Disclaimer: Usual applies.
'No Earthworms'
Though the focus of her life, presently, lay in politics, therefore also in the tumbling and vast chaos of some of the most severe and contrary ideas in the world, really no more than a civilized bar fight, Relena found herself unalterably - unusually - silently alone. A part of her had seen it coming - her mother knew about it and knew the extent of its reach better than she did due to experiences of the late Mr. Darlian - and the rest of her was astonished and dismayed at her role in her own life now. Because she was not at all the person she was when she had entered this - what was it, a civilized bar fight? Her world had picked and nipped at her until she was a mannequin with ragged canvas skin. What loved her best and did loyal by her the most also bit at her heels to keep her moving. Did this make sense?
She had met at least a thousand people since January, when her duties had expanded - explosively - to include this project. Relations between Earth and the colonies were so fragile and dear, she felt as though she had been made guardian of a spider's web nestled in the gutter of a busy street. She was always running forward to catch this, save that, support this, give to that, pay and tax and be taxed and pay some more and advertise and campaign and pay for the campaigning and meet and shake hands and knock heads and lock horns and kick up dirt with frayed heels - the pace of her life quickened while the clocks remained unchanged, the manners by which she kept time staid the same as always and it was bewildering. On a shuttle ride between colonies she had calculated, in her head, which she had to remember she did because that allowed for some margin of error in her calculations, that to complete everything would take forty-two hours. Forty-two hours! Almost a full two days and nights, all without rest or eating! She remembered that moment very clearly because it marked the start of a series of headaches that came with lack of sleep.
Alright, so she had met at least a thousand people since January, so, January, February...in three months and two weeks she had managed to meet a thousand people. Well, that must be some kind of record, right? Or if not, she must be big competition for those few ahead in the running.
Indeed, it was mid-March. March always brought to mind a spring in one's step, a hop up on a staircase, skipping steps while dragging one's weight up by the banister. There had been any number of tall, winding staircases in her house on Earth, and Relena the child had hung onto the banister with both hands and yanked herself up - it always took a long time to do so, because her legs were, naturally, longer than her arms and they sometimes - how embarrassing! - got in the way, and she would trip and otherwise hurt herself in some odd place, bang herself under her arm so that a blue bruise would bloom just south of her armpit, or, in one case, she would have two parallel stripes of purpling-yellow coloring the bumps of her ribs on one side where she'd fallen into the banister backwards. Relena the child hadn't been all that afraid of hurts and aches, though, not because of whatever ridiculous theory adults came up with about a child's sense of immortality creating fearlessness in their hearts but just a sense of being able to wind one's way higher and higher - that sense of being one's downfall and triumph at the same time, all at the risk of a banged-up knee or the like, that was all worth it, all the odd little bruises and discolorings, so she would continue to pull herself up by the arms, her eyes fastened eagerly on the thin crests of her wrists turned sideways at an interesting angle, her slippery hands grabbing hotly for some hold on the polished wood banister, just glad she'd worn shoes instead of socks since socks causes you to lose your footing so easily like that baby goat on the television screen yesterday...
As though lightheadedness was some kind of magic she remembered all the names of all the people she'd met - not the entire one thousand, but she could piece name to face very quickly now. That senator with the aneroxic model-daughter, the upturned nose that belonged to Ms. Hiddleston, the square, clean fingernails that were a telling detail of Mr. Yangtel's person, that one a former felon - oh but that was years ago, decades - that one somehow managed to become Senior Executive by replacing failed or retired predecessors, the list was eeeeeennndlesssss. And Relena came up with some detail of a past conversation, some hint of what they wanted, immediately, and used it - because, of course -
- what is more fascinating, more flattering, than a near-stranger remembering something you'd said even a month or two ago, however small and insignificant?
There were some drawbacks - ha! - to Relena the person and Relena the child taking a backseat to Relena at the Head of Life. She didn't pack - or unpack! - any of her things now, but had someone else take care of all that. Almost in exchange for remaining constantly open to everything, even suggestions or methods contrary to what she publicly supported, much less thought privately, she cut meetings short, she dismissed more opportunities to travel on other projects, and chose to stay for the sake of being in one place all at the same time, to complete some work. It became an important part of her life to have her stomach and head in the same room, not separated by jet lag. She developed, besides those headaches, a manner that came across as reluctant politeness, in which her fingers cramped up, her eyebrows bunched up, creating a frown and puffiness in her young face that hadn't been there at all as recently as New Year's.
As though in stubborn refusal to change anymore than that, Relena let herself be wrung dry of conclusive thought to satisfy, politely, kindly, and civilly, the affections of her staff and colleagues while giving the rest of herself over to the protection and wellbeing of her people (a population that had now expanded to an arguable size). Economically, things were on the rocks in the colonies, and politically, still a scrambled mess. As one of the few politicians never to have drunk of Oz or Alliance blood she could wind between Earth and the colonies with much more flexibility than her coworkers, all who could, at any point, break out into argument about the two organizations (so long dead, according to Relena's train of thought, that to argue at all was an excuse for everyone else to leave the room). While not actually possessing these elements in her character she could be curt and even short-tempered - but the moment was so brief and so pained that those who were at the receiving end of her impatience felt silly to try her so again in the future, or any of her group.
And she could not ignore elections. This is where her mother's help became a godsend. Her mother, politician's wife that she was, could not have been a better organiser - so Relena left that up to her. Mrs. Darlian executed the campaign for her daughter's reelection (she had resigned herself that it was to be so) with precision and discretion. Instead of being open on all sides to interference in her work Relena now had a solid wall at her back to help fight -
- because that was what this was about now. She fought, daily, the effects of tension and false information and bad blood between the Earth and the colonies, and planned for it strategically, as any lieutenant might. Because - and would you believe it? -
- there was so much more than the war that stood between the two neighbors, Earth and Space. There was too much there to mention, and so much of it hollow and wrong, habits that continued distrust and dislike between people. The structure of their economics and government and needs were now different and slowly becoming more and more estranged from each other. The need to have this difference taught and explored was becoming more and more necessary, but when - oh, when would anyone find the time?
And therefore, Relena grew alone. A little hollow in her head allowed her personal space and rest and quiet: she coud close her eyes and see herself there, sitting on a bench in her wrap-around gray sweater (one she wore on all shuttle rides now, to protect against the dry air and natural cold of the interiors), hair around her shoulders, her expression lax and just the tiniest bit exhausted. She sat hunched, her eyes not quite closed, but unfocused and staring at the ground. Always, the air was cool, it felt as though it had been hemmed in around her, a sheet of air to fit the space in the hollow of her head. Words couldn't carry across the air there: a sense of slowness kept things peaceful. The ground was slightly frosted, each blade of grass crunchy with its dusting of ice, the cement of the bench and path leading out - of that hollow in her head - cold to the touch.
She sat underneath one of those arches along which climbing flowers had been trained to grow. But these flowers, like the grass, were slightly frosted, their colors muted to fit the rest of her hollow, her nook, their smell stamped out by something like the closing of autumn. It was here Relena sometimes found herself, in this soothing gray place, unintentionally or because she wanted to be there, and where she let herself sit without making a single movement.
He had never tried gardening before. It was not as simple as he'd at first thought. There was a mindless rythm to the activity that lulled and sweetened: it required a lack of thought outside that foot-by-foot square of earth, endurance, patience. He rather enjoyed the mindlessness: it was a solid change from what he'd done before.
Which had been nothing.
Just a note: he was not on the colony anymore, oh, far from it. He was very far from it - this was as far south in space as you could go, presently.
There was a thick, muted quality to the air he listened attentively to. Colors appeared stronger here, smells bigger - noises came to one as something yelled into one's ear, too close and loud. In fact, Heero found conversational noises garish in this atmosphere - as though the voices of the people around him were packed in too close, wrapped around into a strangle hold he could not get out of. This would, under other circumstances, have been enough reason to leave. But here, people shared this little dislike, and other than the necessary bits and pieces, little was spoken. Even more to his advantage, then: he was not required to say much, and his general discretion and solitude was appreciated rather than wondered at here.
He sat up and back on his heels, looking over his work: everything had been thoroughly done. Then he looked up, at the thick, foggy shell overhead: thicker than what one would see on normal colonies, a distinct phlegm-like color, it filtered sunlight in differently to suit plant life. The moisture in the air and in the earth was warm with the sun, a sticky kind of heat like too many bodies smushed together. Smells collected around him, that of dirt and sweat and sweat-stained clothing. His sweat, his clothing. He had to go wash these.
All the caretakers lived underneath the fields in windowless complexes that, while just as suffocating in feel because of the squat, low-ceilinged rooms and steel walls, were air-conditioned, the circulated air always cool and dry. There was a communal washroom near the entrance with connecting showers next door. Heero went there, stripping his shirt from his body as he entered the washroom. He peeled off the rest of his clothing and put it all in the washer, one of the smaller ones, before heading into the men's shower room. On the way, he grabbed a towel (if only for decency's sake...).
Caretakers took quick showers because the water was always cold and 'sprays were too expensive to install. The showers' floors were smooth and tiled, set a slight tilt towards the middle of the room where the water ran to, and the walls were a dulled white. But standing naked and shivering with a thick spray of water blasting on top of his head, Heero didn't bother diverting himself with these details. He raked his hands and some soap over his body, sloughing away the dirt he felt always remained in the depths of his bores now, considering his work. Then, hair dripping, he turned the water off and scrubbed himself dry.
Back in the washroom with the wet towel draped around his hips, Heero took out the wet laundry and shoved it into one of the dryers. Ten minutes later he took them out, shook the larger wrinkls out, and pulled them back on. Large, gaping holes made the knees of his pants sag below the calf, but in this way Heero managed to lengthen the leg without actually buying new pants. Fully dressed again Heero left the stilted, echoing quiet of the washroom and went back upstairs.
The sun and heat made him sweat heavily almost immediately. Three other caretakers presently worked in the two fields, but everyone else was underground. Heero left them to their work and wandered into the shade offered by a vine that had clambered it's way up the frame of a cupola, its leaves spread out to catch sunlight at the back. It's shadow hung steeply over Heero; a bench had been set up with its back to it and he sat down there....
His back ached a little from bending over for so long, and his arms and shoulders were tender. His clothes felt rough as clothes tend to do right after being washed. Heero looped his arms around his knees, popping out of the legs of his pants, and settled against the hard, unforgiving backrest of the bench.
He didn't even have the newspapers anymore - those he had given up along with the colony. And that had already been a while ago... he remembered, with painful clarity, the moment he'd known it was time to pack up again: he thought he'd tracked Dr. J down again - it could have been Dr. J, but as was usual, almost expected, with the man, one could not be completely sure. From the way he was moving he was still looking for Heero - or so rang Heero's theory once he'd studied the routes Dr. J chose to move along, a kind of erratic criss-crossing of space. Heero immediately thought of places he could go - this reaction alone surprised him. He had been in one place for so long, immobile, that he took for granted his feelings concerning Dr. J. Until now, it was just assumed, since he obviously felt comfortable staying in one place for so long, that meeting with Dr. J again would be alright, that now it was - but it hadn't been, not at all, the right time, and Heero, very efficientl, disentangled himself from the colony and left it.
But, sitting in the shade, he was surprised at how many - memories - came to him of that stay. Traveling before that had been a fast-moving blur through space, a cat-and-mouse game, a dare, I dare you to catch me!, but that stay on the colony had brought about interesting results.
Like the girl who had spilled his milk.
And Ikjen, someone so far removed from the running, breathing world he had long become a relic telling his own story.
The vendors with their colorful carts amidst the wary backdrop of the industrial cityscape.
Days and nights in which he didn't move from his mattress on the floor or the roof's cement floor, close to where Ikjen worked constantly in his greenhouse - nights when he would wander from rooftop to rooftop, ordays in which he would spend the hours crawling about the bowels of the colony, amidst the working pistons and clack-clack-clack-clack-clack of the machinery underneath the city.
It all came back to him, a vivid picture...
TBC
This is too short for my taste, but I wanted to convince you guys that I was really still around. Hello again, everyone!