Cannon Omake: Stealing Fire
- Pronouns
- he/him
Patricia Thurman groaned, her face in her hands as she looked at the yellow papers full of numbers and badly spelt requisition orders splayed across her desk. Christ, building tunnels into the side of a mountain shouldn't be this god damn hard! She shuddered as she remembered the sound of rumbles and screams because some jackass didn't nail in a log right. At least it didn't actually collapse. Why'd she even take this job? She was just a fucking manager at Walmart before all this shit went down, but one mention that she missed Minecraft and loved listening to her uncle's stories about coal mining in the Appalachians and she gets sat in a rickety shack in the mountains!
That's not what she fucking meant!
At least now they're getting actual lumber instead of having to chop down those shitty, crooked pine trees. Actual straight wood has helped those struts. And tools. Actual iron tools also help.
What doesn't help are her stupid fucking workers! Sure, Lewis is great, if he wasn't there the mine would be so much rock and piles of rubble instead of a shaft, and they are pulling out the shitty brown rock by the pound, but they need tons! But every day she hears about some fucking Nikos trying to light a torch with flint and steel in a god damn coal mine or something equally stupid. Well, they aren't doing that anymore, they had to stop for a week when she'd heard about that to yell some fucking sense into their thick, primitive skulls. At least that was cathartic.
They needed tracks for minecarts, they needed more food, they needed some way to light the goddamn tunnel that wasn't fire! For now they'd made little enclosed lanterns out of paper and reeds that worked off of oil, but those needed frequent refilling and re-wicking, and they gave off a pitiful amount of light. Fucking Christ, they needed more of everything. They even need more air! How do you ventilate a shaft with bronze-age tech? Who knows! Certainly not her! But the fact that she even knows they need that is better than anybody else.
Patricia once again misses her Uncle Patrick, if he was here he'd be doing a better job, most certainly. And maybe those miners would take an eighty-year-old man yelling at them for rank incompetence better than a thirty-something woman.
Antipatros swung his pick again, a sharp crack followed by a fist-sized chunk of rock chipping off the tunnel wall, making this hole into the underworld that tiny bit deeper. His eyes strained to follow it in the flickering lantern light. Bend down, pick it up, throw it in the cart, start swinging again.
Chip, chunk, pick, throw, swing, chip, chunk, pick, throw, swing. There was a comforting rhythm to the work even as he fucking despised it. The only reason he was here is because he hated farming even more. The constant maintenance, the shit, the worry that your harvest will fail by Persephone's whims, at least here in the comforting embrace of the Earthshaker he knows he'll only die if he disrespects the King of the Gods. Leave the plowing to his brother.
It was akin to ritual, the American's knowledge, wooden gates to hold up the earth, like Atlas the sky. Never leave an uncovered flame, or the Gods would be angered, taunted by Man taking Prometheus' gift into their domain. Beware your breath, because the closer you are to the underworld the easier it is to take your soul. They had captured tiny birds and placed them in cages, their souls taken easier still, to serve as a warning that they had gone too deep.
It was dangerous and hard work, invading the Gods' domain, but Antipatros knew that taking their bounty was key for Man to rise above his wretched state. Prometheus gave them fire, and thus civilization, but now man will take their own and rise to those mythical heights he'd heard of in the American's old city. Towers of iron and glass! Fueled by the very rocks he was digging for.
Man may be but ants before the Gods, but even ants may make great and wondrous works. He'd heard of the ancient pyramids of Aegyptus, made through slave labor and their gods' will, but his Gods do not care for any but their own domains and their capricious whims.
It takes a hero to stand up to the Gods themselves. He himself may be no hero, but he viewed his work as heroic. Braving the depths of the world with his band beside him, no one of them is a hero, but all together they will build something greater than themselves.
Antipatros and his people will rebuild the American's lost world for their own, and make it better. It is like their great philosophers said, "The people will prevail." Their wonders will not be for dead wanaxes or monuments of power, but a great and awesome city, where people may live freely, uncaring of even the whims of the Gods.
There won't be one great hero, but many small ones. And what they build will make the powerful tremble.
That's not what she fucking meant!
At least now they're getting actual lumber instead of having to chop down those shitty, crooked pine trees. Actual straight wood has helped those struts. And tools. Actual iron tools also help.
What doesn't help are her stupid fucking workers! Sure, Lewis is great, if he wasn't there the mine would be so much rock and piles of rubble instead of a shaft, and they are pulling out the shitty brown rock by the pound, but they need tons! But every day she hears about some fucking Nikos trying to light a torch with flint and steel in a god damn coal mine or something equally stupid. Well, they aren't doing that anymore, they had to stop for a week when she'd heard about that to yell some fucking sense into their thick, primitive skulls. At least that was cathartic.
They needed tracks for minecarts, they needed more food, they needed some way to light the goddamn tunnel that wasn't fire! For now they'd made little enclosed lanterns out of paper and reeds that worked off of oil, but those needed frequent refilling and re-wicking, and they gave off a pitiful amount of light. Fucking Christ, they needed more of everything. They even need more air! How do you ventilate a shaft with bronze-age tech? Who knows! Certainly not her! But the fact that she even knows they need that is better than anybody else.
Patricia once again misses her Uncle Patrick, if he was here he'd be doing a better job, most certainly. And maybe those miners would take an eighty-year-old man yelling at them for rank incompetence better than a thirty-something woman.
Antipatros swung his pick again, a sharp crack followed by a fist-sized chunk of rock chipping off the tunnel wall, making this hole into the underworld that tiny bit deeper. His eyes strained to follow it in the flickering lantern light. Bend down, pick it up, throw it in the cart, start swinging again.
Chip, chunk, pick, throw, swing, chip, chunk, pick, throw, swing. There was a comforting rhythm to the work even as he fucking despised it. The only reason he was here is because he hated farming even more. The constant maintenance, the shit, the worry that your harvest will fail by Persephone's whims, at least here in the comforting embrace of the Earthshaker he knows he'll only die if he disrespects the King of the Gods. Leave the plowing to his brother.
It was akin to ritual, the American's knowledge, wooden gates to hold up the earth, like Atlas the sky. Never leave an uncovered flame, or the Gods would be angered, taunted by Man taking Prometheus' gift into their domain. Beware your breath, because the closer you are to the underworld the easier it is to take your soul. They had captured tiny birds and placed them in cages, their souls taken easier still, to serve as a warning that they had gone too deep.
It was dangerous and hard work, invading the Gods' domain, but Antipatros knew that taking their bounty was key for Man to rise above his wretched state. Prometheus gave them fire, and thus civilization, but now man will take their own and rise to those mythical heights he'd heard of in the American's old city. Towers of iron and glass! Fueled by the very rocks he was digging for.
Man may be but ants before the Gods, but even ants may make great and wondrous works. He'd heard of the ancient pyramids of Aegyptus, made through slave labor and their gods' will, but his Gods do not care for any but their own domains and their capricious whims.
It takes a hero to stand up to the Gods themselves. He himself may be no hero, but he viewed his work as heroic. Braving the depths of the world with his band beside him, no one of them is a hero, but all together they will build something greater than themselves.
Antipatros and his people will rebuild the American's lost world for their own, and make it better. It is like their great philosophers said, "The people will prevail." Their wonders will not be for dead wanaxes or monuments of power, but a great and awesome city, where people may live freely, uncaring of even the whims of the Gods.
There won't be one great hero, but many small ones. And what they build will make the powerful tremble.