#blu-babes

It was evening, the first he would be spending at this new base.  He’d been moved around so many times in the past years he was used to the lost, unfamiliar feeling of exploring a new place, seeing new faces.  At least everyone used more or less the same gear, weapons, clothing, and other superficial details as in other bases.  The atmosphere was definitely BLU; lots of straight lines and angles, subtle blue and silver hues dominating the space.  He’d been given some time off to adjust and get moved in, but tomorrow he was expected to join his new team in battle.  

He was glad to start over and leave the drama of the past behind him, but it was always lonely at first, not knowing anyone, not knowing who to trust.  He strayed away from the mess hall or anywhere else he could see people about and just wandered the base aimlessly.  Going down one hallway he peered into the rooms until he found one too irresistible to pass up a closer inspection.  The smell of industrial grease and oil was like a siren call to him, suggesting something interesting waiting for him.  At first he was cautious walking in there, ready to leave if he heard anyone, but he was soon drawn to the work bench.  To a layman’s eyes, it would seem like a mess of metal parts and oily rags, but to Cameron it begged to analyzed.  

Since it was no longer his preferable balmy hot outside, the sun tanned Aussie engineer had finally given into the need of wearing more than he usually did; a warm thermal long sleeve blue pull over, his usual half hanging off overall’s and heavy work boots, and now a fleece line jacket were what covered him. Though just looking at the man one would think he would be at home with the way his white washed blonde curls and icy blue eyes mixed perfectly with the snow capped earth that was now their base.

 Having managed to actually get some sleep in his own bed that night, Levi was now marching his way toward his shared work barn with the tiny black beast of a pug trotting half frozen at his feet. It didn’t take but a second for the barns door to slide open just enough, before Gizmo went hurtling like a grunting bullet toward her cozy fleece lined bed perfectly set beside the hot and roaring iron stove-fire place he had put into the barn himself. That and the amused stormy chuckle that followed gave any clue that they were there to the other engineer that may or may not have been in the barn that morning; Levi having gathered early on the woman didn’t care much for talking to him, though it honestly didn’t bother him. Having earned himself a nickname of “mute” in his family, not talking suited him just fine. He was more than able to convey a lot more of what he thought or felt with simply a look or with how he held himself, enough so that he was certain they could communicate just fine; though if he was being honest, he enjoyed being able to simply watch her and enjoy her company without too many words getting in the way. 

The letter arrived with a return address at an unmarked P O Box. Alexis opened it with a dawning sense of dread. Had they found a way through the company? Had he been given up?

Tutti quelli che volevano trovarti ora se ne sono andati. Nessuno ha pensato che lo avresti tenuto lì così a lungo. Devo dire che siamo impressionati. Abbiamo sprecato più risorse per te che sarebbe valsa la pena trovarti. Esci e vivi la tua vita e non sentirai più parlare di noi. Sei libero. L'hai guadagnato, Renny.

He read it a third time. A tenth. He recognized the handwriting.

Libero. Free. He’d outrun them long enough.

Alexis Langlais retired from Builder’s League United after a storied 20-year history, saluted on his way out by even the Soldiers. The man made his way to Boston, looking to meet up with some old friends before finding his next path in life.

He was shoved onto subway tracks by a football player trying to hit on someone and backing up, and run over by the incoming train. He died instantly, and his corpse was fried by the third rail until there was almost nothing left to identify him but his effects, including the strange sticks of powdered coffee in a cigarette case.

Quinton, Oklahoma. Years later.

The tinkling of a shopkeeper’s bell as a young woman walks inside the quaint little story, smiling. She walks past the table where three older ladies sit with their complementary cups of tea, hushedly giggling. “Morning, Winny!”

A man in a simple purple apron leans against the wall, his curly hair tied up in a ponytail behind him. Threads of white and grey throughout it give a look of calm age. It went white rather fast - in fact, people who knew him said he seemed to age a decade and a half in a year, and then slow down, as if the world was making up for long time. He smiles softly, setting down the knitting needles in his hand. Soft clinking of boots as he walks to the counter.“Morning, Sarah.” His voice was soft, and a little high, but still clear as day. Not quite the local accent - he hadn’t been born here - but close enough that anyone traveling through couldn’t tell the difference. “Here to pick up the scarves for the boys?”

He knows. He always seems to know what someone needs when they come into his shop - a scarf, a sweater, a hat, a fixed hemline, a dress taken in. Even things they didn’t have to buy, too. Someone to rant at. A cup of tea. A shoulder to cry on. A good-natured joking threat against who’d hurt them.No one took those seriously. He was an old man, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

That night, some of the locals at the Rusty Rooster gather near the side of the stage. It’s Thursday, which means no guest artist. Just Winny.Some nights, it’s his guitar. Some nights, it’s his fiddle. Some nights, it’s his voice. Some nights, it’s all three, or two of them.They love when Winny comes to play, even when he makes them cry. It’s always the kind of cry that comes from deep within, and makes you feel a little better when it’s all over.

He’s an odd little fixture of their town. Came down the road one day, looking for a drink and a bite and a For Sale sign. An old wanderer, he called himself, who’d seen a lot and was looking to see the same thing for more than two nights in a row. The Bartons down on Carter Way had just moved up north, someone said, and their house was always a little small for two.Well now, he said, buying that man a drink for telling him. I’m a little small for two myself.

The little store wasn’t going to make it, everyone said, shaking their head. Everyone could make their own stuff if they wanted it handmade, and machines could knit nowadays, could sew nowadays.But there was something about Yarns and Threads that drew people in. Maybe it was the calm atmosphere, the soft colors. Maybe it was getting to watch him work on orders right in front of you, hear the clacking of needles and the soft music. Maybe it was the conversation, or the damn good tea he could make.Yarns and Threads kept up enough business to keep itself alive. And he didn’t need to live off it, exactly - always seemed to be more money in the bank when he needed it.

There’s always rumors about who that man was before he came in. Some say he must have been a soldier, from the way his bright blue eyes with their flecks of grey would gaze off into the distant on hard nights. Some say he’s some foreign noble’s son, with that sweet singing voice and those perfect manners to guests. Some say he’s an old mechanic who wanted some fresh air, with those careful fingers and his ability to keep up with tech despite his age. Some even say he’s a gymnast, maybe even one of those big ones from Cirque du Soleil or something, who got old and couldn’t quite keep up anymore, judging by how fast he can seem to move when you aren’t looking.