Gone and Back Again: A Machinist's Tale (open?) Apr 16, 2007 13:36:59 GMT -5
Post by Tormaigh MacRagallach on Apr 16, 2007 13:36:59 GMT -5
**Several Months Ago**
It was 10:30 pm, Academy Standard Time. Crimson and white lightning flashes through a stormy sky, and rain and wind pelt the floating city as if attempting to drive it back earth-side. Thousands of feet below, waves rise out of the ocean and slam into each other like angry sumo wrestlers fighting over ramen.
Torm is sitting at his sturdy oak desk. He stares through a window as if transfixed by the tumult raging outside, clearly lost in thought. There was something about the way things had been going recently that made Torm uneasy. It wasn't because of the storm outside. No, something about the atmosphere; the feel of things here had changed, and it tugged at his mind at all times. He knew there was no rational reason why he should feel this way, but the feeling persisted just the same. Something was stirring.
Torm is awoken from his reverie by a particularly bright flash of lightning that bathes the room in light for a split second. Now rather than staring blankly out, his true attention is on the weather for a moment. Suddenly, more lightning flashes off in the distance, lighting a particular cloud. The shape of it startles Torm slightly; it gives the impression of a looming dragon with earth-rending fangs.
Slowly, a new idea creeps into Tom's head. This feeling was clearly not going to go away, so there was nothing for it but to act on it. He had to do something to prepare. Anything; he didn't even know what he was preparing for, but he knew now that he would have no inner peace until he did something, and now, he knew what he was going to do.
As if struck by a sudden frenzy, he wrenches his drawer open and fishes out blueprint-drawing equipment. Straight edges, triangle, Bezier curve guide, paper, the works, and begins to scribble away at a furious pace.
An hour later, he jumps up and snatches his coat and hat from their stand and puts them on. The papers are swiftly folded up and tucked inside the coat. After putting together a travel bag with a few changes of clothes and some odds and ends, he hits the lights, grabs his ladder, and is gone. Destination: lower city workshop.
It is 10:30 pm, Academy Standard Time. The sky is a clear dome of velvety blue, fading slowly to black as the last bit of sunlight refracted around the curvature of the earth by the upper atmosphere diminishes. A peace was upon the world.
Torm slowly opens his room's door. The pile of mail on the floor just inside prevents him from opening it all the way, so he squeezes through it half-opened and flips on the light while shrugging out of his coat. It is placed on the coat rack, and his hat soon joins it, and he flops his gauntlets on the bureau as well. All of it would need to be cleaned, and Torm as well for that matter: his hands are black with grease and soot and also covered with cuts and abrasions, and his beard, hair, and face are soiled in a similar manner.
Rather than attend to that now, he scoops up the mail and plops it on his desk, and takes to his chair with a tired grunt. You wouldn't have to look at him long to know that he had not been getting enough sleep for a while. He was barely halfway done with what he had gone to do, but he had figured that it was important to start attending the academy again; neglecting training and education would not do him any good.
Torm idly wipes his hands on his trouser legs in an attempt to make them a little cleaner, and only partially succeeds. Now for the task of going through that mail. I'll be lucky if there's not a notice of expulsion in there somewhere... he chuckles to himself half-seriously. And so he picks up the first envelope, immediately smudging the white paper, and thumbs it open.