A single brown eye blinked at the sun. Close-cropped blue hair stirred slightly in the light breeze that passed the outcropping where the woman sat meditating. Behind her - on the massive ledge between her and the next rise of the mountain - lay a mass of metal, rock, and wood. All of it had been salvaged from the junkyard on the other side of the mountain, and fashioned crudely into sturdy homes. She smiled wryly. He would have been stunned, if he had survived to see her move here.
She kept her back to the others as she pulled her goggles up, not wanting them to know that the special lens she claimed "protected" her left eye actually was her left eye. What had once been one natural socket now held a myriad of tiny mechanical sockets, implanted years ago to bestow her with a lame parody of the sight she'd once possessed. She didn't remember the actual moment that the injury had occured, but she remembered seeing it come down, and the other survivors said they'd thought she was already dead as she lay staring at the beam that destroyed her eye. She didn't cry when she learned her family was dead, her possessions ruined, her wealth gone. She didn't cry until she had to cut her hair, because he had always said he loved it.
"Hey. Hey, Mechanic! Soup!" That was the Old Man. She didn't know his name, and wasn't sure if he knew that hers was Mayli. She couldn't remember the last time she had told it to anyone, or heard it spoken out loud. "Mechanic!" None of the workers here used their names, anyway. It was easier just to go by title, because that was all the townfolk ever called them by. "Mechanic, are you going to eat or not?"
"Yeah, I'm eating." She stood, pulling the goggles back down, grimacing at the pressure as she plugged her fake eye back in. When the eye was in place and the other lens adjusted comfortably over her real eye, she turned her back to the sunset. The Brute was sitting at the fire, using a scoured rod of scrap metal to stir the soup bubbling in a small cauldron. The Brute was a massive black man, muscles bulging just short of being repulsive. He was probably the Old Man's son, and he did call the Old Man his father sometimes, but Mayli had never really cared enough to inquire. The Old Man played father to every orphan and runaway to join them in the junkyard-village, and in younger years had taken many women to his bed. There was no telling how many of the children here were his by birth or adoption, and most folk didn't care.
The Brute smiled at Mayli, holding out a bowl to her. "Here, Mechanic. Eat." He spoke simply, but he was in fact quite brilliant. His unprivileged upbringing had merely kept him from learning to speak like an educated man, and his powerful build and quiet mannerisms kept people from treating him like one. He made no attempt to flaunt his intelligence. His work rarely called for brain function beyond controlling the muscles he had spent years toiling to achieve. It was only in emergencies, such as when there were accidents or illnesses, that his knowledge became necessary. And then his simple way of speaking was a gift to his people, for his commands were easy to understand.
Mayli took the bowl and sat, smiling back at the Brute as she found her spoon and filled it. In some ways, the Brute reminded her of him. They both loved to read, and were so much more clever than people expected of them. Their eyes shone the same way when speaking on a subject that fascinated them. And neither of them loved anything more than to watch the sun set, with a warm meal in front of them and surrounded by their loved ones.
Maybe the Brute would help her replace him.
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