Hugh sanded down the leg of the chair, smoothing the rough edges and preparing the surface for the varnish.
It had surprised him a great deal to find how much he enjoyed wood work, but in the end the workshops he had chosen both involved wood: carpentry and carving. He like to cut and shape the wood, turning something dull and lifeless into something functional and beautiful. Not even the incessant watch of the guards in the woodwork rooms could take awaay from his pleasure.
There was a lot of dangerous equipment, and potential weapons, in there after all.
He wiped his brow and took a moment to appraise his work. There was nothing he hated more than to finish a piece only to find minute flaws - even if no one else knew what he was unhappy about.
Hugh had never done anything like this growing up. Once he'd been identified as a telepath he was expected to engage in more cerebal activites and leave menial tasks and labour up to those whose powers were suited for it, or the slaves. There was no way they'd ever let him continue woodwork when he got back to base.
Hugh paused and frowned. Got back to base? Got home he meant.
Right?
"Go home," he said quietly to himself.
It just didn't sound right for some reason. His frowned deepened. Since when had he stopped thinking of home as being home? And if home wasn't home but "the base" then where was home? Not here of course, but...
Hugh shook his head and went back to sanding. He never much liked the more cerebal activities anyway.