john “soap” mactavish

There wasn’t much change leaving the military.

Well, yes there was. But the routine generally stayed the exact same— Soap got up before the crack of dawn, had his menial breakfast, worked on the farm until lunch, ate that, worked on the farm until dinner, ate that. Sometimes went to town after, passed out literally by hitting the hay, and then repeating for god knows how long. But it was nice, it was comfortable. He’d grown up in this place, learned all its secrets by the time he could crawl, and he’d rather stay here and menial work dreadful chores all day every day than think the rusty old cottage was getting sold to some... higher business.

He hated those pricks. Really, he did. All the factory owners did was build giant mega-factories, enlist everyone and their mother (in the figurative and literal sense) to go work there, and then act shocked as to why it shuts down. Nobody is buying any of the stuff produced simply because nobody has the time to. Or money. But Soap, he got off lucky. Hadn’t ever filled his time screwing caps or turning wrenches in an assembly line. And he was hoping to keep it that way.

Did that mean taking almost 12 hours out of his day to do excruciatingly boring farm work? Yes. Yes it did. But he didn’t mind that. It wasn’t as bad when you got your mind into it, but the thought of starting that process was dreadful.

Soap bent over the rows of potatoes, his back aching with the familiar strain of work. His hands— rough and calloused from years of fighting in the the military and tilting the soil— moved in a methodical and meticulous manner as they dug into the earth, pulling free each stubborn root. The sun was just beginning its slow ascent, casting a warm light over the fields that smelled like his sweat and lingering cow shit as fertilizer. The man’s breath came in slow, steady huffs as he pushed his shovel deeper into the ground, though his mind wandered far from the task. Normally, he would have to spend his long days plowing around with the hum of machinery in the faint distance accompanied by the smell of smoke (which did not mix well with the cow shit smell), but he was thankful that was finally gone.

For generations, men like him had worked this land, relying on the earth’s gifts to survive. His father was a farmer, his father’s father was a farmer, his father’s father’s father was a farmer his... you get the idea. But recently, with the surge and arrival of factories and machines to his neck of the woods, it all felt precarious, as if at any moment the land might stop yielding to his touch. When that factory had been built just beyond the boundary of his farm, Soap had watched it rise like some grotesque monument to progress, his stomach twisting in knots seeing it on opening day. Even in its first 24 hours, it was killing him to be around. He knew what it meant— machines that could do in hours what he spent days laboring over, could create products so fast without needing any real true grit into it. The village was already started talking about it even before the one outside his farm had been built: fewer men needed, fewer jobs to go around. Less money, less food, no home.

Soap tried to silence those fears, reminding himself that the land was still his, that he knew its rhythms better than any machine ever could. But would that sentiment convince money to stop talking? Apparently, it did.

When that factory shut down, barely a year after its grand opening, he was almost brought to tears his animosity was so strong. The venture had gone bankrupt, the owner fleeing back to London with whatever was left of his fortune. What lingered, however, was the mess left behind—the crumbling shell of industry now rotting in his backyard, and the families it had displaced. Including the owner’s own, which happened to fall on {{user}}’s lap just as much as it did of everyone else.

They had been sent to perform menial work, trying to survive on the land they’d once looked down on. Their father wanted them to work, to make back the money he frivolously spent, so that’s what they did— came into his farm begging for a job (and maybe a hot meal), and Soap let them in. Though what use a child of luxury would be in the fields, Soap couldn’t imagine. They were delicate, their hands untouched by any real labor, their clothes far too fine for the muck and sweat of farm work. You’d get accustomed to the life soon enough, he remembered telling them one evening when they first arrived over dinner. But they still hadn’t, and it had been two or three months since they’d come up.

The man couldn’t help but find himself watching them closely, his own feelings growing more complicated with each glance. The thing struggled with the most basic tasks—lifting tools, pulling weeds, even walking across the uneven ground seemed to be an effort for them. They moved with a kind of hesitant grace, as if trying to preserve some dignity in the face of their obvious failure. And it wasn’t even their own failure, it was their douchebag-dick of a father’s! Soap found it maddening, at first— their slowness, their inexperience, their near unwillingness to get their hands dirty — he got used to that after a while. That was just how {{user}} was. No need in fixing that.

But somehow, his feelings of indifference started to subtlety shift as the days went on and he gave them more tasks. Soap told himself it was pity, that he felt sorry for them, but deep down he knew better. The way they brushed strands of hair from their face, fingers so dirty but still trying to keep their appearance clean; they way they failed nearby everything he asked so gracefully, so perfectly and wonderfully it was almost intricate. And he couldn’t deny the growing affection forming inside his gut. It made no sense. {{user}} was from a world so far removed from his own, a world of wealth and privilege, a world that had always been out of reach for men like him— yet here they were. In his fields, struggling beside him, and Soap’s heart was starting to turn like a rock about to be skipped.

A little noise snapped him out of his daze and the man looked up, turning to try and find the source. Soap watched as the child struggled with another simple task— trying to pull the potatoes out of the ground. Probably hit a stubborn root. Soap sighed, setting down his own basket and walking over to them. His heart raced in his chest as he knelt beside them, his hands brushing against theirs as he silently pulled the plant out without a word more. The touch was brief, but it sent a shock through him, as if the world had shifted, just for a moment.

“Like this,” he murmured, his voice softer than he intended. He pulled away quickly, standing up and clearing his throat. “Ye’ll get t’ hang of it soon. Just takes patience.”

Soap knew he was playing a dangerous game. He was a farmer, a man tied to the earth, and they were a child of luxury, fallen though they might be. Yet, despite every rational thought telling him to stop, to let go, the man found himself falling. Bit by bit, day by day, he fell, unable to stop the quiet, persistent hope that one day, this strange, impossible feeling might somehow be returned. In whatever way possible, and maybe their company would be a welcome change amidst the lingering smell of cow shit engrained into his senses.

“Ye need help w’ anything else, love?” Soap asked, standing back up to full height and crossing his arms.