The workshop was already warm.
It wasn't from the weak sun straining through the narrow window but from the constant hum of the geothermal conduit I'd tapped into for the forge.
"So," I said, my voice concentrated. "The clutch in the third actuator is shot. Judging from the cracking sound it's full of sand. Which, given where you work, it most likely is."
Bendrik, a raccon currently occupying my client stool, let out a snuffling laugh.
He was an old man, around 50 years old, his left eye was cloudy and his fur seemed to be in clumps. I'm not quite sure if that's due to his hygiene or age.
Anyways, his mechanical left arm lay on the workbench between us, its synthetic polymer skin peeled back from the elbow down, exposing a tangled nest of hydraulic lines, micro-servos and reinforcement cabling.
"Probably is," he agreed, his good hand, a dark-furred paw scratching at the tufted grey fur of his cheek. "The east slit processor hasn't had a proper filter change since the Geortarians took over. Breathe in deep enough, your lungs change color."
I grunted, not in disagreement, but because I was using a pair of magnetic-tipped tweezers to fish out a mangled, gritty piece of what looked like a ceramic bearing from the actuator housing.
"You're lucky this didn't seize entirely. One wrong move and this could've ripped the anchor points right out of your radial bone. And that's not my job so you wouldn't have gotten the pretty discount I'm giving you."
"And a hell of a discount at that! My wife would've murdered me if I paid for your full prices!"
"An angry wife is still better than having what little is left of your arm ripped off."
"I'd beg to differ."
We both laughed, as I continued having a look around. The circuits seemed to be in a well enough state to not require any major repairs, just a quick clean-up and it should be good to go.
"So, can you fix it, Gunnaich? Or should I call my boss and ask if I can continue in construction with just one arm?"
"First, Cruthfior is my family name, second, I can fix it." I placed the ruined bearing in a small dish I'd previously used to eat my lunch. "I'll just... improvise as I go. Didn't exactly study for this."
I reached into one of my many junk drawers.
A chaos of salvaged parts, and pulled out a small, high-tension spring I'd taken from a rifle's magazine release.
I held it up next to the housing and squinted. A little thick, but maybe with some grinding...
"Improvising?" Bendrik's ears twitched, "With my arm!?"
"It's a spring, Bendrik. The principle is the same where it's helping you make a fist or feed a bullet." I started carefully filing down the coil.
The rhythmic scritch-scritch filled the comfortable silence for a moment.
"So, how's the family? Karina still running that little distillate stand?"
His expression softened. "Yeah. Barely breaking even, but she says the smell of the lavander cuts through the pipe system for a few blocks. It makes her happy. The kits, however, they're loud, it drives me crazy. She's been healthy, which is nice cause last medicine ration was about a month ago and I couldn't possibly afford to buy if she did get sick."
Right, the medicine rations. I'm pretty sure my order has already gone through the ward-gate, so father's medicine should be arriving shortly.
"And how about you, Cruthfior?"
"Dad's... getting on. His hands shake more. Says the inscriptions on the data-slates are getting blurrier. But he won't admit he needs his eyes fixed. He just squints harder and mutters about planned obsolescence or whatever."
Bendrik chuckled. "Sounds like him."
"I've offered him to replace his arm with a mechanical one, but he gets offended and starts screaming at me, shouting nonsense about short circuits, must be a belief from the old tech days."
"Yeah, back when we were young electricity was far more dangerous than it is now. Everything mechanical could breakdown without notice!"
I shuddered at the thought of the ancient tech. "Mom's trying to fatten him up. He's been losing a lot of weight the past few months. She makes this root stew, its so thick I'm sure it could glue together two pieces of stone." I swapped the file for a finer-grit paper, smoothing the spring. "Jiran, he's hit that age. All energy, he can't even focus on his textbooks. Mom forces me to sit next to him so I can see if he's actually reading or not, he usually isn't."
"Ah, you were just like that when you were his age," Bendrik said with a smile.
"What!? No! I was much more calm, mom tells me I was an angel, I just stayed in my room with my 'inventions' and didn't bother anyone!"
"Oh, you definitely didn't. You were only like that around your parents. Around other people you were a beast. Energetic, explosively creative. You'd get into trouble every single time I took care of you."
"Tchk..." I looked down, focusing back on the spring. "Misha just draws. On everything. Walls, scraps, my workbench if I don't watch her." I couldn't stop a smile from forming. "She gave me a picture yesterday. Me, with a revolver as big as I am tall, fighting a monster that's all teeth and tentacles. She said it was to keep me safe."
I paused, the spring now fitting snugly into the cleaned housing. I began the delicate work of re-threading the primary hydraulic line. "And me? I'm just... y'know, here. Trying to keep the dust out of the actuators and rust out of tools."
Bendrik watched my hands work, his dark eyes thoughtful. "Seems like you're doing alright, Farsi. Your family's doing well, and you're good at what you do." He gestured with his chin towards the meticulous workbench, the repaired tools amongst the chaos. "This is a good life you've patched together."
I didn't look up from the hydraulic line, my focus remained absolute. A single mis-thread and the pressure would blow the seal. "It's the only I've got," I said, my voice quieter than intended.
Finally, I slid the last connection home with a satisfying, muted click.
I reached for the small hand-pump connected to a vial of milky hydraulic fluid. "Okay. This might feel cold. Then really tight."
I pumped. The fluid snaked through the new lines. Bendrik's fingers, protruding from the end of the disembodied arm, gave a sudden twitch, then curled slowly into a fist.
"Woah," he breathed.
I worked the fist open and closed a few times, checking the articulation. Smooth. No hitches.
"The spring's a higher tension than the original. You'll have a stronger grip in that hand now. Might take a day or two to get used to it."
I began the process of sealing the polymer skin back over the metal and cabling, using a heated press to weld the seams. The smell of hot plastic joined the workshop's usual scent.
Bendrik flexed his newly re-attached arm, wonder on his fluffy face. He made a fist, then splayed his fingers wide. "Good as new. Or, better, even." He looked at me, his gaze direct. "What do I owe you, Ruthfior?"
I waved a hand, clearing the bench. "The spring was salvage. The fluid and my time, about five Skirlias. Although you did haul two barrels of drinking silt for us after the pump died last summer... Tell you what, I'll make it three Skirlias."
"Great! That's exactly how much I'm carrying around." He reached out for a small bag he kept tied to his belt and took out three Skirlias.
Skirlias were the currency of The Union. Undeb Dehulm under the control of Geortaria is by proxy part of said union.
I stored them in a locked drawer behind the counter.
Bendrik clapped me on the shoulder with his good paw. "Give your family my best. Tell your mother her stew could use less roots."
"I'll tell her."
He left, the bell over the workshop door jingling softly behind him.
I stood there for a moment and looked at my hands. My scales were dusted and proceeded to look around at my shop. My patched-together domain.