The struggle to overcome his fascination hits him like a shot to the gut. The abdominal mod he desperately desires right there on display, discounted price; today only. Njull-Ix shakes his head, spits aggressively toward the ground.
By the time I’m done at the Mines that’ll be over. Fuck it, can’t afford anything if I get tossed.
If I don’t work in shitsville, I’ll have to live in shitsville.
He walks briskly, high strung steps gain momentum with tense arms swaying as he picks up speed. Self-consciousness slows him down allowing neon signage to catch his eye.
'M-Train: Right'
Almost overshot the runway.
He pivots right and keeps up the brisk steps, determined to catch the first trip out. The sky-like ceilings and spacious area of The Dome begins to narrow in transition;
The hall fills with a low, hollow rumble he recognizes as the diesel generator used by the hang-out artists keeping post around the corner. Black primer and faded orange peek into his vision; the body of a 1970’s muscle car, one of many. Miscellaneous machines stand monument to a dark lair’s gateway. Citizens call it U-town; a place few of them would venture. To others, it’s home.
Home they call 'Untrodden.'
A group of it’s residents lounge on antique tanks turned makeshift furniture. World War II era; Russian T-34’s. Not too rusted, some complete, others tilted; their vicinity ornated by various components splayed about like spilt machine guts. A ghostly mausoleum to a deserted wrecking yard; stripped of original purpose, ordained by fate to stand border between one world and the next.
An orchestra of clicks ring out from frenzied typing. In crescendo sharp sounds of abused plastic blend with muted pecks of jammed space-bars.
Old klunkers; those weirdoes always use that scrap. Junk! Some of them as old as 1990s. For what!?
Nine men look up from their dutiful typing. Straight-faces. Straight at Njull-Ix. He shivers, brushed by the notion that they heard his thoughts. Unconcerned, the tribe of heads point back to their screens.
One man stands heads taller than the rest. His imposing figure leans broad shoulders against the wall; denimed legs kicked out, right foot crossed over the left, muscled arms obey the pose. Attitude bleeds a gory mural on a human canvas.
Njull-ix has seen that chilling visage often;
The heavy brow casts shadows above deep sockets; encased are narrow, elipsed eyes altered to an unnatural blue, only thin jade rings to reveal pupils. Patchwork tattoos wrapped around sinuous arms cohere those lining the side of a shaved head; old school black ink and shading; bland if not given dimension by outlines of jagged scarring; raised up by greyscale metallurgic injections.
Crimson scars rouse from his right temple; unruly vines which slide into a curve toward the forehead’s center before they climb over the brow’s arch. The scars break to jump into the ocean blue, morphing into a subtle white flash that floats within his eye; streams of sliced flesh leak across the gaunt skin of rugged cheek bone, winding down to the face’s center where it splits like three roots of a tree; roots that tease the lip’s bow only to burrow under sharp-edged jawline, growing down neck to bloom onto naked torso that’s slashed-up as a machete-cleared jungle.
Njull-ix's eyes meet the cold-blooded stare. He can’t look away from the violent facial mosaic; blood-injected, the scars pulse in steady rhythm to the beat of a primal heart.
The moment’s shared with a snarled grin. Fast as a snake strikes, the accented voice shouts:
“Hey Robota, ty rabotyad za bots or they rabotyad for you? Or you not have bots to play with? What do the other tinkel boys call you then?”
Speaking that ugly anglo-slavonic mash-up, like the entire Metro understands it; arrogant fuckers. Bullshit around all day.
Njull-Ix’s brow furrows; muscles stack with tension while denial of his fear grows.
“Schtoh? Snake forked your tongue? Or the bots done it?” A reptilian tongue escapes from its grinning den with playful mockery.
I don’t have time for this. Gotta get that train; he knows, he’s trying to distract me and fuck up my day. I’ll look like a pussy if I don’t say something.
“Enjoy your hissy fit”
“Sssssss hissy fit. Reeeal good one, Robota”
"Volya!" a tank-sitter calls to Njull-Ix’s distractor while pointing to a laptop screen.
"Smotri tutaj!"
“Later, I'll look” he responds, as his scribed and slashed arms reach to pull a furred collar over his herculean skull. Njull-Ix freezes; entranced by the head of a wolf pelt turned hood to the denim vest. More than a mask it is man’s second face; a beast loyal to watching it’s master’s back, fangs forever poised in growl to keep six.
Beneath the pelt-denim line lives a proud declaration in black and gold font:
Toкcika’vyera
“Davai!’ the voice shouts to match the curt gesture of his muscled arm.
A wave of relief rushes Njull-Ix’s veins. Still he stares as the crew gathers their laptops in unison to follow after the one they call Volya. The Toкcika’vyera gallop into the cavernous road to Untrodden and fade away into its darkness. Njull-Ix is left staring at the green drops of fluid dripping from the underworld’s archway. He frowns, experiencing a pain he doesn’t recognize as envy. Averting his eyes away from the mechanical cemetery he continues his trip to work.
