[Solo] A Second Attempt

Gale begins working on the second version of the motorised bicycle.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Gale
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Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
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Race: Human
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: Artful Gunner
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Thu Jan 07, 2021 1:12 pm

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Saunders Forge| Morning
01 Roalis 2720
Like any invention, a prototype construction built using existing parts would only take an inventor so far. There reached a point where any prototype would have to be reassessed, rebuilt and reconstructed with the knowledge learned and unlocked through testing. This was the case for the motorised bicycle Gale had been working on; it buckled and sheered beneath the weight and strain unable to bear the load for machines it was not meant to bear. The iron frame that had been reinforced snapped in the midst of testing, the fuel tank denting as it collided with the earth and the coolant system was dragged down with it. A cascade of failure followed next, the springs and tubes connecting each piece to each other failed, scattering across the outside courtyard of the forge and becoming nothing more than a skeletal remain of what was possible.

Which was why Gale even when faced with the setback did not relent to this failure. It was suspected but proved a point to the smith - if you needed something done right, then it needed to be fit for purpose. The Smith returned to the drawing board and took the time to consider their options in the form of crude sketches of charcoal and poor diagrams of chalk upon the wall. They chose steel as their metal of choice, they knew the substance more than they knew themselves - it was consistent in its properties, warming and reshaping beneath the predetermined heat, malleable yet maintaining strength when tempered correctly. They studied the other bicycles of the city, considered the size and weight of the engine that needed to nestle within its chassis and made miniature frames from wire and cork. They smoke and drank to fill their muse, relaxing the mind enough to allow the thoughts and considerations to seep from their soul and into their skull, only to awaken again the next morning to ignore the stale taste upon their lips and begin anew.

They reshaped the fuel tank to be a two-gallon cylinder canister; inputting a drainage cap in its base and fitting a hole ready for the tried and tested ignition system in the top - each featured the telling helical threads around the gaps to allow parts to be screwed in. From the top of the canister, another pipe would run down and parallel to the cylinder, band clamps securing it in place while the steady hand of forge welding sealed the gaps shut. For above the rear mudguard a curved container was fitted to be filled with coolant, the beginning stubs of brass ready for the narrow piping that would lace the engine and circulate the fluids.

The engine was refined and shrunk, composed of parts that required care to be fitted together - a jigsaw of brass and steel, where narrow, thinner pipes served as a jacket to keep the rumbling engine within cool and prevent the steel shell from overheating. The crankshaft was sat in position, the long arm that would rotate around a power the cogs and gears. It would force momentum, stimulating movement and granting acceleration when fed its precious combusted fuel. The other half was a mirror, carefully screwed into position and tightened with bolts, the steel exhaust pipe feeding directly from the rear. Gale listened to the sound of the cog turning as they rotated it with their fingers, the dull grind of metal engaging with each other, the telling rise and falling clack of pistons moving in unison.

It was a far cry from the large industrial engine that loomed within the courtyard - scrapped, stripped and serving nothing more now than an echo of what once was. Gale had slowly carved their way through it, the excess metal broken and melted down into iron for raw materials. Yet as the shapes of steel took structure, the was engine held up without a body and checked that it worked; it was fed kerosene while a mixture of cheap spirits and water flowing through the coolant system. It sat upon the workbench, resting aloft with a single wheel at its rear hooked up to the crankshaft via a single, steel connecting rod. The smith tested it manually again, watching it engage with the drive crank on the wheel, the various ball bearings rotating around with each push - a final test that everything was as it should be - before they manually started the ignition.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
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Race: Human
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: Artful Gunner
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Thu Jan 07, 2021 1:13 pm

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Saunders Forge| Morning
01 Roalis 2720
Affixing the fire-piston in the tank, the smith pulled it back, the spring loaded action falling as it collided, the faint hiss of a spark sounding within. The smith did it another five times, a slow start that urged the engine into life. With it all hooked together, Gale stood back and supervised it. Bare steel rotated, the low puttering quickly growing louder in noise, hissing and growing constant in its grinding. It was chuffing, and continued to do so as the wheel at the rear without effort moved gradually round. The Smith listened, leaning back as the parts worked in unison in the midmorning light and promptly lit up a cigarette.

It was working, or more the premise and design still worked - even when refined and polished down. If anything it sounded further than the previous roaring dirge of the first iron horse; perhaps it was because it was something made from experience instead of bolts and parts stacked on top of each other. Everything was cleaner and smoother, which in turn put less stress on the system; it was the improvement of efficiency. It continued its rotations, the steady rhythm filling the inside of the forge. The Smith leaned against one of the other workbenches, sucking in the taste of smoke their hand fumbling for their tea mug. A screwdriver rested in it as a replacement spoon, the fingers knocked it aside as they drunk the lukewarm bitter liquid within. There was a brief grimace, the tongue scraped against teeth as they attempted to lift the stale tang that remained. They sloshed the remaining liquid around the mug, moving to the open courtyard doors, removing the screwdriver as they tossed the remaining leaves out into the courtyard gutter.

Outside the low drizzle hung upon the air, the beginning scent of petrichor seeping into the woodwork while the grey sky lingered overhead. It was the beginning of summer and cool start to the hottest season; Gale would have to the beginning changing of their work patterns - no one wanted to work in the middle of the day in an even hotter forge. The summer allowed for them to enjoy naps while metal castings cooled within the sandpit. Leaning up against the door frame, Gale let the last of the cigarette burn out, a smooth off vanilla taste sticking to their presence and with it came the fleeting memory of their father.

Looks like rain again, little one. Be a good day for forging.

The Smith felt the small pressure on their left shoulder, the muscles there reflexively squeezing.

They exhaled smoke, brow drawing into a line; the city was alive, another day of labour beneath the foot of the Galdor.

We should remember our duties. There are people counting on us.

"I know."

Gale whispered, they felt whatever presence was there lift; the corner of their eye played tricks on them, the brief shadow in the blind spot lingering.

Then what are you waiting for?

Gale's fingers twitched, the finger forming a crook around the invisible trigger. They inhaled the scent of blood, could taste the viscera spray that splattered across their skin. Gunpowder raw in their breath, of copper percussion caps and matches. They saw the dark hole left behind, the bone that splintered beneath the impact and the eyes wide in terror. Their stomach knotted, chest growing tight - their hand fumbled for a new cigarette, a forced animation to drag their mind from the gutter it had fallen into.

You are a revolutionary. You are a cadet- You must lead the way-

"Shut up. Just shut up." The gunsmith's voice hissed, catching and choking upon the acidic back taste of saltpetre and bile. They lit the match, watching the flame burst into existence before their eyes, the slither of wood quickly burning.

You have to do this-

"I said, shut up!" The turned to where the shadow was, throwing the tobacco case at it.

Beckett Saunders, the Masked Gunner, vanished. With it his voice snuffed out, leaving Gale alone within the empty forge and the chuffing motor. Case bouncing, the other rolled up cigarettes spilt out across the floor and beneath the workbenches. Gale swallowed, forced deep breaths sucking in the air, the palpitations in their breast that had grown sharp gradually climbing down. They hissed when the fire burned their fingertips, dropping the match and stamping it out with a boot.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
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Race: Human
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: Artful Gunner
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Thu Jan 07, 2021 1:15 pm

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Saunders Forge| Morning
01 Roalis 2720
Swaying back inside, the unlit cigarette pinched between their lips, Gale found the opened bottle of cheap liquor and uncorked it. Like a heathen, they promptly drunk from a bottle and let the harsh taste burn down their throat and with it wash away the weight that accumulated there. Teeth bared, they straightened, allowing the alcohol burn through their veins and purify their mind. They did not have time to be haunted is what they told themselves. They quashed down the notion that they were trying to escape creating Death; or the notion that they themselves had become Death in the creation of their art. It was a controlled desperation that urged them to create in order to connect; a poor attempt to wash the blood from their hands that now stained them.

Their hand fumbled for chalk, steps swaying as they drew the straight lines of their thoughts. A frame made for the engine as opposed to the first prototype having an engine fitting to the frame. It would allow it to all be held together neatly, it had to be structured and organised and make sense. Gale felt their arm tremble as they replicated the wire frame left on the work top. It was a step through bicycle, two, long L-shaped bars would sit either side of the engine, with connecting bars going between each of them. The mechanical components would nestle within, and the rear wheel would sit clamped between both halves. The front, Gale reasoned, would still sit upon a single tube of metal and serve as the main point of directional control. They would replicate a normal bicycle as much as possible, while evolving the construction based on what they already knew. This refinement of design, Gale hoped, would at least lighten the final core weight - the additional extra would be something to be determined after it had been constructed.

They made their measurements, calculated the amount of steel they would need to melt and the length they would have to draw into the steel poles. As the furnace was warmed they pulled the steel scrap together, sifting it carefully and laying out the smallest of shards and scrapings first in the cold crucible. Paint upon the surfaces was picked off, other sheets were shredded down to allow them to fit better. Occasionally they stopped their sorting to pull upon the bellows, dragging the heat up into the room and igniting the coals into a white hot flame. Sleeves were rolled up, the heavy leather apron thrown on to protect themselves from the stray embers. The damp moisture left by the drizzle evaporated away, the air drying out and baking in the sweat and grime that dwelled within the forge.

Behind the engine continued to run, a quiet, constant shuffling noise that spluttered from its exhaust. It was nothing to be alarmed of, Gale assured the nagging in their mind; the engine with the coolant would keep the total temperature down; kerosene was not about to explode over the interior of the forge, they were not about to find every surface coated in fire and choke upon the fumes left in their wake. Their hand continued to pull upon the bellows, the rope wrapping tightly around the knuckles as they felt the heat soak into their skin.

It was some hours before the furnace was ready to smelt; during that time the engine finally starved itself of kerosene, the chuffing turning into wheezing as the last of the fuel burned out. Gale listened to the dying sound of machinery, the gradual slowing of the motor despite the wheel still spinning around. The crankshaft rotations ground to a halt, the wheel continued its momentum for a half minute more before also gradually coming to a stand still. Gale was not timing it, but they recorded that moment in their brain, the eyes pinching as it tried to fathom how far a full tank would take them and failed. Further testing in the field once it was all done and constructed would reveal the true capabilities of the machine.

Though, Gale made a mental note to ensure that they carried extra kerosene and coolant with them if they were to go far from the city. They did not fancy the ideas of having to push the bicycle back.

With the furnace coming to heat Gale fed it the crucible full of steel; now all that was left for them was to 'hurry up and wait' as their father would have put it.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Gale
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Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
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: Artful Gunner
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Thu Jan 07, 2021 1:24 pm

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Saunders Forge| Morning
01 Roalis 2720
When it would finally be ready, the smith would pour the molten metal into shape; they lifted the lid of the sand pit inside the forge and hooked the lid back against the wall and ensured there was a clear path around it to the furnace. The anvil and quench were rocked into position, the hammers and tongs neatly laid out in presentation on the nearest work top. They would need clamps to pull out the bars into suitable lengths, going through several steps of reheating and refitting until the smith was content with the final shape. Smithing of any variety was a game of patience; you could not rush the forge or the process. Rushing only made it into more of a mess. Gale bit onto their anticipation, the sharp inhales as they left the impressions for the bars within the sand. The smaller parts could come later.

Gale crouched and rested on their heels; the cigarette in their lips was still unlit, their fingers twitched and trembled as they existed in the silence of their thoughts.

Just like the revolution. You must prepare, you must make every measurement twice. You must obtain perfection.

It was in the low forge light that Gale filed down the flint arm for pistol - quick, jerking movements that lacked practice or skill. They blinked as the shadow of Beckett loomed over them.

"What are you doing, boy?"
"I'm-"
"Less speed. Breathe. If ye go too fast, ye'll miss the point of no return."


"Things were simpler when ye where around."

They rubbed their nose with the back of their hand.

"I dunnae know any more, Pa. Everythin' is just... weird. I can't..." Gale removed the cigarette from their lips, frowning at it as studied the crimpled paper and indentation that made up its form. Their eyes flickered past it, catching the shape of the half-empty liquor bottle left on the work station. It really did taste foul, but the slow numbing that was forging a path through their veins and begging for more.

Beckett swirled his tumbler, took a sip and lowered it to the table. The stem of his pipe returned to his lips, a measured inhale before he puffed out rings of smoke. He was frowning deeply as he supervised his son's work, the small corners of his eyes twitched as he gave nervous glances around the forge. Something else was distracting him this night, enough so that they took the opportunity to try his drink when he put it down - it caused the cracks on their lips to sting and they promptly spat it out.

Gale hated being left alone with their thoughts. With it came memories and the reminder of the gnawing emptiness that they dwelled within. There was nothing here for them now but disappointment and the lingering realisation that they were becoming more like their father.

A bitter man who soothed his soul with tobacco and alcohol. In the end it was the only thing he had left beyond all the blood and death; Gale was groomed to be nothing more than a tool for him and the Resistance - and outside of them Gale had nothing. It was all they knew.

"I think, I'm startin' to get why ye drinked Pa. And the smoke." Gale sniffed, "Ah well. Like Pa, like son."

The Smith spent their time quietly; they reclaimed the drink, allowed the blur to coarse through their veins to dull the senses and kill the pain. They swayed when ever they stoked the forged, hummed off tune when they heaved upon the bellows and fed the crucible more steel. They continued to consume and smoke, even as the metal grew molten and glowed as a viscous orange. They clamped the crucible between the tongs, lifted it high and clear in a fluid practiced motion - it did not matter that they were intoxicated, they had done this for decades and no amount of alcohol was about to slow them down. With their hands in their gloves they slowly moved it to the sand pit, easing the spout down and guiding it along the pole imprint. They started at one end, green eyes reflecting the yellow and white as it flowed.

Steel hissed, rolling and rippling as it filled the gap. With it Gale guided the crucible back, leading the path of molten metal down to the very end of the sand cast before carefully lifting it up and away. They returned it to the front and began the process again, the barely cooling steel layering over the top of what was already poured. As the last of it dribbled out, Gale placed the crucible on the top of the anvil and shook the tension out from their hands. The process began anew, fresh steel to be smelted was added and the crucible was added to the furnace once more.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
User avatar
Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Thu Jan 07, 2021 1:25 pm

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Saunders Forge| Morning
02 Roalis 2720
In the dull light of the morning, Gale lifted their head from the work bench. The side of their face stung, a dull relentless pressure sharpening when they moved their head too fast. It was also notably too bright, the faint morning sounds too loud, and the stale taste that covered their tongue too invasive. They smacked their lips, wiped the drool that accumulated at the corner of their mouth as they levered their body upright. They untangled their legs from the stool, groaning as they retreated to the most shadowy part of the forge. Hissing, they snagged their toe on the corner of the sand box giving it a cursory glance as they passed it by. Four long steel bars rested inside it and had cooled to a dull grey; pulling on their gloves the crouched over it fingers splayed as they felt for the heat - they could steel feel the dying heat through the leather.

Ignoring the pinch of their stomach and the notable sloshing from inside it, the smith dragged forth the tongs and hoisted the bar from the sand. They brushed most of the grains off with a wire brush, before resting it upon the anvil for a closer inspection. It was heavy, that was to be expected, but now came the tricky process of drilling out the hole of this solid cylinder. Doing so would not only steal back the steel but make the overall frame lighter while maintaining strength - less welding points was a good thing. The smith, stoking the forge from its cooled state, urged their sluggish body into movement. They located the coring drill, a manual piece that Gale would have to crank. The metal bar was clamped into place between two vices, the long drill bits carefully laid out and measured against the pipe they did not expect to have to use the full length of it for the frame, more so if they compared it to the remains of the bicycle frame left in the courtyard. The remains, they reasoned, would be put to use elsewhere.

They started with a shorter drill bit, an inch in length, with the plan of trading it out for longer ones as they progressed.

Dragging up the stool, Gale got to work. It was another stretch of time in a long arduous task of coring a metal pole and the mental note that if they were going to do make of these in the future they were going to make a proper cast for these pipes. They stopped frequently in the midst of this mind-numbing exercise to flex their hands and check their progress, rubbing at knuckles and rolling shoulders to stop them from cramping. Outside the morning sounds and events passed by, the pattering of rain or carriage wheels pulling through puddles - they all seemed to blur together after a while. There was another moment of pause when a shipment of materials was delivered; steel, iron, brass, coal and oil, but the metalsmith otherwise persisted with their art.

By the time the other three bars were cored, most of the day had passed and the steel pipes were neatly laid out alongside the kerosene engine. The smith did not pursue the rest of their building straight away, instead opting to tidy up their mess and brush the steel dust into the crucible. It was returned to the fires of the furnace to turn the remaining scraps into something much more useful to the smith. The sandpit was picked clean for any remaining clumps of steel before it was raked over and recovered - right now the smith had little to no use for it, they could use the smaller lead casts for any further joins or parts they needed.

They placed the model bicycle beside the unbuilt frame, stifling a yawn as they prepared their tools for measuring and cutting. As the evening approached of another day of production, the smith took the hint from their body as a sign to retire for the night. They sipped their bitter tea, ate their supper, and promptly resigned to bed.

A tired mind had the chance of making more mistakes; they needed to be alert and ready for what they were going to be doing next. Else they would have to repeat the process anew, and Gale did not have time for that.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
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: Artful Gunner
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Thu Jan 07, 2021 1:27 pm

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Saunders Forge| Morning
03 Roalis 2720
Having slept soundly through the night, Gale awoke early to get back to work and began the furnace anew. They hummed and whistled as they made up their measurements based on the bicycle frame outside; they made it a step through frame, measuring and cutting the steel poles, before placing a specially shaped steel bend a various points, L-shaped at a hundred and twenty degree angle with an identical parallel piping beneath and then opposite. Gale clamped them in place around the kerosene engine, shaping a cuboid around it and then carefully bringing each opposite edge closer. They measured the final distance between either side, temporarily holding each opposite side together with tough steel wire.

They had heard such a bicycle frame shape being called a Step-through or an open frame by the more prolific cyclers in the neighbourhood. The smith was going to be curious to see what differences this made to riding.

Measuring the spaces in between the bars they calculated where the cross-sections would fit before rummaging through the lead casts for suitable fitting clasps and joins. They worked through the steel scraps again, readying them for the forge for melting and reshaping. As the fresh steel filled the crucible, the smith moved to the remains of the bicycle frame in the courtyard and began a careful disassembly. They touched every part with bare fingers, feeling the painted steel and small divots in the surface. It was the Head tube they were going for, they unscrewed the bolts where the front wheel sat, slipping off the fork and roaming ever upwards to the handlebars. They would salvage the brakes and the bar, for now, replacing them in the future when necessary. The seat and its tube would also be salvaged - why waste something that still had a use?

With the head tube came the bearings within the headset, they gave a small rattle now they were freed from the confines of the tube, and the threaded pipe withdrew from the inside. The smith clamped both ends in their hands to keep the metal rings in place on the inch-wide pipe, they were almost reverent as they put it down, eyes squinting as they measured it up against the new frame. They would need another bar between, a steering axis to cause the head bar to pivot. Another mock wire was put in place and the headset was carefully slipped into it. Taking a step back, Gale took the machine in - it was all starting to come together, stepping beyond a drawing and a tiny model in representation.

They sucked the air in, pressed a hand against the palpitations in their chest, and reminded their body that it needed to breathe. With trembling hands, they were forced to wait, taking in the deep measured breaths as they swallowed anticipation. They would have to forge weld the metal once everything was in position, another long process they would have to do right. They would have to fit the engine correctly, ensure it was nestled within itself and not about to rattle apart. Brakes had to be refitted, the wheels with their rubber tires and spokes tightened and fitted. They just needed to practice patience.

As the molten steel got up to temperature, Gale laid out the casts and poured the metal in. They just had to be patient, to wait and not rush.

They prepared the boreholes in the pipes, hand-filed the rough edges and smoothed out the surfaces. They did what they could in the meanwhile, affixing the clips ready in position for the smaller, parallel machine piping to run down and be supported by. The smaller parts took less time to cool, and with a few more hours of tinkering and double measuring, the parts were tipped out onto the worktop. In the light of the forge, Gale practised their art with care and practice - they were their father's child, they carried the family legacy in their veins. But where they inherited the death he had created, they had looked to their own designs and plans. They took the smaller delicate bars, lifted the frame away from the engine and began the process of forge welding.

With the surfaces cleaned, Gale shoved the metal pipes back into the furnace. They opened up the front face so they had more height for the poles, and the angles they would be at, hands pulling at bellows as they encouraged the steel to grow hot. They did not want it molten, instead only allowing both parts to reach a lemon-yellow colour before withdrawing it from the flames. Both halves were placed upon the anvil, thick gloves clamping them into position, ends and joins touching before Gale brought the hammer down. It was not a full strike, firm and restrained - they were not hammering the piece into shape but instead pressing the hot ends together and manually welding them. It dully rang out, each end readily welding to the other and sticking after the first contact. They watched it cool, the gentle taps from the hammer easing it into the correct angle. The process was repeated again, each steel pipe welded into the needed L-Shape.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
User avatar
Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Thu Jan 07, 2021 1:29 pm

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Saunders Forge| Morning
03 Roalis 2720
They took a break after they finished the main poles, walking around the courtyard with a cigarette in hand and inhaling the smog filled air that choked the Dives. In the distant the end of shift whistle for one of the mills called out, a pitched noise that easily travelled over rooftops. In the midst of working it was easy to loose track of time; but the saw the sun was out and beginning its descent across the sky, that it was warm if not windy. The walls buffered Gale against the worst of it, but they could hear the flow of air and the voices of squealing children at play. They rubbed the grime across their face, dirt catching beneath their nails as the scratched behind their ears. They could not remember the last time they bathed, the coal and oil coating everything below the elbow in a grey-black colouring. They tasted the off cocoa tasting tobacco they smoked, aware that their clothes also smelt stale and choked with soot, a few loose threads were beginning to show, the small holes where hot embers had burned the wool.

Briefly, Gale wondered on how much they had slipped in regards to appearance, a year ago they would have at least washed the grime from their skin before sleeping or dunked their head into a bucket of water. But this was different, the hair was tangled and knotted, they could feel the bags beneath their eyes being almost swollen to the touch. It was stupid really, they should have known better.

The Metal Smith glanced back into the forge to their work, the grey steel was cooling and setting in place - it was all coming together. They could not stop now.
They firstly worked in joining the main L-shaped bars together on their respective sides. A six-inch gap held in place by three metal bars, one at the top, then at the middle at the join, and then finally at the back. It was the last ones on both that was deliberately different; they were constructed to have an axle slide between them and it was here that the rear wheel would be positioned. They then joined the opposite sides together to form a gap slightly bigger than the engine, before welding those in place also with another half dozen bars along the top and underside. The head tube seat was moulded into the upper two bars, the main frame bars having tiny screw holes drilled in intervals where the engine and motor would sit. Four giant band clamps fitted into the gap, the fuel tank lifted into the space and secured in place with the tightening of bolts.

They lifted the motor in next, unhooking it from the rear wheel they had set up and nestling it in the base on the shape. Screws were hand tightened, fingers brushing away the stray grains of steel that stuck in place as they connected both halves together. The coolant system came next, bending slightly as it remained unsupported without its own frame - Gale put in its own triangular bars of steel that ran back from the rear wheel over the top of the main frame a short distance. There was more screwing and tightening, the testing jerking shakes as they connected the coolant tank back up to its engine water jackets. They hoisted the headset from the workbench, using the salvaged piece and slipping it up into the head tube. It was quickly secured in place by the screwing on of the handlebars from the first Iron Horse, the limp brake cabling being fed down the inside of the frame to the rear of the bicycle, Tightening it all together, Gale fitted the rear wheel on first, followed by affixing the brake mechanism. They gave it a few testing pumps, spun the wheel, watched the ball bearings and gears rotate around and pumped the breaks again. With each press, the wheel grew slower, before a long final squeeze brought it to a complete halt.

They did the same with the front wheel, lined the cabling up with the front fork and tapping on the same wheel brake. It puffed when pressure was put on it, both wheels this time coming to a gradual stop. The acceleration was hooked in next, the spring within the handle being sworn at as the smith attempted working with smaller, fiddly pieces. It was like making a firearm, it had to be done carefully and delicately - else the hammer arm would fail to ignite the gunpowder or it would misfire or fall apart with the slightest knock. They teased it out with hooks, latching it over clasps in the hope the tension would stick. They had done it before with the first one, this should not be so different - at least theoretically. It clicked as it found its hold and kept it.

In the dark of the night Gale leaned away from the frame; hands clammy and their heart rattling in their chest, Gale stared at the motorised bicycle, eyes wide as they realised their work was at last finished.

And then realised there was one last thing for them to do.

"Fuck." The smith muttered, "I forgot to put the seat on."
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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