Grease // d6 // [fin]
Sept 11, 2015 15:18:34 GMT -5
Post by arx!! on Sept 11, 2015 15:18:34 GMT -5
This time the headlights are smashed.
"Some hoodlums thought it'd be funny," he mumbles to my boss, explaining the damage. But as soon as my eyes meet his, his face lights up. He's lying. Though he'll never admit that, I know.
This is how it's been for almost 8 months now. Every other day some "hoodlums" will break his mirrors, slash his tires, or shatter his headlights. And then he'll show up at whichever shop I'm in and watch me fix a fuel line or tinker with an engine. And then, when it's closing time, we'll go for a drive.
It's reckless. But I've never been one to pay attention to caution signs.
"It's morphling."
My shoes pinch my feet as I stand at the hospital desk behind my mother. She's talking to one of the medical officers, her hair frazzled and falling from the perfect bun she sweeps onto her head every morning. Her hand shakes as she presses it to her temple. That happens when she needs a drink. I fuss at the straps on my dress, the material rubbing my skin raw.
"How long? It couldn't have been long, I---"
The doctor cuts her off. I think he knew exactly what sort of excuse was coming. I would've known. I'm a good mother. I have a perfect family. We are perfect. No doubt he saw straight through her. He saw the more than a few glasses of wine at night. He saw the husband who craved only younger women. He saw a mother who couldn't take care of herself let alone her children. He saw it all. And if not in her eyes, he saw it in mine.
"His withdrawals are very severe, Ma'am. He has been pumping morphling into his system for months."
They argued for some time. I pulled on Mom's dress; she ignored me. As I wandered through the hospital, I heard screaming. I sat down on the floor outside of his room, ripping my shoes off my feet to pick at the blisters that had formed. My brother screamed from behind the door; I picked at the blisters on my feet until they bled. When Mom finally figured out I was gone, she rushed to me. I asked a single question: "When's Silvain gonna die?"
I'm not sure why, but I cried at her funeral. Silvain wasn't there and my Dad wasn't crying. I thought someone should. It was a bright, sunny day in July. Some kids were hopping over headstones, their laughter echoing through the whole graveyard. There was only me to mourn her. And even I didn't want to. I was 14.
My Dad remarried 3 months later. But the house was just as empty as it always had been. Dad was never home, Silvain was slowly killing himself in some alley, and instead of having depression-riddled Mom, I had none. It didn't matter anyway. I was ready to leave. I didn't need my Dad's money or his name, not his house or his 23 year old trophy wife. I didn't need Silvain or his drugs. All I needed was me. All I've ever needed is me.
You can't count on anyone.
"Name's Grease," I mutter through the cigarette dangling from my lips. I dig through my toolbox and shove past an extended hand. I don't shake hands.
"I'm Officer Dracón," he says, pretending to wipe the sweat off his hand. He watches me as I lift up the hood of his truck, smoke bursting from within.
I toss my cigarette to the ground and put it out with the heel of my boot. Diesel is much more comforting than nicotine. I glance at the frame of the vehicle, bullet holes dotting the side. Seems these armored trucks aren't as bulletproof as they are supposed to be. He immediately takes my looking as a threat.
"Firing at a Peacekeeper is high treason. Punishable by death under order of President Snow. All rebel forces will be---"
I snap my fingers in front of his face. He pauses mid-sentence, glancing down at me, brow line scrunched and jaw set. "What'd they do, brainwash that into ya?"
He looks at me dumbfounded for a split second. He doesn't even reach for his gun or punch me in the face.
"Relax, Officer. I'm a just mechanic."
I turn back to my work, and he sits down behind me. "I'll be the judge of that. Miss... Grease."
I smirk as I bend over the still steaming hood. This guy picked the wrong girl to doubt.
"What are ya? Ten?"
I didn't think I would ever see it actually occur in real life, but the guy stooped over and slapped his knee and laughed at his own terrible joke.
"I'm fourteen."
He just shook his head and waved his hand at me. He looked old enough to be my grandfather and was covered in grease stains. I could smell alcohol on his breath, see the yellow stain of sweat on his beater, and couldn't help noticing the tattoos of pinup girls lining his arms.
This man is everything I've ever wanted to be.
And he's laughing at me.
"Go home, girl," he grumbles as his laughter subsides. "This is a place of business. I don't have time to be worrying about you."
But I wasn't about to give up.
I snatch a wrench that sits on his desk and toss it pass his head. It clatters on the floor in front of him and he whirls around. "Now you listen hear, you little---"
"I've been fixin' cars since I was eleven!"
He stares at me, eyes fiery and jaw set. But I'm not backing down. I've never backed down. Not from my father, my mother, my brother. I've ignored my father as fiercely as he ignored me since I was 6 years old. I've torn myself out of dresses and wiped off make-up since my mother started putting me in them. I've never let my brother's habits drag me down. I will be a mechanic. Right here, right now.
"I've been able to disassemble an engine and reassemble it for about a year now. I can replace broken timing belts, fix an overheated engine, and if you ask nicely I might just do every mundane oil change and tire rotation for you."
He's glancing at me through squinted eyes now. He takes a step closer, leans over the desk so that his face is just inches from mine. Never back down. behind him one of his mechanics curses, still trying to start the truck I had stolen the piece from the night before.
"And that truck over there will never start without this."
I pull the glow plug from my pocket and grin. He rips the plug from my hand, glaring. He's silent for longer than I thought was possible, my heart thudding faster and my grin slowly slipping. But it holds, I stand tall, and he breaks.
"You're hired."
"You know, you sorta look like Opal."
I've never laughed so hard in my life. If I wasn't sitting in a moving vehicle I might have actually rolled on the ground. He chuckles from the driver's seat, tossing sidelong glances my way. "What? What's so funny?"
"I've got brown hair and brown eyes and suddenly I look like a Victor? News flash, Officer, that matches the description of over half of Panem," I put my feet up on the dash and toss my hands behind my head. "I look more like Wench than I do her!"
"Okay, the shop's cat is much prettier, don't give yourself that much credit," he says. The smile on his face tells me he's joking. I hit him anyway. "Shut up."
"I meant, besides the obvious, that you demand attention," he says, glancing in his mirrors despite no other vehicles even existing in District 6. "It's the one of two qualities you possess that doesn't push people away."
I stare out the window as trees and buildings blur by. The engine purrs as his foot presses harder on the gas. He's too nice to me. It's one of his millions of qualities that draws people closer to him. Including me. Even his Peacekeeper uniform couldn't keep me away. It's when he says things like this that tiny knives drive deeper into my heart. He'll be the death of me one day. Whether it is my body or my heart that will fall first I have yet to decide.
"So what's the obvious?"
He presses the pedal to the floor and I feel like I am floating as we rush over the top of a hill.
"It doesn't happen often," he starts, pressing his lips together as if he wonders if he should say it or not. He probably shouldn't. The knives already embedded in my heart will only twist deeper as they yearn for something I can never have. Just shut up and drive.
"But anyone who dares to stay long enough to see you smile is done for."
I've fallen; my death is imminent.
But I can't let him know that. So I keep my lips pressed tight in a straight line.
"Alright, gung-ho, I think it's my turn to drive."
It was a motorcycle.
Not a Peacekeeper's truck or ATV, but an actual motorcycle. I had only seen pictures in the shop of cycles like this. Down here in 6 it was difficult for even the Peacekeepers to get standard issue cycles. But here was one, right in front of me. I've been trying for a few months now to build my own from old and stolen parts...
But why continue smash useless parts together when I could just have this one?
It's dark, quiet. It would be difficult to keep this operation quiet, but it would take only seconds for me to disappear into the night. Not even its owner would have time to stop me.
All it takes is a wire.
The sound of the engine, feeling the power beneath me and around me---I pause for a moment. The gasoline wafts in puffs through the night, the headlight shines into the street. Still there is no one around, still I am home free.
And then I'm laying on the ground. My head is pounding and a shadow is towering over me. Even as my vision comes back into focus I know I'm in trouble. I touch my head. Blood. I shuffle to my feet as quickly as I can only to be thrown to the ground again.
"You're under arrest," he says, voice menacing and mechanical. "Stealing from a Peacekeeper is high treason. Punishable by death under order of President Snow. Rebel forces are to be put down as any cost. You will be---"
"Holy shit, it's you," I laugh, blinking through the headlight to find the face of Officer... Dragon or something? Either way, this is just my luck. Stealing from the guy whose truck I just fixed. "Your cycle, it needs repairs."
"The mechanic?" His initial rage seems to have passed. Good. Now I just gotta work some of my bullshitting magic and I should be able to get out of this with nothing more than a scar on my eyebrow.
"Yeah what the hell is the matter with you? You want your cycle fixed or not? I was told it needed repairs. Ripred."
Even in the dark I can tell he isn't convinced.
"Do you go around beating up girls on a regular basis?"
I get kicked hard enough in the gut that I gag. But I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. Too bad. I could've puked over his polished boots. He bends over and grabs my arm. His voice is softer than even a whisper. It's a miracle I even catch what he says.
"Don't say a word and let me cuff you or you'll be in the Capitol by morning," he mutters, his breath warm on my ear. "Got it?"
He doesn't give me time to nod as he drags me to my feet and shoves me against the wall of the nearest building. I scream. I don't mean to but he's twisting my arm hard enough that I'm certain one of my shoulders have got to be dislocated. "Shut up, girl!"
He throws me in front of him, shoving me towards an open door away from the cycle, pushing his gun into my spine. I could run. Right now, I could run. It's possible that if I ran in his direction I could stun him long enough to round the corner... But my hands are behind my back, his gun still pushing me forward. Shit, shit, shit. I'm not going to the fucking Capitol.
He shuts the door behind him, turning to lock it. "Okay now get in the truck or---"
I turn and kick him as hard as I can between the legs.
He crumples to the ground but doesn't drop his gun. The corner of his eyes water but he still holds his gun at me. "Little bitch," he gasps. "I'm trying to fucking save you!"
I rush to a door on the opposite side of the room only to find that it is extremely difficult to open a door backwards. Especially a locked one. Great.
"Alright, get in the truck," he says, having gotten back on his feet. I grin as he walks awkwardly towards me. The gun clicks and I know it's either get in the truck or die. "Now."
He opens the passenger side door and I crawl in. My heart pounds, palms sweat, and as I watch him pass in front of the truck and climb in beside me I wonder if he will kill me even before I can get Avoxed. The garage door slides open, the night threatening to swallow me up. He twists the key in the ignition, locking the door so that I can't attempt to jump out before we have reached our destination.
We are at the edge of 6 in no time.
"Let me see your cuffs," he grumbles. I'm too frightened to move. So he turns me around in my seat. The cuffs fall from my hands; the locking mechanisms click and the doors unlock.
"Ready for a ride?"
I turn around to stare at him. He just smiles.
And drives.
