[center][h3][color=fffc96]L A Z A R U S[/color][/h3][/center] [indent][sub]Location(s): several Interacting with: None[/sub][/indent][hr] "SCWD! Freeze, sucker! Latches in the air and lid open, your junk's under arrest!" Jacob truly didn't get tired of that joke, and probably nobody in the whole business of [i]Santa Celia Waste Disposal[/i] held hopes for the few years left until the man's retirement to change anything about that. Sitting behind the front loader truck's wheel, the elderly husband seemed both very happy about and quite capable of ranting at some of the uglier dumpsters along the route. In Friendship Heights pretty much every dumpster that is. SCWD knew why [i]not[/i] to deploy their most modern equipment on routes like this, thereby allowing Jacob to make the hydraulic pump work faster by giving the rev counter in front of him a well trained kick in its ass. In the meantime, Rókur was busy shoving the large metal container into position. He had been given this part of the job practically on sight, his boss saying something about 'I'm sure you just need to gently lean against these things in order to push them around. This should be very easy for you!'. What Rókur had not been told beforehand was how many times a day he'd have to stoop and pick up trash bags that kept falling off from overfilled dumpsters on shitty routes like this. How many of those actually contained body parts or at least used syringes underneath the used diapers ? The viking of old times didn't really care about for his own sake, nor did most of his colleagues. Sometimes a garbage truck's crew felt like a strange companionship of people that were happy if somebody's gut feelings had turned out groundless at the end of the shift. It wouldn't have been the first time for some wannabe thugs to mess around with the city's services. 'Just sneeze into their face and they'd be blown into the next apartment block!', Rókur's boss had said. A plume of dust gave the inhabitants of Friendship Heights delight as the dumpster's contents were swallowed by the truck, the compactor struggling to make room for more. The way Jacob banged the container around on the forks to get everything out was audibly in violation of SCWD's recommendations for neighbourhood-friendly, quiet handling -- but like said, these were just recommendations. A complaint about any leftovers on the other hand was a real issue, so was taking longer for the route than allocated or even being paid for. Then the truck pulled away, shift nearing its end. [s] [/s] "Hey Rockie! Why don't you come over here and make contact with water like everyone else does ? Afraid of being seen naked ?" [color=fffc96]"It's [i]Rókur[/i], damnit!"[/color] How many times had he already gone through all of this ? There were like half a dozen co-workers along with him in the locker room right now, more could be heard utilizing the company's free offering to get rid of the city's filth in the adjacent showers. They all perfectly knew his name, but from early on his nickname had been 'Rockie'. "You know I can't pronounce your weird russian shit!" He had arranged with that since, after all, they were a friendly bunch. Right now he could see them looking at him, waiting for his decision about the showers. A flight of raveners looking forward to their prey exposing itself, wanting to see if it was equally or even more impressive without any clothes protecting it. [color=fffc96]"And no, thanks. I'm in a hurry."[/color] A petty excuse, but this wasn't the first time for him to use it. If he turned away his attention decisively now they probably wouldn't keep asking, so Rókur hurried to stuff the high visibility vest into the locker. A few minutes later he was out and waiting for the monorail car, his skin perfectly clean and without having encountered any water so far. [s] [/s] 'Smooth sailing' wasn't exactly what this weird means of transport was delivering, at least from his point of view. If any dragon boat would have rattled, squealed and clanked that much on sea he'd have demanded for it to be discarded. And even in the worst or times they had never been this crowded! And it wasn't as if the air was always particularly good up here either. Sure it was better than on the traffic-jammed streets below, but sometimes winds could blow the exhaust from a factory stack right into the vehicle's path. Right now however something vibrated in his left pocket... [i]Incorrect code. 2 attempts left.[/i] Rókur grimaced briefly, then let his enormous finger swipe along the touch screen a second time in order to draw the rune that he had chosen as the unlocking pattern. [i]Incorrect code. 1 attempt left.[/i] [color=fffc96][i]Why can't those fucking retards build phones that any ordinary person can actually handle ? 'Cheap' should not be equivalent to 'unuseable'![/i][/color] Rókur angrily stared at his phone, a simple model in complete lack of any luxury. It hadn't been his first choice, but bigger would also have cost more. [color=fffc96][i]This country's rotten to the core! People even praise a phone company that has promoted a halfway eaten fruit to be its holy grail![/i][/color] Third try... [i]Regular appointment with tourist guy in 15 minutes. BE DEAD ON TIME![/i] [color=fffc96][i]Oh shit...[/i][/color] He didn't even need to look out and down to the ground to see that the monorail ride and his subsequent walk from Argyle station to his actual appartment would take significantly longer than this. Given how punctual this particular guy tended to be one of those two had to go -- and fast! Rókur pushed a few other people aside as he more or less gently forced his way to the window. He glanced downwards onto the roofs below, trying to identify where he currently was. His eyes could see the characteristic reddish hue of his place coming up next, a six-story building with brick walls that had once been a low-end hotel, but that had been converted into a large apartment block at some point. The monorail however would now make a turn to the right in order to evade some taller structures along the way, then come back sharp left later and reach the station near the other end of the street. With the experience and precision of someone not doing this for the first time, Rókur opted to straighten things out. He made his way to the very rear of the vehicle where nobody would focus on him, then waited for it to both slow down and begin the turn. A few adjacent people almost stumbled backwards as there suddenly was noone left behind them in order to counteract the pressure of the crowd in front of them. Some looked at each other cluelessly, convincing themselves that what seemingly had just happened behind their backs was merely due to them not paying attention or their memory being wrong. Now he was out of that metal cage, allowing gravity to bring him up to his preferred speed before disappearing again in a short, brief trail of unexplainable mist. A couple of seconds later Rókur came out like a spaceship emerging from hyperspace, the pickup truck's car alarm immediately starting to cry out for help as said spaceship crashed into the roof of the cabin. The windshield and side windows turned into popcorn and his nose smashed halfway into the rim of the selfmade impact crater. The landing procedure on this unexpected, non-solid ground had gone quite wrong.. He truly had not aimed for this, but probably some unfortunate gust of wind had induced a sideways drift in the wrong moment. There were plenty of free spaces in this backyard parking lot! With gravity pulling a trickle of blood out of his severely bruised nose, Rókur hurried to get away from the scene. Luckily the apartment block now was a mere couple of yards away, but the clock was still ticking and he wasn't looking forward to any kind of encounter with the police. It would be difficult to explain... [s] [/s] 'Low-end' indeed was the appropriate term to describe the place where he was living. Without sunlight it was almost impossible to see the big neon letters reading 'Milton' which had merely been turned off, but never removed from the wall above the main entry. A revolving door led into what had once been the reception hall, but had been stripped of all furniture and outfitted with a wall of post boxes for everyone. There was also a row of large and reinforced metal boxes which inhabitants could rent for storing stuff like bicycles in. Rókur's dwelling place was located on the fourth floor, at the end of a very long corridor as they were characteristic for the hotel business. The carpets were gone and only worn-out linoleum was left, but the owner of this place still had at least some interest in not letting it fall apart completely. Of course Rókur's shirt still was traveling with the monorail, but he knew why to only use those as a thin, uppermost layer for stopping people from staring at him. It really wasn't a significant loss as he still wore the garments most familiar to him: Dark red cloth decorated with runes and with some chainmail underneath. Now those runes essentially said that he should [i]not[/i] come back from his grave and haunt his family, but no ordinary passer-by could read this anyway. People in general had been quite afraid of their deceased turning against them for some unfinished business. Walking along the endless row of anonymous doors to his left and right, Rókur encountered one of his neighbours: "Jesus! What kind of unholy mass have you been pulling off in that costume ? Are you a priest of some kind ?" [color=fffc96]"Nope. LARP! And now please make room for me or I might indeed discover the unholy part of myself."[/color] Rókur's voice was quite thunderous to begin with, but that decisive tone right now had been added on purpose. "Just kiddin'! Calm down, okay ?" Rókur was quick to insert the key and to slam the door shut firmly behind him. A few calm minutes later his phone vibrated again, notifying him that the time had come. But as it would turn out noone actually came. If nothing would happen for the next half an hour or so he'd probably go and shoot some arrows as a means of relaxation. There was no lack of vacant buildings and abandoned factory halls in Santa Celia.