AN: Back to Mark.
RISES IN THE EAST
[Mark]
It was late in the afternoon on Saturday when Mark tracked down Cheswick's address: A set of dilapidated wooden cabins on the outskirts of the Cuore, right by the Border. Mark could see the warning signs and the clearly marked stone brick line that under no circumstance was he to ever cross. He kept his distance as he walked up to the center cabin.
As it turned out, he wasn't the only ones struggling to pay bills. Cheswick chose to live here because it was the cheapest—nobody wanted to risk walking outside and tripping into the death wall. There was one central cabin where the owner lived and resided. The plot of land and all the smaller cabins on top of it were the owner's property, and she rented them out as she saw fit.
It was hard not to think of Mark's own landlord when she walked to the counter. She was just as rotund as Mr. Mayhew, with sharp eyes and nostrils that flared as if smelling trouble.
"You here for a room?" The landlady, Miss Crone, demanded.
"No. I'm here—"
"If you're not here for a room, you're of no concern." She fell back into her seat and flipped open a book.
Mark grimaced, getting the impression she was going to be difficult.
"I'm looking for Cheswick. He lives here?"
Miss Crone turned a page. "We can't give out information on our tenants."
"I'm his co-worker at the Brawfire Brewery." Mark went on. "He hasn't been in for a few days. People are starting to worry."
People meaning him. Nobody else seemed to care or remember his name.
"Cheswick… Cheswick…" Miss Crone mumbled to herself. She took a moment to look up from her book in thought before glancing back down and flicking a page. "Sorry. Nobody here by that name."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure." She said distractedly. "We got a Chester who's late on rent, but no Cheswick."
"But this is his address." Mark insisted before pausing and thinking about the similarities between 'Chester' and 'Cheswick'. Then the similarities between 'Matt' and 'Mark'. He let out an annoyed sigh. "Do you know anything about Chester? Like where he works?"
"We can't give out no information."
"Ma'am, there have been disappearances late at night and I haven't seen Cheswick in three days. I'm worried."
"You going deaf?" She put down the book and glared. "We have no Cheswick here and I can't give out no information!"
"So," Mark countered, temper fraying, "if I come back with a guard to investigate a missing person, you'll stop behaving like a spoiled sow and let me through?"
Miss Crone looked affronted, and Mark was inordinately glad he didn't live here and could mouth off to this woman.
"You got records?" He asked next. "You must keep a list of your tenants somewhere so you know who's late on rents."
"I c—
"I'll get a guard if I have to." He threatened.
By the look on her face, Mark could tell she was contemplating sending him away, just to waste his time finding a guard out of spite. However, she eventually relented and went in the back for a few moments before coming back with a book of names.
"Here. See for yourself." She all but threw the book at him.
He quickly opened it and winced at the lack of organization. It was common sense to arrange names alphabetically, not chronologically. Especially if you were renting space. Even if it cost extra effort, it made finding names easier.
As it was, Mark had to painstakingly pore over each and every name for 'Cheswick'. He at least narrowed his search down a few pages since he knew how long Cheswick worked for the brewery.
Finally, he found it, promptly rubbing Miss Crone's nose in it.
"C-H-E-S-W-I-C-K. Cheswick!"
The grumpy landlady snatched the book away and studied the words in disbelief before blinking dumbly. "Huh. Could have sworn his name was Chester. W-Well he's late on rent!" She tried to salvage her shattered pride, but Mark was already exiting the cabin. He found which one was Cheswick's place from the registry. "Hey! You can't disrupt the privacy of my tenants!"
Miss Crone waddled after him as he passed numbered cabins. Each one dingier than the last. He finally arrived at number ten and knocked sharply on the wooden door.
"Cheswick? It's Mark." He called. "Are you in?"
No reply.
"Wait!" Miss Crone panted, bracing herself against the cabin and sweating from the short jog. "I… I'll be opening the door."
Mark swept aside and Miss Crone gave a slow knock.
"Chester—"
"Cheswick!"
"—Ah, Cheswick." Miss Crone corrected herself. "Your rent is due! If you're in there, you better have my emeralds."
No reply.
"I'm coming in." Miss Crone warned before pushing open the door with Mark behind her.
A Creeper flashed before them.
Miss Crone shrieked before the blast went off and the cabin's front was blown apart. Her large body shielded Mark from any of the damage, but he suddenly found himself crushed under her weight. The two groaned in pain, alive, and Mark scrabbled at the ground to squeeze himself out from under her.
Pouring from the hole in the cabin were Spiders—kept docile in the afternoon sun. There were only three and they crawled over the two Crafters before skittering idly along the grass.
The question, however, was why there were Mobs in Cheswick's cabin. A Creeper and three Spiders.
Mark extricated himself from the massive overweight landlady and made for the cabin. A few guards, hearing the explosion, came over to investigate as well. They quickly dispatched the docile Spiders and helped Miss Crone to her feet.
"Cheswick?" Mark called into the dark cabin. And that was the answer. The cabin's interior was dark, even with it being well into the afternoon. There were no torches. Just a redstone lamp by the bed that was assuredly off.
"What happened here?" One of the guards questioned, stepping inside. "Why is it so dark in here?"
"A Creeper exploded." Miss Crone clutched at her chest, hyperventilating. "I saw my life flash before my eyes…"
One of the guards offered her a Potion of Healing while another stood beside Mark and followed his gaze before stiffening.
Spilled across the bed and floor like a spray of blood was Cheswick's Inventory, his lifeless Head staring vacantly at Mark. His brewing buddy was dead.
"C418 almighty…" One of the guards murmured. "What did this?"
"Mobs." One of the guards snapped, walking over to the unlit lamp and flicking it on. Immediately, the cabin's interior was illuminated, as it should have been. "The cabin wasn't properly lit. My guess is he dozed off, forgetting to turn it on. Mobs spawned in the darkness and killed him in his sleep. He wouldn't have felt a thing."
Mark fell to his knees, hardly believing it. He had spoken with Cheswick on Monday, even bidding him goodbye. That had been four days ago. He told the guards as much and they rounded on Miss Crone.
"One of your tenants has been missing for four days and you didn't notice? With all the disappearances, you should have reported something."
"N-No! No, I didn't realize, I…" Miss Crone babbled as her head swiveled from guard to guard. "I… I have a lot of cabins to manage, you understand. I can't keep track of everyone. Chester was—"
"CHESWICK." Mark snapped, glaring at the landlady. "His name is Cheswick—read his goddamn Head! Why didn't you have more torches in here!? You can't forget to turn on torches!"
"He's right, Miss." A guard nodded. "All abodes have a minimum luminance requirement to prevent accidents like this. Are all your cabins like this? If so, that's a safety violation."
"I… I mean… I'm trying to make ends meet, here. The Border isn't exactly prime real estate, I, ah…" She trailed off. "The lights just seemed so superfluous…?"
"A man's life ended because of something you call superfluous." The guards glared at her disapprovingly. "It seems to me this place could use a visit from the Health and Safety Inspectors. Bad location or not, these homes need to meet safety regulations."
"What!? I don't have the money to fix these places up!"
"You'll do it or find yourself without tenants." One guard growled before walking up to Mark. "I'm sorry for your friend, son. Were you two close?"
"…Co-workers…" Mark mumbled, still not quite believing Cheswick was dead. Just like that.
"Do you know if he had any other friends or acquaintances?" He asked, taking out a notebook. "Anyone we should notify?"
"I… I don't know. Probably not." Cheswick didn't talk about many friends. He always spoke enviably about getting a girlfriend, but that was impossible now.
"MarkAble, sir." The guard stooped down and pulled Mark's limp body to his feet. "The guards need to collect the deceased's Head and belongings. To scatter him off."
Scatter him off. That was Oak Docks' way of burying the fallen. Their Head and gear would be cast into the ocean. No plots or graves—The peninsula didn't have the space. The only honor for the dead was having their names written in a book and recorded, though there was talk of covering the Cadboro Bridge with signs for all those that died. The signs would be like a plaque to commemorate them once the bridge was finished.
But not now. Now, Cheswick would be scattered.
"…Can you let me know when the scattering will take place?" Mark asked, figuring he'd show up, just to honor his co-worker.
"Let me know your address and I'll pass on the date when its decided." The guard assured. "You can bring his fellow co-workers too. Any friends or acquaintances. Anyone you feel would like to remember him."
Mark nodded at the idea. He didn't cry—he didn't know Cheswick that well—but remembering all the idle chatter they shared before work, commiserating together, working together. It got him a little choked up knowing he would never see his brewing buddy's face again.
But what affected him more—in a way he himself had yet to realize—was how quick it had been. A man's life ended through something as inconsequential as a forgotten lamp. It was a pointless death. A forgettable death. And it spoke of the brevity of life.
Truly, anyone's life could be extinguished at the drop of a hat.
The rest of the weekend passed Mark in a kind of haze. Cheswick's death was still fresh in his mind, and he knew working at the brewery beside his empty seat would only make the thoughts linger. He half considered using those accumulated vacation days before dragging himself out of bed Monday morning and back to routine.
Morning ritual. Shower. Breakfast. Get dressed. Get to the brewery.
When he walked in, he immediately went to Mr. Brawfire and told him the bad news about Cheswick.
"That's terrible." The boss said sympathetically before ruining it with, "Who's Cheswick…?"
"He sat beside me at work, sir." Mark gritted through his teeth. "He suggested reusing bottles to save on glass."
"...Wasn't that Gian's doing...?"
"It was my doing." Mark flinched as Gian_Perfect waltzed up. "I pitched it on Friday, but I've been thinking how much sand and charcoal we waste on glass. All the money we can save by asking our clients to hand in their empty potion bottles."
Mr. Brawfire nodded his head in assent, as if Gian's way of selling the idea was revolutionary. "it's suggestions like that that help this business, Mr. Perfect. I expect great things from you now that you've been promoted to Vice President. It couldn't have happened to a more exemplary employee." Mark bit the inside of his cheek. "Have you thought of a discount range to incentivize our customers to recycle?"
"Yeah, like ten or twenty percent." Gian nodded eagerly. "I think we may be onto something. Hey, Matt, my dude, why the long face?"
Mark stood there, shaking. Not because of how they messed up his name again, but of how they took Cheswick's idea. He had pitched the recycling idea to Mr. Brawfire before and went ignored, but Gian talks it up in passing and suddenly he's all for it. The alchemist felt like they'd all lost their minds!
It made him legitimately angry.
"Take it easy on him." Mr. Brawfire eased a hand over Gian's shoulders. "A co-worker passed. Matt's taking it pretty rough."
"Oh no. Who was it?"
"Chester."
"…Who?"
"Cheswick." Mark gritted out.
"…Still who?"
He couldn't take it anymore. He stormed past the two insensitive Crafters and made his way to the brewery floor. He had to occupy himself with potions before he went mad from the idiocy surrounding him.
He sat himself in his standard seat and tried not to look at Cheswick's empty chair as he went to work. Monday. Invisibility and Night Vision. He worked himself ragged until the lunchbreak and then went to the lunchroom with a written book in hand. It was the details of Cheswick's scattering. It would be held Wednesday afternoon and Mark intended to use one of his vacation days to attend.
But he still felt he could find some other sympathetic co-workers.
Going around the lunchroom, he greeted people he'd worked beside for years. They greeted him back.
"Oh, Matt, hey."
"Matt, right?"
…They sort of greeted him back.
He didn't bother correcting them as he went into explaining Cheswick's death and scheduled scattering, hoping some co-workers could come and show their support.
"…Cheswick? Was there a guy like that working here?"
The initial response had his stomach drop like a stone.
"Can you even remember someone like that?"
He worked there for years.
"Did he have… brown hair?"
"No, I think that's Chester you're thinking of."
"He must not have said much. I have no clue who you're talking about."
"Sorry, Matt. I don't have any more personal days. I can't take Wednesday off."
"Hey, did you hear Gian pitched a stunning idea to the boss man? They're thinking about recycling bottles."
"Oh, that's a terrific idea! I can't believe I never thought of that."
"Looks like Gian's getting more and more chummy with the boss." One of them sighed dramatically. "Some guys have all the luck."
And just like that, they went back to discussing trivial matters. They had no time to waste talking about a dead man they couldn't be bothered to remember. They couldn't even be bothered to remember Mark's name. They weren't even looking at him.
The dismissal was clear, and Mark promptly left that group of callous co-workers. Except, the next group was just as callous.
"I don't know. It sounds like a personal event. I didn't know Chester all that well."
"Cheswick."
"I'm busy working Wednesday. Besides, Chester never really spoke with me that much."
"Cheswick."
"I'd love to go, but I promised my friends to go drinking after work. Sorry."
By the time his lunchbreak was over, Mark must have asked fifty co-workers to attend Cheswick's scattering—some of them even sitting in the same row as Cheswick—but they all bowed out, claiming they hardly knew the guy. They didn't know who he was, what he looked like, or what his name was. He worked for the brewery for years, and yet he was just part of the background to them. Nothing more than a piece of forgotten furniture.
Mark left the brewery early and tore off his uniform. Of course, Gian_Perfect was stood in his path, almost like he was waiting for him.
"Hey, my dude, Matt. Where you heading? Not playing hooky, are you?"
"Not right now, Gian." Mark massaged the bridge of his nose. "I'm not feeling well. I can't stay here right now."
Instantly, Gian's laidback demeanor evaporated, and he almost looked worried. "Hey… I'm really sorry about Cheste—"
"Cheswick."
"—Cheswick, sorry." He nodded somberly. "I didn't know him well, but you must be feeling pretty down. I wish there was something I could do."
Mark hesitated, seeing maybe a flash of hope. He pulled out the book with Cheswick's scattering date and location and handed it to Gian. He eyed it warily.
"What's this?"
"Time and place for Cheswick's scattering." Mark said. "So far, it looks like I'm the only one going to be there. If you really want to do something, can you maybe be there? Maybe bring a few co-workers? I just don't want my brewing buddy to have such a pathetic turnout."
"Ah… well…" Gian hesitated. "I might not be available that day…"
Mark stilled. "You haven't even checked the date yet."
"Uh…" Gian_Perfect quickly flipped open the book and pointed to the date. "Wednesday. Yeah. I can be there. Sure, my dude." It sounded more like he was trying to appease the magenta-haired alchemist than a commitment. "I can bring some co-workers too. I promise."
Mark was about to call him out on lying, but even Gian wouldn't back out of a promise. He was a bright soul. Like the sun. If he could remember to hand out gifts for people's spawndays, he could spare some warmth for a fallen co-worker.
"Alright. Thanks, Gian." Mark gave a tired smile. "You're a good guy."
"Of course, my dude. Of course." Gian beamed back before Mark left the brewery early to waste time before his shift at the resort.
What else was he supposed to do?
Wednesday.
The day of Cheswick's scattering.
Mark stood in a black-dyed leather outfit atop a raised cliff overlooking the vast ocean. It was so vast that he couldn't even glimpse the mainland on the other side. He could see the sudden drop in the ocean, however. Most of the scatterings were done on these cliffs because the items fell deep enough that they couldn't wash back onto shore. The site was just north of the Cadboro Bridge. Construction on it was slow as usual, though there hadn't been any fires since switching to stronger building materials. Now wasn't the time to think about that.
Now should have been a time for mourning. Many people should have been there to say their goodbyes to Cheswick.
Instead, it was just Mark and the conductor, who Mark paid to do this. Nobody else showed. Not even Gian. That was how much his promises were worth.
Mark folded his hands before him and let the scattering conductor say his rehearsed speech, all the while thinking of the co-workers sitting in the brewery. Gian_Perfect would be there, doing little to nothing as usual. He'd rather be lazy at work than spare some of his boundless warmth with a forgettable nobody. Same with the rest of them.
Mark bet that if Gian died, he'd have a huge turnout for his scattering. His gaggle of girls and admirers would climb over one another just to be here and honor his final rest.
Gian would deserve all of it and Cheswick would get none of it.
It was too cruel. If Cheswick was watching this from beyond, he'd weep at the pathetic turnout. The fruits of a hardworking life were useless. Even all the emeralds he saved up would be stuck in his ender chest. His absence was noticed by one person. The rest went about their days unaffected.
Mark paid little attention as his brewing buddy's remains were scattered off the cliffs and into the ocean. His name would be recorded in a neat little book along with the other deceased Crafter's and then the world would move on.
It was as if he never existed.
The next day, Thursday, Mark did his morning routine like always and walked into work. Gian_Perfect was there. He at least had the decency to look apologetic after breaking his promise to show.
"Hey, my dude—"
"Mark." He corrected before Gian could mess it up. "Actually, don't call me anything. Don't even talk to me."
"I'm sorry, okay." He stepped in front and at least pretended to care. "I tried to get people to come, but nobody else would. I wanted to go, but I figured if it was just us two then Chester wouldn't—"
"His name wasn't Chester you idiot." Mark spoke harshly. "That alone shows how little you care. You're not sorry. I really thought you would show, you know? I thought you were such a bright, warm person that you wouldn't even think of breaking a promise. You get along with everyone else, but you couldn't be bothered to show up to a dead man's scattering. You even stole Cheswick's idea for the recycling bottles. Yeah, that's right, that idea was Cheswick's. You stole his idea post-mortem. Yet Mr. Brawfire only listens when it's you pitching it."
"My dude…"
"I'm not your dude." Mark hissed. "I'm a hardworking guy, just like Cheswick, and yet it's you who gets all the attention. You and your laziness. What do you even do here other than take up space and sleep with girls? Cheswick and I, we're actual assets to the brewery. Hard workers. Meanwhile, you just coast through life with everything you want because you're charismatic. It isn't right!"
At the last words, there was a palpable silence between the two. Gian's shocked expression slowly morphed into something fiercer and not at all warm. It may have been the first time Mark saw him angry.
Gian glanced left and right down the hall. Mark wondered for a second what he was looking for before a fist was buried into his stomach. Mark doubled over, curling in on himself with the wind knocked out of him.
"God you're so jealous." Gian_Perfect spoke cruelly. The sound was so unnatural that it had Mark shrinking in upon himself. "I was going to try and apologize, Matt, but you don't deserve it. You and your ego. You think all your hard work means anything? Here's a newsflash for you. Nobody cares that you work your fingers to the bone in a dead-end brewery. Nobody cares that Chester is dead or that this brewery lost a worker. They'll just hire another one just as forgettable as the last."
"You want to know what really matters in life?" Gian stooped down and grabbed Mark by the chin. "Social interactions. You get the right job by knowing the right people. Establishing connections. Networking. Rubbing shoulders with the higher-ups. Nobody gives a damn how many potions I make because I'm a sociable guy who knows who to listen to and who to ignore. You call that lazy? If I were like you, I'd have no friends and have as shitty a scattering as Chester!"
"But I'm glad this came out here." Gian shoved Mark's face away and stood up. "You're right. I'm not sorry I didn't show up to some background guy's funeral. Maybe if he was the boss' wife or an influential person's friend I would show up and offer my deepest condolences. But for Chester? He was of as little influence as I could imagine, rivaled only by you."
Mark's eyes snapped open. "You're w-wrong. I-I matter…"
Gian sneered. "You don't seem to matter enough for anybody to remember your name. I bet you live in a run-down little apartment, have zero friends, and dedicate yourself to a workaholic lifestyle like it actually matters. Hell, you have so much accumulated vacation time, the boss is begging you to get a life. But you won't. You'll die alone, have even more of a pathetic scattering than Chester, and the only thing people would notice of your absence is the empty chair right next to Chester's. That's where all your hard work will get you, loser!"
He actually spat into Mark's hair before marching down the hallway to the brewery floor, forgetting the harsh encounter and slipping back into his sunny personality. He'd forget Mark as easily as trash on the side of the road.
Mark struggled to his feet, straightening his uniform as best he could with his hands shaking. He felt a lump form in his throat as Gian's words reverberated in his head. His lower lip trembled as tears threatened to show. He wiped the spit out of his hair and rubbed his sore stomach where he'd been slugged.
He was so shaken his body went on autopilot and followed his daily routine as he stepped onto the brewery floor and took up his seat. Thursday was… was...
His hands shook atop the table as Gian's words sunk in. He and Cheswick shared a lot of similarities. Hard workers. Constantly had their names mistaken. No friends…
Mark had no real friends. He spent all his time working and only used the weekends to shop and rest. He never got out to meet people. He never did anything recreational. He hardly talked to his co-workers. He always thought working hard was the key to success and happiness, but… what was happy about the way Cheswick died?
Instead of Cheswick, Mark saw himself getting scattered. He had been there for Cheswick, but nobody would be there for Mark. If he died as pointlessly and spontaneously as Cheswick—because the lights were out—would anyone even notice. His landlord would after weeks without rent, but… that'd be it.
Mr. Brawfire wouldn't care. He didn't when Cheswick went missing. The Manager at the resort wouldn't care either. They'd just move on because Mark didn't matter. He had no connections. He was an island. Another face in the crowd.
And if he suddenly died, nobody would miss him.
Mark made the potions robotically, his mind questioning every second of why he was doing what he was doing. If his work didn't matter and didn't validate his existence…
…For what reason had he worked so hard for? He had nothing meaningful to show for it.
AN: Poor Mark. The woes of the working class.