Singed and I stood at a broad metal table in one of his back rooms, preparing the fuel mixtures we would need to power the engines for the rest of the week. The place was as cramped as the rest of his workshop, cluttered with flasks, glass tubing, and a line of battered canisters waiting to be filled. He supervised calmly, as though overseeing a recipe no more difficult than pancake batter, while I stirred a highly volatile pot of sludge that powered most of the chemtech devices of this world. Overhead, a solitary lamp swayed, its glow dancing across the walls like flickering specters.

  I stirred a bubbling slurry in a metal vat, trying not to dwell on its pungent fumes. Singed leaned in from the opposite side of the table, carefully measuring out what appeared to be crystals of some noxious reagent. The flicker of light caught the ruins of his scarred face, lending him a momentary look of solemnity.

  "I need more coin," I ventured, mindful of how any sudden movement might disturb the mixture. "I've been thinking of taking on outside work."

  Singed barely paused in measuring out the last of his reagent into the vat. "That is not my concern," he replied, calm as ever. His voice was a low rasp, dulled but never broken. "So long as your duties here are met, I care little for the rest."

  I should have known he would react with such dispassion. From the start, he had never asked for anything more than my reliable labor. A brief silence settled, broken only by the hiss of steam and the gurgle of roiling fluids. "Thank you," I managed at last. "I appreciate you not objecting."

  He did not answer, merely tilted the vat so that I could scrape the sludge into a series of waiting canisters. We worked quickly, wreathed in the swirling tang of scorching chemicals. Once the canisters were sealed and set aside, Singed turned to the corner where the electric generator we had cobbled together stood in quiet vigil. Its faint hum powered the few incandescent bulbs in this room, lending a steady glow that never quite banished the gloom. He said nothing, but I saw the curiosity flicker in his eyes as he studied the contraption. He had once spent hours poring over my sketches, scribbling side notes of his own, yet beyond fueling a few experiments, he had relegated the device to an interesting but secondary place in the workshop's daily routine.

  We finished our work soon after. I stretched my arms, feeling the knots in my shoulders. "Are you making dinner?" I asked, heading for the generator switch. I flicked the lever, and the bulbs guttered out. Darkness claimed the room, save for a lone gas lantern above the table.

  He only shook his head, unhurried. "No. I need to finish calibrating the vapor valves. You go ahead."

  With a nod I stepped out of the workshop and into the cramped hallway leading to the kitchen. In that underlit chamber, beside the piles of questionable produce and half-labeled jars shared space with dented cookware, I rummaged in a shelf for root vegetables, watery grains, and a handful of limp greens to rinse and slice into a lumpy stew reminiscent of our old staple: watery gruel. Once it simmered to something close to "food," I scooped out a portion for myself and left the rest in the pot for Singed before heading upstairs.

  In the comfort of my room, I had dinner before taking a shower and spending a dozen minutes reading notes on my phone. After a while however, I turned the device off and crawled under my paper-thin sheet, where I soon dozed off in my cot.

  Morning arrived, or what passed for morning in Zaun. I gauged it by that slight change in the overhead haze: a dim shift from poisonous green to a sickly yellow. I rose, reheated the leftover stew Singed had abandoned, and saw to my daily chores: tidying the workshop, running maintenance on some equipment, and discarding the trash that had accumulated in the process. Singed acknowledged me only with a curt nod before retreating behind a partition of stacked equipment where he read some notes. That suited me fine; I had places to be.

  Once finished, I slipped outside, navigating the rust-eaten buildings. Wort's shop lay not too far away, and I found myself stepping into that cluttered haven of scrap metal without my usual shopping list.

  He stood behind the counter, poring over a piece of parchment. Raising an eyebrow, he grunted in what could pass for a greeting. "Whatchu want?"

  "Nothing today," I said, trying a smile. "Actually, I'm looking for work."

  He set down the parchment, crossing his arms over a grease-stained apron. "Work, is it? Doing what?"

  "Tinkering, or maybe some repairing work, if anyone needs it," I explained, feeling a stir of embarrassment. "I'm not sure where to start."

  Wort's eyes narrowed as he assessed me. I supposed he was checking whether I was serious or not. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can't take you on. I need a forge hand, and you said you're no good with that."

  "All right," I admitted. "but maybe you know someone else?"

  Wort scratched his bristly jaw. "There's a fellow named Sykes, runs a chemtech repair outfit deeper in the Lane. Chem-Fix. Might be he wants a helper." He scrawled an address on a stained slip of paper and handed it to me. "He's not exactly pleasant. Just so you're warned."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Relief flickered through me. "Thanks," I said. "Really." I tucked the paper into my pocket before taking my leave. The direction he'd given led me through side streets where rusted walkways groaned underfoot. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting watery reflections on puddles of who-knows-what. Eventually, I spotted Chem-Fix scrawled in peeling paint on a corrugated metal panel. Inside, the space was a cramped tangle of half-dismantled piping and tools. A gaunt man stood behind a worktable. His gaze, when he noticed me, was thoroughly unwelcoming.

  "What?" he barked.

  I offered my name, a short explanation of my work experience, and a cautious mention that Wort had sent me. He cut me off with a scowl. "Wort wouldn't be fool enough to send me a novice. I don't hire liars or amateurs," he said. "Neither do I have time for con artists."

  I blinked, taken aback. "I've experience enough—"

  "Out," he barked, jabbing a thumb at the door. "I don't need a fraud snooping around my shop. Beat it."

  A jolt of anger flared within me, but his glare told me further argument was pointless. My shoulders stiff, I walked out of the shop. At the entrance stood a grizzled man, thickset, wearing a battered jacket. A metallic prosthetic extended where his right arm should have been. He watched our exchange with cautious interest, but he didn't speak. I walked past him without a word.

  Behind me, the shop owner snarled at the newcomer too: "You want something?" The voices faded away as I walked out. Feeling my frustration grow, I ducked into the street, footsteps echoing on the broken metal catwalk.

  I had nearly reached a busier thoroughfare when I heard someone jogging after me. "Hey, you there—wait a minute!" came a voice.

  I turned to see the man with the prosthetic arm closing the distance.

  "Do I know you?" I asked, still annoyed from the confrontation.

  He raised his good hand in a placating gesture. "No. First time we've spoken. Name's Lorn. I heard what you said back there—about chemtech." He flexed his metallic fingers, which squeaked faintly. " This blasted arm's been giving me trouble, not actuating right."I'm a miner, working in the Brackern deposits. Without this arm, I'm no use down there. Sykes wants twenty cogs to fix it, but I only have fifteen. You said you'd do repairs, yeah?"

  "I can manage," I said, measuring my words carefully. "Fifteen is fine."

  Lorn breathed out, shouldering the prosthetic with evident discomfort. "So, where's your shop?"

  My confidence faltered. "Well…I don't exactly have one. That's why I am looking for work." I patted my pockets, wincing. "And I didn't bring my tools."

  For a second, we both stood in awkward silence. Then, a thought struck me. "Wort—follow me!"

  Wort's exasperated stare greeted me when I entered for the second time that morning. "Now what?"

  "I just need a corner for a quick repair," I said, feeling my cheeks heat. "And some tools. If that's alright by you."

  He uttered a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Just don't break anything."

  I turned to Lorn. "All right. Let's see that arm."

  He unlatched a few clamps on his harness, and with a series of clicks, the metal limb detached. I took it and began the lengthy process of opening it up. Inside, gears meshed with lines carrying chem fluids, every pivot blackened by grime. One gear, clogged with dirt and grit, had worn to nubs—no doubt the culprit.

  "Wort, can I trouble you for a gear about…this size?" I showed him the ruined piece.

  He fished through a crate and tossed me a suitable replacement. "Five cogs," he growled.

  Lorn grimaced. "I only have fifteen total…"

  Before he could dwell on it, I waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, I'll cover the difference. Just let me fix this properly."

  He looked uncertain but let me proceed. Carefully, I cleaned out the debris, replaced the shredded gear, and lubricated the linkage. The entire process took only a few minutes. When I snapped the casing shut, Lorn slid his arm back into place and worked the elbow joint experimentally. Pistons hissed in smooth unison.

  "Feels better than it has in ages," he said, grinning wide. He counted out fifteen cogs into my hand, from which I calmly gave Wort five to cover the gear.

  "So…" Lorn ventured, slipping his jacket back on. "If I need more help or know someone else who does, can I send them your way? Where'll you be?"

  "That's…complicated," I admitted, glancing at Wort. "But maybe I can rent a corner here for a while if he'll let me."

  Wort made a begrudging noise. "As long as you don't get in my way. We'll hash out a rate later."

  Lorn's grin grew. "That's great. Then I'll spread the word. Thanks again. I appreciate all of this." With a parting nod, he slipped back out into the street.

  I pocketed the remaining ten cogs, feeling more relief than excitement. It wasn't a fortune, but at least I wasn't dirt broke again. Wort cleared his throat. "So, you staying to sort that out now or later?"

  "What?" I asked, confused.

  "The corner you are leasing."

  I nodded, meeting his gaze. "I'll do it now, if you'll have me."

  He rolled his eyes but returned to his own tasks, cordoning off an area before leaving me to rearrange the battered bench and tools.