Eulogy

The Iron Reach - Pully

A Eulogy for Pully Jenkins

Pully grew up to be a Hotlung, to the surprise of no one among his family and friends. The work was good: he'd receive a commission on every questionable package someone in town needed delivered, and he'd get to see all of the city instead of just the smoke stacks and factory floor his family all called home. Every morning after he got the courier's license Pully sprang out of bed and was out with his link turned on ready to take whatever job came in first. There is a void in the community now losing a young man on his way to better things, and as such we as a community pay the price.

Getting a gig as a Hotlung was a big get for his parents and this entire ward, as we'd always talked about having a son who could finally earn money outside of the Iron Reach. He wasn't going to be beholden to Fountainhead executives and shareholders, he wasn't going to die early from accidental discharge of a firearm on the factory line, and he wasn't going to end his life dying in the same workshop he'd been born in like so many of us will. Pully had something special all of us respected, and he deserved the best from the world.

As many of you know, I grew up here in Vargos, and I started working at the 4-4 Ninth Armaments Factory over fifty years ago. When Pully was born his arm had not yet fully formed, and we all feared his fate would be sealed not being able to use both hands doing this work. But Pully never let it hold him back, he ran around the rafters with the other kids, he helped his mother and father with their work, and eventually he passed the Courier's test, something no one from our factory ward has done in thirty-two years.

We lost Pully to a common problem in Vargos, but that does not make his death any less tragic. Everyday there are over two-hundred discharges of a firearm just within the Iron Reach, not even considering the rest of Vargos. We all send our little ones out praying a stray, or purposeful, bullet will not find them. We pray the bullet will choose us instead. But Hotlungs make their ends by crossing paths who would be the most likely to stand behind one of those firearms. Pully knew that, and still he did it everyday for three years. We may have a firearm discharge by accident in the factory; Hell, a floor supervisor may fire one off just to make us hustle. But to be targeted specifically for your job and doing it anyway proved what Pully knew all along. It proved he was a Hotlung through and through, and an honored son of this factory ward. Two things Pully went out of his way to prove, although we knew all along.

The person who brought down our factory son was a person who knew nothing about Pully, knew nothing about what he meant to this community or what he meant to his family. This person only knew a stranger carrying something they wanted, so they assassinated him. We forget what these weapons we make do. We forget every firearm stamped with a serial number here will end up in the hands of someone intending to use it. We make the very thing that robs our ward of its children. But this is Vargos, and those without a living are guaranteed death, and worse yet, guaranteed irrelevance.

Though this hurts us, Pully would not want us to stop working. Pully would not want us to suffer beyond this pain we feel looking at his body in this plywood box. He would want us to live on, but I would say he'd want something else too. Pully would want us to take after his example, and find new jobs, limited as they are, to help steer this community away from dependence on the conveyor belts and bullet presses. He would want us to be couriers, or surgeons, or fixers, or police, or any other job that slowly moves us away from dependence, and towards progress.

Pully, we all love you, and we all miss you. You were a certified Hotlung. You were a beloved son of this factory. You were a great friend, and an incredible son. I end this eulogy now with a reminder for all of you before we clock back in for the morning shift: progress is attainable, even when the odds remain ever out of favor. Rest easy my son.