July 18, 424 C.E.
I check out of the Nightstay Inn tomorrow morning--I finally caught a job today. There was a small cluster of ruins west of Seltaeb I missed on my last gig-hunting trip. The pay is good and the ruins are good enough quality, but it seems I'll be in strange company...
Jude brushed aside the tent's curtain with a motion akin to flicking away an unwanted insect, if in slow motion. His eyes maintained a similarly condescending frame.
He stood five foot ten, a strange size for an ape. He had skin the color of burning wood, a dark brown that could be easily mistaken for black in the right light. On his neck were many tattoos in the shape of notches (some bigger than others), lined up like they were counting score. Unlike most of his kingdom, he had little fur on his arms, chest, or legs. He kept himself warm with carefully-bound pelts of shed pelts as most like him did. The hair on his head was tightly bound into braids the texture of soft rope and was held back in a ponytail; he had neglecting his personal grooming, as of late, and as such a bit of black scruff was beginning to sprout upon his chin. His facial features were defined and his muscles lean; to be blunt, he stood out in a crowd.
It was no surprise to Jude that the hare before him raised a bemused and somewhat off-guard eyebrow when he entered his cloth quarters.
He inspected the newcomer for a couple of moments before letting loose a short burst of facial expressions and low noises. Common. Jude hated Common.
Here for the job, Found One?
Jude clicked once in affirmation, a noise generated from the back of his mouth and the flick of his tongue. He preferred to use as little Common as was absolutely necessary. He often came off as cold because of this; this was okay. Jude was a cold person.
The hare grunted lowly and leaned over. He looked to be around seventy years old; a little past middle age, but not much. The chemicals that ran through his veins would last him until he was around a hundred thirty. The signs of degradation were beginning to show in his face, however; small deformities in skull shape, an unusual blinking pattern...his species was not made to last. Jude would not enjoy the age his potential employer would; the chemicals that extended well the ages of most animals conflicted with his DNA, as it did with some select higher apes. No deaths of old age had yet occurred among the Found, so he couldn't be sure, but doctors predicted he would live to around ninety if he was lucky. At sixteen, Jude was not feeling very lucky.
The hare interrupted Jude's reflections on mortality with another burst of clicks, grunts, and subtle motions. He struggled to catch up with the blurred communication of the aged animal; he wasn't good with Common to begin with, and being caught off-guard was not a fond experience (nor was it an uncommon one).
Why should I take you in? We've already got thirty good beasts working in these ruins. I don't even know who forgot to take the damned 'Help Wanted' sign down. You don't look particularly useful to the expedition.
...a rough translation. Common had no solid grammatical laws, unlike Jude's native tongue, English. As a result, there was some confusion to be dealt with. It took him a couple seconds to piece it together--and Jude was not an unintelligent one. On the contrary, most of his kind were forced into high-labor jobs due to their complete inability to comprehend it without a translator.
He sighed. He imitated the hare's language clumsily; his vocal cords weren't made for Common, and his brain had already conformed to the speech patterns of his own language. As a result, he communicated in a stumbling, somewhat backwards 'accent'.
I'm good with a gun. I'm well-acquainted with ruin work. I'm not so great with Common, but you'll find I'm far more fluent than other Found. I've been a part of five different excavation cells and I've saved two lives in my career.
That was the intended message, anyway. The hare's expression remained solid, so his phrases must have been (more or less) correct in sound structure. He breathed a sigh of relief internally. He could never tell. The hard part over, he played his master stroke.
I'm also extremely familiar with Ancient technology.
The hare's left ear raised slightly. He recognized the sign. He had his job in the bag.
Maybe not. The aging hare paused a moment, reflectively, hesitatingly, and then tested Jude with a careful look in his eye.
With such an impressive resume, how exactly were you fired from five cells?
Jude cursed softly in his own language.
My previous employers were not fond of the Found, he conceded. In point of fact, his previous employers found his kind rather repulsive. Their willingness to tell him so resulted in the injury of several staff members and the destruction of valuable property. Jude himself had a couple of scars to remind him of his temper.
The hare blinked once and adjusted his head's position with a rough side motion. It was a Common word that was fairly simple to understand.
Fighter.
The hare spoke it as if, in one word, he had defined Jude. Jude found himself, partially against his will, agreeing with this concept. In many ways, that was all he was.
I like that.
The hare, with some effort, smiled. Jude was taken aback. A Found expression was uncommon among animals. He returned the smile clumsily, as if wearing a face he hadn't used in a long time.
My name is John Pepper. Sergeant Pepper to you; I ask you hold some measure of respect for my rank, if not my wisdom. Not many rise to my status in the Expeditionary Cartel.
Jude's eyes opened slightly wider. Very few indeed. He had to bow to Pepper's expertise; if he was deserving of the title Dig Sergeant, he was certainly deserving of Jude's respect.
May I ask your name?
"Jude."
He spoke it in his own tongue. There was no way to pronounce it in Common.
"Jude," Pepper repeated. It sounded more like 'Jehu', due to the language barrier, but he wasn't going to correct his potential employer. To his surprise, Sgt. Pepper corrected himself with five or six mumbled repetitions. He found the correct pronunciation quickly. Jude noted his sharp memory.
"Jude", he stated with finality. You may report to Left Hall Cell Beta tomorrow. They'll be your new unit. You'll earn three thousand bells an hour, if you accept.
He was about to protest, but Pepper stopped him short. Once we see your resume in action, you'll see your pay rise. Until then, you're stuck on grunt pay.
That sounded fair. Jude signed a couple papers indemnifying the Longshaw Expedition of any future mishaps, including death, and a contract ensuring his employment for the next two weeks.
One last question, Jude prompted tentatively. How will I find my cell?
Pepper's brow creased, as if irritated, but his eyes were smiling. You'll know. They're a wild bunch.
Jude was perplexed. His consternation was quickly growing into frustration, as it often did, despite his efforts to hold it back.
Your Expedition camp covers at least forty acres of tents. How will I know which one is mine?
Pepper went to work on Jude's papers. Ask for directions, he stated without looking up. It would help, though, if you didn't ask for Left Hall Cell Beta.
There was that nagging irritation again, growing ever stronger. He forced it down. Excuse me, sir?
The Sergeant looked up. He was smiling once more. They've taken to the title of 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.' It's a bit of a pun. Left Hall Cell Beta...L.H.C.B....Lonely Hearts Club Band. No one will answer you if you refer to them as their proper name; the damn fools have decided to beat down anyone who calls them so. We had to call the riot police a couple months ago because a squirrel demanded to see their cell leader .
Jude was shocked. He'd never heard of such brazen lack of discipline in a Beta-class group. What kind of half-assed expedition cell are you putting me in? he asked, bewildered.
Pepper smiled. My cell.
It was all Jude could to do to stop his jaw from hanging wide.
Pepper turned his back and began filing his employment papers. Report in tomorrow. I assume you have your own gun--bring it. We're going on a dig tomorrow.
A dig? So soon?
He couldn't ask for more.
He thanked Pepper and left. He'd been staying at the Nightstay Inn for the past week while he looked for an excavation job. He would check out tomorrow and bring his personal belongings to the cell's tent; Expedition jobs always included board. His hands were itching for the grip of his gun.
A week without a dig had been torture for him.
...I've already got Happiness loaded and prepped. I cleaned her earlier today, so she's shining like the moon. I bought some fresh ammunition from a local merchant with the last of my Temper Fund and tested a few shots at a nearby firing range; they're cheap, but they'll do the job. I know I should be resting for the dig tomorrow, but I already know I won't get any sleep. I'm too excited for the dig. I think I'll just clean Happiness again.