[Open] Dismantling Learning

Gale takes apart a factory engine in the name of SCIENCE!

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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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: Artful Gunner
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Mon Apr 08, 2019 6:20 am

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Saunders' Forge| Morning
19 INTAS 2719
There it was again, that fevered dream that crept into their skull during the darkest hours of night. That clicking, whirling, that grasped tightly into the thoughts that sparked and fizzled. How many times had Gale awoken at some forsaken hour? How many times had the thought just rested there beyond their comprehension – close enough to touch but too far to grasp. It was not a nightmare, but the manner in which it haunted and tormented their intellect meant it may as well have been one. It was perhaps the reason they had given up the idea of trying to go back to sleep. It only resulted in unpleasant tossing and turning, before inevitably giving up and surrendering to the cold morning air.

Binding, bracers, the usual dirty trousers, shirt and boots. The palm rubbed into the eye socket as they bumped their way downstairs. Lanterns were lit, the embers of the forge stoked and fed. Heat bled in and chased away the chill. In a haze Gale Saunders pottered, arranging tools so they were in size order and neatly parallel, returning moulds to their shelves, sweeping up the debris. The kettle boiled, a whistling noise that paused their thoughts log enough to pour out the steaming liquid and the faint glow of early morning daylight. The forge doors were swung open shortly after, hot and cold fighting over dominance while entrances were opened – even the large gate that sealed off the tiny brick yard that nestled alongside the forge was opened.

It was necessary; their attention was to be on an outside project today. It was there in the centre of the yard that a large tarp covered an equally large block. Peeling it back revealed the beaten and damaged remains of a factory motor – easily weighing in at half a tonne, a good five feet in height and the same in depth and width. It was a cumbersome piece to transport: renting a cart, organising man power and paying them, and finally depositing it in the yard. Getting permission to do so and signing off paperwork was comparatively less painful.

Tea now poured into a tin cup, white steam pooling into wisps across the top. The smith blew upon it, letting the warmth radiate across their chin and fingers. It was slow measured steps they paced around it, picking out the tubes, the cylinders, the pressure, the intake – and other parts that inevitably created the full working motor. One of the screwdrivers was taken up, and turning it in the gloved digits, they gave a tap against the large wheel – noting the warped spokes and the shaft that held it in place. Further down they could see where the pieces were bent, twisting awkwardly before inevitably moving into a cracked belly. Judging by the oil that accumulated there, that was the main fuel tank.

They slurped their drink, the strong taste bitter against their tongue – it was standard fair, enough to get them going in the morning before begging for a cigarette. With the screwdriver they traced the machine around, mentally drawing out a diagram in their head. What could they remove? What could they strip away? What would they not need?

Exhaling between their teeth, Gale stood. Another pace around it, in consideration. That was the other problem; this engine was designed to be stationary. What they needed was to think of a way to allow it to propel something forward. Much like the pedal on the bicycle that turned the chain on the rear wheel. Of course, the issue then would be the controlling of acceleration. The finger drummed, and the smith took another slurp.

Gale was delaying the inevitable really.

Placing the tin cup down, the smith gathered their tools and got to work. A whistle followed, some low, droning noise that filled the silence. Starting at the top, they took a heavy piece of chalk and began to highlight the joins. Broad lines of white, single words being left upon sides of larger pieces. Crankshaft. Fuel Inlet. Cylinder. Exhaust. There was a smear as the thumb rubbed the oil away from one of the pieces. Oil tube. A mental note was made that the parts – like any mechanical device – still needed to be lubricated. Arms upon the side, they hoisted themselves up onto the sturdier side, the eyes peering down into the entrance to one of the chambers. Darkness was all they saw.

Pulling back, they gave another testing tap of the top, drew a question mark on the centre. Flipping the screwdriver over, they found the first thread. Iron complained, grinding as it squeaked its way loose. Back put into it, they grasped the head and loosened it the rest of the way. Freeing it, the smith clambered down to study the inch long piece and scanned the rest of the machine.

They were definitely going to need a jar.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Adam Spencer
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Tue Apr 23, 2019 11:00 am

Saunders' Forge • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 19th of Intas, 2719 • Morning
You're going to need a jar." It wasn't the deepest of observations, but the crisp voice that came from the open gate seemed to suggest its owner knew that already. It was wry, hovering just on the edge of genuinely sarcastic. The tall, thin fellow who had spoken slipped into the yard, gazing over the mechanic's efforts to this point. "I'm guessing that whole thing is screwed together. I don't know what it does, but it definitely doesn't use glue."

He wasn't a familiar face -- not exactly -- but he was a recognizable one, at the very least. In the press of thousands of humans, someone looking distinctly like him always had the knack of showing up to big events, notebook at the ready for a report. Hangings and riots, for instance. Probably a journalist, even if Gale might not have known the man's byline from his face alone.

What the probable journalist was doing at a smithy on this quiet morning might have been a bit more of a puzzle, but at least he didn't have a notebook in hand, so Gale was safe from articles being written about their efforts, at least at the moment. Still, Adam cast a skeptical glance at the engine, with its question mark and highlights scribbled on it. "My guess is you don't know what it does, either, but you'd like to. Or, perhaps, you know what it does but not how it does it."

Letting the question hang there in the air, Adam took a step or two foreward, studying the engine. What was the smith doing with it? Preparing to take it apart, clearly, but to what purpose? If it was working, he might as well simply use it, rather than rip it to shreds and have to put it together again. It was a heroic endeavor but perhaps a thoroughly unnecessary one, when more pressing concerns were running all throughout the city these days. The finer points of science would have to wait.

He blinked once, as if having forgotten something. "Oh, sorry," he said, dipping a bow, although there wasn't even a trace of apology in his voice. "Manners. Adam Spencer. I'm here to borrow the services of a skilled smith. Don't suppose you might know where I could find one?" he concluded wryly, raising dark brows at the other figure. His casual bearing suggested he was willing to wait as long as the question warranted.
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Fri Apr 26, 2019 5:21 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Wed Apr 24, 2019 8:33 am

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Saunders' Forge| Morning
19 INTAS 2719
A plume of white escaped between the lips of Gale. They had heard the speaker, but they were too focused on their current action to immediately comment. Teeth clenched, hands twisted as it found a particular tough screw that refused to budge. Least until it did; sudden jerking and surrendering to leverage. Afterwards it gave much more easily, and the head was loosened. The orbs flickered to the voice at this point, the shaft of the screw in their grasp – some flat head – the digits idly playing with it. Two inch long screws, with numerous others to go – and that was before you even considered the various rivets, welding and clips that held everything else together.

“Glue would melt. Or react to the fuel. I dunno, maybe. Glue is funny,” the smith moved to their drink and promptly drained the last of the tea from their cup. A bit too hot, they grimaced and swallowed the last of the liquid. The screws thereafter were tossed into the now empty vessel with a clink.

Dark hair. Older than I. No field. Tall. Presume human. Scrawny. Not labourer. Clean. Employment? Who knew.

Eyes continued to shift around him, past the clothing, down to the hands, before shooting back up and resting upon his collar bone. They did not register if he had stubble or more, though currently it did not matter. What mattered was the why he was here and what did he want?

Gale turned the screwdriver over once, feeling the heavy weight of the handle before they circulated the engine. Where were they going for next? Much like he with his rhetoric and prodding of words. A few testing taps along the crankshaft, the smith paused their movements to contemplate how to remove it.

Stool or step ladder. Working on higher points will be difficult.

“It’s ‘n engine. Used to be for one of the factories, t’thread spinner ones. Runs on liquid fuel. None this coal and steam stuff,” they shrugged, “’course, lots of it’s broken. So, gonna go tinker... I'd watch where ye step. Oil 'nd cold don't work well I hear.”

The hand turned the large wheel manually, watching the various pieces go around, least until it jammed on one of the cogs. Spinning it back, the smith shrugged and returned back into the forge proper. Upon returning this time they brought several more tools and a stool. They did not look at him as he spoke, instead returning to remove the bolt that kept the wheel in place.

“If you’re lookin’ to borrow, go see the young’un – William – down the road. Apprentice won’t charge you, though,” they took the pliers around the other side of the wheel to hold the nut in place, “Lad is only been doin’ his trade for a month and is half my size.”

Iron squeaked as they twisted the bolt loose, another collection of grunts and mumbled curses under their breath as it eased its way out. A puff of cheeks, they heard the sound of the bolt snap. Coming away quickly, they moved as the bent wheel clattered to the ground, grinding against the stone before gradually coming to a stop. Snorting, Gale inspected the remains of the bolt and nut – noting the air cavity left inside – before tossing it into the tin cup.

“Shit iron,” they cleared their throat, “Now, if ye want t’hire a smith, then I might be able t’ aid ye – be it doing servicin’ myself or pointin’ the right way. ‘Pends on what ye want and who is askin’, ye chen?”

With the wheel now free, they moved onto the arms that held it in place – choosing now to pull it apart to gain a better look at the actual engine chamber itself. Even now they could see how the wheel connected to another, but whatever powered the smaller wheel was currently hidden and out of sight.

“Saunders,” they gave him little more than a nod in response to his introduction, “Like the sign.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Adam Spencer
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Wed Apr 24, 2019 12:56 pm

Saunders' Forge • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 19th of Intas, 2719 • Morning
Using the cup might work too. Adam laughed a little as the drinking vessel was repurposed. "Handy." He waited a moment, folding his arms, exhaling a breath that clouded in the cool air. Clearly he'd get spoken to on the smith's own time. No need to rush the matter and make the other mad.

"You're telling me that a skilled smith only does a trade for a month? Must be very different than journalism." There was only a little bit of sarcasm on the words, not enough to really offend, although something about the smith's nature made Adam phrase the joke slightly carefully. "No, William doesn't seem -- "

The wheel crashed, and he flinched instinctively, nowhere near the point of impact. Affording Gale a grimace, he scrubbed a hand through his hair, uncertain of the engine's viability after the catastrophe. "I don't know how complicated a typewriter is compared to an engine, but I'm willing to bet it's roughly comparable. You'll forgive me if I don't entrust it to William's doubtless tender mercies. It's my livelihood."

The typewriter had been misbehaving recently. He was used to a few errant keystrokes here and there; the mechanisms that drove what he wrote were never perfect. But, perhaps due to overuse, it had been having a hell of a time keeping pace. It was time to fix that, before it got worse. If nothing else, Adam knew the importance of timing.

He smiled apologetically, his gaze leveling on Gale. "Well met, Saunders." He'd have liked to throw an appellation onto that, but he couldn't be sure which one to use. It didn't seem that much of an issue, anyway. After all, he was here to hire the smith for work, so what did it matter who exactly performed that work. "I'd like you to look at my typewriter. I don't have it with me, unfortunately, but I can have it sent over within a day. It's been acting up, and it's something mechanical, but I'll be clocked if I can figure out what's wrong with it."

Adam's hands spread in a gesture of futility about the matter, and he reached for his billfold inside the depths of his coat. "Half now, half on receipt of the fixed typewriter. How much?" It would be a necessary expense, after all, and if he could stick the galdori with the bill, so much the better. It was a condition of publication, after all, and if he spent too long away from legitimate publications, questions would start that he had replies for, but was entirely unwilling to answer.

He wondered how the smith had managed to procure an engine like this, too, but perhaps that was a question the other was unwilling to answer. Adam suspected it might be. Better to wait until he picked up the fixed typewriter to inquire about that potentially suspicious question.
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Gale
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Wed May 01, 2019 10:53 am

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Saunders' Forge| Morning
19 INTAS 2719
There was something in his tone that Gale did not quite understand. A particular emphasis that made the eyes scan and skip to the side. Brow plucking together, the internal mechanisms of the mind whirling into life as it attempted to work its way around social nuances. How were they to respond? What was the correct answer? What point was he getting at? The gloved thumb tapped against their sleeve, machinations going around, snagging on what was said even as he continued. The handle of the screwdriver tapped against the shaft, before they turned their attention to another offending screw.

Sarcasm.

Eyes narrowed down, squinting at the rust that had accumulated around the rim, “You sure you don’t want William? Sure he’d be chuff t’ ‘ave you, delicacies ‘nd all. No? Right then.”

It looked as if the screw was seized up. Gale’s attention shifted further along, over the bolted on casing of the rest of the engine. They knew beneath a collection of things would be revealed, and with it a better understanding of what haunted the recesses of their mind. The knuckle drummed this time, a dull, hollow tone echoing out. How quick he was to make a demand, to request a value, while the smith had little to no idea as to the source of the problem.

“Typewriter huh? Lucky man to know your way around one. You should ‘ave brought it with ye,” They began with a sigh, “Can’t price somethin’ if I canne see it.”

Withdrawing from actively working on the machine, they leaned up against it. The eyes resting somewhere around his navel, Gale continued, “After all, could grossly under charge ye – which would leave me out of pocket. ‘Course, this then puts an effect on a bunch of other things. Same goes the other way; don’t want me over chargin’ for somethin’ minor.”

I need a smoke.

“So Kov,” the screwdriver moved back and forth, up then back down into the palm. They were in no rush, unlike the self-proclaimed reporter – least that was what they assumed they were. What kind of person does not bring the thing they need fixed with them? More so one who attempted to use some kind of wit and dressed of a higher station. It was short sighted and felt illogical, poor forward planning on their part. Gale taught themselves to always be prepared.

“I’ll look at your typer and assess it for two tallies. Then I’ll tell you the problem and the cost. After ye can either take it, or go ‘nd find another to prod at it,” Rise and fall, the smith stifled a yawn. Slowly the morning air was beginning to warm, the chilling edge gradually melting away. It was still cold however, the few plumes of white showed that, “Dependin’ on the problem, may be able to fix ‘ere – though might have to try ‘nd order parts in, then it’s all on time.”

The fact he had offered half up front suggested it was important to him. Gale shrugged, head turning back to the engine – how much did they want to open it up and what all the parts move in motion? Quite a lot. The smith began working on removing the panel, “Your choice there Mister Spencer, get it ‘ere and I’ll receipt you.”

The first screw came away easily, giving as it was dropped back into the cup. Shuffling up they moved to the next, “Well, Mister?”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Adam Spencer
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Wed May 01, 2019 5:51 pm

Saunders' Forge • Anaxas/ Vienda
On the 19th of Intas, 2719 • Morning
I didn't see much point in bringing it in before I knew if you could work on it. It's heavy, and it isn't worth the effort of carting it around without knowing for sure." Adam shrugged off Gale's seeming lack of concern about his typewriter, watching for a long moment as the other figure bustled around the engine, turned to him, and then turned back to the engine, as if he'd been dismissed from notice already.

"Imagine if I'd come to a smith's only to find out the smith was a blacksmith, with no other talents. Probably not much good someone along those lines could have done for my typewriter, is there?"

He wasn't too worried about the charge. It was what he guessed was fairly negligible work, but if Saunders overcharged, then he'd know how much the smith was willing to con a mark. If he undercharged, then he'd know how little the smith valued the work being done. Either way, it would be an object lesson about another of the city's businesses, ad he had money to cover the difference.

He leaned down to gaze at Gale's work, the engine remaining a mystery to him in its processes.

"So what are you trying to actually do with that thing? You can figure it out without taking it apart, I'd imagine, but I don't know the first thing about that sort of technology. I only expect it to work and beyond that..." Adam sucked in a breath, his shoulders rolling in a shrug. The technology that drove the engine was something that he might have been able to figure out, if he gave himself the opportunity to do so and the space to learn, but there were too may things to figure out that didn't involve hammers striking ribbons on a typewriter or fuel being propelled into an engine. He knew his area, and his area wasn't physical mechanics.

Still, it might be worth learning something. In order to do it, though, he had to find a way to get through to the smith. Something said that tea wasn't cutting it, though. "By the way, it's a bit too early to offer you something to drink, especially with you working on that oversized paperweight, but do you smoke?" he wondered aloud. A slight smile followed. "I can get you a pack of cigarettes; just tell me what brand you usually smoke."

It was as much a peace offering as it was a random gesture of hospitality for the smith's services, and Adam hoped it would give him the space to ask another question. Drawing a breath, he added, "And what do you plan to do with the engine once you've figured it out? You've clearly procured it for a purpose. So what's the purpose?"

He kept his voice quiet, almost docile. Saunders didn't seem the type to relish conversation all that much, after all. Hopefully with some tea drunk and a cigarette half-smoked, the smith would be able to make short work of whatever problem the typewriter was having. Maybe having that problem at the ready would make the smith a little more amenable to conversation.

"Let me telegraph over to the Weekly offices and have it sent over on a kenser cart. About an hour. I'll pick up your cigarettes before I come back."
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