Repairs - [Closed]
The work wasn't hard work, but Scotty was almost painfully grateful for it. It so turned out that his little jury-rigged project had exploited a weakness in the connection points of the lighting system, where each element joined to the next. He scrambled the ones overhead in the little homemade botany lab, with its special modified lights, and it cascaded to blow out the main junctures. If it'd destroyed every one, it'd be days of work. This, only hours.
He was still glad of it. Not of causing the damage, but of having something to do.
Once the older man, somehow a Scott, had showed him and Harold how to make the right repairs, he'd grasped it quickly and then stayed alongside Harold for another twenty minutes or so, helping Harold until he was as smooth as a technician would be; tips on how to hold the tools, how to move aside the fiber-lines, how to wire in new connections. The only show of gratitude he could think to give for now.
Then Scotty moved off to his own work, and found the steady, easy rhythm; that internal quiet he found when he worked with his hands. He loved working with his hands, and things that were concrete and that he could fix. His first real job had been in a salvage yard, taking what was broken and doing all he could to save it. Sometimes he failed. Sometimes he succeeded.
Always, he tried.
Now he worked again, something to keep his troubled thoughts at bay; worked the tangible, what appealed to his senses. Narrow sight, the hum of the energy through reactivated lines in his ears, the cool materials in his fingers. Forgot long since the bruises on his arms, or the fact he was still hungry and now thirsty.
Forgot that he was lost, and worse than he could even begin to understand.
In the work, he was there; he was good, and reached for perfect. Sometimes he failed, and mostly he succeeded, but always he tried.
In the work, he was there; no before, no after, no name or life or past or future. No questions, no answers. Only this.
Fixing what was broken.
He was still glad of it. Not of causing the damage, but of having something to do.
Once the older man, somehow a Scott, had showed him and Harold how to make the right repairs, he'd grasped it quickly and then stayed alongside Harold for another twenty minutes or so, helping Harold until he was as smooth as a technician would be; tips on how to hold the tools, how to move aside the fiber-lines, how to wire in new connections. The only show of gratitude he could think to give for now.
Then Scotty moved off to his own work, and found the steady, easy rhythm; that internal quiet he found when he worked with his hands. He loved working with his hands, and things that were concrete and that he could fix. His first real job had been in a salvage yard, taking what was broken and doing all he could to save it. Sometimes he failed. Sometimes he succeeded.
Always, he tried.
Now he worked again, something to keep his troubled thoughts at bay; worked the tangible, what appealed to his senses. Narrow sight, the hum of the energy through reactivated lines in his ears, the cool materials in his fingers. Forgot long since the bruises on his arms, or the fact he was still hungry and now thirsty.
Forgot that he was lost, and worse than he could even begin to understand.
In the work, he was there; he was good, and reached for perfect. Sometimes he failed, and mostly he succeeded, but always he tried.
In the work, he was there; no before, no after, no name or life or past or future. No questions, no answers. Only this.
Fixing what was broken.