The sun, it rises slowly as you walk [Roland & Cassius]
There were days when the sun rose high over the sky and not a cloud could be seen. Where the sky was a seemingly endless blue and the world appeared to be brighter. Everything could be seen a little clearer and most would take the chance to appreciate such a bright and sun filled day. To Cassius it was a minor omen. For him those days weren't marked with personal tragedy or a trauma he was unable to shake from his infancy. No evil memory bubbled to the surface from the lack of misshapen clouds. No ill sense of dread from experiences past rose to meet him as he looked out at the clear blue sky. It was simply an omen, a minor omen, because Cassius firmly believed that on days that were seen as horrid, dreadful or simply unlivable there was a silver lining. Wedged in-between the pain and the bothersome memories of a tiring day. The reverse was true. Somewhere during this day something would happen and he wouldn't like it.
It wasn't a deterrent from his current activity--grinding a bit of texture into a new creation. Commissioned by some haughty old woman in Artemis Hills, who simply had to have a piece among the hedges of her monstrous garden. In truth, she appreciated the vision of Cassius himself sitting at her garden, watching it intently for a good place to settle his yet-to-be-shaped creation. He didn't mind. Her monetary payment would keep him fed for months. It was a small price to pay--standing there, staring intently at his surroundings as the woman and her friends tittered slightly.
So he sat on a short stool with adjustable legs, bent over the upward curve of the sculpture. It was a flare, really. He had no name for it yet and using the number of the order seemed a little too business-like to him. She was willing to pay him for something. He had to ensure some emotion was in there. The creation started as one pole. Bent slightly. Tilted. Straight enough that it would cause a person to stop and stare at it--try and decipher just how off it was. Jon stripped a few old Toyotas that had been transferred to his ownership and had his boys drag pieces to the small corner of the lot, an old hanger, where Cassius spent most of his time working. The pieces were peeled and painted over, each piece a thick and suffocating black. Onyx. They were bent and shaped before they were painted though, twisted around the pole as if it were pierce the base of the sculpture. As if it pierced the base and released black tendrils into the sky.
Now he was adding more curves, right over the coat of painting to add minor imperfections to his work. His googles dug into the skin around his eyes and his back complained lightly with a twitch or two--being bent over for more than two hours wasn't a particularly intelligent move on his part. He used the grinder to smooth over sections and create deeper etchings into the twisted sections of metal and his work had gone on perfectly. Without any interruption. Everything was slowly coming together, the feeling thought behind the work bleeding out through his hands--metaphorically--and channeled through his tools.
Good concentration. Great focus.
He pulled back, surveyed his work with the same stoic expression that graced his face whenever Jon forced him to be a quote, unquote, functioning member of society. Cassius stood, his arms gleaming with sweat from the heat within the hanger and his white undershirt smudged with the proof of his labor, and then walked around the statue for a moment before leaning up to smooth out another section.
Then the concentration was broken.
Then there was a clatter. Small. Then the echoing bang of old license plates clanging onto the ground of the workshop.
He removed his gloves, the scowl on his face deepening for a moment before he spoke, "What do you want?"
