Workshop

Zal approaches the old barn, following the sound of a hammer striking metal. They push open the giant wooden doors--old grey boards, half-rotted by termites on the bottom.

The hammer pauses, suspended over the anvil. The smith turns toward the loud creak of the rusted hinges. It drops its hammer onto the hay-covered floor and covers one of its ears. “Close the door!” it signs with one hand, closing its eyes tight.

Zal steps inside and quickly pushes the doors shut again. “Sorry!” they sign back.

“Bright!” it signs, and reaches down to find its hammer, keeping its other hand clasped on the tongs grasping the hot metal on the anvil.

By the sunlight through the gaps in the wall, Zal scans the room. Whatever farming tools and materials it once held have been cleaned out, and the walls are now lined with shelves of mechanical tools and components, barrels and crates. On one side of the door is an open crate filled with lead bullets, and on the other side, a keg of black powder. On one wall the tables are covered in a great many rifles, pistols, bayonets, and knives. The middle of the room is dominated by some huge mechanical contraption. Zal can’t tell what it is, half covered in tarps.

On the other wall is a metal work bench next to the anvil and furnace, and next to that, Annia Koronova, setting its half-formed metal down on the work table. It’s barely taller than Zal, small but surprisingly strong. It has thick leather work gloves on its hands, leather boots with iron plates on its feet, and an old grey mechanic’s jumpsuit, too big for it. In the heat of the forge, it has the top half unbuttoned and its sleeves tied around its waist.

Under a thin layer of soot and dust, its skin is pale as snow, except for the tattoo wide across its chest--”RACE TRAITOR.” A beam of sunlight reflects a silvery gleam from its white hair, a moderate length on the top, but cut close on the sides from just above its ears. The sunbeam his its pale lilac colored eyes, and it shields its face and turns away.

“Annia!” Zal says, approaching the forge.

“Zal!” it signs their name sign--like a hybrid of the signs “nobody” and “nowhere.” It was Annia who gave them that sign.

Zal walks around the anvil and Annia runs into them and throws its arms around them.

“I was wondering what was in here, but it was a friend!” Zal signs to it. “So this is your workshop.”

“This is our workshop! Welcome,” it signs.

“Impressive, we have a lot of stuff here,” they sign.

“Me and Krev have been scavenging and collecting this junk all winter. I’m so happy I could build a proper forge!” It flaps its hands rapidly.

“And we are very well armed,” Zal signs.

“Yes, Maris and them brought so many from some raid they did on the way here. If anything is in overabundance in Kogaku it is guns. I’ve been working to make sure all these weapons are functional and reliable.”

“What are you working on now?”

“A door hinge! I can’t stand that creaky door another day.”

“Krev will appreciate that,” Zal signs.

“He will. I already replaced his drake harnesses and fixed up a lot of his tools. In between projects for the collective I will end up rebuilding all of this farm,” Annia signs, greatly exaggerating the circle of “all.”

“The old man must like having you around,” Zal signs.

“Yeah, I guess we kind of bonded and he treats me like his granddaughter or something,” Annia signs.

“How nice,” Zal signs. “I’m so glad I found your cave, friend. Wherever you are it’s always the only place I can get some quiet.”

“I’m so glad you’re here at the commune now. These people sign like first year schoolchildren with frostbite in their fingers.”

Zal laughs. “I wouldn’t be half as good if it weren’t for a year on the road with you.”

Annia stands up on the toes of its feet and waves its hands in front of its face, making a high pitched noise. “A good year.”