I Am A Flyer

The Cafeteria

The cafeteria.

It was a strange place that was twice the size of the barracks. Jett stopped just inside the door, and looked around. The floor was worn, wooden planking. Twenty-foot long tables created straight lines throughout most of the room. At the moment, only one kid was there, quietly eating from a tray while staring mindlessly at nothing.

Jett looked away from the kid, and gazed at the far end, where there was a counter of sorts. Behind this counter was a bunch of huge pots and strange appliances. He stared. What were those things? Were they for making food?

"Hey, brat!" An old man was suddenly glaring at him from behind the counter. "You here to eat or what?" The white-haired man grumpily frowned, his small dark eyes peering at him critically.

"Uh...yeah?" Jett wasn't sure what to say.

"Then git your butt over here! Don't just stand in the doorway gawping like a daisy!"

A little startled, Jett took two steps forward, then grimaced. His chest and arm complained ferociously, sending droplets of blood to the floor, where they created a nice little splat. Before Jett could take another step, the old man let out an annoyed shout.

"Stop! Stop, stop, stop! What do ya think yer doing, brat? Yer getting junk all over my floor!" The old man waved his arms about with increasing grumpiness. "Just stand there while I git some bandages!" He disappeared from view, but not before muttering something about dumb brats.

Bewildered, Jett did what he was told. Gripping his torn arm tightly, he tried not to wince at the pain. Attempting to keep his mind occupied, he watched the other kid, trying to figure out who he was.

But the boy had his back to him, and all Jett could see was thick blond hair, and rather dusty clothing. As he watched, he realized that the boy ate mechanically, his shoulders moving jerkily as he lifted the fork or spoon to his mouth. Jett wondered if he had ever seen this boy before.

"All right, all right!" Exclaiming crabbily, the old man walked up to Jett, carrying a small case. "Let's get this mess cleaned up." Beady dark eyes studied Jett sharply, before the old man nodded sharply to himself.

"Take off yer shirt, brat, and be quick about it. I don't got all day." Jett nervously did as he was told, moving awkwardly and slowly. The old man waited impatiently, his foot twitching as if it itched to tap the floor.

What happened next happened so fast, Jett barely could keep up. Moving fast and efficiently, the old man wiped up all the blood roughly, using a sterile rag of sorts. Jett yelped, as the man didn't even bother to be gentle.

"Stand still, brat, or I'll leave you to bleed to death!"

Seconds later, the old man poured liquid that burned and throbbed, and made Jett want to scream. But he didn't have time to, as the old man slapped sticky patches of white material onto the ugly claw wounds. Two on his chest, and one on his arm.

Five seconds later, Jett was standing in a kind of daze, white bandaging wound around his arm and chest. The whole thing had taken no more than two minutes.

His shirt was thrown at his face. "Put it on, brat." Grumbling, the old man grabbed his case, and stalked back to the counter. Sore, Jett managed to get his mind back into gear. It had been astonishing - that old man must have to patch up a lot of people to be able to get so fast. . . His somewhat bloody shirt once more on his back, he cautiously approached the counter.

No sooner had he reached it, a metal tray was slammed on the counter's surface, startling him. A large bowl filled with steaming gray stuff was sitting on the tray, along with a spoon and a container of water. Jett leaned in to get a closer look at the tray.