[Closed] Fetch the Bolt Cutters

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Enough to be Early, 7 Bethas, 2720
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

Ent sure,” the foreman had said, looking at the enormous Fourcault process machine – five stories tall, stretching up from the base of the factory floor to the edge of the walkway above, and then turning to squint down at Chrysanthe. “We’ve strict quotas t’ meet tomorrow, ye chen. I mean, ye unnerstan, miss. Madam.”

“Quite,” Chrysanthe had said, crisply, drawing herself up straight, tilting her neck back as well; she looked the machine over, from the pit where the glass cool enough to be worked was stored, all the way up along the rollers which drew the glass the better part of seventy feet into the air, encased in red brick. “I shall have the process updated and ready to go on the machine by morning.”

Strange, Chrysanthe thought, hours later, surrounded by a mess of rollers, the chimney of the machine open before her, her hands covered in blackgrease, and the containers for the application of sulfur dioxide no closer to having been incorporated than they were hours earlier, how something you had wanted – had wished for, had prayed for, had argued for – could feel so very much like a punishment.

She had argued; she had drawn up a presentation for Mr. Pargeter himself, and shown him – shown him! – what good results they had had in the laboratory, how all the spells confirmed that sulfur dioxide, applied to the surface of the glass ribbon as it cooled, should make the glass higher quality and more durable both. The last of these presentations she had made in Dentis, and he had taken the sheath of papers she had prepared, thanked her for her efforts, and dismissed her.

By last week, of course, Chrysanthe had expected to be fired. After the incident with Howard, which had left Mr. and Mrs. Pargeter’s youngest son doubled over and pale faced and her knee throbbing painfully, Chrysanthe had taken it as nearly a given that she would, in fact, be fired. She had not tendered her resignation, as she had wished to force them to say it to her face – that she would be fired because their son was a lecher and a lout, who could no more accept a no than he could manage the quality of the glass their own factory produced.

Mr. Pargeter had called her into the office, and Chrysanthe had sat, straight-backed, and stared him down.

Instead, he had told her that they wished to try the sulfur dioxide process in one of the factories in the Rose – that she was to go, herself, and oversee the application and the initial trials. Chrysanthe thought, bitterly, that she should have been glad, except that it was so transparently his wish to get her out of Vienda; she was grateful, at least, if bitter, that they had not let Howard stand in the office and smirk at her as Mr. Pargeter delivered the news.

Fine, Chrysanthe had thought – fine.

She simply could not get the pieces to fit together; worse, she had removed more of the rollers than she ought to have, and she had not the least idea how she would put them back together – particularly, Chrysanthe thought, despairingly, by morning. Mr. Jeneway would send a nasty report back to Mr. Pargeter, although Chrysanthe rather had trouble caring about that just now; it was, rather distractingly, the foreman’s worried frown she thought of.

Chrysanthe rose with a muttered “Tocks,” and stomped away from the bits and pieces on the floor. She had sent the night watchman for a mechanic nearly an hour ago already; she had thought he would be back in minutes, but instead she was all alone in the enormous, dark factory. Chrysanthe set to work heating water, and began to brew tea. She sat on a chair at the table, and closed her eyes – for just a moment, she thought to herself, resting her forehead on her arms. Her long, blonde braids were pulled back in a looping bun; the wispy strands of hair which liked to escape them and trail about her face were held back with a sleek brown velvet headband.

Just a moment, Chrysanthe thought, her eyes fluttering shut, already losing track of the tea steeping nearby. Just a moment.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 7, 2720 - A Dreadful Hour
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

"Shitfuck godsdamn poxy erse of a--"

Charlie's night was going well.

First he had woken up long after midday. Not wildly unusual, really, except that he didn't usually fall asleep with a pair of pliers pressed to his cheek and Tippy still out of her cage. What had woken him then hadn't been the hour, but rather the whice landing on his shoulder and pecking rather persistently at the more tender parts of his ear.

So Charlie had bolted straight upright in his chair, sending the bird squawking and flying off to parts unknown. They had remained unknown for the better part of half an hour; by the time Charlie had found Tippy and wrangled her down from her bizarre perch on top of his cabinets, thanks to the precarious aid of several books, a chair and a distinctly wobbly bucket, he had not been in the best of spirits. Couldn't even be mad at the clocking bird, not really. It wasn't her fault she had a brain the size of a peanut.

Second, Charlie had thought to himself: well, hey. Don't mind that, he could always roll on over to his favorite place for lunch--or a very late breakfast, he didn't much care which. Cheer himself up, right? So he felt like he'd been hit over the back of the head with a lead pipe and was nursing what might be a third day of hangover! Nothing a good sandwich couldn't cure.

He'd gotten all the way there, too, before he realized he'd left his wallet at home. By the time he'd returned to retrieve it, he was in too sour a mood to go back and settled for a strangle amalgamation of the things he had in his kitchen. The end of a bit of sausage, cheese of suspicious vintage, mustard he only still had because he didn't much care for it, and a stale bit of dark bread. Charlie ate all of these things resentfully, while delivering to Tippy what he thought was a rather brilliant and impassioned speech on the unfairness of the world at large. Especially the parts that pertained to himself personally; the only parts that really mattered.

After that, he'd done some pointless tinkering about with some of the projects on his workbench. Surprisingly, none of his swearing and threatening and insulting of their mothers--which he supposed was himself in the end, although that was a dubious claim to make--made any of them come any closer to function. At last Charlie had given up and thrown them down in disgust. Tonight, he had determined, he was going to get so blackout drunk he would forget his own name.

Even that hadn't gone his way! No sooner had he worked up a pleasant sort of giddiness, then who should roll through the door? Why, none other than a fling from four months ago that had take strong exception to the language Charlie had employed in telling them that he was under no uncertain terms completely disinterested in continuing their acquaintance. Also, he was twice Charlie's size, and a wick--and who knew what the lout would do if he saw Charlie again? He'd slunk out of that bar like a rat and then scrambled back to his studio apartment. Still drunk, but not enough to not be in a foul mood. He fed Tippy and was about to give up and go sleep on his couch--he still needed to replace the sheets on his bed and hadn't quite gotten to it--when there was a knock at the door.

This is what he greeted with such a string of endearments. He looked up at the tired-looking young man who stood at his door, and Charlie realized that he knew him. Frederick or Albert or something. Skinny little seventeen-year-old son of a former employer. A good kid, which meant that Charlie couldn't stand him. All that floppy dark hair reminded him too much of himself at that age; Charlie had been a stupid git at that age.

"Oh, it's you. Frede...bert. You know we don't work together anymore, right? And that it's--" Charlie craned his neck around to look at the clock on his wall. It was still broken; he had meant to fix it, and forgot. "--Late?"

"I do Mr. Ewing," the kid said, then frowned. "And it's Dashell, sir." Ah. Not even close to Alberick or whatever it was Charlie had said. He shrugged and leaned on his doorframe. For a moment he just stared at the kid, because he was sweet and thick as a godsdamn post and Charlie wanted him to get to the actual point of his visit.

"Oh!" At last! The kid remembered why he was there. Charlie rolled his eyes while the boy rooted around his pockets for a note. "From my father, sir. Said I was to give it to you if you didn't seem--er. It's a job."

You can stuff that job right up your erse, kid, he almost said, but didn't. He should have, but it had been a while and he needed the money. He didn't want to have to write his parents. Again. Instead he scrubbed at his face with his hand and sighed.

"I'm on my way. Just let me get my smokes." Godsdamnit, he was going to regret this.

***

Half an hour later, he found himself staring up at the Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, and he already regretted this. Someone--he hadn't asked who, because he surely didn't care--had met Charlie outside and explained to him the situation as he guided him through the building. He wasn't sure he understood what they were trying to accomplish here, but he would figure it out. Charlie had lit a cigarette as he wound his way through the dark of the factory to find the person he was assured was in charge of this whole mess and could explain it all "much better".

Charlie wasn't sure what he expected to find, precisely, but a tall young blonde asleep in her chair with what looked like some deeply over-steeped tea nearby was not it. Charlie approached her, and for a moment debated how best to rouse sleeping blondie. He chose the simple route: he stopped about three feet away from her, removed the lit cigarette from his mouth, and shouted at a moderate volume:

"Hey! Are you the one who needed a mechanic?"

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Enough to be Early, 7 Bethas, 2720
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

Chrysanthe floated in a sort of blankness which put her in mind of the caverns of Gior; all dark depths and the pale twinkling of strange distant lights. She was not sure whether she walked or floated; there was no sensation of either. Nonetheless, she knew she moved with purpose, and that she was approaching something – something important – which hovered unseen in the distance. She reached for it; she knew without knowing how that she was nearly there, very nearly –


"Hey! Are you the one who needed a mechanic?"

Chrysanthe jerked awake; her elbow bumped the table, and it clattered, tea sopping over the edge of the dark mug and onto the table. “Tocks!” Chrysanthe gasped. She was breathing a bit hard, unsure why; she looked up, and fixed the young galdor standing a few feet away with a firm, displeased glare.

Belike mona met belike mona; whereas the presumptive mechanic’s field was only just static, with an odd sort of feeling of a dasher about it, Chrysanthe’s was a ramscott, all heat and glowing energy. She lifted her chin, impressing it upon him with a caprise, and rose to her feet. There was a faint crease in her cheek where it had been pressed against one sleeve; she grimaced, pressing her fingers against it.

“Yes,” Chrysanthe said, firmly, her voice unexpectedly scratchy. She glanced down at the cup of only slightly-sloshed tea, and grimaced. She picked it up, and took a sip; it was rather impossibly overstepped. Chrysanthe glanced at the tin of sugar, considering it – but then, she thought, it would simply be bitter and sweet all at once.

With a deep breath, Chrysanthe lifted the cup of tea to her lips, tilted her head back, and drank the entire thing in one go, as if doing it quickly enough might let her avoid having to taste it. She knew it would not, of course, but nonetheless she wanted to engage in the act of drinking as briefly as possible. Chrysanthe grimaced as she finished it, and set the cup down. “Awful,” she said, aloud. She turned to the small boiler, and put it on once more.

“Right,” Chrysanthe took a deep breath. She came around the table and bowed; her field caprised the mechanic’s more politely now, although without much in the way of particular interest. “Chrysanthe Palmifer,” she said, already stepping past him towards the rollers and other devices on the floor; her hands were still thoroughly dirty with grease and oil both. Spread out neatly and weighted down with several lugnuts was a diagram, clearly intended to show how the roller would fit together with the device.

“This,” Chrysanthe said, gesturing to the enormous device with one hand, “is a Fourcault machine, a marvel of modern engineering in glass production. These,” she frowned down at the floor, “are some of the rollers which draw the glass up along it. This,” she scowled, now, at the odd-looking contraption next to it, “is a device meant to be attached to them, in order that sulfur dioxide be applied to the glass as it is lifted.”

“The attaching thereof,” Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows, looking squarely at the mechanic; she did not in the least like the look of him, she decided, “is where you come in.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 7, 2720 - A Dreadful Hour
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

Charlie snickered as the blonde jerked away and knocked her elbow against the table; he couldn't help it. Tea splashed onto the table, which struck him as likely a better use for it than drinking it by now. It was probably bitter enough to peel paint off a barn. She glared at him and it was all he could do not to roll his eyes. Yeah, yeah, you're very displeased to see me--get in line.

See this? This was why he preferred to spend his time with the lower races. Every godsdamn time he met another golly, they tried to pull this trick. Charlie grimaced as she pressed her field into his, static to static. It was deeply unpleasant, and there was literally nothing he could do about it. Every time someone did it to him he felt itchy all over afterwards. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the slight strain of his suspenders as he did so.

Yes, said blondie--no shit she was the one who called for him. There wasn't anyone else in the whole clocking cavernous godsdamn factory. The question had been rhetorical. He raised his eyebrows as he watched her lift the cup. Surely she wasn't actually going to drink--oh, nope, yup, there she went. Downed it all in one gulp; Charlie's mouth pulled down in disgust. Some people were too firmly masochistic for their own good.

Charlie bowed back when Blondie came around the table, more sloppily than she had done, and just for good measure returned the caprise with equal care.

"So lovely to meet you," he said to her back, because Blondie--Ms. Palmifer, or whatever--had already pushed past him towards the mess on the floor. Filthiest hands he'd ever seen on a woman. He approved, he supposed. Not that it mattered, she could be a grubby little gremlin or clean as a whistle--Charlie was here for the machine. There was a diagram spread out on the floor too. Charlie squinted down at it; he'd have to look at it in a bit, because Ms. Palmifer was still speaking.

Fourcault machine, glass production, rollers--device she had broken. Got it. Should be doable, he thought, looking at the plans and the device. Had he done it before? No, never. Had he even touched a Fourcault machine? Also no. But Charlie was good at very few things the way he was good at this, and he was confident he would make it work.

"I take it that," he said and pointed at the plans on the floor, "is relevant to the venture?" Charlie crouched down to look at them more closely and scrubbed at the back of his neck. His hair was pulled up in a short ponytail as it had been lately; he could use a haircut, but never seemed to find the time or money or willpower to get it done. He liked to think it was at least a little charming on him.

"Quite the hour to be working on this little project, Ms. Palmifer." He turned back to look at her again but remained crouched on the floor. "Is this kind of an odd hour for a woman to be out by herself?" Charlie didn't actually care, of course. He was awake, after all. He was the last person to judge about other people's schedules, and he didn't really see how this was any better an hour for a man than a woman. But something about the way she looked at him made him want to needle her just a little and see what happened.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Enough to be Early, 7 Bethas, 2720
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

The mechanic did not, of course, bother to introduce himself. He returned a jerky, rather unfortunate bow. He at least had the sense to go and look at the plans; Chrysanthe supposed, grudgingly, that this was a mark in his favor, if rather a tentative one. She still held out hope he might be able to solve this problem, however little competence he managed to exude.

“Yes,” her head itched, and she wanted nothing so badly as to scratch it, but there seemed very little point in scrubbing her hands clean when she would only need to dirty them again. At least she kept her nails short as a general rule; if not, Chrysanthe thought, she would have needed to cut them after tonight. She sighed, and did not touch her head or hair.

“It ought to show how they are meant to fit together,” perhaps there was the merest hint of frustration in her voice. Perhaps. The device had not been of her design; she was more of a chemical engineer than a mechanical one, to the extent she was any sort of an engineer at all - which was to say, minimally. She had done enough classes at Brunnhold to get by, and she knew quite a good deal of chemistry.

In Vienda, of course, she had had Prosper Grangerton; she was not terribly fond of the man, and she did not think he was terribly fond of her, but they worked together rather well despite it. The contraption has been his design, and if he despaired of her mechanical skills, he had none the less made the diagram and walked her through the attaching on their mock parts.

But - but. It had been a disaster, Crhsyanthe thought, from the beginning. They had based the design on the rollers that they used in the Vienda factory; it turned out the ones in the Rose differed, ever so slightly. Grangerton had mentioned that he thought the contraptions could easily be attached to a variety of rollers, but that was not in the least the same as Chrysanthe being able to put the thing together on her own in the middle of the night. ”It was designed for a slightly different roller,” Chrysanthe added, with the faintest bitterness.

Chrysanthe’s eyebrows went up when the mechanic spoke again. “I cannot see as you have any right to comment on how I pass any of my hours,” she said, coldly, “and least of all nights.”

The water for the tea was burbling warm behind her; Chrysanthe went and shut it off. She filled the small metal strainer with fresh tea, and poured boiling water through it into the same mug, letting it rest and steep.

After a moment, lips pursed, she glanced up at the mechanic. “Would you like some tea?” Chrysanthe asked. His manners might have been appalling, but that was not sufficient excuse for hers to be.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 7, 2720 - Ridiculously Late
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, ORH

Blondie Palmifer seemed frustrated. Charlie could tell, on account of how he had such a way with women. He could see why; the diagram did indeed say how it should fit together. "Should" was the operative word here, and as he glanced at the diagram she confirmed what he was seeing. The roller in the designs and the rollers spread out across the floor were different. Not wildly different--a roller was a roller was a roller--but different enough that you kind of had to know what you were about to make the adjustment needed.

Charlie took a drag of his cigarette, held it a moment, then exhaled. He studied the plans a moment more, then grinned at the plans and the woman both. His comment had irritated her; good. He had meant it to.

"You're right, Ms. Palmifer," he said cheerfully, coming to a stand again. "And yet! Here we are." Charlie crossed back to where Ms. Palmifer stood, apparently making a second run at tea. She asked him if he wanted any in possibly the grouchiest tone of voice anyone had ever asked him that question. He almost laughed, but he still had his cigarette so he just took a last drag of that and then stubbed it out on the floor.

"Sure, why not? Looks like this might be a while." Charlie smiled; it wasn't an especially pleasant expression. Now that he was standing in closer proximity to Ms. Palmifer, it was likely she could smell that he'd been drinking. Not that he cared in particular, of course--she was welcome to think whatever she wanted of him, based on whatever evidence or lack thereof. Most people did.

"I'm Charlie, by the way, in case you were curious. Charlie Ewing." He arched his thin eyebrows meaningfully. He hadn't introduced himself before because, well, she hadn't actually asked. Just sort of said her own name and pushed by him. He thought, you know, he'd give her the chance to do so, be polite, all that. Seemed like she wasn't about to, so Charlie out of the kindness in his heart thought to volunteer the information.

"So how is it that you find yourself here alone at this hour with this machine, Ms. Palmifer? Your regular guy unavailable or what? Not that I mind," he added with a grin. He had moved to lean casually against the wall as he chatted, happy to wait for tea before he began. The work would take him about the same amount of time no matter what; a few minutes of idle chatter wasn't going to hurt the process any. Also, he didn't want to start quite yet.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Enough to be Early, 7 Bethas, 2720
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

Charlie Ewing, as he called himself, came closer once more, having stubbed his cigarette out on the floor of the factory. Chrysanthe had turned and looked directly at the small ashtray on the break table, and then back at the mechanic, though he seemed not in the least chastened.

Now that she was thoroughly awake, Chrysanthe could smell the alcohol on him; gin, perhaps, she thought, or some other liquor. She was no teetotaler herself, and naturally it was the middle of the night. He had no slurring to his words, and she gauged him sober enough to handle a wrench, most likely. All the same, it said nothing good that he could reek so while being of steady hands; most likely, he was a degenerate drunk, able to drink a good deal before suffering ill consequences.

Ewing accepted the offer of tea. Chrysanthe set out a second metal mug, and filled a second tea strainer with the rather poor quality black looseleaf; she poured hot water into it silently, filling it up as she had her own, and letting it steep.

“Our regular guy, as you put it so charmingly, works during the day,” Chrysanthe said, looking back down at Ewing once more. She bit back a harsh comment asking whether he was incapable of looking further at the plans without tea; she had learned, in the last few years of management, that such comments rarely achieved anything other than a brief moment of satisfaction, and often not even that. She did need him, unfortunate though it might be, or rather she could not do it alone, and as irresolute as he looked, Chrysanthe held out hope that this Ewing might be a decent mechanic.

Chrysanthe had not particularly minded being alone in the factory at night before. The night watchman was a good enough sort; he was outside, once more, or ought to have been after having brought Ewing. She knew he would come running if she screamed, which made her feel a good deal more secure. She had made him a cup of tea earlier, to start off what she had expected to be a long evening. He’d looked quite uncertain about accepting it from her, but had done so in the end with a grin and a touch of his cap, and a very appropriate sort of ‘madam.’ He’d brought her a biscuit some hours later, and politely left it on the table for her without disturbing her work, which she felt indicated rather unexpectedly good manners.

Telling, she thought, that a human could manage such, and yet the galdor smirking at her from against the wall had already proven himself unspeakably rude. Character was so much more than race.

There was no sense in being afraid; there was no sense in it at all.

“The machine,” Chrysanthe added, unable to entirely help herself, “is at least pleasant company, if frustrating.” She glanced down at the rollers again, taking a deep breath. She lifted her gaze back to Ewing. “I cannot say the same for all mechanics.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 7, 2720 - Ridiculously Late
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, ORH

Charlie truly hadn't seen the ashtray on the break table; he couldn't say he regretted stubbing his cigarette out on the floor anyway. If only because it really seemed to get under Blondie's skin, and that was proving to be very entertaining to him at this hour and this stage of drunkenness. Which was not, he would have protested should anyone have asked him about it, that drunk. He had been drunk, and was not at present in such a state. More or less.

Charlie nodded at her explanation; he was charming, and it had been very charming of him to say it that way. If she didn't agree, that was her own problem and there was nothing he could do for her. Poor taste was terminal, he was afraid. So the project hadn't begun during regular business hours; that was fair enough to him, really. You didn't want to be taking apart the backbone of your whole operation during regular working hours, not even to improve it. He merely asked as a matter of curiosity; Ms. Palmifer didn't look much like a mechanic, but here she was trying to fiddle with the machine all on her lonesome.

Didn't matter, he supposed. After all, if she were any kind of dab hand with machines, he wouldn't be here would he? And then he wouldn't be getting paid, which would be a real shame. He did, after all, have to keep Tippy in the manner to which she had grown accustomed.

Charlie stayed where he was, waiting for the tea to steep. It was likely terrible, but he wanted it anyway. Again, half because she seemed to find it irritating that he had said yes when she'd asked. Ms. Palmifer looked to the rollers and delcared the machine pleasant company; she then turned to look back at him, and made her bold claim about mechanics.

The boldness was so uncharacteristic of the young ladies he'd been used to, at home in Vienda or at school. Charlie couldn't help it; he burst into a fit of laughter. This one sure was uppity; they all were, really. Not women--galdori. Excepting his own illustrious self, of course, who wasn't uppity at all. He just knew where he stood, and what was beneath him. Many, many things and people fell into that category.

"You're right, machines make very pleasant company." Charlie pushed off of the wall as he judged the tea was approaching the end of the steeping period, a grin still plastered on his face. He pulled out the strainer and set it down at the nearest even vaguely appropriate location. "And you're right about mechanics, too." Charlie laughed again, then took a deep drink of the tea, still hot. He exhaled noisily after and turned back to the mess of rollers on the floor. The metal cup he set back on the table with a loud clatter.

His arms extended over his head and he cracked his knuckles as he stretched. A shoulder joint popped too, seemingly just for good measure.

"Alright then, Ms. Palmifer. Let's have a look at your machine, shall we?"

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Enough to be Early, 7 Bethas, 2720
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

Ewing’s sudden bark of laughter was a reminder of how unhelpful such comments were, as a general rule. Chrysanthe exhaled out the tension in her jaw, settling her fingertips delicately on the tabletop as a matter of stabilization. She settled her face into an appropriate calm sort of expression, glancing away as Ewing amused himself with laughter, as though it were some sort of gross display unsuitable for public consumption – which, naturally, she found not untruthful in this case.

After a few moments, Chrysanthe glanced back, pursed her lips in a faint expression of disapproval, and was glad to see him stop his little fit. Of all things – he agreed with her, laughing again, and drank the tea she had poured him.

Chrysanthe picked up her cup of tea, setting the strainer aside in the bowl meant for such things – not, naturally, where Ewing had set his – and took a sip of it. It was hot; it was Roa-blessed hot, and although not anything resembling fancy, it wasn’t too bitter. After her time in Gior, Chrysanthe thought wryly, her standards for acceptable beverages had become rather different. She set the cup down and stirred in a spoonful of sugar – one could still have preferences, of course. She made one last attempt to wipe her hands clean on a rag, although at this point she knew it would take a good deal of scrubbing at the pump outside to get them anything resembling clean. She fetched her tea, and came around to Ewing; his disgusting display of noises and pops from his shoulders and hands and arms she ignored entirely, on principle.

Chrysanthe took another sip of the bitter-sweet tea; the sweet did not precisely cut the bitter, but rather the two layered on top of one another, oddly jarring. Still, it was more palatable than the first cup had been, and considerably better than nothing at all.

She looked back at the rollers once more, and the device. She had given him rather a concise briefing, and of course he did have the diagram; it had not been terribly useful for her, but she held out hope that, all his personal deficiencies aside, the young man might know what he was about. At least he had stopped making inappropriate comments about how and where she spent her nights; Chrysanthe could admit that they had very much made her uncomfortable. How like a man, she thought, even in jest, to be so oblivious to the concerns of a woman.

Chrysanthe thought it over. She did not – could not – like him even in the slightest. Nevertheless, one did not need to like a man to work with him, as she had learned, repeatedly.

“I am not mechanically inclined,” Chrysanthe said, after a moment, still holding the cup of tea. She was tired; her head ached from where her braids pulled a bit against the scalp, her hands were filthy, she had been awake since rather early in the morning and had not slept much in transit either. She had stared at the plans until her eyes crossed; she had pinched her fingers in prying at the things, and her arms rather ached from the efforts of bringing them down in the first place.

“Nevertheless,” Chrysanthe said, “the system is at least somewhat of my design, and I do have a pair of hands. As I can be of assistance, I shall, but I should be…” her jaw clenched and she smiled through it, “grateful for your guidance in this.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 7, 2720 - Ridiculously Late
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, ORH

Charlie snorted. "I didn't think you were, Ms. Palmifer." He let that hang in the air for a moment, enjoying the potential for aggravation it had. "Or you wouldn't have called me." His doubts had very little to do with her sex, although he suspected she would think as much, and that it would bother her. Merely that if this were even reasonably close to her area of expertise, he could very easily picture Ms. Palmifer battering against it for several hours more into the night with no help whatsoever. Just struck him as the type.

Charlie got the distinct impression this Ms. Palmifer was not overly fond of him. Which was fine, because there really was no accounting for taste after all. And reasonable, considering he was being as annoying as possible on purpose. Getting under Ms. Palmifer's skin was proving to be a great stress-reliever, and he had not had the best day. A lesser man might feel as if this was an inappropriate method of reducing his own distress; Charlie was not that man.

A-li-oe, that smile. Asking for his help with her jaw clenched so hard he thought her teeth might crack. Yeah, the independent type for sure. Charlie grinned. It certainly didn't hurt his recovery efforts to have his ego so bolstered. Most would say that it didn't need any assistance, and they would be correct, but it was nice anyway.

"Happy to assist a lady in need." Ugh. Okay, that one was a lot even to his own ears. Mental note: "a lady in need" was a repulsive phrase he would probably not use again. Probably. Unless it worked really well here, then maybe he would consider it for the future.

For now, Charlie was content to get to the work at hand. The machine itself was a great, hulking thing, and the rollers weren't precisely small either. It would be moderately difficult to install the attachments by himself--he was a little impressed Ms. Palmifer had even tried. Charlie did usually prefer to work alone, in all honesty, if it could be done. It was easier that way, and he didn't have to explain anything he was doing as he went.

He could see more, the longer he looked at it, how this was all supposed to go together. He could also see how it didn't quite work, although he was still pondering over how to make the adjustments needed. There wasn't, he thought, any better way to figure out than to just try. Charlie scratched at the back of his head, contemplating it a moment more, then decided to go ahead and get started.

"No sense in wasting any more time. Let's see if we can't get this together, shall we?" Charlie paused only to take another cigarette out of the breast pocket of his work shirt and a match. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, and got to work.