The smith was out the back of the forge quietly working beneath the overhang. The heat of the coals caused the air to grow humid, but to the smith that did not matter – they were attempting to concentrate on what they understood. The carcass of the large defunct engine was still in the yard, the half scrawled drawings across the walls of the thoughts that rattled through their mind. The engine had been sawn in half, the inners exposing the piston, the intake, the outtake and the cylinder. From there the numerous moving parts had been removed, other parts filled in with wax, the mind following the motions and reducing the strokes.
These thought were what currently urged them forwards. They had made a rough size of the pieces they needed out of wood, largely shrinking down the initial size and comparing it to the bicycle on one of the work benches. With it a glass bottle with some tubing was lashed beneath the handle bar; a temporary engine that served more as a replication than anything else. Coiling the tubing around the frame, they stretched it over the wooden mouth of the mock engine.
The hammer struck against the steel, the pliers carefully rotating it in place. They went for mild steel, choosing to go for a cylinder shape for the core of it. A circle was deliberately shaped into the side of it, the bottom sealed while the top was lacking any closure. The small hammer continued to strike the sides, working it into shape before oil quenching it. They shook the drips from it, carefully placing it on the side.
Replicating was one thing, and this was all it was really. Understanding it properly was another matter altogether. Finger drumming, they lazily turned the back wheel of the bicycle. How did it all fit together, would it even work? Least in principle. They left a smear of grease across their chin as they regarded the forge – they needed to understand more. The wheel squeaked, the finger tracing along to where the engine would sit and the crankshaft would rise up from it. How difficult would it be?
Outside the spray of rain continued, pattering against the cobble stone. It drowned out the sounds beyond, muting against the senses. Damp lingered in the air, the smith turning their attention back inwards. They had the time to practice their trade, the bad weather kept the curious away and served as a deterrent. But, they would come if they were desperate.
Gloved hand reaching forward, the scruffy smith pulled upon the bellows. Heat rushed against them, their eyes looking at the smouldering coals within. Their mind wandered briefly to Dorhaven, of the destruction there that looked to tar the name of the resistance. Serro would not let them go, they were too valuable, too needed for their understanding and skill set. Though the smith wondered if it was because they were perceived as a liability.
Or wanted to spare their mind from things that should not be seen.
A low hum escaped, the smith letting the tune ripple forth. Wordless the eyes looked up to the drawings; they needed to make a cap, then the shaft to fit. Then numerous other mechanical pieces. Part of them wondered why they had grown so obsessed with it; an element of pride or wanting to prove that human kind were able to match and equal the Galdori that suppressed them?
Or was it to be another year of no achievement? Just a reminder that their efforts felt in vain. The smith snorted at that, a small realisation that they were not getting any younger. They were to be the villains in the story of the nation and the temptation to embrace it was becoming very real. A dirty hand rubbed into their hair, nails scratching as they tried to shift the thought. They had an idea to explore and an empty day to do it with.