New To Beven

Chapter 5

Another day, another hauler. A slight breeze herded clouds into groups, dappling my work with nuisance shadows. The dry air smelled sage-y, and tasted dusty; grit scoured my teeth during a lengthy grimace. Damn, we could use another downpour.

I'd dismissed the bird killer to the launder dome where he could dump the filthy cloaks, to be addressed at a later date, and strongly encouraged him to take the hazard suit through a hard decontamination. And it wouldn't hurt for him to decontaminate as well. Finally, I was given the opportunity to dive into a complete rebuild of some random hauler without interruption from one over-attentive assistant. Per Ric's order, Dan had to report for a cat nap.

The extensive physical labor necessary for machinery repair allowed time to loosen the super stressed out bolts in my head, figuratively speaking of course. No cyborgs here, not yet anyway. But those figurative bolts were way tighter than usual today. Thanks to the team leaders who had placed my brother smack dab in community affairs. I preferred us keeping to the sidelines. Why did my brother have to go and get wrapped up in the issue?

Before I could get very far in my work, since I'd forgotten my tools, I had to stomp into the home  dome and snatch up my trusty multi-pocketed belt, heavy with wrenches and the like. Of course there was Ghost Face in his lab coat, planted on his stool, said face eerily illuminated, and reconstructing Dan's cloak.

"Do you really think you can domesticate those feral felines?" I snapped.

He shrugged but lifted his head and stared, blue eyes wide. "Wouldn't you want me to try?"

I sighed. The vulnerability in my baby brother's gaze snagged at the heart. "If anyone can, it's you."

A brief grin and then he dropped his head back to the work table. "Thanks, sis."

With a shake of my head, I flipped up my hood, and didn't storm off as much as I'd originally planned, toward the nearest hauler.

Nate was always trying to cool off situations. I had no idea where he got this habit. Maybe someone in his family had a bit of a temper.

"High and mighty Sorter!" I slammed down hard on the long, metal breaker bar, trying to bust a nut loose but busting my knuckles instead. They'd banged the track's shield, so I took a boot to the thing.

Then my swearing got real colorful.

"How about I take a turn?" Dan suggested, apparently at hand yet again.

"I got it!" Maybe I shouted. After all, it was his fault I jumped, a little.

"Didn't I see your ten mil on the other side of the hauler?"

"You didn't." I glared. He had to be bored, or an insufferable insomniac, and wanted to screw with me. The beloved and constantly necessary ten millimeter socket was right in my pocket, kept close at all times, until I dug around and came up empty. Damn thing had legs. After one last glare, I stomped off, rounding the crawler. (On days like these, I get a fresh reminder my feet, and joints, could use new boots. How on Beven do they lose cushion so fast?)

When I came back, palming the tool, he was kneeling in front of the stubborn bolt and cranking the bar, hard, noticeable arm muscles bunching. I crossed my arms in smug satisfaction, waiting for him to round the head. But the damn nut turned, traitorous hardware.

He stepped away and with one gesture, offered my spot back.

I muttered something less than gratitude and proceeded with the final checks, cold metal very familiar in my grip. I tried to ignore the citrus and cedar scent he'd left behind, that had infiltrated my nostrils when they flared in annoyance. I did not succeed, breathing in deep instead.