Open Twin Beast Magitech Roar

[Ingenieur Waltz]

Cog bound ramshod propulsion systems did growl at the mere suggestion of a handle twisted. A pair of low metal beasts lined with crystal teeth seemed to threaten to tear off it's moorings, the center of this luftengine were these twin monsters of weave command, and they were eager to make themselves known. Trials of weave intricates patterned the surface of the polished platinum sheen of the engine so fired up, dazzling the crowd that had gathered to see the magitech. An ejection port of information was connected to a dial out read, a fog of information that did coalesce about cold fire lamps. Anyone with some knowledge might read the specifications and marvel. For most the sound was enough to impress that this was no ordinary luftengine, no ordinary drive system with the soothing dulcet and crackle of other engines. This was an untamed thing that as it provided gallop, did make all known that it never wanted to be reigned in with growls, as if to intimidate other engines that might dare to prowl beside it.

The warehouse doors had been opened, and the first unveiling of the new leap in luftengine aggression was in full swing. Free drinks, free snacks, and many had come for that alone, and that was honest enough reason. The engine that was on display, roaring and prowling the air with much growling as piston and pump and weave and welding did prove itself worthy of attention. The workshop name that had forged this thing from idea to final proof : 'Pallington'.

The engine name? Revealed today, in unfolding banner: The Twin Beast

Cheese snacks were snacked upon, great tankards of runefolk approved beverages tapped and drained. A rowdy display of spirits were in effect, glasses chimed and speeches given by investor and engineer alike, but in regular moments was the engine set to roaring, as chain copper links did shake to contain it. So solid and strong were the cables and bindings that kept the engine's will from shuddering it away, were secured by Waltz himself.

A cigar firmly in mouth that did burn hot, almost in time with the mighty engine's twin voices as it strained.

Eyes darted to the punters who were ignoring the stanchions, the dividing between civilised interest and potential damaging curiosity.

To those encouraging by beverage or raw boldness to place themselves near to controls and hands near to dials, were soon to witness the engines reveal themselves to be wilder than any performance so rendered, as bound as it was.

"I told 'em to rebuff the barriers with some warding," Waltz muttered to himself, throwing the cigar the ground as he made hurried approach, boots heavy and loud, insulated and as safe as money could buy. A pulse of cold light about the fastening points as something was perhaps being altered by someone.

"Hey, yous, not so close to that," Waltz said, speaking as the engine began to make a subtle whirring sound, a host of expressions now adopted as the luftengine became unusual, Waltz did wade into the crowd.

The engine began to begin to shake the very ground in pneumatic anger, what volume was within it's voice now was within this raging against the wrought iron constructions and wooden frames that did stand the thing. Insect like in it's threshing as armatures designed to hold wings did rotate futilely, the engine did strain against it's moorings by virtue of the central locomotion being so harnessed and clad in protective cases.

Those who had gathered were either offering their opinion or account of what detail had been changed, drawing themselves scarce or taking full advantage of the delicious sundries now unguarded.

"Someone sever the chain motivator! That big copper thing, strike it!" Ingenier Waltz did bellow as he did encourage with elbow and shoulder his presence to the command console as he strained to make his directive known.

 

[Vyn]

She’d come for the food. Whatever people played at here was far beyond her scope. She had seen this show before. Magic bound with metal. Magitech, they called it. She simply found it a mistake. All magic came at a cost, and metal was far too rigid to properly pay. Even at this distance, her thoughts slid between the snacks and the noise. She moved with the efficiency of someone who was planning to fill her pockets too. The cheese sticks were her favorite, dipped and fried and browned. The purr became a screech became… a noise she could no longer hear. She felt it in her bones. Felt it in her teeth. The world was shaking.

Free was free, she thought. What a joke! Always a price. Always.

The stocky guy was yelling. She thought Gordar probably looked like that, back in the ol’ days, back when the world was young.

The motivator? Well, that was him, silly! Motivating them to do something about the ruckus. These people really needed practice in storytelling, someone might smack a Dwarf. People could get hurt. She dropped the half-eaten stick and wiped her hands on whoever it was who panicked past.

She had no idea what she was doing. But she knew copper. The Road taught you early. The correct hands were the steady ones. She picked something heavy in passing. Metal. Could be a tool. The distance was quickly closed, as people rippled around and went the opposite way. No one really wanted to be close to the thing.

And then she struck it. The reverberation was felt back to her elbow. Glad she wiped her greasy hands when the opportunity struck, else she’d have whacked herself in turn. One wasn’t enough. Slammed it again, losing all feeling in her arms. It gave up slowly enough for her to be grateful a third strike wasn’t necessary. Her motions may have been learned from splitting firewood, but firewood never fought back this much.

So that was done. She dropped the metal chunk and turned back to the food.

To her horror, someone had knocked it all over. Even now they were stepping on it. It wasn’t exactly rage she felt, but it wasn’t sadness alone.

“You owe me a cheesestick!” She’d growl at no one in particular.

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

Waltz, all elbows and wide shifting shoulders that barged and snaked as best as one might to get to the problem. A mess of dignities filtered past him, all fine clothes that obstructed, the odd understudy to the engineering programs that were unsure of how to help looking aghast and flustered crashed into and moved aside to Waltz' widening berth. Waltz himself waded past with growing growls of exertion, and heard the ring of steel against copper strike thrice before his eyes were upon the action.

The copper chain motivator had been struck enough to sever the internal wirings and interlocking runes that granted communication of motivating force by Vyn. A mess of hexagonal command runes were now smashed within the frame, and were quickly turning to blackened dust within the ruined chain motivator. An acrid smell did splutter out from vents designed to allow cooling of such precious runes, nought but vents now to the unpleasant odour of destruction. The pneumatic movements of the engine grew choked and frantic, gaining fury and pathetic energy in unpredictable and fast changing swings of rhythms. Like a child's spinning top nearing the end of a spin, as it was losing centripetal force, it was becoming more wayward. More unpredictable.

So gnarled from concussive strikes, bluntly delivered by Vyn as instructed, left the machine to roil and shudder, not quite a kill switch to the entire spasmodic show of roaring engine and and wildly buckling containment chains as it gained a new hue and sound. The engines had been denied full activation of the weave intake through the motivator being crushed. Yet...

"That should have choked you dead, the motivator's been crushed!" Waltz barked, as if demanding the engine obey the way of things that breathed weave in systems of metals and rune. He flared his left arm up and towards the machine, the gauge upon it giving wild dial throws as weave detection systems gave a cursory sniff of what was occurring within the thrashing machine. First pointed at the motivator, which gave minor tremors to the dials, Waltz's eyes darting from the machine to his read outs as a fresh rush of new faces made themselves crowd about.

Further white clad engineers had drawn closer to the engine, half of them concerning themselves with talking as the engine began to give out a rising tone which sounded at first as a low milling stone of a slow turning windmill growing faster with each rotation it made.

Waltz turned his wrist, fluids in compartments flashing blues and greens, causing the engineer to swear loudly to himself. The wrist born device rearranged itself in small degrees, the channelling rod gaining further sensitives, and pointed at the wide coils behind, before an insulated glove from his left did grab at it and tear the detector away from the engine that sputtered on, sound growing all the while.

"That's Pallington property, you can't just scan it! According to the rules of this gathering you all signed, no engineer is allowed to," the fellow did say shrilly, a tall gentleman who had pristine white gear about them, their eyes fiercely shocked at Waltz's attempt at diagnostics.

"And you!" the white clad representative of Pallington said in even more shrill tones at Vyn, seemingly more concerned with rabble control than engine control, "You'll be fined, even imprisoned for sabotaging our prototype like this! The gall of it! Do you know how long we at Pallington have been refining-"

The device upon Waltz's flared with violet hues as a deduction was made within it's sensors as to what it had briefly been pointed at. Upon seeing this, Waltz's flared in anger, his fingers curling into a fist, pulled back and with all the explosive power that dwarven muscle could spring, punched the white clad engineer in the belly.

Firmly winded and crumpled, protestations choking in the throat as shock rippled through the Pallington team. Some seemed eager to helpful but were frozen in place like panicked children. Others shared the outrage, and drew out spanners and tools to deliver bludgeoning to answer the punch, and to seize Vyn.

Waltz looked down in disgust as he moved his goggle downs upon his eyes.

"Violet only means one thing, you cheating bastards," Waltz said as he turned quick, as his made rapid his way to the control panel.

Waltz started to make wide berth around the engine towards the steps that held the control panel. As he did so, he saw Val and called out in the same authoritive voice as he did before, himself being pursued by the lab technicians of Pallington.

"Job's not done! Whole thing's gunna blow if we don't sort it! Come on, unless you want to eat spanners to the head 'fore we all got blown to sunders! Up the stairs!"

@Vyn

 

[Vyn]

Of course it couldn’t have been that easy. What little frustration she could afford was interrupted by the growing commotion. And she could see three streams in the flow of the room. People trampling over obstacles and each other. Trampling over food. Then there were others she could denote as Pallingtons, somehow behind the loud monstrosity. Finally, there was the young Gordar looking individual who was invested in stopping this mess. Because whatever this was, it was dangerous. The hastiness in his actions. The shadow across his face when he saw purple. It all reminded her of the first time she understood what pale truly meant. There was fear there, fear and recognition. While all of this technobabble nonsense was beyond her, she could understand the man’s desire to stop them all from getting hurt or worse. Anyone standing in his way was not of the Road. She would act accordingly.

It seemed like they were angry at her as well. Understandable really, she did break their stuff. But broken stuff was better than broken bones. Better yet than broken lives. She was always ready to defend herself. Being defended was something else entirely. Even if it was a side-effect of the man’s desire to see this through, it only made the sides clearer.

“Master Dwarf! Go up!” She yelled as she awkwardly tried to elbow what seemed to be a scientist square in the face. Whatever the man’s profession, he clearly wasn’t of the Road. City folk always surprised with their softness. She was well below average in strength compared to her kin, but these people felt like books and paper. Liquid in her hands.

With the hit accomplished, her elbow stung. Fighting was never her first resort. Even when you won you got hurt. And she’d had enough of hurting herself for one lifetime. “Go now!” As she simply tried to slap another person away only to get her hand caught in turn. They weren’t all liquid apparently.

“Stop, that’s company property right there!” She failed to see how that mattered if lives were at stake. Clocked him in the nose all the same. Her knuckles regretted the attempt. And the man was nowhere near as malleable as the first one. Still upright, still holding her arm. Grunted. Couldn’t tell whether it was pain or amusement. Grip too sure, too strong.

She was about to wrench her hand back when a crack came across her shin. A kick! Badly aimed, but effective nonetheless. Pain grew from the contact, knees unsure, teeth clattering. She would curse if she had the time for it. Balance tipped, she was wrongfooted and hurt. Destination down. No grace or smoothness to it, she did her best impression of a sack of potatoes. The ground kicked harder than the man ever could. She was ashamed to realize that she wasn’t much of a fighter. She had disregarded that she could’ve been kicked completely. But she would learn from this. She would also teach from this. And her first pupil would be the guy who had grounded her smugness.

“You people…” was cut short as she sucker punched up, to the man’s gut. She had seen much bigger men fall to something like this. The action was crude and it hurt. But it hurt the man more.

She pushed the man down on her way up. “Go!” yelling again, without checking if he’d already done so. The rest of the guests, the soft ones, were either stuck with fear or well on their way out. Everyone left was either with them or against them.

She had time for a small breather before she pulled out a knife. Not for them. For herself.

If it came to it, she had backup.

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

Waltz found his way to the control panel by virtue of the space afforded by Vyn's delay of those that would waylay. A myriad of trembling levers and dials of quicksilver that elongated and shrank in confusion greeted him, Waltz's eyes quick reading of their protests. His hands held aloft as command readied himself, his own diagnostic harness upon his left wrist vibrant with clues as to how to help, his right hand already firming about a cluster of pale runic pillars.

Seeing the squat engineer who held aloft high the pronged device that carried a vial of violet that did indicate his findings, the second group of engineers did spur themselves into hurrying to the control panel directly, much clamour in their panic. Most did not carry their tools as weapons, their writing implements and paperworks did mark them, their shouting a smatterings of instructions to the dwarf who had acted so. A pair did surge with them that had heavy hammers, mallets designed to allow the Twin Beast to be free of it's snagging moorings, now lumbered by the brawnier servants of Pallington, heavy banners that could seen poking above the heads that did balk at Waltz's interfacing.

Mutterings of calculation and appraisal from Waltz, grumblings of non-industry practice that were heard only by the control panel that remained stoic for his comments. A time piece of sand did trickle what grains it had in contrary motion to what it ought.

A flick of the wrist to erupt a spike from Waltz, which gleamed greenish yellow. The harpoon of data did plunge into the control panel, surges of concussive punctures allowed it to reach the heart of the matter in spite of the Pallington security, countermanding their snares that recoiled from Waltz's insistence.

Goggles on, runic script did run against his eye.

“Ahuh,” Waltz did say, his eyes darting between control panel, script, and fresh flood of scientists.

“Ahuh,” Waltz rumbled out, right hand upon the runic pillars that pressed it into service, twisting hexagons to new tasks beyond it's design. Three levers quick thrown, the harpoon given an bolt of static of encourage Waltz's will to take hold.

A ripple from the Twin Beast engine wide grin of triangular teeth, jade ichors that did emerge from interlocking fangs that trembled. Only alongside the lane that was soon to be filled with scientists to crash upon the knife wielding Vyn did the teeth begin to shiver.

“Get your horns up here, things are about to get ugly! I've got your back, move!” Waltz did bark to Vyn, setting things into motion with a twist of the harpoon, that set defences and counter measures in action in dual surging energies of green and yellows, coiling commands that did render internal change in the Pallington invention.

The teeth became more pointed and animalistic, violet smoke now trickling as they parted.

The scientists were but now ten feet away from Vyn, bustling with ideas and complaint, hammers and need to protect what was theirs.

A gout of violet smoke did rush out from teeth that parted, acrid and biting in it's exhumation. Ragged coughing and suprise quick turned to screams as within the smoke as great tearing did begin, the Twin Beast's cage of mechanical nature vented open to release the savagery so bound within it, the display of what was truly occurring not revealed by sight but by sound. What had been summoned by the weave in the creation of this Twin Beast had been let loose in small degree, countless myriad limbs that did reach out from their enclosure. They did ensnare and bite, claw and drag at scientists who found themselves blocked by their invention's rage.

Waltz worked on, his own wrist device with vial of violet turning a chill and frozen black. His gloves set upon a heavy platinum lever, the final synaptic. A tug, resisted.

“Need a second pair of hands here, press the silver rune face as hard as you can! Keep it pressed, no matter what happens!” Waltz said, nodding to the three inch wide hexagonical panel that was gaining fractures as the violet smoke did gain fresh vigours about the scientists. Pressing it would herald the end. His hands were poised to throw the switch.

Or so Waltz hoped, swearing loudly as his runic read outs told him a summoning weave cascade was in effect.

Purple smokes now slow trickling about his feet from the border of the control panel, now growing rows of triangular teeth that did begin to part, shivering and promising a fresh gout of clawing hands upon Waltz and Vyn. The visions of what was trapped within the Twin Beast to make it so energetic in motion and so violent in it's need to tear free of itself.

@Vyn

 

[Vyn]

When she heard the Dwarf call up, they were nearly upon her. His voice barely heard over the coughing. Something was wrong with the smoke. This wasn’t smoke of fire, but something far worse. She felt her own nose recoil at the touch. The machine wanted to poison them. Moving up the stairs, she took a moment to debate – forearm or palm? Forearm of course! Couldn’t risk a weak grip later. The knife met her skin like an old friend, expected. Already forgiven. Smoke providing some cover, the small flash of white would still show. She was calling one of the feral. In her mind, she imagined a snake, as big and strong as her blood could afford. The cut wasn’t that deep after all.

A python wrapped around her, drinking the blood. Thick as a well-fed thigh, she couldn’t judge its size before it started to unwrap. “Don’t kill anyone.” Was the best she could explain under the rushed circumstances. As it coiled down to the ground, she could see a split at the middle. Another mouth. Human teeth, smiling. Even now, even after all this time, she found them unnerving. She didn’t have time to define what level of hurt she would like inflicted. For the moment, not being dead was the best anyone could hope for.

She reached the Dwarf as the purple pooled at his feet. Vyn hit the button before he had time to finish his sentence. Before the first scientist screamed down below. A wrench of some sort flying through the air. Pain spread up her arm. Wrong. And familiar…

Locking eyes with the short figure next to her. “Throw your damn lever!” Gentle and quick did not share a language.

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

Assistance so granted, the dwarf did throw the lever, twisting in the tension of the need. A solid crack of metal upon metal, and a churning of dying gears that beared their teeth against limiters and internal facets of stalling. Choking, grinding, biting, they set about undoing what was already in motion in bites against the momentum gathered.

At once, the sound of sputtering and animalistic groans did spit from the control panel. From the twin engines, myriad of breaking sounds from the racks of teeth that did billow the gouting smoke, fierce shudderings and shutters slamming closed. The sound of chalk upon steel plate, internal safety ligaments etching their own stilling runes from within, breaking the forged runes with white streaks that would set this to an unravelling end. One engine groaned against it's holdings, cantering and beaching itself against the platform like some dying whale of sleek metal. The other that had issued the smoke that had beset the technicians with a myriad of weavemist plagues, apparitions of things summoned and caged, ceased it's exhaustive blooms of weirding. The mists dissipating, revealing scratched and clawed technicians who fended themselves against nothing, the smoke bleeding away their savaging spirits.

Washers and circlets of weaving tuning forks sprang out, as if they were confetti to the occasion, a shower of highly tuned equipment turned into sparkling baubles. The technicians gave out their gasps, relief that the onslaught had abated, dread in their responsibilities, abashed and undone by their hubris. The crowd that had chosen to come to this scene of engines and hors d'oeuvres had firmly fled. Hors d'oeuvres that lay wasted, but far less ruined than the engineering so broken by itself and safety switch swung solid. Food enough for the birds that were braying, as if mocking the scene, now taking flight to circle, a shuddering of coughings coming from those who did gather their wits and survey the scene.

Waltz did give utterance of his own relief, and looked ruefully at Vyn. A nod in thanks, deep and respectful of the actions performed. He produced a cigar and planted it within his teeth, bit down and spat the end away into a crack of the control panel in defiance of it's trouble.

He extended his right for a handshake, turning as one does about narrow corridordoors of engine rooms as he did, a force of habit. He lifted his diagnostic tool to by his mouth as he did so, hoping his handshake would be taken up. A small flame burned jet white, igniting his cigar, the vial that was once filled with purple now completely oil black.

Like a dying spider, frameworks once elegant did curl upon themselves, truly marking a total seepage of weave tensions. That same blackness that was within Waltz's sample flask was seeping, a stilled magitech heart and weave capillieries completely ruptured.

At such sight, technicians followed orders quickly delivered in code. "Sanguine Drill, let's go people!" Hands went to orbs that seemed as dimmed eyes, silver keys slotted into side panels as the industry secrets were set to crumbling or rescued for further study. Hands went to mops, but they mostly went to the fusing components that were clues to their methods.

A man fresh to the scene had given such an order, prestine in navy blues, head full of spiked hair, human and scrutinising, chistled of jaw and teeth a gleaming, was someone who all technicians defered to. He made his way to the control panel, taking moments to throw gestures and encourage thoroughness as Sanguine Drill was enacted. In his hands a short black stave, a sign of authority, and capable of much shocking.

"I'm Waltz. Ingenieur Waltz," the runefolk said, his smile broad but his brow still furrowed as he drew back his hand regardless of if it was shaken. His goggles did reflect the cigar's cherry which grew hot from Waltz's quick pull. "Listen, I owe you for actually being useful around here. You see that guy over there?" Waltz said, thumbing in the direction of the navy blue uniform "Head honcho. He aint here to make friends, least of all us. We gotta get out while the getting's good."

Waltz nodded over to the walkway ladders, pursed his lips, and said, "Unless you think chatting to 'em is good idea. Won't leave you alone jumping into the fire from the frying pan. But if it's all the same with you, I'd rather just leave the kitchen entire."

Another drag of the cigar, the security officer for Industry Secrets gaining speed as he saw people not wearing white coats about the now broken control panel.

@Vyn

 

[Vyn]

It took her a moment to take his hand. Not because there was something wrong with it, but because she needed to undo the pale snake still squirming on the ground below them. In the chaos of it, she forgot to consider how badly it could’ve heard the people. And they would’ve had it coming. No one remaining was innocent. She still didn’t want to be responsible for the bites, and the sprains and the breaks. With a thought it was gone. She would avoid witnessing the mess if possible.

“I’m Vyn. Wagons of Elum” She grabbed Waltz’s hand. Firm. Red at the edge where the knife greeted skin moments ago. She looked to where he was pointing and could notice what seemed like the authorities surveying the scene. Giving their act of vandalism and how expensive it seemed, she didn’t have to be asked twice.

“Let’s go.” Nodding.

She didn’t wait for Waltz to lead. Shifted her weight and made way for the ladder he’d suggested. She could sense something unnatural from this machine, and it reminded her of where the Pale came from. But now was not the time to question. Boots noisy as she moved away. No rush to her steps, just a certainty of leaving. No need to stay once her part of the story had already been told.

She would glance back him as she got further.

“You coming?”

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

"Ya," Waltz did state, "Ya."

The certainty of leaving did blend perfect with the certainty of industry secrets being laboured at, drawn away from the imbound inspection of lawful authority that were rapid assembling in the wings. Pallington's clean up was in full effect, baton did wave, eyes that scrutinised and looked for culprit. Mists sifting from death rattling engine maw did conceal, the birds that did bray and call soon mingling with the sound of bells and water pumps churning as evidence was sealed by protocol.

Rungs stepped upon, quick descent down, a moment from Waltz to drink in the mangled Pallington product. The cigar rolled within his jaw, drawing thick smoke in to lungs that grumbled out their final comment.

"Violet. Why'd you Pallington boys ruin yourselves with that nonsense," Waltz did remark rueful. A puff of smoke, and he was gone.

More muttered remarks from him indistinct as he clambered down, boots heavy that made the ladder give low gonging sound as the squat fellow descended expertly, dab hand to such clinging passage. To where Waltz did not know.

The twin beast was picked at as rightful scavengers and owners of the wreck did collide with the law, did negotiate with reporters and inquirers. Voices raised, items pocketed, some evidence revealing themselves to those that did not know their nefarious nature.

The baton did rest against the busted control panel. Eyes narrowing, Sanguine Protocol enacted and in motion, quick ejection of runescript via proper negotiation, sequestered and secured. A snarl upon the face as cigar butt was plucked from the ruins, a blemish upon the blasted. Turned slow within the hand as eyes turned downwards in further disgust at what revealed itself. Bootprints quick fading for the virtue of heat of the Twin Beast's heat quelling itself with all around.

A snap of fingers, questions asked, a fresh conspiracy and quick forming inquiry on inquiry germinating into salutes and agreements, quick bark and negotiations with the need and the law.

The ladder descended Vyn and Waltz below the scene of spilled cheese snacks and broken corporate secrets. The birds did circle wide and above them, braying about as humanoids did make themselves industrious. Boots clambered tirelessly, to wherever the ladder did lead them, to whatever sight did greet Vyn who would away them.

@Vyn

 

[Vyn]

Heat gave way to metal. Long pipes hissed with steam like snakes at rest, valves invisible. The scent of burnt was still heavy in the air. But it had gotten better. Instead of dead and wrong, they were now smelling ash and oil. The mutated echoes of the monstrosity above could still be felt, but it was closer to a memory now. Shadows stretched before them. The walkway narrowed. A place not for public eyes. One of rodents and machinesleep.

Vyn dropped low as soon as she released the last rung. The railing slick with condensation. She tried to listen for the commotion above, but all she heard were feet. The law. Pallingtons. Waltz. It was a bunch of blunt sounds that echoed on each other, refusing to cooperate.

She could hear them at this level as well, somewhere ahead. Steps even. “I think they’re sweeping.” She edged forward, ducking beneath hanging wires. Refusing to touch anything that reminded her of the catastrophe above. The shroud felt thinned here. Old Magitech crowded the walls, sucking what little life was left in the air to sustain themselves.

“You see a way out, you point. Otherwise, you keep quiet and your boots soft.” A red beam of some sort moved through the hallway ahead. A hand mounted device, much like the one Waltz had. She pulled into magitech scrap, ducking behind cover, and held her breath. It passed.

“We go when the next one passes. Be ready.” She groped blindly for his sleeve without looking. If she found it, she’d tug to make sure he was aware.

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

The red light that sifted out as creeping fingers curling outwards from outturned wrists of interlocking runes. Hues that looked for hints of beating hearts and footprints fresh pressed and hurry. A grumble here and there about their shift, enthusiasm from another who remarked upon the magitech that supported function in loyal thankless service. Waste systems and communication networks, ill reliable for their recent adoption, ill reliable for the upkeep poorly conducted.

Waltz had sleeve tugged at, his eyes glancing across the face of smeared wooden panels. An old interface design. A palm went to it, moving grime aside to reveal simple binary markings. Dots and dashes, hexagonal ink well faded. Signs of other engineers long before, working with what tools they had for their time, leaving clues for others who might find their work in need of attention and further service.

Already the wooden panel was being greased at the hinges, the need for hushed work instructed by Vyn. The small tankard of lubricant applied liberally. A primative aspects of his wrist device revealed in ratchet turn, a crowbar like tooth jutting out. A myriad of intertangled clambering reaches of Magitech theory, interlocking ideas in ramshackled homage to present solutions.

"That'll do," Waltz said cheerful like, soothing words as his gloves went to cause a chaos. Glove fingertip ran across layline, venting systems, arcing intention points.

A odd faceted tool emerged with purpose where the crowbow tooth had nestled. A sickle like thing on one edge, a plunger on the other. Waltz looked at it as an old friend, thinking internal that it had been some time since he'd performed this service on anything at all, much less for outside the box need of the user.

The plunger went geometric point, the sickle flicked against by thumb. A quiet pneumatic thump. Release.

Just in time for the two to pass, panel closed by Waltz silently for virtue of the oil.

Waltz was ready to move, some look of mischief upon him.

The two technicians passed, their words mumbling towards themselves as they compared what they had prepared in their pails for lunch. Salami being defended as a filling, wholegrain attacked for being below and atop it. As they passed, the red fingers curling outwards rapped against pipe, against interlocking wheel, pullies that would be thrown into counterweight for Waltz's interferance. Not near as fierce a shut down as displayed upon the Twin Beast revealing itself.

"The Municiples pick the finest time to run a full stress-prang test!" One remarked, the red hue turning to everything in rapt attention, pipes thrumming with the Weave making pinging course throughout the infrastructure.

"Long overdue it seems," the other hummed, curious and attentive, thumbing at the pipes that rattled, "you see what's appearing? I mean...seeing as we're down here," the other said, already pulling out a cross referencing hand book and making further hurry down the corridor, seeing a smatterings of issues plain to the eye. Punctures caused by lack of attention. Well worn and misaligned corridors of runescript sparkling their crooked smiles of weave.

"Nah, you're wrong about your bread and you're wrong about this mate, we work for Pallington not the Municiple Techs remember? Don't be an idiot, we got a Sanguine Drill to-"

"Sanguine Drill can go hang, there's a fixin' to be made. Dead simple for us while we're here. They'd take weeks to find anything down here, you know what they are like. Tell me I'm wrong. You know how many people rely on this system? It's all choked up. Simple shuffle and rescribe and it's done. Come on, they are not down here anyway, might as well do some good after that disaster-"

"Can't say us from Protocol section didn't warn 'em three months ago, fool's errand cramming soul torque into such a harness. But not as foolish as salami 'tween wholegrain slice, buddy, you're out of your mind," the other said, taking out his own devices to mind the new task before them.

"Ah but you see, the chutney makes it work-" the final words that could be heard as the corner was firmly turned, clanging and smacks of engineering taps and twists to attend the city's need.

Waltz's mischievous look turned to optimistic surprise.

"Not all bad in Pallington's ranks it seems," Waltz said, thumb across his nose.

"Don't worry, I didn't damage anything. Opposite actually. It'll help get the systems the attention they need. The distraction we need."

Waltz smacked his lips.

"Believe it or not, I know a speak easy down here if you're interested. Can't be drinking topside, Pallington will be scourin'. Figure I owe you a pint for actually stepping up as you did. Or would you prefer a cheese snack. Pretty sure Horace does a charred-cute-a-bree or whatever," he said, craning his neck around a corner, no sign of any scouting engineers as the pipes thrummed.

Waltz, looked back, relaxed and easy, a smile quick creeping, "Unless you're hungry for a salami sandwich in wholegrain. With chutney."

@Vyn

 

[Vyn]

She didn’t understand half of what he just did. Not really. Not the runes or the tools, and definitely not that bizarre plunger-sickle bit. She did her best to appreciate the results. The panel shut down silently, a lullaby really. The corridor cleared. No one was yelling. She allowed herself a breath. Finally allowed to feel tired.

“Ain’t half bad, Waltz.” She moved fluid between the different metals that didn’t seem to like each other. “I was ready to scrap, or play dead.” She shrugged unsure it would even be a choice. “Both even.” She smiled in approval. “More dignified, this way.”

The patrols had passed, leaving only memories of lunch debates in their wake. One moment they were lawmen, sensors flaring and questions asked – next engineers with bread grudges. That wasn’t how today was supposed to end. But then again, nothing was right with today.

“Wholegrain ain’t a hill worth dying on.” More to herself than him.

He mentioned a speakeasy. Her eyebrows pushed up with each word.

“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question. “Fine. Cheese it is.” She sighed with memory. “But if Horace tries to kiss me again, I’m blaming you.” Of course it had to be Horace! This day had the shape of a joke. And the punchline, well…

Enough thoughts! The future was bright enough. Filled with cheese. Maybe a pint.

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

"Ah, you know of the spot then, good," Waltz said, half impressed and half disappointed. Impressed that Vyn was in the know. Disappointed that he wasn't the one to put Vyn in the know.

"Horace owes me a palm of silver, if he does advance," Waltz said, hoisting his belt up as he said so, "I'll crack his face with mine, and add another palm of silver on top of what's owed. Come on, let's be about it, few twists and turns away yet," Waltz continued as he lead the way. His shoulders full of prowess, a nod here and there at jobs well or poorly done that did reveal themselves across wall and ceiling.

As the two did make themselves travellers to the arteries of the city. Where the clogged weave and choking pipes were mended by those with time to care away from tracking the two. Slow metronomes of whirling cogs did click away, the two's footfalls as quiet as they could manage against the panelled floor. The odd comment of weave that did hum as it struggled with it's labours.

No further sign of Pallington trackers. Their attentions rapt upon what was lacking in the halls.

Horace awaited them, nestled behind the thicket of securities to authority figures. Sliding door, misdirecting sign, warning fierce without teeth or bite, odd arrangement of scrap materials that did reveal their frequent movement in abrasions on the floor. Waltz handled them all, hands used to the gruff nature of the business of such labours. Refusing to let someone he offered a drink and cheeseboard to make amuck their hands.

At the threshold of the speakeasy, gentle steps of ill fitting wood. A plate of chalk white, circular and concave. Beside it, a rune lurking behind a curtain. Lifted, pressed with thumb by Waltz.

At once, the invisible guardians of this place did rearrange the securities to their duties to obstruction. If nothing else to ensure that unwanted guests had to spend their minutes to earn their invasion.

A squeezable hollow pump did dangle down from the ceiling. A horn that followed, that gave a sputtering cough, and then-

"Who-sat?"

"One Waltz and guest. Of the Wagons of Elum."

A sound akin to one delaying time for jest's sake, a hum and haw, a playful uncertainty entertained.

Waltz did squeeze the pump, and speak coarsely into the horn direct.

"Stop mucking about Drail, I know it's you, and you know it's me. No time for this, Pallington-"

"Okay okay, 'course, 'course, was only-" the sound cut off as the opening mechanism was worked upon. The sound of motion rolling their ways by counterweight to yield the speakeasy theirs to drink in. Some moments before the white door would slide open.

Waltz gave Vyn a glance.

"Drail's alright, but by chistled stone, he does enjoy blowing his own trumpet," Waltz said, placing a fresh cigar into his mouth.

He tapped his foot as the door took it's time and Drail did take more time than usual.

@Vyn

 

[Vyn]

Vyn followed without comment at first, weaving her way through the arteries of the underground. She imagined them veins, given how slowly they flowed through. Waltz seemed confident, so she let him lead the way without questioning. She’d never come this way before. Back when Horace was still trying to impress her, she’d been shown another way. Wasn’t sure if that was something to be shared with Waltz – it wasn’t her story to tell after all. So she let the secret stay tucked in, warm in her coat.

Her eyes tracked every crack and pulse in the pipes. The lights down here blinked like dying stars. The thinning of the shroud serving as a reminder of how little magitech cared for the world around it. She thought she could feel current in the walls. Sounded like muffled screams and rattling. Half of the equipment they passed like it was one good kick away from giving up and giving out. Couldn’t help but wonder how long until another Twin Beast tore loose. Because people never learned. Not really.

Her pace adjusted to fall slightly behind the smaller man. Just enough to see how naturally he moved in the maze of disasters waiting to happen. The way he adjusted and recognized the poorly sealed junctions and steam escaping what felt like sick lungs – he knew this place. That earned some respect. One should know their Road.

Her attention snapped back to the moment. Sound of the horn. She could hear the crackle of reply. The teasing. The posturing. It brought a smile to her face.

“All inflated things collapse under scrutiny.” She muttered low enough for Waltz to hear. Wouldn’t want to poke at Drail too directly. “That includes lungs and personalities. Don’t puff yourself up too big.” As the door slid open, Vyn readily stepped forward. No need for announcement or a dramatic entrance. She walked in like she belonged, because once she did.

“Drail.” She’d nod in recognition. “Still alive. Pity.” A small smile. But she wasn’t waiting for a response.

Inside the speakeasy had changed. Not completely. Just enough to know someone had rearranged the bones. The low lights were still amber in the corners. Still flickered. The long iron stove still radiated heat like a lazy beast. But the tables had shifted. Fewer faces she recognized. New scars in the wood. New dust in the corners.

Eyes swept over the room once. Twice. There he was, hunched over a table in the far corner. Horace. She hadn’t even fully stepped inside, and her jaw already tight. He was shorter than she remembered. Halfling? Goblin? Who cared. He was small, and his mouth always outran his sense.

Vyn’s eyes narrowed at the distant figure.

“There silvers says he’s inappropriate in the first three sentences.” Then she nodded to Waltz. “Two if he’s been drinkin’.”

She didn’t smile. Just made her way deeper into the room. Eyes alert. And hands free. For now.

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

"That's a bad bet," Waltz remarked as they entered.

Drail himself was a gangly being of much craning of the neck and feathers that did moult and shed with each marrionette like movement, his pelican peak pointing in wild angles as his eyes did narrow and widen at remarkable nothings. His hands in balding white were to the wheels and cranks that did open and seal the speak easy, his empty mugs of nectar looked at wantingly, shooting glances to his fellow colleagues to attend his bill.

The speak easy was in mid-swing of it's accommodated loiterers. Hushed were the tones that did rumble on as sure as the pipes did in regular complaint and compliance.

Horace himself was a squat figure who was freeing himself from plump pillows, his company already glad to leave him quicker than he did rise. Palms grasped at nothing as weight was shifted and he hefted himself from his pomp, a copper snake coiling back to the ceiling, a similar device as Waltz had spoken to Drail through returning to the den of devices. A few odd looks from Horace's company as they did pass Waltz and Vyn to chat to Drail, who cluttered the floor with more feathers and pointed to empty drinks and complained muchly in bill snaps and too oft heard pleas for compassion.

Horace used his belt to make his swagger wide, himself important. His teeth flashed precious glitterings. His shoes beset with green gems that Waltz noted had been fresh polished and untouched by graze or scratch. Horace produced his voice as if he were an arbiter of many things, as if having many fingers in many pies were an admirable and laudable trait, mockeries that dripped like the butter that was frying bread on the stove so near.

"Thought you fixed things for a living, Waltz," Horace did say, and drummed on their belly with their palms, happy with their barb.

Waltz lit his cigar, letting the smoke replace the bad taste.

A quick exhale to communicate annoyance in thin jet.

"What is it you do again Horace? Aside from welch on debts?"

A hand gesture given by Horace, dismissive.

"Ah, give over," he said, scratching his sparse beard.

"Give us some peace, it's been a day. Libation, on your tab, and we're in good order."

Horace gave hum, as if he were appraising the gems on someone else's shoes and finding them wanting.

Waltz gave him a look and a puff of smoke to dissuade further delay.

Horace went off to the bar and negotiated his right to be served quickly, leaving Vyn and Waltz free roam to go to a table. Waltz did sit himself down, and remarked to Vyn, "See, bad bet. Bad bet. And," Waltz did say, leaning on elbow and biting his cigar as he did mull things over, "Not so sure I like him knowing what happened topside so quick. What think you Vyn?"

Horace didn't cast eyes back as he haggled over drinks, stalling what service with his usual fanfare of miserly ways, teeth flashing signs that his purse wasn't as thin as he did report to tired barstaff.

@Vyn