Drugs were still a problem. The Seventen were being more aggressive in their searching. Miss Daniels had a baby two days back. Grog was becoming popular in the heat. Rightsons and Co had an experimental batch of steel they needed people to test – Gale actively made a note of interest on that. And so forth. It also allowed her to go out and get a cheap pack of cigarettes, decanting them into her tin alongside her matches. The scent of smoke smothered her senses, fighting back against the growing putrid smell that grasped the soot district tightly. She doubted she smelt any better; dried sweat caked the back of their neck, a layer of grime covering her features and clothes. The forge was a merciless and demanding beast. But they enjoyed the work it gave.
Even if her mind wandered to other curiosities on occasion.
Blowing out a trail of smoke, the metalworker continued back towards the forge. Head down, shoulders hunched, a small swagger in every step, the bend making the human appear shorter than she actually was. This was not a time or place to raise her head, instead it was to keep the rough hands within her pockets and the scarf around the neck. Taps and barges as others passed her, eyes ever forward as they peered beneath her brow. The cigarette was pursed tightly between the lips, an inhale of smoke and the old, bitter taste resting on her pallet. Ahead now they saw the door of the forge, the shutters closed and still – just as it was left.
It was then as her hands rummaged in her pockets for the key that the problem surfaced. They searched, looking to grasp at something within as she stood before the forge door. Fumbling deeper, the tobacco tin came out, followed by some loose screws, some string and a hardened piece of wire barely four inches long. The dilemma however, was the lack of keys.
“Shit,” spat the metal smith.
Her hand scratched the back of her head, brow furrowed deeply. Did she drop her keys somewhere? Or leave them inside? Not that it mattered currently. She gave a testing turn of the door handle, a small inkling of hope that there was still a way out of the situation.
The door to the forge was locked.
Gale groaned loudly and gave it a frustrated kick.
Wincing at the discomfort that grew in her toes, the metalsmith moved away to test the various hatches. The first was given a testing pull, finding where the hinges were and rattling them. Hopeful perhaps, that she had left one of them unlocked, or not closed them properly. There was no joy on the first, and the second only complained at her. So, she returned her attention to the door. Pressing their shoulder up against it, she found a grasp upon the handle. It was all about angles, or something, tilting it right with the correct amount of pressure. She dug her heels in, furiously twisting and encouraging the door to give.
All that was needed now was for someone to question why a grubby looking boy was shoulder barging a locked door.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!