[color=7ea7d8][center][h2]Ephraim Feldman[/h2][/center][/color] [center]----- South Side Brigham Steel Works Around 12 AM -----[/center] [i]Whhrrrr[/i] [b][i]Thunk Thunk Thunk[/i][/b] Rusted, aged machines punctuated by jagged edges and blunt lines spit out piece after endless piece of cold slate grey steel doodads, the distinct musty aroma of coolant and way oil omnipresent. These ancient iron titans of an industrial age long forgotten by the rest of the city, had performed this daily routine for 80 odd years now, and as the night drew to a close, the calloused hands of tiny beings called for them to stop and rest, to await the coming of a new sun. Ephraim felt a wave of relief as the last few machines were shut down for the night. It was a solid work day, the pieces ran were the same as the week before and the machines were a steady as ever. This night, as all Friday nights since Ephraim started and probably years before him would end just a 2 hours earlier than the rest of the week day, precisely 12 O’clock on the dot. Just in time for these salt-of-the-earth workers to catch the last few hours of their prefered alcohol establishment. Ephraim did one last round of his section checking and double checking that each gauge, outlet, and valve were where they should be before he quickly jogged to catch up with the rest of his coworkers. The factory doors were quickly shut and locked behind them. Ephraim waved his farewells as each coworker got into their own vehicle, seldom wanting to stay more time at the factory as needed. The night shift, was a “skeleton crew” of sorts just a small handful of men that ran parts and pieces deemed “important” by the spooks at the company office. These men would seldom cross paths on the factory floor as their respective machines were spread out amongst the rather large building. instead they spent most of the evening in their lonesome, with their work as their only constant companion. [center]----- 501 Club 12:30ish~ AM -----[/center] Ephraim had only been in Sol City for just over 6 weeks, but he already marked out a dingy little dive just a few blocks away from his cramped studio apartment. The 501. It was certainly a “spot”, as in, a spot on the clean linens of society, but that venue served its purpose: cheap, watered down drinks and greasy table snacks. Confidently, Ephraim pushed aside the doors, a fight each time as the hinges had unaligned by fluctuating temperarures long ago, and took up a bar stool towards the middle of the counter. Luckily this one only creaked a little as he took his tired seat to the seat. At the sound of a new patron, the barkeeper pried his eyes from the soft humming of an old crt TV playing reruns of some dated 60s "classic". With a huff hr met eyes with Ephraim who promtly nodded to the barkeep in greeting. Without so much as a word, a chipped glass, some whiskey, and chunks of foggy ice was drawn from some dark depths of the counter. Ephraim would usually nurse a glass or 2 over the course of the short night, accompanied by a few cigarettes from an almost empty box. That was the plan tonight, as it had been every Friday night. To some it would seem that Ephraim was stuck in a rut, kicking up mud as his wheels spun in place, but it was a simple pleasure to have a familiar place with familiar faces that one can count on to not change. [color=7ea7d8][i]Just a bit longer[/i][/color]