A Dry City:

An engineer designed machines, but, any engineer worth their salt could wield a wrench or hammer as deftly as a pen. Engineers would frequently badmouth Craftspeople, but, nothing could hide the envy most felt towards the supernatural level of strength and precision a Crafts-person possessed.

In every town there were plenty of shops that relied on machines built years or even decades ago- and when those broke, the time honoured practice was to have student engineers or jobless graduates fix them.

Unfortunately for Arlene, since she'd graduated, she had a year to find a real job before she became ineligible to work at the exchange- otherwise with her good reputation, she could've done repairs full-time.

She approached the labour exchange with a spring in her step. Proudly towering above the other buildings in Artificers Alley, the state of the labour exchange was a reflection of the prosperity the Light of Lumiere had brought the city. At it's rear towered Long Tom; though small compared to the clock towers of a capitol city, it was still tall enough that it was never more than a few steps out of sight no matter where you roamed in the city. The paddles of it's face flipped every minute, alternating between showing the time of day, the arrival of the next train or tethercarriage, mail rounds and so forth. It was every engineers duty to keep the old boy in working order- which is why it was at the back of the labour exchange for easy access.

Stopping in front of the door, Arlene pulled out a large chrome wrench and checked her reflection.

Eyes a little puffy still, but hard to see. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should wait- before gathering up her courage and pushing her way in.

Inside the Exchange, the heady waft of coal, steam, oil and sweat permeated the air. Men and women with grease streaked faces and overalls that sagged under the weight of pockets and tool-belts argued over smudged blueprints and tinkered with their classwork as they waited for their turn.

Arlene went straight to the front counter and rapped on the woodwork- getting the attention of Old Bert. Foreman Bert ruled the dayshift with a hand of brass. His eyebrows and moustache drooped down, giving him the impression of an elderly walrus that had just heard a particularly sad piece of news.

"Bert. I'd like to go on shift for cleanup. Have anything for me?" Arlene leaned on the counter, steelskin boots tapping against the floor.

"... I got a couple. They ain't pretty." Old Bert's hand clenched around a document, the hinges on the brass joints squeaking in complaint with every movement.

Arlene snatched up the brief with one hand and scanned it, her other hand taking an oil-spray from her haversack to spritz up Bert's squeaky fingers.

"I find it hard to believe even a first year would mess up this badly."

"They weren't first-years. New students arriving for next semester. Think they're the bees nose." Old Bert huffed. "Now they're going to spend their next few rounds here paying off your fee. So take your pick. Ottoman empire's autotassler, Auftland Gwhere's rifling machine, or the centrifuge at Captivating Concoctions. That one's a big job, so Hahn is already there."

"I can see that! Concoctions. Hahn will need the help. Hell, we'll need a craftsperson!" Arlene forgot about her personal situation as her voice rose in pitch and became tinged with anger- "What kind of absolute NUMPTY leans over a moving centrifuge and lets his tools fall in! How did this moron even have a black-iron hammer!"

At the back of the room, a trio that had been hunched over a table, visibly depressed, flinched as if struck.

Bert gave a half nod.

"Scinter is off on leave, Carol is working on the float for St.Gunters day and I've got six others sick with Lurgy after they went drinking at lunchtime. I've got one craftsperson on hand, but they're green. S'why Hahn didn't take them."

"Hahn will come straight back here for one after he gets there and sees it with his own eyes. And Lurgy?" Arlene's last words carried serious disbelief. Craftspeople weren't exactly prone to bouts of illness.

"Bad batch of brew. Words round that the last batch that came by train had been drilled, siphoned, watered and spiked. Based on what's left, they hit six carriages, fifty one hogsheads a carriage."

"Oh gods, wine bandits? Here? At this time of the year, in this part of the country! You're telling me that the mixing equipment at the cities biggest pharmacy is busted, right before five O'clock, when every bar in the city is about to tap new barrels of poisoned ale on the eve of St.Gunters- who as I'm sure you're keenly aware, is the Patron Saint of Brewing! Why don't you have more people on this!?" All eyes were on Arlene now as she hammered the desk- but Bert was calm.

"That's about the size of it. Don't worry so much, runners left to warn the bars hours ago- They just won't serve brews marked from last weeks-"

"I'm not worried about poisoning Bert! I'm sure the bars have enough unpoisoned kegs to get everyone drunk even without the last shipment no sweat! What I'm worried about is the riot when the taps run dry a few hours from now!" Bert blinked, and then slow comprehension dawned on his face as he realised the consequences of the city having just enough alcohol left versus none at all.

"Give me the craftsperson and a couple of third years! The watch aren't idiots, they'll be suiting up in force, but we need to get the equipment at Captivating Concoctions working again!"

Bert was no fool. The moment he realised the severity of the situation, he turned to the assembled engineers and roared, his walrus moustache blowing out into long white streamers with each outburst.

"DOWN TOOLS! Ladies and Gents, asses in gear If You Please! Kate, Liv, Patrick and Foster, get the hell down to the precinct watch station and make sure the paddy wagons are working.

Lovel and Cotchrane, you're to get to the gas main substation and get the lamplighters ready to cut the flow if need be. They'll know the drill. Arlene, take Harper, Dasilva and Owen and make them help clean up their bloody mess! Tell the pharmacy to start an extra large batch of troll-oil."

Three younger engineers dashed up to Arlene, who hurried them out the door without waiting to listen to the rest of Old Bert's orders.

If something wasn't done soon, in a few hours nobody was going to be able to stop the streets of Lumiere from turning into a little slice of hell.