Work Text:
You watch as the ship is hauled upwards, the Zee dripping off the metal. You almost feel sorry for this little fishermans boat - rusty, old, decommissioned. It lifts off the water, suspended by heavy cranes designed to hold much larger ships than this one. It's almost a pity, you think.
The ship is being deconstructed, like the rest of London is. Taken apart piece by piece, to be used somewhere else. To be given a new purpose.
You sigh as you heft up your toolbox, nod to your coworker next to you. The two of you begin to scale the scaffolding as the ship is being set down in the dry dock. You're glad it's a dry dock, really, you think as you clamber the side of the hull and try to gauge the best place to start.
It's only the two of you working for your boss now, and you rarely see him anymore - his family has already left to the skies, and you're sure your boss will be soon to follow. He only shows up every other week, to pick up any metal you have salvaged and to pay you for your work. It has gotten quite lonely down here.
Lonely, and dark.
You spare a glance to the small dam that holds back the Zee water from the dry dock. It makes you wonder every day if it's gonna give in, let the icy water get to you. The Zee seems to be yearning to catch up to you. Or maybe that’s your imagination.
You shake your head and get to work. The constant clanging and clattering occupies your mind, and you hum a song to distract yourself from the oppressing darkness of the Neath. Above, below, as far down towards the horizon as you can see. London is the only source of light here, and it's constantly getting dimmer and dimmer. You yank your wrench, the bolt coming loose and another piece of hull plating falling to the floor below.
Piece by piece, the fisherman's ship is stripped naked, bare to its bones, then you dismantle the bones until nothing is left but a pile of steel beams and rusted iron plates. You wipe your brow. Your coworker stretches his back, a silent nod of done work shared between the two of you. You don't really know the man.
You both just work here.
It's coming into evening now. You can tell by the feeble little bell that a constable rings every hour. Big Ben is already up in the skies, so they had to help themselves somehow.
Another day of hard work. Straining, little reward, you couldn't even call it satisfying.
You don't like taking apart dead things.
You'd rather be on a living boat again, furnace searing and engine chugging and steaming.
But you don't like where the boats go. You're stuck, on land, in this dark, gloomy town that is gradually being dismantled. Dead, hopeless, a shell of itself.
You sigh as you shoulder your bag.
London is torn apart, street urchins and rats rifling through the remains, unfortunate workers as you left in its remains. Most shops are closed. Most homes are empty. You watch as another crate of bricks, each stone numbered and labeled, is being hauled onto cargo ships, headed for what they call the Avid Horizon.
Far, unreachable.
Across the dark depths.
You walk through the streets, wandering to that certain spot. That spot where you wait every day.
The breeze sends a chill up your spine, you're cold. You're sure you'll miss your other coat, the thicker one with the long sleeves. But the echoes weigh nicely in your pocket. These will hopefully fetch you what you need.
You arrive at the usual spot, no other choice but to linger across the street from where the rows of brick houses open up into that small, dark alleyway. There used to be a pub here, where you could sit and buy the cheapest beer and watch the entrance to the alleyway. You watch as two workers carry off the last window of that pub. The streets are almost empty.
You lean against a sorry looking lantern, the same you lean against every evening. You stay here longer and longer each day, growing desperate. Surely he should be back by now? It's been a few weeks. He comes by every few weeks. You sold your coat last sunday, when there hadn't been any work to distract yourself with and you had spent the entire day pacing in the depths of London's streets, as far away from the docks as possible. Your thoughts had only been darker and darker since. The days, filled with restlessness and uneasiness.
The nights, filled with murky waters and the deep, dark cold, leaving you gasping for air in your bed. The other dock workers in the room had complained several times.
The hour ticks by. You feel drowsy, you focus on a lantern across the street. The only thing coming close to light in this place, but it's not quite enough. It's false.
You want the real thing.
The real thing only arrives another hour later, confidently strutting through the street. You were already rubbing your eyes from exhaustion, still not willing to give up - but now you perk up.
He sees you standing awkwardly against that street lantern, the lenses of his mask locking with your eyes for a brief moment. He tilts his head with a sly grin, then disappears into his alleyway, scarf wisping behind him.
You barely wait half a minute before following him, head whipping around to see if someone notices. No one does.
He is perched on top of a crate at the end of the alley, barely lit. The red of the lenses glint in the darkness as you come closer.
"I see you're back for more, big guy?"
You shrug, noncommittal.
"Aren't’cha cold? You look cold." The man with the stoat mask pulls out an elongated box and sets it down, already familiar with you.
"M'yeah." You admit. Your hand digs into your pocket, grasping around your money. "I've got this?" You pile the coins in front of him. Your stomach growls.
You're sure he is raising his eyebrows under the mask as he picks up the echoes, quickly rifling through. You don't see the top half of his face, but you wince as his mouth pulls into a frown.
"I, uh, might still-..." You plunge into your pockets again, finding another space coin at the very bottom, and feebly offer it to the masked man.
"That makes 234."
"I thought I'd-... I've been saving-..." You take off your short sleeved coat, the only thing between you and the cold of the Neath. With a shudder, you hand it over, standing in the alley in your thin oil-smeared singlet. "And- i could- i suppose i could sell the mattress- s'not too many stains on it, i think..." You mutter, eyeing the black box in front of the man in the stoat mask.
How degrading. But you don't care. You need this. It's so dark here.
The man lets out a long sigh, arms crossed.
"I can-...! I can, if it takes you that long to come back next time, I'm sure I can save up for another, I'm sure I can afford two next time-maybe-..." You mumble, desperate, before you feel a finger on your lips.
"Ssshshshsshshsshhh." The Stoat shushes you. "Okay listen. For my big, desperate friend. This is gonna be our deal, I can't give you two, I don't want your mattress or shirt or any of that junk, I can't give you two but how about I take you somewhere fun."
You look up at him, with big eyes. "What?"
"You take this-" He shoves over your coat, and the black box. "-I take this-" He pockets all your money. "You give me back the box-" he pokes his finger into your chest. "And we meet up tomorrow morning. By the docks."
You stare at him, hands clasped around the obsidian of the box.
"Don't look at me like that, big guy." He pats your scarred cheek, self satisfied. "Just take your stuff, and tomorrow we're gonna go out. It'll be fun!"
"I-??? Okay. Okay. Thank you- Yeah. Thank you." You hold the box close to your chest, hurriedly putting your coat back on.
"Don't let me down!" He waves, cheerful but clearly dismissing you. You're sure he has other customers. Probably better paying, too.
You don't walk far.
You can give him back the empty box right after you use it.
As you leave the alleyway you look back at him, the only bright spot in this muddy city. In your hands, the only rays of light in this dark cavern.