ironmn

You either stand at the line the entire day, or you're clambering up and down the machines to service them. People think you make parts, or weld pipes, but you actually never get to see your own result.

The only time I really wanted to be a factory man was the time a lady manning the lathe gave me a perfectly round ball she made out of some scrap metal.

But most of the time, her works just went right down the belt before I could even make out their shape. Just parts of one big process in the end.

In the distant factory district, the night shift disembarks from the railway carriages, while the day shift trickle out of the countless factories of Highbury after a hard day's work.

The workers seem nothing compared to the giant buildings behind them.

You can see the factory as a whole. You know what everyone's work actually means. That's why I say you've got talent and I don't.

You know which bit of the finished product you made yourself and what it does, even if the parts have nothing to do with us once they leave the factory...

But I can't do that. To me, factory work's a job where you never get to see the fruits of your labor. You just make the same thing day after day for some cash.

The factory won't let go of you, but me? I'm just a welding rod to them. A lousy one, 'just like burnt fins,' according to me Da. They'd throw me away without a second thought.

I know there's nothing wrong with it, really. I'm just not used to factory work.

Back when we were little, I never said what I wanted to be when I grew up, because I didn't know.

I just want to do something that I can see through from start to end... Something I can...

Something I can point at when I'm off the clock and proudly tell people: 'You see this? I did that!' ...Something like that.

I don't care what it is. A chair, a set of knives, a sick guy who got better under my care, even a burdenbeast raised by myself...

But I was born to a factory man, and so I should be a welder. Because that's what me Da is.

The railcars tug on their whistles as they take the workers clocking out back to their dorms, like the whinnies of a burdenbeast.

He'll be back home soon. We should go.

Wait, Stan. There's... There's some things I still don't get.

Afraid there's no time for that.

After heading down the platform, Feist returns home, looking over the blueprints he was so proud of once more.

He had always thought of the factory as a whole. It's how his granny does it, so he thought that's how others would too.

But as it turns out, not so.

He thinks of the time he was handling those last few potatoes in the kitchen. He didn't have the least idea what they would become, nor did he really care.

He feels like his impression of the kitchen is more or less the same as Stan's impression of the factory. Maybe even a little better, actually.

At least fried fins and potato pies would make their way back into his belly eventually. But a factory's products? The workers don't have anything to do with them.

Maybe he could drive the factory into the future some day, but what about the workers like Stan, the ones who don't want to do fruitless tasks forever and ever, without knowing anything else?

Workers like Stan who wouldn't even get the chance to work a never-ending job?

Stop the finished parts on the line for a bit? No, if every segment stopped, the total time lost would be unacceptable.

Maybe.. make the line out of transparent materials? Though I'm not sure anywhere even has that technology, let alone the cost...

Or maybe some sort of handover process once the goods are leaving the factory that involves all the workers?

That damn factory director would have to sign off on it, though. No, it's got to be something to do with the line itself...

What's wrong with me today? Why can't I think of anything that'll work? There's got to be a way—

Oh, Granny...

Us night shifters just clocked out. Why're you not asleep yet?

Blueprints? You thinking of getting Stan back on the line?

I am.

Do you really know what he wants?

He wants... to make something he can see the end product of. Something he can point at when he's off the clock and say that it's his work.

And you're helping him do this?

I'm trying my best.

Good, I'm glad you didn't cause such a ruckus for nothing.

But this isn't something you can do with a few late nights. Stay calm and take it easy. You've got more time left than me to see it through.

Also, I was just talking to Stan's father. Stan's decided to leave Highbury. Leave Londinium, even.

What's he—

Apparently, he wants to try his luck in some nearby villages, see if he can raise some burdenbeasts.

Go get some sleep, Feist.

Catherine's tone is firm, and Feist can feel the sleepiness building up behind his brow.

He drags his worn body to his bed and flings himself on it, falling into slumber as the sun rises behind his curtains.

He dreams of Stan mounting a burdenbeast, a treasured companion he raised from a calf. He sits astride the beast's wide back, and with one great leap off the top of the building, he rides off away from the city.

As for Feist himself? He waves farewell, then turns back to Londinium, back into his workshop.