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<span>Spoiler: <span class="bbCodeSpoiler-button-title">Castor</span></span>
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</div><br/>Castor's life had been a peaceful one, almost uneventful. At least as far back as he could remember. The colony was quiet, most people socialized in a very basic sort of way and had no resentment about returning to the organized grid of housing that was provided to all clones. Well, that's likely because the society that was established on that outpost was really in it's own vacuum. Save for a handful of people responsible for running the operations, it was a tightly lipped secret that all of the population were clones. Why? Because even though there'd be assurances that the AN-9 model of bio-labor was genetically engineered to essentially have no sentient thought and lack all independent reasoning. They didn't want to give the populace any fuel to think outside of their duties. It was sold, quite simply as; you come to work to pay for your housing, food, and entertainment.<br/><br/>The society was self-dependent in that it had a whole horticultural program that helped cultivate the planet to grow flora and fauna that was safe for humans and edible for consumption. So while a vast majority of the goods were shipped off for profit, some was maintained to be a part of what was essentially an open almost communist like approach to how the colony self-sustained. None of the data-servers they were connected to as clones had anything beyond the intranet. So it was impossible for them to consume content, be it news, media or anything that wasn't strictly filtered to be shared with the populace of clones. Most of them wouldn't have been interested in it anyhow, but even the guards. Grays or Humans, were forced to leave all personal items that could establish a connection to the outside world in a secure room. They were allowed to pick up their belongings when their shift ended.<br/><br/>He'd done an admiral job of masking his own independent thought, because it seemed like every time he was out spoken he got the oddest chastisement from the security or what he perceived to be the person in charge. After that they'd watch him for days, sometimes weeks, as if waiting for him to step out of line. It was clear that the people in charge didn't do their part in reporting his behavior. It was likely if they were less concerned with profit and more concerned with stability. They'd have noticed that Castor had cognitive thought. He was helping load a cargo ship, one bound for one of the main hub cities that did a tremendous amount of import/export with Darkstar and Spire. That's when something in him just snapped, he'd looked down at the clothing he was wearing. That desperate need for independence and creativity in all humans bubbled up stronger than it'd ever been in the past. It was an introspective moment for him.<br/><br/><i>'If I don't like what I'm doing or why I'm here.. why don't I just leave?'<br/>
</i><br/>That's when he sprung into action. Every shipping crate had a digital manifest logging device on it's side. He knew that this was the location where they logged the contents of the crate. That'd indicate how it was stored and what level of care was applied to it. Things like industrial goods tended to get stored outside, exposed to the elements and or the sun with little care. The packaging itself was often water and dust proof so the conditions of said packaging was rough. Yet, things like livestock or plants were often given an oxygen rich trip in climate controlled conditions. So Castor's fingers quickly hovered over the keypad so that it'd illuminate and it's manifest was brought to life. Fingers worked furiously, despite his overall posture remaining cool and collected in appearance. He was re-keying the crates contents to include live seedlings and small to moderate sized livestock. He figured, well, he hoped, that the scanners which checked for bio-presence wouldn't flag when they were pulled into port.<br/><br/>A bead of sweat had appeared on his brow, chestnut hair beginning to dampen, not from his work conditions but his own nerves causing him to perspire. "F-fuck it." He said aloud, that final boost of confidence. The affirmation that no matter the consequences he wasn't going to stay here and play puppet for these bastards anymore. There had to be something else out there for him, right? He'd even settle for working in a colony of this kind somewhere else if that's all there was to life. Anything other than waking up in the same house, to the same boring existence, that people made you feel like some kind of sociopath for thinking differently. He exhaled in a slow breath as his fingers struck the keypad to close the crate. Immediately hopping onto the platform that'd fold in itself in just a few short seconds.<br/><br/>The movement of the sealing of the crate was intentionally slow, meant to be a safety precaution. As he walked towards the back of the crate, trying to quite literally avoid the light. He thought to himself, how silly this decision was, how much he was risking. How long would this crate remain in transport? How long would he have to go without water? He shook his head, teeth gnashing into his lower lip as he considered the risks that didn't occur to him seconds earlier. Eyes started scanning the walls of the crate, some of them were advanced, they had an internal panel for safety purposes. This wasn't one. It did however have an access patch that presumably had the wiring that fed the external display. He breathed a sigh of relief, if push came to shove he felt he could short-circuit it to open itself. Whether or not that'd give him away? Well, probably, but he'd deal with that if it came to it.<br/><br/>Masculine hands drifted across his clothing, the form fitting and athletic fiber outfit that was meant to sweat wick and provide insulation both cool or heat depending on the external elements. Thankfully, they outfitted him with good clothing. There really wasn't much space in any of these crates. He had to quite literally swing his hips sideways and shuffle through some large items to find the most open space. Thankfully, the items were strapped down on the side to stop them from sliding during transit. The various crates were non-descript and mostly a thick composite plastic on the outside that was black from the ultra-violet coating they were covered in. He sank to his rear end in that open space, the hard floor pressed to his ass. He drew his knees up partially and leaned his back forward to drape his arms over them. Hanging his head, not in sorrow or sadness. Just relief.<br/><br/><i>'I'm.. going to get out of here, it's going to work.'</i>The thoughts echoing in his mind on repeat, and despite no one being there to see it. The faintest hint of a smile crept onto his face.<br/><br/>----<br/><br/>Two weeks later.<br/><br/>The world was amazing, but it certainly wasn't as easy as it had been at the colony. He quickly learned that shedding his clothing from the colony was absolutely necessary. People kept asking him where he was from, if he worked at one of the colonies. Castor wasn't really proud of it, he'd never stolen anything in his life. Yet, before he'd left the area around the docks. He'd pried into someone's locker by cracking the panel and forcing the lock to open. He was exceedingly inclined mechanically in most things, it was part of his training. Where he'd learned it? He couldn't tell you, he felt he'd always known it. It left him in some casual wear for that area of the city. It wasn't particularly expensive and it's neutral colors actually allowed him to blend into a crowd rather easily. As he left the locker room he'd looked at himself in the mirror. Freshly showered from the public facility that seemed to be built for dock workers, but he saw the prickly brown hairs that'd grown into smooth moderately long strands over the past two weeks. He'd never had a beard before. "Wow.." He said aloud. He didn't have the time or inclination to search for a razor though as he heard other men approaching the opposite entrance/exit of the locker room. He exited in a hurry, the boots on his feet padding loudly against the tile and concrete floor as he ran out.<br/><br/>He already knew, in those short two weeks. Survival on his own wasn't going to be easy. That didn't matter though, because he was right. The world was different. It wasn't like the colony, people had the freedom to go where they pleased here. He didn't know exactly where here was but what he did know was that he'd have to work on figuring out a place safe to sleep. He'd also figured out the people to avoid, or so he thought. The men roaming with<b>'POLICE'</b>plastered on their clothing looked suspiciously like the security from the colony. They even carried weapons like them, well, he'd find somewhere that had less of them.<i>'I'll start there..' </i>He told himself.<br/><br/>----<br/><br/>When you're avoiding the authorities, it's interesting where you end up. He found a club owner, a portly man who reeked of tobacco and looked like the physical embodiment of greed. Castor had asked him if he had work, that he needed a place to stay. The man picked up on Castor's urgency. Raising a hand to sweep the back of his palm across the top of his head that was desperately clinging to a few strands of hair, but was otherwise bald. "Looking to do something under the table huh, running from someone or something?" The man's amber eyes seemed to almost focus on just Castor in that moment. The man's brows furrowing to further wrinkle his forehead and intensify his gaze. Castor's eyes didn't know to avert, it wasn't in his instinct. He remained confident, even if bothered by this man's insight to his fear of being caught. "I.. yeah, I don't want the police knowing where I am." The portly man broke into a hearty laugh. "You and me both, son, you and me both. So you say you're good with mechanisms, right? You can work on the lights, sound and if you can keep them running smoothly. I'll let you stay in apartment in the basement."<br/><br/>"What is sound, like, speakers for announcements?"<br/><br/>The man looked confused "No, kid. Music. You know about music, yes?"<br/><br/>"Yes, of course. Sorry, I was confused." Castor lied, but how could it be any different than the speakers that broadcast announcements at the colony.<br/><br/>The man reached out and extended his hand toward Castor. "250 credits a week, that's all you'll get. The rest goes toward your rent to stay here and keeping the power and water going."<br/><br/>"Yes, deal." Castor reached out and snatched the man's hand. Not even knowing what the hell two-hundred and fifty credits a week was or what he could possibly do with them.<br/><br/>The man, Loren, took him from the office and down the staircase that'd lead to the storage of the club. Off in a corner, a relatively small one at that. It was a single room apartment that had a bed that quite literally folded up into the wall if you wanted more space. It was currently pulled out and it's bed was made, despite being dusty it wasn't destitute. Castor flashed a smile unintentionally. "Hey, this is nice. Got some supplies for me to clean up?" The man looked between the well built but exceptionally old furniture. It's condition, and back towards Castor. "Yeah, well, only time I'll ever give you something for free. You have to clean it up on your time though, not when you're working for me. You start tonight at 6PM, the club opens at 8PM every night. I expect you to get any repairs done before it opens and be ready to help out in other ways until we close at 4AM."<br/><br/>Castor's broad, jacketed shoulders lifted into a shrug. "Okay." That was the only response he gave the man before stripping off his jacket to expose the faded brownish-orange shirt. "Cleaning supplies?" Castor asked again, the man didn't even respond. Loren popped a cigar back into his mouth and grunted, gesturing for Castor to follow as he slowly turned to leave the room and walk him to a supply closet.