(no subject)
Being disoriented with another sudden change in what he knows is bad enough, but the cold is worse than Mace could have thought.
He hasn't forgotten what it'd been like on Earth, exactly; no one who grew up in an ice age forgets what it's like to live with a constant chill in the bones. But with over a year on the Icarus II and months on the island, Mace has become accustomed to being warm. Every time he steps out into the streets Mace is reminded of being exposed to a cold he can't describe, and while the wind doesn't even come close, it still leaves a chill that penetrates to his bones and won't let go. He spends most of his days in the ridiculous clothes, layers on layers and with a coat over it, except for days like this, when he barely leaves the compound at all.
He hates being cooped up, but he hates the cold even more, and having to choose between the two irritates Mace and makes him long for the island to return back to how it was.
There's a corner of the rec room that's always warm; one of the long tables is near a wall that connects to the kitchen. Mace likes sitting there when someone's cooking, with something to occupy his mind as he whittles the hours away. He alternates days when he can stand the cold; some he'll explore the city as much as he can before he's driven back indoors, sometimes he won't go out at all, especially when it's so cold his leg aches and patches of ice and snow slush make walking difficult. He's already reinjured his leg once, he has no intention of doing so again.
Today's one of the indoor days, which would be fine with Mace except for the ache. He sits at the table with his leg up on a second seat, sleeves rolled up, suspenders pulled off and a spread of mechanical parts -- cogs, wheels, springs, screws -- in front of him. His fingers are streaked greasy black, as is the cup of tea he's drinking out of, but getting lost in something is all he's wanted of his morning, and he's got it. He's started with something small, one of the mechanical items he's seen around that make no sense design-wise, but when taken apart, he understands. Whatever version of history they're in has some strange ideas about engineering.
He doesn't look up when someone approaches the table, already starting to put things back together. "It was a clock," he explains, in apology.
He hasn't forgotten what it'd been like on Earth, exactly; no one who grew up in an ice age forgets what it's like to live with a constant chill in the bones. But with over a year on the Icarus II and months on the island, Mace has become accustomed to being warm. Every time he steps out into the streets Mace is reminded of being exposed to a cold he can't describe, and while the wind doesn't even come close, it still leaves a chill that penetrates to his bones and won't let go. He spends most of his days in the ridiculous clothes, layers on layers and with a coat over it, except for days like this, when he barely leaves the compound at all.
He hates being cooped up, but he hates the cold even more, and having to choose between the two irritates Mace and makes him long for the island to return back to how it was.
There's a corner of the rec room that's always warm; one of the long tables is near a wall that connects to the kitchen. Mace likes sitting there when someone's cooking, with something to occupy his mind as he whittles the hours away. He alternates days when he can stand the cold; some he'll explore the city as much as he can before he's driven back indoors, sometimes he won't go out at all, especially when it's so cold his leg aches and patches of ice and snow slush make walking difficult. He's already reinjured his leg once, he has no intention of doing so again.
Today's one of the indoor days, which would be fine with Mace except for the ache. He sits at the table with his leg up on a second seat, sleeves rolled up, suspenders pulled off and a spread of mechanical parts -- cogs, wheels, springs, screws -- in front of him. His fingers are streaked greasy black, as is the cup of tea he's drinking out of, but getting lost in something is all he's wanted of his morning, and he's got it. He's started with something small, one of the mechanical items he's seen around that make no sense design-wise, but when taken apart, he understands. Whatever version of history they're in has some strange ideas about engineering.
He doesn't look up when someone approaches the table, already starting to put things back together. "It was a clock," he explains, in apology.