Salvage, Crime, and a Smile to Die For

Working salvage is the worst job for meeting people. We don full body environsuits, usually the clunkiest, oldest ones that could make a bodybuilder look like a sack of potatoes. What it does to ordinarily built people like myself is even worse.

But don’t get me wrong, I’m not all vain. But every aspect of salvage prevents socializing.

Two of my coworkers were shouting a conversation to be heard through each of their helmets, which made it spectacularly difficult to tune out. They went for the easy target, the old house’s hallway closet.

“The conversation was horrible,” Meridia, who was also my roommate, said. “We went to Mt. Royale. Easiest place in the world to talk. She didn’t ask me a single question.”

Case in point—we could hardly hear each other unless we shouted. When these environsuits were being used in space, they had built-in comms systems. But when they got too banged up to space and given to on-planet non-profits, those systems were long dead.

Meridia’s flashlight roved down the windowless hallway. I kept mine pointed to the floor, not wanting to see the photos on the wall of the house’s old owners.

”I saw a guy two weeks ago who was the same,” my other colleague, I pointedly ignored—Ashley?—said. “Pretty sure he’s only dating girls who have their own studio.”

I continued down the hallway to brave the kitchen. Though the environsuit was allegedly airtight, I suspected the duct-tape-patched arm had a leak, because the faint, musty odor of old mold drifted in. I ignored the fridge and went straight to the cabinets.

I flicked off my flashlight, trying not to take in the details of the kitchen. The job was easier to focus on the fact that these were uninhabitable ruins. I ignored the ceramic cups and plates, clearly painted by a child, that were lined up on the windowsill.

The hinge of the cabinet door moaned as I pulled it open. Immediate jackpot—a huge plastic container of freeze-dried mushrooms. It looked full, which might just mean it was still sealed. I grabbed it and twisted the lid off. The seal came off with the lid, but there was no sign of mold. Perfect jackpot. I slipped my supply back off my back and nestled it inside with the canned foods I’d scored at the last house.

Meridia appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Emmeline! I found some coats worth bringing back! How’s it going in here?”

I glanced over my shoulder and was pleased it was only Meridia. Ashley must’ve gone to check the bathrooms for usable medical supplies or upstairs for other closets. As if on cue, a creak over my head answered the question. Less ambitious salvagers always went for the closets and offices; lighter items.

”Good so far,” I called back. “Could you check the drawers for utensils worth melting?”

”Roger-dodger,” she replied brightly. “Did you hear about my travesty of a date?”

“I did. But I’m still not sympathetic.”

“Spoilsport!”

”You’re always picking up girls in the locker room.”

”It’s not too late for you to try the fairer side,” Meridia said, bracing her foot against the countertop to yank out a stuck drawer. “I know some girls who don’t mind being a newbie’s first experiment.”

Meridia’s drawer gave and she let out a triumphant whoop.

“I wish I was into girls,” I sighed, inspecting a can of beans. No dents, no rust. Twenty years expired, but worth bringing back.

”What about your other gig? No cute guys at that?”

”Did you forget what my other gig was?” I glared at her over my shoulder; not that she could really see my expression through the small face pane of my helmet. Another terrible barrier to meeting anyone while doing salvage.

”Never!”

“Uh-huh. So why don’t I meet guys?”

”Same reasons everyone struggles to meet people,” Meridia said airily.

I turned around and crossed my arms. My environsuit rubbed and scuffed so loudly it drowned out half of what she said.

”Wrong, my dear. I tutor children.”

”Whoops. Right. But the single par—“

”The only people who can afford tutors are married couples!”

Meridia tapped a knife on the counter. It made that hollow sound of a cheap metal. No fine silvers here, though a house this large, this close to the city must’ve cost a lot back in its day. “You’d be great in a polycule. So good at problem-solving in groups.”

I shook my head and went back to pillaging the cabinets. I ignored the canned tomatoes, pushing the dusty cans to the side, over the dried-out corpses of long-dead insects that’d been looking for a last meal. Again—salvage was not sexy.

~~~

By the time we made it back to the Montréal Dome’s airlock, I was predictably exhausted.

I checked my wristcomm, finally reunited with it when we made it to the staff lockers. I’d walked an entire nine miles on our route today. While I got redressed, I heard Meridia shamelessly flirting with a new girl. She was smooth with her pick-up lines, and now that her lush, dark curls were revealed, she was hard to turn down.

I glanced in the mirror as I headed to the sorting area. If I were to rank myself in the darting pool, I’d give myself a solid not bad. Perfectly dateable. I didn’t bother with makeup after getting horrid rashes from the powdered products I found on salvage, so that was one knock against me. But I had symmetrical enough features, and I do think I look adorable with my little French bob. I taught myself to cut hair years ago, so I do a darn good job of maintaining it.

The sorting room was packed. I checked my wristcomm to see the number of my sorter—window 33A. I swerved between queues politely until I finally made it to the appropriate line. I scanned the line for anyone new, anyone cute. Came up entirely empty. As usual.

I greeted the sorter, who nodded at me through their environsuit. A glass wall and hatch separated us. I couldn’t begin to guess who they were with how the light glinted off their viewing pane. I waited as they disinfected the exterior of each item.

Salvage was, unfortunately, an uncompensated gig. But I got to keep a quarter, by weight, of what I found and brought back. I shamelessly took the freeze-dried mushrooms in all their lightweight glory. I’d found rice a week prior, and I knew exactly how I would make an amazing risotto.

I slipped outside the large sorting room. I stretched my shoulders, trying to shake out the ache from carrying all those heavy canned goods for so many hours. I tapped on my wristcomm to pull up the holoscreen and holokeyboard.

Emmeline Dubois: I’m giving you 5 more minutes to flirt, then I’m going home without you.

I dismissed both screens and rested my back against the brick wall behind me. The building had once been a community center before the dome was built. Now, it was repurposed for the salvage volunteers since it was so close to the public airlock.

I took a deep breath, attempting something like mindfulness, but then my wristcomm vibrated.

Meridia Pérez: Go home without me! Got a fish on the hook~

I shook my head, both impressed and shamefully jealous. Her luck was ridiculous. I began my long walk home. It’d only take about twenty minutes, but after so much walking outside, it felt like a lot. Mile End was a part of the city that remained wonderfully less changed compared to the neighborhoods right on the edge of downtown Montréal, now filled with domescrapers. My city’s population was fortunately low enough that some of the old, pre-war structures still stood.

Which had its pros and cons. As I meandered toward my street, I passed brick rowhomes that hadn’t been maintained as well as ours. Their foundations slipped unevenly into the ground in concerning ways. The spiral metal staircases to the upper floors were rusted, a relic of weathering from before the dome was placed over the city.

I got home and trekked up the stairs to the third floor. Montréal had been famous for its multifamily homes even before the dome, so now the three-floor homes had doors on each level into the further subdivided studio apartments. We didn’t have much space, but it was a perfectly serviceable apartment.

But then there was something strange. Someone was outside, a few doors down.

I looked to my right, saw a man with the most incredibly broad shoulders two doors down, and did a double-take. I was perpetually so busy with hustles and salvage that coming across someone handsome who wasn’t obviously paired off was as rare and fortuitous as… well, finding a lightweight foodstock like the dried mushrooms. He didn’t look familiar—I’d have noticed someone so tall with that kind of silhouette.

However, Mr. Perfect Shoulders was fiddling with the lock on the door. Strange. I was far enough away to inspect without him noticing. I started mostly at how his black tee shirt hugged his pleasantly muscled arms. But then I looked closer and realized he was jamming something that wasn’t a key into the lock.

That wasn’t great. Did he use those perfect shoulders for crime?

I retreated back from my door to make it less obvious where I lived before I spoke. “If you’re locked out, you should call the super.”

He started as he straightened, turning gorgeous cheekbones and a well-defined chin toward me. He looked to be somewhere in his twenties, just like me. His black hair was slightly long and stylishly parted to one side. My ovaries nearly jumped out of my body when he flashed a nervous smile at me.

“Oh, hello,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you on the stairs.”

I smiled awkwardly in response. “Oh. Yeah. I can be quiet.”

What an absolute conversation-killer of a line that was. The gorgeous potential thief nodded at me. Then he turned his attention back toward the lock, covering whatever he was using to pick it with both hands.

I took a deep breath. I didn’t know my neighbor two doors down well, but I knew a woman lived there, probably not much older than me.

“You forgot your keys?” I asked hesitantly.

He turned back to me and flashed another awkward smile. His tan skin made his perfectly white teeth stand out. He even had a dimple. An adorable dimple!

“Well. I—my key doesn’t work anymore.”

I raised both eyebrows and lifted my wrist up, ready to tap for emergency help on my wristcomm. “You’re breaking in?”

“It’s my ex’s place,” he said quickly, holding up both hands in surrender. “She—she stole my cat.”

“Excuse me?”

“I promise, I’m just here for my cat, not to steal anything,” he said, stepping away from the door. “She’s meowing on the other side. You can listen if you don’t believe me.”

I would be lying if I said that his good looks weren’t the sole cause of me giving him the benefit of the doubt. I took a deep breath, approached the potentially dangerous thief, and approached the door. He took a few respectful steps away when I got close.

I didn’t even have to press my ear to the door to hear the remarkably loud meows on the other side of the door. That cat had a set of pipes.

Pets weren’t practical when it was hard enough to find work to feed ourselves. Though I sure couldn’t afford one, I did respect people who made the sacrifice.

“How exactly did your cat end up at your ex’s place? She throw you out for something?”

He ran his hand through his hair in a careless way that he clearly had no idea was ridiculously attractive. I tried to focus less on his hair and more on what he was saying, since I’d just asked such an important question for red flag hunting.

“I didn’t live here. And I know this is going to sound bad,” he said hesitantly. “But our families hate each other. And she’s really close to hers. Like, have dinner with them every day, kind of close. Tell them everything about every date we ever went on kind of close. Which is why she isn’t home right now.”

“Why does she even live separately then?” I asked, frowning.

“She used to live her with her ex before me. I’m pretty sure she’s planning to move back in with her family.”

I nodded slowly, getting a glazed look over my eyes. Maybe I was too jealous of my coworkers with more successful dating lives. “Okay… so she’s perhaps not the most serious girlfriend.”

“And do you want to know the worst thing about her?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“What?” I asked, bracing myself for him to say something awful that would make me hate him.

“She doesn’t compost.”

My jaw fell. “We have freakin’ ration limits and she doesn’t compost?”

“I know!” he said, shaking his head incredulously.

“Okay… okay… jeez. But back to the cat.”

“Yes. Toast. We started seeing each other less and less, had a fairly civil discussion about separating. That was three weeks ago, I thought everything was fine. But then when I got home yesterday, Toast was gone. I know she always really liked Toast, so I came here just to check…” he gestured at the door, the loud meows coming through. “I keep an extra key outside my place and Toast knows her, so I guess Toast went along peacefully.”

“Do you want to know the only reason why I kind of believe you right now?”

“Because Toast’s little meows are so cute and loud?”

Because you’re gorgeous, might be funny, and apparently named your cat Toast, my brain supplied helpfully.

“Because your lockpicking technique is all wrong. You’ve never done this before, have you?”

This time, he was raising his eyebrows at me. “I have not. Breaking and entering is not one of my hobbies.”

I nodded and plucked out the… unfolded paper clips he was attempting to pick the lock with. I tossed them back at him. He scrambled to catch the evidence before it fell to the deck.

I picked a hairpin from my pocket and quickly unbent it. “Paper clips are too soft for a lock like this.”

I inserted the hairpin into the lock and turned it slightly to the right. I felt around for the pins. He watched me with interest, edging closer to peer over my shoulder. Which wasn’t hard, he was nearly a head taller than me.

“And you… just had that with you,” he said, sounding wary of me.

“I work a lot of salvage shifts. We technically have to break into most of the abandoned houses outside the dome.”

“So this is pretty normal for you.”

“You’re just lucky this isn’t a fingerprint-reader building downtown,” I shot back.

I mentally cheered as I got the first lock pin. I felt around for the others and made quick work of them. I pushed my hairpin deeper, moved up higher, and heard the glorious click.

The door swung open, and an adorable calico cat came barreling out. She saw Mr. Perfect Shoulders and let out the loudest meow a cat could possibly produce. My ears almost hurt. She leapt into his arms like cats did in pre-war cartoons.

Sure, I stopped one person from committing a breaking and entering crime. By… doing the crime instead of him. Against my own neighbor. Great.

I pulled my sleeve over my hand as I reached inside to flip the lock back. I doubted she’d dust the place for fingerprints, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. I rubbed the outside lock area too to blur any I might’ve left there.

“Thank you so much!” he said, petting Toast as she snuggled her head against his face. “God, I might not’ve been able to get her back if you hadn’t just shown up like a guardian angel.”

“It’s okay. Lockpicking is my specialty, I guess.”

“You can pet her if you like.”

Toast was a medium-haired cat. Impressively fluffy. I wasn’t heartless enough not to want to pet her. But I admittedly didn’t mind taking a step closer to Mr. Perfect Shoulders either. He even smelled good, some kind of woodsy cologne.

“So I know Toast now, but what’s my partner in crime’s name?”

“Antoine. And you’re…?”

“Emmeline.” I took a deep breath. It was probably a terrible idea. “Do–do you want to get dinner sometime?”

He blinked, clearly surprised by the invitation. “Sure. It’ll be my treat–a thank you for saving Toast.”

“It’s a date then,” I ventured.

Securing Toast on one of his perfectly broad shoulders, he held out his arm with his leather-strapped wristcomm. I tapped my wristcomm to his and the screen lit up with his full name and comm ID.

“I should go before she gets back. But I’ll message you as soon as I’m back.”

“Sounds good,” I said with a smile. “Until then.”

“Again, thank you so much. See you soon!” he said, and Toast followed up with another loud meow.

I retreated to my apartment door and watched him hurry down the stairs. Toast meowed all the way, sounding absolutely delighted to be reunited with her human. I may have committed a minor crime, but at least I had a date–with someone selfless enough to take care of a cat. And with excellent hair. There were worse options.

Was I going to be a rebound? Maybe! Was it a ridiculous idea? Perhaps! But was it worth a try? Definitely. If nothing else, at least the meet cute gods had finally taken pity on me.