I stood outside the workshop for what felt like an eternity, my hand hovering over the brass handle. Steam hissed from vents along the walls, curling in lazy spirals into the misty air. Gears turned faintly somewhere inside, and the smell of warm metal and oil drifted to my nose. My chest thudded, and I swallowed, feeling the weight of every coin, every step, every awkward stumble that had led me here.
Finally, I pushed the door open. The hinges groaned, and a bell chimed faintly. Inside, the workshop was a chaos of organized disorder. Benches crowded with tools, half-finished contraptions, and spinning gears stretched as far as I could see. Steam hissed from vents above, a constant, sharp whisper, and brass pipes crisscrossed the ceiling like a metal web.
A man looked up from a workbench. His hair was streaked gray, hands worn and stained with oil, and glasses perched low on his nose. "You there," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "Yes, you. What do you want?"
I swallowed, words catching in my throat. "Uh… I… I'm looking for… work," I stammered, gesturing vaguely at myself. "I… I can help… clean… carry… whatever you need…"
He raised an eyebrow and leaned back, arms crossed. "Work, huh? You don't look older than fifteen. Are you sure you can handle it?"
I nodded quickly, though my stomach tightened. "I… I'll try my best. I… I can learn fast. I just… I want to help."
The man—Henry, I learned—studied me for a long moment. Then he sighed, pushing his glasses up. "All right, kid. Let's see if you can handle a few things without breaking them."
He gestured toward a pile of brass gears and small tools. "Start by sorting these. Make sure none are missing teeth or bent. If you can do that without screwing it up, we'll talk about more."
I nodded frantically, trying not to knock anything over as I crouched beside the pile. My hands trembled slightly as I picked up the first gear, turning it over, noting each tooth, listening to the faint click of metal against metal.
As I worked, I became aware of another presence. A young woman stepped lightly between the benches, carrying a small tray of tools. She had sharp eyes and a quick smile, hair tied back so it didn't fall into her face. "You must be the new kid," she said, her tone teasing. "Henry doesn't usually get anyone your age here. I'm Lilia."
I blinked. "Uh… hi… I'm… Harold," I said, voice small. "I… I'm supposed to… help?"
She tilted her head, studying me with an amused look. "Supposed to help? That's the spirit. Let's see if you survive the first hour, then we'll call it 'help.'"
Henry grunted from the workbench. "Don't distract him. Just… watch and make sure he doesn't break anything."
Lilia laughed softly and leaned against a nearby bench. "He's harmless. Mostly. Come on, Harold, just tell me if you need a hand. You can't exactly ask Henry for patience."
I nodded, fingers tightening around the next gear. "Th-thank you… I… I'm trying."
She crouched beside me, picking up a slightly bent gear. "See this?" she asked. "If you leave it in a machine, it'll jam everything. Gears don't forgive mistakes."
I swallowed hard, nodding. "I… I won't… I'll fix it."
"Good," she said, sliding it back into the pile.
—-
By the time I finished for the day, my hands were sore, smudged with oil, and my legs ached from crouching and balancing. Henry watched me quietly, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Hey, kid," he said, voice flat, "you might want to amputate your right leg. That thing looks infected, and it's probably the reason you've been stumbling so much."
My stomach sank. "I… I didn't think it was that bad…" I mumbled, wincing as a dull throb shot up my leg.
Lilia stepped beside me, smirking but with a touch of concern. "Ignore his dramatics… mostly. But Harold, you do need to take care of that leg. Just… watch yourself tomorrow, okay?"
I nodded, cheeks burning, already thinking about how to move more carefully. Even if Henry's words stung, there was a strange sense of clarity in them. I could improve. I had to.
Henry grunted and returned to his bench, muttering something under his breath. Lilia gave me a soft smile. "Tomorrow, we'll start on small frames. Try not to trip over your own feet—or that leg."
I let out a shaky laugh. "I'll… I'll try."
Walking back to my shed, the smell of metal and oil still clung faintly to me, but I felt… determined. Today had been hard, yes. Painful even. But it was mine. And somehow, in this strange, hissing, spinning city, I had begun to belong.
—-
The sunlight, filtered through the drifting steam of the city, brushes across my face. I blink, stirring awake as the faint ticking of the tiny clock beside me grows louder.
The thing's small and fragile—gifted by a kind local who said it "keeps better time than most hearts."
It rings sharply, and I reach out to stop it, careful not to break the delicate gear inside.
I push myself up and dust off my clothes.
"Another day in a different world," I mutter under my breath. The words sound less foreign each morning. The city's rhythm—the hiss of pipes, the clatter of wheels—has begun to feel almost familiar.
I head out, weaving through the streets. The air smells faintly of smoke and oil, and I try to keep pace with the crowd, dodging carts and workers hauling metal crates. My balance wavers now and then, but I manage—until a sudden, stabbing pain shoots through my right thigh.
The world tilts. My leg buckles.
I crash to the ground, the shock bursting through my chest. People glance over but keep walking, used to strangers collapsing in the morning rush.
One man stops. He's got a thick coat and a single brass goggle over his left eye, gears faintly ticking inside it. He grips my arm and hauls me up. "You might want to check that leg of yours, kid," he says, squinting. "Looks like it's starting to mutate."
Mutate? My breath catches. I look down. The skin around my thigh is swollen, the veins darkened and hot to the touch.
"I… thanks," I manage.
He nods once and disappears into the crowd.
By the time I limp to the workshop, my clothes are damp with sweat. The pain hasn't faded—it's spreading. I push open the door, the smell of iron and smoke washing over me.
"C-can you help me amputate my leg?" I blurt out before I can stop myself. The words shake. My eyes drop to the floor; I can't bring myself to look up.
Henry freezes mid-motion, a wrench still in his hand. He studies me for a long moment, then exhales heavily. "Follow me, kid."
I nod weakly and trail behind him, the floorboards creaking under my uneven steps. As we pass by the workbench, Lilia looks up from her tools. Her eyes flick to my leg, then to my face—pity softens her features, though she says nothing.