turnsheet_bureau:1:the_world_below [Contagion]

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======The World Below======

It's just another dreary summer morning, 5 days since almost everyone was gathered, flitting about, worrying about a hole in a fence, or scurvy, or Lottie’s arm. The community felt so much more alive then than it does now as you stand alone, in front of a metal goliath, no longer shaking from the gusts of wind, but nonetheless unsteady. A flash of neon enters your vision.

“Oh Tristan. Excellent, someone made it.”

Eddy sets down the several meters of cable looped over his shoulder. Without so much as a, “how are you doing?”, she begins explaining the process for fixing the tower. It all seems pretty simple to you: refix the base bolts, then add guy wires.

Step 1: lefty loosey righty tighty. The work is done in almost complete silence save for morning birdsong. Eddy doesn’t so much as meet your eye, sparks of conversation landing on damp kindling. The tools in your hands are familiar, tightening bolts. You’ve fixed things so many times before, but this time, instead of the smiling face of a girl looking at you from a treehouse, it’s nothing but cold steel.

Step 2: to the clouds. You begin your ascent, step by step, rising far above the world. First the tents, then the fence, then the trees and mountains, all becoming nothing more than a far-off background, a still painting on a wall. How many rungs have you climbed: 20? 50? 1000? Climbing is so much easier when you have someone to pull you up--but it’s just you, you and the sky. Reaching the pinnacle of this small world, you do what you’ve been told, affixing the wires to the frame, letting them fall to the neon dot below. You feel the vibrations the frame makes as the wire strikes it. Your grip tightens.

Your work is done, you should come down, and yet you don’t. You stay there. You see the world from the perspective of an outsider, a dove, free from the shackles of everything below. Little specks of people flit between tents, make rounds of the fence, tend to the crops. Maybe you could guess who each of them were, but you really aren’t certain. You look to the south, towards the road which brought you here, imagining what might be left of humanity, outside of this tiny place that is your home. The sun makes its presence known, orange light filling your vision. You’re the first person to see this sunrise. Perhaps no one else will experience it as you have. 

The trip down is much easier. The heavy metal cables are no longer your burden to carry, but still, your grip seems tighter. Some innate part of you whispers, “Be careful." Making it to the bottom, a hand clasps your shoulder,--Eddy Currents, silently looking up at the work you created together with an unreadable face; she turns to leave, and you are, once again, alone.



{[]}{{tag>writeup1 gm_izzy complete}}