THE MAN AT THE GATE
You sit on the railing overlooking the lorries.
There's the occasional beep from the malcontented men taking refuge from fluttering snow in their cabins. The lady driver fled this morning- driven away by some cop clearly *compensating* for something. This you know. You just about heard the bang of that cabin door echoing over the waterlock, as he screeched sideways onto the plaza.
One driver beeps again. Some long, drawn-out honk in place of a frustrated scream. You smile. As if one more noise would make a difference.
"Hey, Beret!" Drawls a nasally voice up and to your left.
When you turn your head you spot the young woman. She has her arms crossed on the railing, and smacks gum down at you with a smirk. Well *this* was interesting.
You bring a finger to your beret and tip it in her direction. "Evenin'," you give her your brightest flash of teeth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She must like your mock chivalry because her smirk becomes a smile. Between that and her pause in chewing you realise just how young she actually looks.
A damn shame then that she spends all day on the catwalk clinging to some brainless goliath like a fly on shit.
"Wanted ta talk to ya!" She replies, resuming her chewing.
"Oh? Where's the big man?"
The girl looks over her shoulder, still smacking away. "Pissin' over the side of some railing." When her head returns to you her expression takes on an element of cheek. "I teased him about the *effects of the cold* and Jean-Luc got *shy*."
You throw your head back and laugh.
Of course she did. Of course *he* did. The brick-shithouse was an eight-foot stack of walking contradictions. Despite his supposed 'superiority' a little little-dick joke from one of his *babes* was enough to send him off, tail between his legs. Of course.
Evrart wouldn't like it, but he didn't *have* to see everything. None of the scabs had noticed Measurehead's absence. You can also hear the drunk retching from behind the Whirling, new handler likely in-tow. Everything was under control.
"What's ya name?" Ah. The girl. *That* is why she's talking to you.
"Call me Mañana."
She rolls her eyes. "What's ya *real* name?"
You chuckle. "Who are we to decide what is and is not real, chica?"
She groans and pushes back off the railing, arching her back and shouting to the sky. "All you artsy types is the same!" Whatever she was *going* to say next is cut off by her new posture providing the perfect chute for that overworked piece of gum to slip into.
She draws breath with a pop and her eyes widen. Then she's keeling over the railing and pounding a fist against her diaphram, hacking until a little pink blob flies from her mouth surrounded by spittle. You follow it's trajectory downwards.
There's a glorious, *terrifying*, moment of excitement where you think it's gonna land right on the main scab's head. Then it hits the ground with no ceremony, noticed only by you.
Your eyes return to the girl. No chewing, no smirk, no heckling. Only white knuckles wrapped around the railing and tears in her eyes from the choking. She's distant. You wonder then how old she actually is, what happened that made her content with spending too long days, in too little clothing, in this dreadful cold, with that dreadful man.
Why does she cling to a racist, content with being viewed as an asset?
You do not pity her. She chose this lot in life. But... For a moment you *see* her. Then, she draws another stick of gum from her pocket and chews it quietly.
"Tomorrow." You call out to her.
"Huh?" Her gaze returns to you. She blinks and cocks her head, chewing slower now.
"It means *call me tomorrow*. It's from a song- If folks don't know that, I usually don't tell 'em," you smile. "Consider it my *gift* to you."
Her eyes widen slightly. At that moment there's a creak of metal and you see the heavily tattooed man return to the catwalk from the harbour.
"I HAVE RETURNED, BABE." His voice booms across the plaza and you watch with glee as the bulky scab's head whips to the catwalk in obvious rage at missing his golden opportunity. "BABE." He repeats.
You're surprised to find the girl's still looking at you, ignoring Measurehead for a moment. Unthinkable! She's smiling that *genuine* smile again as she turns. "Thanks, Tomorrow," she mouths at you in silence.
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