Done & Gone // [Jimmeh]

[semper]

I’d rather live with broken bones
than lay here all on my own
like a lovesick fool

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Always up before the sun. He curled up underneath the thin blanket, refusing to leave the warmth. The house was silent at that early hour but he knew that soon his siblings would start stirring, breaking the silence with their seemingly endless arguing. Hopper had no interest in listening to any of that so he reluctantly crawled out of bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he dragged his feet along the creaky floorboards.

Before long he was out the door, bundled up in two jackets and still trying to not shiver. Hopper despised the cold and the faint breeze was only pushing his buttons further; he pulled up his hood and tilted his head to the side, blocking out that stream of cold air that always seemed to find a direct route to his face. It was enough to provide for a little relief but he soon found himself shivering, so he hastened his pace along the oh-so familiar road.

Frankly he would have much rather been stuck in a classroom rather than the steel factory. Learning about the curriculum subjects was much more appealing than a laborious job this early on, but then who would take care of his siblings? Mr. Goravich, the poor sod – he was so far gone, unable to properly care for his children. Hopper had tried reasoning with him – ”Dad, I can’t get a job, not yet; just hold on a little longer, okay?” – and the older man had managed to pull in a little income, but it certainly wasn’t enough to support all seven of them. Then Hopper dropped out of school and took up a job at the factory, working his hands to the bones to keep his siblings fed.

Hopper tended to his station, carrying along with a healthy sense of caution; the nasty red scar on his neck was a grim reminder of what could happen when you became distracted from your work. He took extra care particularly when pouring the molten steel into its mold – the heat that radiated off the bright liquid was still just as intense with the protective gear on as it had been his very first day on the job and though he preferred heat over cold, it was too much.

He backed away once the proper amount was poured, then pulled off the face mask along with the rest of the gear and set them back on the table. The majority of the workers were already headed out for their lunch break (all the old timers that don’t give a damn for anything anymore are always long gone at least an hour before we’re supposed to get off) and the factory was quite empty aside from him and a select few others; Hopper didn’t mind that he usually ate alone, so he plucked his small bag of cheese and bread along with a bottle of water and went over to the ledge of a ramp, sitting down and starting to piece together little bits of cheese with chunks of bread.

((Trying him out in third POV x: Also I suck at starters. xD ))

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[Jimmeh!]

i see you had your mind
all made up you group
of pitiful liars
before i woke to face the day
your master plan transpired

Thunderous grinding of gears, the hiss of molten steel flowing into crucibles, sparking of arc welders, dull undercurrent of whirring fans. This was the din that Logan Sinclair spent his days in. A relentless, methodical, deafening existence, corded muscles heaving at the hand-operated line bender, the tortured scream of shearing metal as the mechanism wrenched the twin steel cutters shut, snapping closed like the jaws of some great steel predator. Bar after bar of refined, machined steel, bent into a simple curve, dropped with a clatter into the wheeled basket below, almost full. Ahead of his quota, Logan toiled with an almost inhuman, single-minded drive. Screech, chink, clank, thunk. Screech, chink, clank, thunk. Sweat beaded upon his brow, punishing heat from the foundry merciless upon his pale flesh. Lank hair dripped with the splash of water he threw upon himself, a bedraggled mess, steaming in the ever-present swelter of his workplace.

He prided himself on his relentless pace of work, easily twice what his colleagues of his own age could do, greater than that of some of the older, more experienced foundry workers could achieve. But then, he was twice the size of many, figuratively speaking. His towering frame was reflective of the colossal machinery he helped to operate, uncompromisingly massive, powerful and completely insubtle. Almost brutish in appearance. Countless correct mixes for carbon steels of various forms ran through his heads, processes involved in the folding of steel, strains placed upon heavy machinery when working to full capacity. All material for his stage two engineering examination due to take place next week. Engrossed in the book work he'd all but memorised two months ago. He would not, could not fail this. Not after the countless extra hours he'd done for the company.

So immersed in his self-induced revision was Logan, he almost missed the wail of the horn signalling shift change. It wouldn't be the first time he'd worked past his allotted hours. Today, however, with cart in tow, he hauled his workload off for inspection, the process supervisor nodding at him as he passed. 'Ahead of quota again Sinclair. What we like to see. Bay E-34.' Logan nodded simply, heaving the steel-laden cart to his designated sorting station, shoving it roughly into place, a clatter marking it thumping against the rearmost facing of the bay. Long strides carried him to his locker, pulling his prepared lunch and a couple of textbooks for his two hour break. A break he intended not to waste. A single photograph, of he and his two sisters, Faye and Aylin, happy and smiling, reaching a hand out, huge hand framing the weathered image. Taken four years ago, one of the few good things his parents had ever given him.

Steel toed boots thumped up the iron-shod steps leading to the gantry he did most of his revision at, and was surprised to find another seated, eating a simple meal of bread and cheese. He felt somewhat sorry for his meagre pickings, not least because of the scarring on his neck. He vaguely remembered being near someone who earned himself a similar wound. Metal casting as he recalled, he'd become distracted by... Something. With a distinctly lower amount of noise that someone of his size should ever make, he set himself down a few feet from him, leaning against the guard rails, flipping the first textbook open, peeling open the container that held his own lunch, a concoction of rice, peas and chicken, cold, but nutrious, the second compartment holding another couple of chicken pieces, an apple wrapped in foil to protect it from the grease, and a small block of fudge, something he'd bought his sisters as a special treat, and had meticulously rationed out over the past month. He looked over at the other boy (Young man? Who could tell here?), before burying his nose in the book.

A few moments passed, unable to concentrate properly, his fork casually rising and falling with his considerably more satisfying and sustaining meal than the poor sod sat a stone's throw away had. A small smile, and a shake of the head, before the thunk of his fork hitting the bottom of the plastic tub, and he was calling over to the other. 'Hey. Yeah you.' He picked up a piece of chicken and tossed it over, a neat throw. 'You need more than bread and cheese friend.' His mind eased after this gesture of goodwill, and he returned to his studies, finally able to concentrate.

i see you had your mind
all made up you group
of pitiful liars
before i woke to face the day
your master plan transpired