DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Finally, he’d managed to concoct and conduct something strong enough, stable enough, for the water to flow through and not break it all apart; he waited for what felt like a lifetime, watching, presuming something would erupt and burst again. When it didn’t, he withdrew the sigh he’d been holding, and maneuvered his way down the piping system, noting everything else still had its faults, its flaws, its imperfections. Water had a way of segmenting those, capable of finding each and every defect with appropriate force, some of the tubing still not fitting the way it should. Had they been warped from the initial pressure of the rivulet, streamlining into chaos, no time to be done properly? He might’ve snarled at the notions, but continued on his work, hands grasping and tightening at the loosened portions, or reshaping, reapplying, means and measures to ensure they were in proper working order. Only thereafter did Loren deign to address him again, busy working on something else; his eyes lifting while his crouch remained, and then following the pipeline. Holes in the right places – where they should’ve been flowing, to supply the inevitable growing garden and field. He rose, maneuvering further down the tubing, speculating before deciding, grabbing hold of a knife out of his boot, carving careful, meticulous punctures into the designation and appropriate destination, intending for his persistence, his calculations, to somehow outweigh the potential for more trials and tribulations.
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Deimos attempts to rework the loosened portions and get them to fit properly again, and then begins to make holes in the tubing.
