"Let them understand: salvation has a cost, and I paid it in full." - Unknown Archive Entry 41881
Cassian woke up to the smell of trash, unwashed bodies, and alcohol hanging stagnant in the air. Water dripped down off the drainpipe onto the faded blue tarps stretched over his head. He rolled over, his arm flopping on the hard wooden pallet beneath him, the only thing separating his frame from the cold, wet concrete below. He pushed off the thin, ratty piece of cloth that he used as an extra blanket over his clothes. Cassian looked towards the corner of his shelter and saw the empty pallet where his father should be sleeping and sighed.
He's probably searching for his dignity at the bottom of a beer can. Or shooting his veins full of 'dream juice' right about now.
Rising to his feet, his boots already on hs feet to avoid having them stolen in his sleep, he walked to the flaps of the makeshift shelter. Outside, the red sun was just barely poking over the horizon its light bouncing off the occasional piece of exposed rebar that isn't yet rusted, painting the crumbling concrete a pale red rather than its usual lifeless grey. Cassian peered down the street and seeing that the meal station had already opened, the light above the door was still green, indicating that it is still stocked for the moment. He glanced down at the thin black bracelet on his wrist; the small screen on it flashing that there are only fifty credits remaining. Just enough for a few more days of food for my father and me if I ration well, since all of his money goes down the drain on stupid fucking alcohol and tramadol.
Cassian trudges down the cold, windswept street, looking down at the cracked concrete road that makes up the lower meridian. The wind waves his frayed gray jacket, making little ripples in the worn fabric. A small line had formed by the time he had reached the entrance to the meal station.
What an uplifting sight. They all look almost dead.
He got in line waiting behiend the rest of the starving populace of the Lower Meridian. Once he gets to the front of the line Cassian holds up his bracelet to the scanner. It chimes once, low credits warning, and the vending hatch unlocks with a dull clunk. Out slide two vacuum-sealed protein cakes and a dented can of water.
Not much. But it'll do.
He stuffed the food into his coat pockets and turned back toward the slums, weaving through half-awake crowds and rusted-out scaffolding. The bar wasn't far; it always opened before the factories. Priorities you know.
Cassian strode down the desolate streets munching on one of the protein cakes before shoving the empty plastic packaging into his pocket, cracking the seal on the can of water and taking a swig of the cool liquid. The grey world around him bleeding together into one smooth scene. Along the sides of the streets makeshift tents house the poorest residents of the lower meridian, those who are so poor they can barely afford food. Above, on the tops of the buildings, on the glowing, flickering screens of the billboards, are smiling faces of people who have made it onto the "wall of virtue" and moved up to the middle meridian. Under the faces flash the words "Work, Rise, and Prosper". "Rise and Prosper? More like rise and smell the poverty," Cassian muttered under his breath.
The bar door groaned, the metal scraping together, as Cassian shoved the metal panel open. Warm, stale air hit him like a slap — beer, sweat, and rot. Sitting there, like always, slouched over the counter, hand wrapped around a glass, Cassian's father looked down at the bottom of his empty mug. His other arm dangled limply at his side, his eyes half-lidded and vacant. Cassian unceremoniously dropped a protein cake on the bar next to him. "Eat. You've got work."
He didn't even blink.
"I said, eat." Cassian's voice was sharp like a whip crack. His father flinched slightly, blinking slowly.
"Who're you? Didn't ask for ya charity," he mumbled, his words slurring together.
"Not charity," Cassian retorted "Just trying to make sure you don't get fired again."
A man two stools down chuckles. His face shadowed, wearing a surprisingly nice suit jacket; however, it's stained with grease, and the ends of the sleeves are fraying slightly. His fingers trembling around a half-full glass. "You're wasting breath, kid," he rasps without looking at Cassian. "Some people ain't built for the grind."
Cassian glanced over, eyeing him up and down, and snapped back, "And what are you built for? Drinking until your liver finally gives up on you like your wife probably did?"
He cackled and grinned at Cassian. "I'm built for hiding! I'm very good at hide-and-seek, I tell ya!"
Cassian's father muttered something under his breath, then grabbed the cake and tore into it with a robotic lack of interest. The drunk turned slightly, his demeanor having dulled. Just enough for Cassian to catch part of his face, which is gaunt under the grime. His features were sharp and refined, and his hair was a faded raven black, matching his eyes. His eyes were dark and dull, but something flickered behind them. Guilt, and maybe fear. "You ever wonder," he murmured, almost too low to hear, "why all the brave ones end up dead?"
Cassian didn't answer, instead turning back towards his wasted father.
"Good," he says to himself. "Smart kid."
Cassian tugged on his father's shoulder. "Come on. You're late."
He slapped Cassian's hand away and grumbled something incoherent. Cassian grabs his father's arm and roughly yanks him up to his feet. He stood there, his legs wobbling but upright. That's enough to get him walking in the right direction at least. Cassian guided him toward the door, once again pushing the metal door open with the groan of metal on metal, the drunk's empty yet sharp eyes boring into their backs as they left.