Rusted Fates: ACT 1

Chapter 1: Ambition

Thud.

The log fell, as did many others. It did not attempt to resist its displacement - only collapsing on the ground, its final thud unheard. The victor did not acknowledge, instead simply moving on to the next tree. He had neither time nor desire to lament its loss; it was his profession, his continued existence depending on their harvesting.

His hand swayed in concordance with his motion, dazedly attempting to follow suit. It held the axe loosely, yet the latter refused to yield and fall out. Quite frankly, it bore no resemblance to one of those his age, instead being a fleshy machine whose abrasions counted more than he had years in age. Pale, same as the rest of him, it was petite yet potent. The same applied to the other: they sought no attention, only mutual respect. Fail to reciprocate, and the result would be undesirable.

"Henrik! Move fast, тупица!"

Shaking out of his stupor, Henrik turned back.

"Why the rush?"

"Boss wants wood by noon, and it's half past eleven!"

Sighing, he slung his axe across his shoulder, letting someone else pick the log he had just chopped. Despite the usually-voiced annoyance of his coworkers, he was indifferent: as far as he was concerned, his job was to log trees, not collect and load them. Regardless, what would they do, fire him? - he had struck enough alliances to sustain himself, even without a job. The farmer, the blacksmith, the tailor: even if he needed something else, he could usually procure it himself.

He dawdled back to the truck, much to the driver's chagrin.

"Any slower than that, and I'll run you over so you don't have to walk. Now, get in."

Henrik complied, mutely climbing on the passenger's seat, his axe cradled on his lap. He had an inexplicable preference for it, maintaining it years after the handle started cracking. It wasn't valuable: a simple cast iron head atop an oaken handle, wrapped in cloth at the bottom. Yet he cared for it as his 'child', even cradling it during hardship. It was a keepsake of his father - the only thing keeping his existence from drifting to oblivion, forgotten. Unlike most keepsakes, he used it as frequently, attempting to keep his spirit alive each day. Additionally, he could scorn him, wearing away his only remaining possession until it was useless.

Henrik's father was a mixed character: although frequently absent or unaffectionate, he taught Henrik how to thrive on his own, being able to disconnect from civilisation if required. He both disliked and thanked his father, a cold yet instrumental guide to traversing life confidently on his own two feet. Consequently, Henrik only kept what had utility - he burnt all their photos, but old clothing and other items with utility remained. Despite their age, their lifespan was not over; no, they went into the bin solely when mere fragments were left that were irreparable.

His eyes refocused on the road ahead as the driver whistled a tune, ostensibly calm after his previous outburst. Somehow stable, the truck jittered along its path as Henrik steadied his breathing. The air was thin, given their altitude, and panting would only worsen things. If anything, gasping for air would leave him light-headed, and the truck's doors weren't secure by any means; a modest nudge and they'd open themselves, leaving the passenger to the mercy of the loose seatbelt. Fortunately, he managed to retain his composure.

"Ye know, with that attitude of yours, there is big chance Boss will fire you. Jobs are hard to find, too."