[Solo] One Hundred Days

[Gale]

The How

38 Roalis 2720

Peter 'Teeter' Henderson frowned. The wick was staring down into the darkness of the How, his thin face pinching as the depths let out their low moan. He never enjoyed the confined spaces deep beneath the surface, it made his beard bristle against the cool and his eyes always took too long to adjust to the gloom. It also had this strange heaviness that threatened to drag him down and swallow him whole. Somehow it always released him back into the harsh daylight, allowed to live to fight another day when so many other of his comrades in arms laid dead after the years of attrition against old age. Now it was only him - and Agatha too he supposed through association - left of the Dirty Dozen, and he only survived by being one of the younger ones. Back in the day youth and luck were on his side, but now such was rapidly lost behind the bitterness that was time and a collection of silver hairs that dared to break from his scalp of black locks.

Forty-five years, three months and a handful of days - seven? - old, and here he was once again staring into the dark abyss that was the How.

Why could the Freedom Fighters just not let him continue to do his thing, mingle, travel, debauchery his way across Anaxas to drag up secrets and leap his way across rooftops?

Because your knees won't allow it. And you have been summoned.

Sighing, he took up his lantern and slipped down into the darkness.

It was a strange set of occurrences that he largely did his best to avoid; firstly Jon Serro went missing. Then he was dead. And the delightful Alyssa Pierre was leading, or trying to lead - he never quite worked that one out - and then was not and then Gunner of all people arose to lead. And now he, Teeter, of all people was being summoned by the very metal masked man who introduced him to the earlier version of the resistance some twenty-odd-nearing-thirty years ago.

The issue with that was that Beckett Saunders, and by extension Gunner, was very dead. He knew, he helped dig the bastard's grave with his daughter- No, son. Beckett had always insisted little Abigail 'Gale' Saunders was a boy and he would not hear otherwise. Peter simply shrugged his shoulders to it at the time, and not long after went back to gallivanting across the country, wooing the ladies, the men, and sometimes the both, together at the same time. Of course, it was not always fun and games. There was always some element of violence and blood, and tragedy - he just skipped over those details when telling stories.

But that did not solve the immediate problem.

Someone else was using Gunner's name and using it to lead. How dare they.

He knew where he was going, deep down through the layers to a part of the How where it was less tunnel and more cave. He was not sure when the ground changed from brick to hewn rock, the white stone eating away at the masonry as he descended with only the lantern light to guide him. It was places deep beneath Vienda that time lost meaning, where the ruins of kingdoms long past jutted from the ground as broken and buried monoliths of the past. He was not even sure the other Freedom Fighters knew where he was going, but the fact someone knew to go this deep... meant something. He was not sure what exactly. He would work it out as he went along.

Opening out into a cavern, Teeter lifted his lantern - ruins of a bygone age cast shadows across the high ceiling, higher than his light could reach. Collapsed columns and tower bases scattered through, broken hands of carved stone peeking through the cold earth reaching up for something but never being able to grasp at it. Beneath his feet gravel scraped, his eyes squinting.

Perched upon one of the collapsed columns he saw the shadowy shape, hands covering the metal grill of their mouth, the cold steel dully reflected in their own lantern light. Teeter stiffened as a shiver passed his spine; a ghost made real, the shape was the same but different, the dark sockets of that mask turning to him. The apparition stood, hands withdrawing beneath the layers as it surveyed him.

But Gunner was dead.

"You are no Gunner." He spoke, lantern held between them as if it would somehow protect him. "You are nothing but a ghost-"

Yet here he was, summoned by this being that wore his skin. It took a step towards him, head bowing as it remained focused on him. It was nothing more than an imposter-

"Vrunta!" Teeter's skin prickled, "Should banish you to the afterlife."

The hands of the apparition slipped out then, it took him a moment to realise it was sign language - silent as it was passed between them.

"Enough, Teeter." Spoke the hands. "I am very real."

"Then you are an imposter." Knife, where was it? His free hand reached for the tiny knife at the base of his spine. "Should put you down for using his name."

"I am no-"

He threw the knife at the figure. The ghost jerked to the side, attention turning after the knife as it skittered across the floor. But Teeter did not stop; quickly he closed the gap, fist clenched as he swung back as he punched the apparition. They had no chance to move, shoulder shoving against the frame and following up by slamming into it again.

Smaller than Beckett.

Beneath the layers of the imposter came a gun, point-blank range - he slapped the firearm aside, squeezing down on the wrist. Locked in a struggle, the imposter swung at him with their other hand. He knocked it aside, his leg sweeping forward to catch the back of the knee. It resisted, even as he continued to push, a strong core of muscle that lacked the finesse of combat until he put his weight into it. The ghost grunted, a snarled voice escaping from the grill.

"I wanted to talk-"

Definitely not Beckett. Taking out the legs, the imposter slammed to the ground. He wasted no time planting a boot on its chest, his hair falling forward as he lunged down for the mask. Reveal the imposter, eliminate, return Gunner to being some form of urban myth to scare children. He tilted the metal mask back, catching a slither of the features beneath before he was kicked firmly in the chest. Wheezing, he staggered as he tried to breathe, his eyes wide as the realisation on who was behind the mask.

No, it could not be-

"Abigail?"

The green eyes glowered at him.

"It's Gale."

She propped herself up onto her elbows, the mask sliding back in place while the firearm was slipped back beneath the poncho folds.

"What is your game, girl?"

She was not a girl really, but he remembered her as one - even if the same boy façade worn then had manifested into man despite her being a woman.

"Mister."

"What?"

"Mister Gale Saunders."

Teeter waved the words aside. They were unimportant.

"Answer my question- You- Dammit, Gale." He jabbed a finger. "I was going to kill you, you idiot. Bloody, running around as Gunner-"

"I've been doing it for the last few ye-"

Composing himself, Teeter went and reclaimed his knife.

"You are running around, playing at being your father. He taught you-"

Gale was clambering to her- no, their - feet, the hood being pulled neatly around their head. It was like staring at Beckett again, all be it a smaller framed version. Teeter slid the knife back into its sheath.

"What? You not going to ans-"

"I need help."

It was words that gave him pause. Beneath the mask he heard the accent twist, the northern Anaxian dialect lost behind a hollow monotone voice. Gale continued to speak.

"And you said that if I ever needed help, I could ask you for it."

Teeter sighed.

"Help?" He gestured to the cavern. "And this is how you ask for it? By the Gods, you could have just written a bloody letter-"

He could not read their expression, but the body shifted to look away from him; with it, the slow trickle of realisation filtered into Teeter's skull.

"You are the resistance leader."

It was a statement, a single pointing of fact. The corner of his lip twitched. "Little baby Saund-"

"I, Gunner, am the leader of the Resistance."

He pulled at his beard, regulating the air in his lungs. "And Wisp has... is... what off doing some defecting- She's going to kill you when she gets a chance. And you, what on Vita were you thinking?"

"Someone had to step up. Someone who was not a war-hungry bloodhound."

"And you thought you were the best option? You're out of your mind."

Stupid, Beckett raised that child to be better than that. To be the creator behind whatever mouthpiece lead the resistance, not to actually and actively lead. Gunner was supposed to be something to scare children, not actually be real.

"What is done is done. Are you going to help or not?"

Help. That was what this was all about, what foolishness was Gale going to try and drag him into? Could he even turn away from it? If not from loyalty to the resistance then from the relationship he had with Beckett and Yelenn. He let a low groan escape.

"With what? Information, assassination, bending the gollies over and loyalty to-"

"Training."

He must have misheard them, his expression betrayed him as he gave Gale a quizzical look.

"I need to learn to resist. Truly. Just as my father once did. And I need you to teach me."

Him? Teach Beckett Saunders' daughter to be Gunner. No there was more to it than that, something else lingered behind those eyes.

Artful. Their name was Artful. The creative, and the deceitful.

"Fine. But loose the mask. Right now it will only get in your way."

[Gale]

The How

50 Roalis 2720

It was fortunate for Peter that he did not have to work with Gale from the ground up. It seemed that since Beckett's death that they had maintained the life of a smith, growing into their own forge master over the past seven or so years. Their mind was clearly sharp, their body strong from working steel into shape. There were the small elements of awkwardness though, they did not like making or maintaining eye contact, their fingers idly fiddled when their hands were not put to use. The restlessness of youth he would have normally called it, but this seemed something much more psychological than just the hubris of the young. In retrospect, it was a quirk Gale always had, it had simply matured from expressing discomfort through biting to something much more subtle.

The issue was channelling all of this into something that could move. Sure, Gale could swing a hammer and fist just as well as the next street thug - not very by Peter's own experience -, but the brawn they carried was trained only for crafting. The other problem would be moving through the city itself, rising above the streets and out of harm. Climbing fences were clearly within their portfolio, but walls up to a higher window, or onto a rooftop?

For a whole House every day he made them both dedicate their time to training. The first week was nothing but continuous laps around the cavern, clambering over the fallen remains that blocked their path - practising the movements necessary to allow the body to flow. It would provide the base to work muscle memory from, a foundation that would withstand whatever Peter built upon them. By the end, Gale was always breathing hard, face red while their teeth were gritted. He thought after the second or third day they would not come back. But there was quiet perseverance that surprised him - children these days always seemed to be looking for the easy way - that whenever he came across the smith he saw that hard burn lingering in the back of their eyes. No, they were in this for the long haul; and so as consequence was he.

This week he would begin the weighing up of their Martial prowess. Fists would have to do as a base, he did not want to divulge into weaponry just yet. Though, he imagined the gunsmith would at least hold some proficiency with the firearms they created. He sent the smith running as a warm-up, and after a few laps he summoned them over.

Cheeks puffing, Gale rolled their shoulders - they had done as he had said, leaving the mask and poncho behind and favouring the lighter layers. They were in no danger down here, and those who recognised Gale as Artful would see the situation for what it was: the smith was expanding their portfolio and looking for pointers from a much more experienced member of the resistance. Gunner did not need to be involved at all, so why draw attention to it?

"Ready?" Peter asked, springing lightly on his toes.

Gale was still inhaling, a little less intense than they were a week ago - but time and practice would fix that. They tilted their head at him.

"For what-"

Peter swung a fist. Jerking back they, raised their arms in front of their face as the Wick came swinging again. Knees locked in, they braced against the blow, eyes coming into narrows as they darted around him. A kick came next, followed by a stamp down on their foot; guard broken Peter's hand grasped the back of their hair and pushed their head down to his rapidly rising knee. He stopped an inch or so short of making contact, but by this point, Gale's heart was once again racing within their chest. With a small tremble, the Wick released them and shove them aside.

Sitting on the floor, Gale's head rattled. What just happened? It was quick, a raw display of power from the man who was at least a couple of inches shorter than them. His field prickled against their skin, a small flex as he hauled them back up to their feet.

"Need to always be ready for a fight. Could strike at any time." He looked Gale up and down. "Form was strong, that's for sure. But you need to keep light on your feet, cannot afford to be too slow - you do not have a brute's build."

"I've been in fights before-" The smith snorted.

"Perhaps, but how rough you felt afterwards. To fight well means finishing it as quickly as possible. Or getting away. Hanging around is never a good idea, ye chen?" He tapped at Gale's feet with his boot. "Got to be light on your feet, this is not like when you are at a forge and you have to hammer home."

Gale's legs stiffened, the muscles twitching down their shins. They ached, put under the force of running than the standing done at the forge, their palms itching as Peter brought this attention back around.

"You have got a farrier's build."

It was another stated blunt fact from Peter, the Wick always had a tendency to bluntly announce facts - though the smith understood these were mainly done as confirmation to himself than for the benefit of others. He gave them a slap upon the arm.

"Come on. Arms up, practice the footwork."

Sighing, Gale raised their arms fists clenched and shoulders squared off while the Wick circled them. There was a low hum before he tapped at their feet.

"Too heavy set. Bounce on your toes."

"What?"

He sighed, rose up onto his toes by a half-inch and gently jumped on them before settling into a supposedly more relaxed position. Shuffling their feet on the spot, the Smith gave a few half jumps on the spot, before settling into place. Peter's knuckles cracked as he clicked them, his face briefly lost from the lantern light. He tugged at his shirt collar, gave the smith a brief glance, before swinging at them again.

Leaning back, Gale felt their legs tense, solidifying as he stamped at them again. There was a grunt as it struck, their own hand lashing out at him to shove him away.

"Light on your toes." He had snatched the front of their shirt, pulling them right into their face. His thumbnail scratched the side of the smith's neck - a silent representation of a knife point. "Too slow."

Gale's skin prickled as they were released, their fingers rubbing against their throat. Peter was prowling, always guarded, his jaw setting into a line as they were yet again weighed up.

"On your toes." He barked.

This was a far cry from learning how to forge, where the process was training through repetition instead of learning by through error. Jaw set, Gale rose onto their toes. Another punch again, this time lower and to the gut - the smith slapped it aside, eyes darting to the next approaching fist. It struck against their side, another grunt escaping as they took the blow. His foot was raising for another kick.

Light on your feet.

As he stamped down, Gale stepped back - feet sliding away, they made space and returned to a guarded stance. Peter smirked.

"Good." His other foot swung around then, hooking behind the back of Gale's knee. They slammed down onto their back, head knocking against the floor. It stung, eyes blinking while the Wick stood over them.

"But not good enough. Again!"

[Gale]

The How

54 Roalis 2720

It was between two of the half-standing columns that Peter had strung a length of rope. It was several feet off the ground, far enough that you had to physically climb up to it but close enough that falling would only give them bumps and scrapes. As Gale watched the rope was pulled taught they visually measured the distance between the two columns; ten feet, give or take a few inches.

They were granted a small moment of rest while the Wick finished up; after what felt like years of running they were starting to get a hang of the breathing part.

Don't pant. Don't talk. Breathe with rhythm.

"You should stop smoking as heavily." Peter glanced at them as he knotted off the rope. "It is a poison to the body-"

"It calms me down."

"Like drink?"

In the years Gale had known him, they had never seen Peter smoke or drink - forever sober and untainted by vice. It was Beckett who often divulged in numbing himself, taking the edge off the bitterness that otherwise formed him. Gale turned to it for memory and stress. They knew that within themselves. Their hands were beginning to tremble, the warm sweat gathering at the back of their neck.

Peter gestured for them to come over.

"Climb up and walk from one end to the other." He spoke flatly.

The Smith narrowed their eyes at him, a brief prickle of something hot in the back of their skull.

"I'm not an acrobat."

"And?"

Rolling their eyes, they stuffed their hands into their pockets.

"This isn't helping me become Gunner. Pa didn't go leaping around rooftops, and you certainly-"

Peter clambered up onto the top of the column, a small groan of discomfort as he shifted his weight. Gale became quiet, arms folding as they watched the man stretch.

"You dunnae need to prove anythin'."

The Wick gave the rope a testing tap with his toe, and with a nod he stepped forward onto the rope. He balanced there, shoulders rolling, his form bending before he took another step. Gale raised an eyebrow as he reached the middle of the tope and bent down to their height. Peter flicked them on the forehead.

"Maybe, because your Pa was an old man when you remember him. He was just as nimble as I am now back in the day."

Gale rubbed their forehead.

"No he wasn't. He was a brute forcer-"

"Gods, Child. Joints fail and knees hate you as you get older." He sighed. Finishing the rest of the journey, he leapt from the top with ease and gave a bow. "Your turn."

Gale stared at it; they asked him to help with fighting, not this bizarre circus act of clambering over objects and running circuits. The smith did not move, aware of the faint tremble that hugged the back of their shins. What was this even in aid of? Did he really expect them to be running recklessly over rooftop-

Peter was looking at them expectantly.

"Go on then."

Mumbling Gale began the awkward clambering up the column. Smooth stone, with nothing to allow them to step up - yet Peter had managed to ascend it with ease. They pressed their toes against a foothold, hands reaching up to the top. With a grunt, they dragged themselves the rest of the way up and onto their belly. Peter said nothing, his fingers covered his lips, his brow raised as he simply watched. Clambering onto their feet, Gale rolled their shoulders - the other column felt further away now, a long thin line between the pair of them. Their boot gave a testing tap on the rope, it bent slightly beneath their weight but remained taut. How were they supposed to even cross it? Awkwardly one foot at a time?

"This is an exercise of balance. Balance helps in understanding body movements." Peter began. "To be Gunner, is not just to be able to fight - but also reach places that may seem unreachable and escape them. A monster does not remain a monster by hanging around."

"You're going to have me scaling buildings and leaping between rooftops next." The smith muttered. They placed a foot down on the rope, arms out as they felt it wobble beneath them.

It was said in jest, but the flat words of Peter gave them pause.

"Of course." He came a little closer, head lifting as he looked up at them. His hand tapped the rope. "Step onto the line, with your foot lengthwise."

Gale did as they were told; the inside of their chest growing tense as they lifted their other foot. Immediately their arms went out, their entire form wobbling. Their resisted swinging, eyes wide as they held themselves there. They felt themselves lean, their centre of mass shifting.

Lower it. No, raise it. Keep it-

The smith tilted and crashed to the floor. It did not hurt at first, eyes blinking at the vibrating rope coming to a stop. There was a wince, Peter hauling them up to their feet before pushing them back to the column.

"Again."

Gale rolled their shoulders, the left twinged- the scar in the joint pulling as they hauled themselves back on top. Stepping back onto the rope, they listened to Peter as he began his instruction.

"Bend the leg slightly, let it help you find balance."

The smith did as they were told, the free arms and leg being moved as they tried to maintain balance. The horizon shook, shoulders dipping as they maintained the position, fighting against the pull of gravity and the wobbling rope. They were breathing quickly as they brought their free foot forward, holding it over the rope as they leaned down into it. They held the position, arms continuing to wave; their legs were beginning to shake, muscles twitching as they glanced to Peter.

"What now?"

"Take a step. Push down against the rope when it begins to wobble."

Push down? What does that mean?

Gale swallowed, eyes darting down to their feet as they nervously lifted their back foot. They felt the rope rise beneath them, their centre of gravity having shifted as they wobbled. They slammed their foot down on the rope; the entire length bent beneath them, both feet lifting from their purchase before they fell once more to the ground.

Coughing, Peter leaned over them. He nodded his head back to the tight rope.

"Again."

[Gale]

The How

60 Roalis 2720

Peter had turned his attention to one of the collapsed tower bases; currently he was pacing it out, working out how high it was and where the broken perch started. He had left Gale clambering over the rubble and around a skeleton a circuit; up onto the fallen rocks, treating them like giant stepping stones, scrabbling up one of the columns and wobbling their way across the tight rope, crawling beneath a low erected tunnel, punching a wooden manikin a half dozen times the other side before sprinting back around to the start of the course again.

And the smith clearly hated every minute of it. Yet still, they kept coming back for more.

They understood patience; the years in the forge smelting metals and pulling them into shape had taught them well. They also understood that before learning anything advanced they firstly had to know the basics by heart. Breathing, stamina, endurance - the smith was already strong, hammer swinging did that work for them. But using the body in ways beyond brute force had to be trained. At least they were making some progress over the last few days, they did not fall from the tightrope immediately anymore even if they did take it at a slower pace.

Peter cleared his throat.

"Come here."

Gale tapped the back of their head against the tunnel roof. Hissing, they dragged themselves out and up; at least they were not breathing as hard now, their body adjusting to the daily abuses Peter put them through.

"You need to be faster on the rope."

The smith said nothing, but they peered at him from beneath their brow. Their expression was more pinched than normal, the eye sockets darker than previous days; the slow drag of withdrawal haunting their form. They shuddered, lungs puffing as they looked up the tower wall and back down to the ground. It was all weathered brickwork, grooves and gaps in the surface; rough rock and sharp edges. The glance at him, or through him.

"I know."

It was how it was said that caused Peter to lean; as if it was nothing more than a fact, or more the acceptance of knowledge that this was how the world currently was. He cleared his throat, his eyes turning upwards to the top of the ruined tower.

"Your left. You favour it. Why?"

The scar in Gale's shoulder pinched; instinctively they reached for it, their fingers massaging at the joint. Part of them withdrew, a small hunch inwards, their eyes darting from Peter to the ground.

"I uh... Well..." How could they admit to him weakness? Failure to protect what was theirs? They swallowed. "I was stabbed."

"You what?"

Gale quickly followed up.

"It was a couple of years ago- I sorted the problem- I dealt with it."

Peter's hands grasped their shoulders, a firm grip as he squeezed them. His glamour flexed, the previously still waters sloshing and turning - turbulent as he hissed between gritted teeth.

"Why did you not ask for help then? Dammit, Gale." He inhaled sharply. "This is what I meant when I said helping- Dealt with it? You mean..."

"He was called The Gentleman. He uh... stole from me, stabbed, killed- I... I stopped him from causing more suffering." The smith swallowed. Inside their chest they felt movement, as if a weight was shifting on the scales.

Peter made no sign of recognising the name; instead, those beady eyes were searching their face, pinching and pulling as he tried to work something out. He released his grip.

"We will be talking about this later." His eyes had turned hard, lifting up to the tower. "But... for now consider this."

He gripped the side of the ruined structure, fingers finding a grip and his feet gaining purchase. He took himself up a foot off the ground and looked back to Gale.

"In the dark, one must climb. Else it and all its sins that promise to help will drag you in deeper." He stepped along, rising another foot as he pulled himself up the side of the ruin. "The same can be said in reality. Climbing is another way to escape or access. To rise above the things that would catch and hurt you." Peter reached a hand down to them. "So climb."

Gale reached up for it; a warm grasp that tugged them onto the wall. Their feet found the footholds, their nails digging into the crumbling rock. They found their weight shifting, wanting to press themselves into the stone less they fall. Toes straining, they followed Peter's point up to the first ledge before the Wick took the lead. He showed the way, far more flexible than the Smith expected as he scaled the rock. They followed, slower, stretching as muscles pinched and pulled; One foot at a time, one stretch as they crawled and pulled. They just had to make progress, even if it was slow.

Just like climbing a fence. Just like a fence... This is not a fence.

Chest puffing, they pressed their forehead against the surface - cool against the fire in their skull. Their teeth gritted, hand swinging up to grasp on a lip, the muscles they forgot existed making themselves very well known.

"Do not look down." Peter glanced at them. "Just breathe."

He was just above, his form curling before he sprung at the ledge. His hands clasped at it, feet swinging before he pulled himself up onto it.

Monkey. He must be part monkey.

With a grunt, Gale continued to pull themselves up, foot flailing as it stretched to find a hold against the wall. They stretched up, arm swinging to find the ledge Peter was on. Red-faced they swung their other arm up at it. Slick fingers felt the cold stone, palm scraping against the rough surface; they felt their footing go beneath them, arms jerking as gravity pulled them down. They swore loudly, teeth bared as they felt their grip tighten, their eyes darting up at Peter for some guidance.

"Find your feet. You have legs, use them."

They were swinging wildly, attempting to find purchase on the air. They swung one up to the wall, feeling their knees bend as they force themselves into a crouch. Their heart hammered in their chest, their other foot coming up alongside the other as they pressed up; They lipped an elbow over the side, then another, before dragging themselves up and on the edge. Rolling onto their back, they felt their chest heaving, the taste of copper having gathered in the back of their throat. They blinked, glancing up to the Wick as he studied their expression.

"Did better than I thought you would."

"I've... climbed a few fences in my time." said the smith through laboured breaths.

Peter gave a smile, his hand gesturing up to the rest of the ruined tower within the cavern.

"Then you will have no objection trying the rest of the way?"

Gale groaned.

[Gale]

Saunders Forge

70 Roalis 2720

Gale drained the murky water in the sink, the dark sludge gurgling as it circled the plughole. They watched it rotate, the small flecks sticking against the steel before the tap was turned on again. It was refilled, their damp hair falling forward over their face as the sink was filled once more. Their shirt was hanging up by the window, sewer clogged boots kicked off at the bottom of the stairs - everything smelt putrid, clinging to their nostrils no matter how much they scrubbed. Their fingers scratched at the skin beneath their chest bindings, their eyes flickering up to the tiny mirror on the wall, and then to the reflection of Peter. The Wick was leaning against the door frame, watching. Not lecherously, his eyes were glazed over, his thumb rubbing against his chin.

"You were in the sewers?"

Gale rubbed a slither of soap into their face, splashing it with water as they leaned over their sink. They massaged at the back of their neck.

"Aye." They shook the droplets from their face. "It's why I couldn't train today. But..." They glanced back at him. "Here you are anyway."

Peter shrugged. Peeling away he turned his attention to the tiny window in the corridor.

"I was curious. About a lot of things. Where you worked. Lived. Did..." He peered through the window. "And what could have been so important to you that you could not train today."

Gale rubbed the washcloth into their face, cheeks puffing as they checked their faces for smears. They did not find any, but they could see the faint line beneath their eye sockets, the barely blinked and missed scaring where their previous Gunner Mask smashed against their skin. Lip twitching, they dried their face while Peter continued talking.

"And you were in the sewers, of all places. But, why?"

"I'm certain your ears would have heard the rumours in the resistance by now." Gale pushed past him, slipping into their bedroom and rummaging about for their spare shirt. It was here somewhere. "Not heard any whispers?"

Peter chuckled, the corner of his lip pulling.

"Oh, I have. Yet hearing it first hand from the source is always much more rewarding." He was looking at something outside. "I supposed my real question is why to block them up?"

Gale tugged a travel trunk out from beneath their bed; clicking the latches they inspected the content - it contained the few old memories Gale had of their father and the few precious pieces they desperately managed to hold onto in life after the Gentleman tore most of it apart. Inhaling, they found their spare shirt - Beckett's spare shirt technically - and pulled the slightly too big shape on over their bindings. They flinched when they felt Peter leaning over them, surprised that the Wick had managed to sneak over without the floorboards squeaking underfoot.

"Fucking bells." The smith shoved him away.

"See you have his old journal." He was eyeballing the battered leather book with a broken spine. "Wrote a lot of things down in that."

"A lot of gibberish." Gale closed the trunk and slid it back under the bed. Doing up the buttons they paced the upstairs of the forge, before clattering barefoot down the spiral staircase. Behind Peter followed, stopping halfway down the steps to sit on them - clearly he had chosen it as his new vantage point in which to watch the smith from.

Gale went about their business, arranging their tools around the forge and ensuring everything was in place. As they rearranged their hammers on the wall, the smith began to speak slowly.

"Methane."

"Pardon. What about it?"

"It's uh... explosive. And is a product from waste." Gale snorted. "Nay as powerful as powder. But... enough to cause a bit of backflush. Clog a few drains and make 'em wade in shit."

"I... do not follow. This is about the sewers?"

"Ye ever seen a combustion engine?" Gale leaned against a worktable. "See, the fuel when ignited makes a gas. Which goes around, builds pressure in the engine with enough force that it can push pistons. And well, allow motion. Course, when pressure builds and has nowhere to go, the thing will go bang."

Peter's expression changed; the glamour around him withdrawing - as if the tides had rolled back and were waiting to crash down. His brow furrowed inwards as if trying to comprehend what this all meant.

"Pressure explosion. Like..." He made the shape of a firearm with his hand.

"Imagine the end is blocked."

Peter's hand lowered; shaking his head he approached the smith while his voice grew quiet.

"And you know this will work how?"

"The Steel horse."

The Wick's expression turned blank. Clearly caught on the back foot, Gale took the opportunity to explain. They wheeled the covered Steel Horse in from outside, and without a flourish, they removed the tarp. Placing a hand on the handlebars, Gale met the expression of the wick.

"The Steel Horse. It uses an internal combustion engine, powered by Kerosene-"

"You made this-"

"I fucking made it and patented it. And yes it works."

Was it a look of horror on his face? Concern? Fear? Or wonderment? He seemed momentarily stunned, as if not sure what to do with the information before him - he stepped towards it, fingers hovering over the steel chassis, swallowing as he studied it.

"You... are a genius. This... and..." He glanced up at Gale's face. "You do not use this for resis-"

"No."

He nodded, the tension in his body visibly easing. "Good, good... I think I understand. This could be a boon to so many, this, if you could just get it out... No. No. I am getting ahead of myself. You have really come far as a smith."

Warmth, that was what Gale felt then. It flickered in their chest, far from the furious rage, but instead, it was careful nursing of pride that sparked within and began to grow. Standing a little straighter, they watched Peter withdraw and perch himself on one of the stools. His fingers steepled together, the edges of his expression creasing as his thoughts continued to swirl. As Gale put the steel horse away, he spoke.

"You still have your father's armour?"

Gale's head turned to him, but the pupils moved to the corner of their eyes. They frowned.

"Armour?"

"That's a no then." His eyes flickered up. "Not that should be a problem. We shall just have to make a new set."
"We?"
"You are not the only smith in the room. And judging by our combined skill, we should be just fine."