[hider=Tyko][img=http://i21.photobucket.com/albums/b271/dposcuro/Other/PatrickbyAjatonJoki_zps13eb5135.jpg]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/8858/posts/ooc?page=2#post-181809][/hider]

In the industrial section of town, was a substantial building of concrete and steel A bi-level split of a small factory/fab-shop with a two story wood-framed office grafted onto the front. Harewood Industries. Painted in a pale blue a few years ago, some dirt was showing on the surface. Around both sides were large areas fenced in by ten foot tall chain link, with a single coil of razor wire covering the top edge, with large, side-rolling gates built in to allow the passage of delivery vehicles and forklifts. Currently, the gates were open the the mingling flood of men and women coming and going in the 6 AM shift change. Breaths smoked and swirled in the light of the sodium-vapour lighting, casting its cheap, yellow light over the area immediately around the buildings. From the concrete buildings came the rhythmic thumping bass of the punch presses, the distant hiss and crackle of welders fusing metal, and the honk and noise of a loaded forklift shifting a pallet of unfinished parts from one department to another.

A small cluster of people huddled by the corner of the fence and a few bushy trees that marked the division of the property line; a small flicker of yellow flame spawned red embers in the darkness as the group of smokers resumed their conversation. Most of those leaving however, made quick, hurried moves to their vehicles in the gravel parking lot across the narrow street. Two cars were already started by remote operation, one owned by the shift manager, the other owned by a recent employee who had a wealthier spouse. Most of the parking lot was filled with the dim silhouettes of trucks and SUVs, more than a few of them obvious winter beaters. One vehicle stood out, especially however, like a pug-nosed van with a truncated ass that had become a truck bed. By far the oldest vehicle in the lot, and rarest; a 1964 Jeep M677, which looked to be in somewhat rough shape; the surface of the vehicle was a patchwork of peeling pain, swatches of fresher primer, and the random bit of surface rust. It was to this odd vehicle to which three young figures shrouded in a heavy winter clothing strode. The one ahead of the rest, with keys reflecting the lights of shifting headlights wore a black winter coat, with a thick brown hood rising from the sweater he wore beneath it, black stained jeans and heavy steel toe boots crunching on shards of ice and semi-frozen gravel. One behind him wore a toque of the Flames, and a heavy, world war two era wool overcoat. Over his shoulder was slung a small lunch bag, with his work boots tied to the strap. The third split off from them, to get to the passenger side of the old Jeep, wore a thick vest over their hoodie, and carried a small backpack to carry their welding gear.

[hider=M677][img=http://i21.photobucket.com/albums/b271/dposcuro/Other/passengerfront_zpse2e06ec0.jpg][/hider]

Tyko unlocked the Jeep and climbed in, letting out a breath that smoked white in the cold air as he plugged the key into the ignition, and turned it to on, without engaging the starter. As he did, the other doors opened, creating a sudden draft of cold air through the cab that then slammed still as the doors were shut. On the flat panel of a dash, he reached for a small black button, labeled in black sharpie on the pale green dash, “Preheat”. He held it down as he whispered his count to twenty before he released it and returned his right hand to the key. A quick twist, just a little further, and the starter engaged loudly behind him. Churning several revolutions to the whispered hiss of “Just...start,” before the engine clattered into life, the small diesel chugging roughly for a moment before it settled into its regular idle.

Finally adjusting himself into the seat, Tyko Vaara drew back his right hand and clasped it in his left as he let the engine warm. “Ahh man, thanks again for the lift Tyko,” came the oddly gravely voice of David Porrier from behind him. He was 19, fresh out of high school, and working downstairs of B building, where the shipping center was. His hair was shaved, but he wore a rather impressively thick black beard that reached nearly five inches to his chest. He was fairly lanky, and tall, with slightly sunken blue eyes. He carried the faint odor of cigarettes, wood dust and cardboard from his work crating the stoves for shipping. “Hope I can get my fuckin' truck back today, fuckin' frost plugs anyways.”

“Beats the hell out of a cracked block Dave.” Came the voice of Kim Parsons, a somewhat squat and bulky 25 year old woman with shoulder length, straight, honey-brown hair. It wasn't so much as she was overweight, but rather her build was just compact and wide. Attractive in her fairness and natural appearance, she wore glasses that seemed to blend in with her, as if she had been born with them, and her green eyes were neither striking, nor dull. She smelled of dirty leather and burning metal, hiding something feminine. Looking over her shoulder to younger man, she smirked. “Course, it's what you get for buying a Ford.”

A soft chuckled escaped Tyko, “Where's your Chevy then Kim?”

David burst out laughing as Kim glared at Tyko, “That had nothing to do with it, and you damn well know it!”

“Right, so that's your....what, fourth head gasket in a year? Christ woman, in the same time, the only thing my F-150 has given me grief with [i]is[/i] this one frost plug!”

Closing his eyes for a moment, taking in the smell of the old truck, the oil and steel on his hands, the sweat in his clothing. It had been a busy shift. Busting his ass for eight hours, running several tons of metal through the presses like clockwork. There hadn't been many tool changes since they were on the start of a new order. Several hundred of the large model Brown Bear wood stoves. Slinging 12 gauge sheets of steel that measured five by eight feet from the loading table to the press, then from the press to the shake table, and wrestling with the steel to violently remove the panels was hard, physical labour. And he liked it that way. Course, tomorrow would be different; he had gotten all the main body parts done, morning and afternoon shift would be getting the small parts done, and he knew, just knew, they were going to be leaving the fucking stainless to him. 304 stainless steel was a bitch to run on the presses for a variety of reasons; first it was sticky. The damned stainless had a texture to it that was damn near like velcro to itself, making sliding a 140 pound sheet of metal feel like it was more like 250 pounds. Having to lift them clear of each other, and manhandle them onto the press was a chore in itself. Then there was the fact that stainless was harder and tougher than regular steel, and left residue on the the damned tools which meant broken punches, shattered dies, pulled sheets, and a general nightmare of problems. If you didn't know how to avoid those problems as he did, which involved up-sizing the die by 0.001 or downsizing the punch the same. Technically, he wasn't supposed to, since tolerances were a big deal. Yet the welders never made a fuss, no complaints yet, and it meant he got the damned stainless done on time, far more frequently than the morning or afternoon shifts did, with far less tool breakage, and less material wastage.

Slowly, a deep, tired yawn worked its way out of him, the tilt of his head and the shrug of his shoulders conspiring to cause the hood of his sweater to slump down off his short, unstyled, dark brown hair. The yawn turned into a sore muscle stretch, arching is back and expanding his arms to the limits he could reach in the enclosed cab of the truck, before slouching back into the newer model aftermarket seat intended for a Wrangler. A quick run of his nails in his sideburns to cure a minor itch, and he pulled on the retrofitted seat-belt. With the engine above the temperature of an ice cube, he tugged on the automatic transmission's lever into reverse, and with ginger care, backed out of the parking spot before making his way home.

“So, either of you heard any word 'bout Brandt?” She changed the subject on the two men, raising a concern both were probably aware of, Brandt Wyatt was the usual fourth on their lunch breaks, and hadn't been in to work for the past three days.

Tyko shook his head, and David shrugged, “Tried callin' the bastid last night, but no answer. Wish I knew where'e lived, go and make sure the fool is still alive you know?”

With a nod, the driver checked the intersection they were at before hanging a left on his way to David's home. Kim sighed and suddenly voiced a random, stray thought, “Wonder if he's become one of them?”

Vaara looked at her curiously, “[i]Them?[/i] What are you talking about?”

“Really?” Kim suddenly looked concerned, “You haven't heard of people and animals going all loopy?”

Dave joined in, “Yeah, saw it on the news recently, people bein' stalked by animals, everythin' from bears to frogs. It's fuckin' weird is what it is.”

A sudden glance from the woman in the passenger seat, “Not stalked...more like...followed? Joined?”

David offered a shrug, “Yeah, somethin-SHIT!”

Tyko caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and stomped on the brake, the pads clamped down tight on the rotors of the brakes, locking the tall off road orientated wheels on the icy pavement, until Vaara released the brakes, and reapplied, lighter, while sawing on the steering wheel to the left, swerving around the dark, ruddy brown bulk of a solitary moose. The back of the truck kicked out and swung them around just before they came to a stop, facing the edge of the road, with headlights bearing down on the passenger side, Vaara quickly slugged the transmission into reverse, and swung the old jeep out of the way on the smaller car that was plowing down the road with it's wheels locked up from its terrified driver simply standing on the pedal.

The diesel clattered on under the doghouse cover between the driver and passenger seats, while the three inside the cab of the truck gasped air as they hyperventilated from the shock of the crash they just narrowly avoided, twice. Kim and Dave burst out laughing as Tyko excused himself to take a breather outside. As he dropped to the ground and closed the door, he looked around to find the big beast gone, and several meters down the road, a pair of furious red lights stared back at him. With shaking knees, he walked in the direction of the small car, slipping a little on smooth patches of ice, but retaining his balance. The driver looked at him, as he approached and rolled down his window, his eyes wide. “T-t-the hell?!” He was an aging man, the thin hair on the top of his head dusted with silver.

“Moose.” Tyko could only state, “Are you alright?”

“I...I think so...might need a new pair of shorts, but Jesus criminy! Are you guys alright?”

“Yeah, we're all fine. Advice? Don't stand on the brake, sliding tires don't slow you down.” Was all he could really say.

“Y-yeah, will try. Drive safe!” The driver of the small red car gave Tyko a nervous, shaking, agreement and smile before his window slid closed and he started back on his way to wherever he was going, leaving Tyko standing in the middle of the road on a damn cold morning. Shaking his head, Tyko walked back to the Forward Control, his legs steadier and more sure with each step. Climbing back into the cab, the conversation moved to the recent event, as he got the pair to their homes, before arriving home himself, twelve minutes to seven in the morning.

Weekday mornings were routine, a practiced schedule that flowed; get home, check on Mianna, take a few minutes in the washroom, and start getting breakfast ready. Kiite would be in the barn, tending to the horses, and Ellisif would be checking on the chickens in their coop. Soon after he got the bacon started, both of his younger siblings burst in through the back door, stomping snow and dirt from their boots as they quickly discarded their outer layers, Kiite went to his shower, and Ellisif went to get changed into her clothes for school. Kiite had taken over the task of getting Mianna out of bed and into her wheelchair four months ago, and now did it with practiced ease as he showed up just as the bacon and oatmeal were coming off the stove and the microwave was chirping that last years frozen berries were thawed. Ellisif appeared moments later, and the four sat down to breakfast.

As the usual morning barrage of questions of how his night was, or if anything exciting happened at the factory face him down, he smiled. He was proud of his brother and his sister for the simple fact that he could rely on them. It wasn't that he had ever asked them to help take care of the horses, the chickens, nor Mianna, rather they had forced their way into helping out around the home. They were a family bound by sisu, supporting each other, and pushing through barriers in their path and boundaries many would perceive as insurmountable, by necessity and will. They were doing well; a twenty-three year old raising his fifteen year old brother, and his thirteen year old sister, with an invalid mother, and a deceased father. The house, luckily, was already bought and paid for. They had survived the floods the previous year that were the worst anyone had seen, and had sheltered several neighbour's animals in the months following because they had the space, if not the feed, which resulting in finding a boat to retrieve feed with.

Kiite was becoming a man in his own right, shedding the last of his childhood chub as he helped out more around the farm than he ever had in his youth. It was likely that he would eclipse his elder brother's height of 5'11”, being but an inch shy and eight years younger. His hair was a generation off, following their grandfather's sandy brown tones, but his eyes were the same rare shade of bright green as his mother.

Ellisif however, was almost the spitting image of their mother when she was her age; a little shorter than average, with pale blonde hair just starting to darken, bright blue eyes, cheekbones that were faintly showing already, and an athletic, build.

It was shortly after eight when Tyko found himself sitting on the back porch of the modern, rancher style home, his feet on the steps below and a hot mug of coffee resting between his hands, the morning sun was about an hour old, glistening on the snow and frost that coated the small orchard he kept on the ninety-seven acre parcel his parents had bought when they moved here. Around the house was a sturdy windbreak of tall, mature spruce that kept the wind down and much of the snow out of the orchard. Beyond....were fallow fields. He kept a few acres active as feed for the live stock, but the rest he had plans in motion, which had involved picking up pine cones from the spruce, of lodge pole pines, and maples. In time, perhaps a forest of some respect would be at the tail end of the property, right to where it backed onto the Sheep River. Sipping at the coffee, he rested, dreaming of things that could be. He had the feeling that he would be here for the rest of his life. Taking care of Mianna until she passed away, hopeful living to see her grand children. He knew part of the mother he knew was still in her, he could see it in her smiles, her frowns, the twinkle of her eyes when he told her of his plans, the tears she shed the past two years of the anniversary of Unuu's passing. Those were he hardest mornings, waking up and finding her pillow slick from tears. She knew the day, before anyone could even tell her. Like she was a grown, highly intelligent woman, trapped in a body that refused to respond to her.

Finishing the coffee, he sat for a few minutes more, relishing the quiet clucks and noises of the chickens foraging in the fenced orchard. It was peaceful. But he needed to get things done. His class started at ten, and he would get out at three, pick his brother and sister up from the mall behind the school after about forty minutes, give or take with traffic, get home, make food, eat, and then pass out for a few hours before waking up and going to work at ten. It was brutal, it was exhausting, but he had learned to endure it, to push through it. He could rest when his brother and sister had moved out, and were on their own.