Rhodes House (2/13)

I just like writing! Which is a big thing to say since I've been so far distant from it throughout the pandemic (Minimum, I rarely wrote non-sketches before that). And I'm just having fun writing scenes. I do think the 1,000 word limit sometimes feels like I'm pigeonholed into having something happen, so this one I just wrote about a boring interaction. Hopefully there's still stuff to enjoy reading because I had fun writing!

        Yankee hated being invited over to Ben’s apartment. Not because it was too forward, though she’d be appalled and delighted if Ben ever tried to network, but because it deeply depressed her. Of all the squalor, all the human misery, all the anguish that you had to wade through in the Rust City, none had quite the same effect on YankeeFive as Ben’s pad. His “apartment” was an abandoned warehouse whose roof had caved in during the bad storm season six or so years back. The abundance of natural light did little for the aesthetic quality. Dingy poured concrete, discolored from weather and oil stains, clung to the boot with a residue Yankee didn’t care to inquire deeper about.

The back door was locked at her insistence, a rudimentary encryption lock slapped onto the rusted metal door. She’d told him it was dangerous to leave too many entrances open. What should happen if someone snuck in to try and slit Ben’s throat while he slept? When she brought it up Ben had snorted, as loud a laugh as she’d ever heard him give, and replied “Good luck to them,”. He’d acquiesced enough to let her buy him the lock. Not enough to keep a determined scavenger out, but enough to say ocupado to anyone shaking the handle.

She waved her hand over the lock, the embedded RFID chip in her hand coaxing the tumblers into place. With a thunk, the door eased open. If Ben had any issues with YankeeFive having the key, he didn’t bring it up.

The back hallways to the apartment were a mundane sort of draining; rats and chipping paint, overturned trash cans and broken fluorescents. Sights like this were a dime a dozen in the Rust City, the stink of desperation long washed away from years of even the most needy refusing to occupy it. It was the main storage area of the warehouse, where Ben had made his “home”, that set Yankee on edge.

She turned the last corner and blinked against the dim sunlight streaming through the roof. She begrudgingly acknowledged the nest of pigeons that had set themself up in the improvised skylight. There was something to be said for the silence the place had, few places managed to escape the low roar of the millions of lives milling through the streets below. Here the only sounds were generated by the wind, rain, or Ben himself. That suited him just fine, YankeeFive figured, but the silence gave her the creeps. She couldn’t think of a moment in her life that had known quiet like this, and she could never get comfortable in it.

She and Ben had both been born into the Rust City, the children of construction workers, contractors, or suits who were deemed not essential enough to warrant a room in the arcologies. It was a common enough story, and millions shared it with Yankee and Ben. The tragedies that had transpired since their births were their own. Completely unique in their horror, all identical in which side of the wall the tragedies originated from.

She’d always adored the Rust, had always loved moving through the crowds sourced from every corner of the globe. She learned as many languages through osmosis as the kids at the corporate charter schools learned in their whole apprenticeship. YankeeFive had issues falling asleep without the sound of the throng, the wail of sirens, the thumping of music from genres new and old. The press of bodies on her as she moved through a crowd was as familiar as the feeling of the skin on her bones.

Ben hated the feeling, which she supposed explained his bedroom.

A Huron-class Upright Combat Lattice hung limply beneath thick mooring chains beneath the armpits. The massive machine slumped under its own weight, massive steel knuckles brushing the floor. Its left leg was completely removed, the internal hydraulics of the hips exposed. Yankee felt suddenly very cold seeing that unfurled rose of steel and pistons. The torque and effort required for even the most basic of motions carried enough force to shatter every bone in her body.

The right leg was bent in an awkward semi squat. Dust the color of turmeric squirreled itself away in joints and crevices. Yankee dragged a finger over the shin, inspecting the faint orange residue that it left on her finger. The thought of touching extraterrestrial would have thrilled others. But Yankee was a Rust City girl. She didn’t need anything beyond where she stood.

She took a step back, trying to get into clear view of the upright’s auxiliary motion sensors. The hulking war machine was one of the most expensive pieces of military hardware ever produced, and it was so battered and broken it looked like it had been dredged from the sea near Rhodes. Ben had shipped it piece by piece, each component thrown from the skyhook on Phobos back across the yawning vacuum of space. Yankee couldn’t imagine how much it had cost him, though it did explain a thing or two about the quality of his living situation. She waved her hands above her head. Machinery whirred.

The chest plate split down the sternum with a hiss, pistons spreading the chest open in a sluggish drone. Ben appeared in his seat, the lone performer on this iron stage. He was at a severe angle, his face barely visible peeking over his chest. His hair was disheveled, his eyes sunken deep above purple bags, and he was desperately in need of a shave. All in all, he looked positively lush compared to how he usually did. He rolled his neck, yawning widely. He pointed at the hotplate on the disheveled metal table nearby by way of greeting. Yankee made her way over and began setting water to boil for the hypercaff Ben had snagged at a steal. Military grade stimulants, served in a brown/black sludge that only people with crew cuts seemed able to enjoy.

“Hello Yankee,” Ben muttered after powering through his yawn. He leaned forward, auxiliary gimbals rotating the cockpit vertical to allow him egress. Most jockeys spent more time on tour in the Upright than out of it, so it was the duty of every savvy operator to ensure his own comfort. A few twisted bolts there, a couple altered lines of code there, and the stationary gimbals designed to prevent disorientation in a combat situation could instead be tweaked to recline during cold nights on the Martian Steppe when you’d rather not deal with the wind.

“Benny baby, good afternoon,” she called up to him, sprinkling the powdered caffeine into a pot of water of an untrustworthy quality, “Just heard back from our friend. She’ v cited about our work. Wants us to roll out soonish, meet face to face. Big things in our future! We’re gonna be factory new after this payday,”

“You said that the last job,” Ben groaned, easing himself onto the rusted rolling stairs that were pushed up next to the cockpit.

“And I have been Ben,” Yankee snipped, “Can I offer a suggestion? Maybe use your cut to get somewhere nicer. Even if it’s squatting, anything’s better than living here with your roommates,” The pigeons above cooed their indignation. YankeeFive ignored their commentary.