one of those.
His eyes saw where he was going, but he did not, until they later fastened on one of the many cheap pubs. His legs, arms, and whole body went through the same routine -despite his fancies of leaving Leeds, routine was all Gordon knew, and this was one of many- they always did, leading him to a barstool and a few credits' worth of the cheapest alcohol he could get. He downed it in a gulp, the oily, greasy fluid burning his throat the entire way down. It wasn't fun, it wasn't tasty, but it was something. Another few credits and some foodstamps got Gordon a large tube of low grade synthpaste. This routine he went through served little more than to delay tomorrow, give him some little respite from the work, from going home to face himself. He found himself leaving, gazing at his shoes as was the fashion for most people of his demographic. He didn't look at people, or at his environment, his earlier rebellion having been drowned in the fiery breath of a bottle, but simply walked his routine path. His eyes, glazed over and unfocused, greeted the sight of his home with no relief.
If you could call it a home. He rented -from BMM- a small apartment in an old, sagging apartment complex, with a ragged mattress on the floor, a dim yellow light in the ceiling, and a cracked console in one corner. He didn't bother turning off the light, or looking at his console, or taking off his boots. The moment he stepped through his door, up the flights of steps, he moved to his bed and collapsed. It was not out of physical exhaustion that he collapsed; his work was not awfully hard. It was the exhaustion of a man with no money, with no prospects, with no family or friends. It was the exhaustion of a man whose life was routine, and whose routine had come to sleep; and so, he slept, to work another day.
Admittedly, these same buildings, these factories and shanty towns, corner pubs and foundries, did not care about the suffering. The city did not sleep, even after its workers' backs were broken.
Such was life for Gordon. He spared a moment to glance out of the bars of the workshop window, then turned back to his work before anyone could notice; a thick, gray rain fell -more chemical than water- whose din was overpowered by the rampant machinery. Beneath Gordon's calloused fingers passed various components of ship to ship rockets, dumb ones with little electronics. His job was to fit a segment of case over the electronics housing, and do it quickly. He did. In fact, he did it innumerable times over the next hour, and the previous hour, and the weeks before and after that moment of fancy in which he gazed out of the barred window and momentarily mused about his meager life. He wasn't anything special, he knew, and he didn't have much to look forward to, but he looked nevertheless, turning that glance into his own little rebellion against the system he was trapped in.
He did his work for an eternity, the only thought keeping him going was the hope that the modest check from BMM would keep him alive long enough to get off of Leeds. Vague ideas of patriotism and fighting the Yellow Menace had little sway over him, he whose only knowledge of life was the mottled, rusting ennui of this dull, gray world, and the poverty which chained him here. Eventually, the bell rung, awakening him and many other workers from their trance-like states. Out they milled, their faces ashen, stained in places with grease and soot; some walked off in twos in threes, but the majority simply wandered aimlessly, dazedly, through their corner of Leeds. Gordon was one of those.
His eyes saw where he was going, but he did not, until they later fastened on one of the many cheap pubs. His legs, arms, and whole body went through the same routine -despite his fancies of leaving Leeds, routine was all Gordon knew, and this was one of many- they always did, leading him to a barstool and a few credits' worth of the cheapest alcohol he could get. He downed it in a gulp, the oily, greasy fluid burning his throat the entire way down. It wasn't fun, it wasn't tasty, but it was something. Another few credits and some foodstamps got Gordon a large tube of low grade synthpaste. This routine he went through served little more than to delay tomorrow, give him some little respite from the work, from going home to face himself. He found himself leaving, gazing at his shoes as was the fashion for most people of his demographic. He didn't look at people, or at his environment, his earlier rebellion having been drowned in the fiery breath of a bottle, but simply walked his routine path. His eyes, glazed over and unfocused, greeted the sight of his home with no relief.
If you could call it a home. He rented -from BMM- a small apartment in an old, sagging apartment complex, with a ragged mattress on the floor, a dim yellow light in the ceiling, and a cracked console in one corner. He didn't bother turning off the light, or looking at his console, or taking off his boots. The moment he stepped through his door, up the flights of steps, he moved to his bed and collapsed. It was not out of physical exhaustion that he collapsed; his work was not awfully hard. It was the exhaustion of a man with no money, with no prospects, with no family or friends. It was the exhaustion of a man whose life was routine, and whose routine had come to sleep; and so, he slept, to work another day.