Groundlings

The library was empty when Finch went in. It was a sad little place, a few shelves full of old discarded books, a few tables with relics of the old world and “do not touch” signs. Finch couldn’t bring himself to believe it was worth the effort.
It seemed to him more a garbage dump than anything else. Most people kept what few personal items their grandparents had brought up into the trees. When there was precious little to be had, people clung to it.
This was a room full of nothing but rejected items and stories from a time that didn’t matter anymore.
And that included the girl who ran it. The door to her office stood ajar, but not open enough to give Finch a look inside. Seeing as there was no activity in the damn place at all but the doors were all open, she had to be in there.
Finch knocked on the doorframe, harder than he had intended. He almost cursed at the pain, but he knew how to make a first good first impression. And what he was doing was probably not it.
He found himself not really caring.
The door creaked open, and Finch got his good look. Catherine McCarthy wasn’t particularly short or tall, but she was far from average. Finch had never seen a better contrast between sharp and soft in his life. She was well-shaped, for sure. Oh, sure, Finch had had his fair share of flings with skinny girls, but he really did prefer them softer. Cate definitely fit the bill there, soft and fat and absolutely beautiful. Her hair, naturally red but dyed a deeper more intense shade of the color, was pulled back in a simple tail. It seemed to explode in a wild array of curls, rolling over her shoulders and down her back.
She looked up at him, and her expression didn’t change. “Mr. Anderson. So good to see you’ve come so soon,” she said and stepped aside, waving him in her office. He had to duck his head to make it through the low doorway. For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t even tall.
Cate sat down behind her desk, back straight and hard as her face.
He sat in the chair in front of her desk, leaning down and spreading his legs. Cate raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him and cleared her throat, refusing to further acknowledge his behaviour.
“So,” she started. “I take it that you’re interested, yes?”
“Oh yeah,” Finch said. He leaned forward and smiled. “Very interested. I’m in.”
She looked perplexed. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for yet.”
“Don’t care. If it’s big and secret, I’m in,” Finch said.
“It won’t stay secret much longer.”
Well, that was stupid. Finch was about to open his big mouth and say as much, but Cate cut in before he could.
“The details are still being worked out, but here’s what I can tell you.” She leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “I have a question for you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Alright.”
“Have you ever wondered what mud feels like on your bare feet?” she asked.
Of course he had wondered. Everyone had, as a kid. They’d all been raised on stories, almost like fairytales of old, of when the world was lush and green and safe. People lived in houses on streets, they had vast expansive gardens. There were parks and fountains and all sorts of wonders. It all seemed so unattainable and so magical.
Of course Finch wanted to know what it was like. Everyone did. He nodded.
Cate smiled, satisfied. “Good. You’re going to find out.”
What? “That’s impossible,” Finch said, slack jawed.
“Correction. It’s dangerous,” said Cate. “And that’s exactly why we need people like you for the job.”
Alright. Touche, she was right about that. Finch was a capable man, when he cared enough. But the ground? It was idiotic at best, unthinkable at worst. They were going to send him to his death. But… On the other hand, if she was right, if it was possible to survive long enough for it to matter. Shit, he would be a hero. He would make history. Now that was a thought.
“Besides,” she continued. “You already agreed.”

Half an hour later, Finch left the archive and started home in a daze. He was in awe of himself for volunteering so readily, in awe of the concept of making everyone’s impossible childhood dreams come true. At least for him. It still hadn’t fully registered, and he doubted it would anytime soon. But she had given him initial preparations to make, jobs to do. Finch would do them, he decided. He wasn’t about to throw away his shot.

He felt truly invigorated for the first time in years.