Primitive Law - [Risa, Day 5, Nightfall]
"He was beaten (he knew that), but he was not broken. He saw, once for all, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned the lesson, and in all his afterlife he never forgot it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law." -Jack London
He'd gotten stiffed on how much he had made doing the courier bit, but it still was enough for some food. And that was important. He spent the rest of his day just trying to track down the want ads, only to find that the vacancies were filled by the time he got there; apparently, he wasn't the only one looking for work. But he managed some dinner, and some coffee, and tried one more shot at a restaurant gig as a waiter.
It was the second shortest job he had; all of twenty minutes. And that was because when he saw the head chef severely under-cook a fish fillet, he proceeded to explain that the man was a hack. Scotty wasn't usually bold, not like a brash type who liked confrontation, but he did take his cooking seriously enough that he couldn't let such an unprofessional job on a meal go without comment, never mind that it could make someone sick. The result was him pocketing five credits in tips, but nothing from the restaurant itself.
The truth was, Scotty didn't actually like confrontation at all. It was, therefore, a universal irony that he often ended up in it anyway. It wasn't because he sought it. It wasn't because it thrilled him; he wasn't an addict to rage. He wouldn't even drink if his mood was anything less than good, just because he didn't want to risk a fight.
It was a universal irony that he didn't like fighting, but he understood primitive law.
Primitive law was a pair of dockhands he recognized deciding to chase him, and both of them carrying some kind of weaponry. Scotty wasn't a coward; he wasn't really afraid of fighting, whether he liked it or not. But he also wasn't going to be handed a beating, and if he could retreat, he would. This time, he definitely retreated, picking up a decent run and leaving them fairly well behind. He ducked around a street corner, and just that fast, the world exploded.
Whatever it was had come across his cheek so hard that it put him on the ground, and still reeling and not thinking in any terms recognizable as language, he tried to pick himself back up only to be clocked in the head. The words specifically were, "That one was for my face. And this one's for the credits we lost out on," but he didn't understand them. He understood pain, he understood fear and he understood defiance in the face of that. He didn't hear the other dockhands tell the guy to ease up, regardless of the fact they'd driven him into this ambush.
He reached out and snatched the guy's ankle, snarling and fully intending to return the favor. The guy fell, then scowled and aimed a booted kick to his side, which pretty much ended that. It took him too long to catch his breath, and pull his ringing head together, and they left just as smoothly as they arrived with a parting call back that he'd be smart to think next time, before swinging a toolkit.
It didn't help that Risa had decided to schedule this sector for rain tonight.
Scotty understood primitive law, because he learned it the hard way. He didn't learn it in a classroom, or hanging around a lecture hall while humans pretended to reach deeper understanding of it through course books. He learned it young and never forgot it. It was primitive dictates that demanded he defend his life, an instant and instinctive reaction when someone much bigger than him snatched at him, with whatever tools he had on hand. And, really, it was primitive law that allowed him to crawl back up now, reeling and dizzy as the rain started to fall. Calling the police to report it never once crossed his mind. He wasn't even desperately angry over it, except that he hadn't put up a better show than he had.
The rain came down on the city in bands, a good soaking. Scheduled rain. What a concept. He didn't think too hard about it, just headed back for his spot under the pier. Nothing was broken, though it hurt quite a bit. Took him getting lightheaded to realize that half the water running down his face was red.
He just shook his head, pulling off his shirt. It was soaked, but better than nothing. And, fairly well beaten and fairly well detached, he just retreated back to his 'room', barely making it down the support strut without falling.
Scotty understood primitive law. He didn't bother with self-pity, or even really anger. Just curled up on his unbruised side in the comparatively dry spot under the pier, with a wet black t-shirt pressed against his sore head, mostly ignoring the bright and hot pain in his face (mirror would be a bad idea, for awhile), and did his best to sleep it off.
It was also universal irony that they were probably the most familiar moments he'd had since getting here.
He'd gotten stiffed on how much he had made doing the courier bit, but it still was enough for some food. And that was important. He spent the rest of his day just trying to track down the want ads, only to find that the vacancies were filled by the time he got there; apparently, he wasn't the only one looking for work. But he managed some dinner, and some coffee, and tried one more shot at a restaurant gig as a waiter.
It was the second shortest job he had; all of twenty minutes. And that was because when he saw the head chef severely under-cook a fish fillet, he proceeded to explain that the man was a hack. Scotty wasn't usually bold, not like a brash type who liked confrontation, but he did take his cooking seriously enough that he couldn't let such an unprofessional job on a meal go without comment, never mind that it could make someone sick. The result was him pocketing five credits in tips, but nothing from the restaurant itself.
The truth was, Scotty didn't actually like confrontation at all. It was, therefore, a universal irony that he often ended up in it anyway. It wasn't because he sought it. It wasn't because it thrilled him; he wasn't an addict to rage. He wouldn't even drink if his mood was anything less than good, just because he didn't want to risk a fight.
It was a universal irony that he didn't like fighting, but he understood primitive law.
Primitive law was a pair of dockhands he recognized deciding to chase him, and both of them carrying some kind of weaponry. Scotty wasn't a coward; he wasn't really afraid of fighting, whether he liked it or not. But he also wasn't going to be handed a beating, and if he could retreat, he would. This time, he definitely retreated, picking up a decent run and leaving them fairly well behind. He ducked around a street corner, and just that fast, the world exploded.
Whatever it was had come across his cheek so hard that it put him on the ground, and still reeling and not thinking in any terms recognizable as language, he tried to pick himself back up only to be clocked in the head. The words specifically were, "That one was for my face. And this one's for the credits we lost out on," but he didn't understand them. He understood pain, he understood fear and he understood defiance in the face of that. He didn't hear the other dockhands tell the guy to ease up, regardless of the fact they'd driven him into this ambush.
He reached out and snatched the guy's ankle, snarling and fully intending to return the favor. The guy fell, then scowled and aimed a booted kick to his side, which pretty much ended that. It took him too long to catch his breath, and pull his ringing head together, and they left just as smoothly as they arrived with a parting call back that he'd be smart to think next time, before swinging a toolkit.
It didn't help that Risa had decided to schedule this sector for rain tonight.
Scotty understood primitive law, because he learned it the hard way. He didn't learn it in a classroom, or hanging around a lecture hall while humans pretended to reach deeper understanding of it through course books. He learned it young and never forgot it. It was primitive dictates that demanded he defend his life, an instant and instinctive reaction when someone much bigger than him snatched at him, with whatever tools he had on hand. And, really, it was primitive law that allowed him to crawl back up now, reeling and dizzy as the rain started to fall. Calling the police to report it never once crossed his mind. He wasn't even desperately angry over it, except that he hadn't put up a better show than he had.
The rain came down on the city in bands, a good soaking. Scheduled rain. What a concept. He didn't think too hard about it, just headed back for his spot under the pier. Nothing was broken, though it hurt quite a bit. Took him getting lightheaded to realize that half the water running down his face was red.
He just shook his head, pulling off his shirt. It was soaked, but better than nothing. And, fairly well beaten and fairly well detached, he just retreated back to his 'room', barely making it down the support strut without falling.
Scotty understood primitive law. He didn't bother with self-pity, or even really anger. Just curled up on his unbruised side in the comparatively dry spot under the pier, with a wet black t-shirt pressed against his sore head, mostly ignoring the bright and hot pain in his face (mirror would be a bad idea, for awhile), and did his best to sleep it off.
It was also universal irony that they were probably the most familiar moments he'd had since getting here.