The Cost of Secrecy: Difference between revisions
Created page with "'''In-universe date:''' Era Nova, July--August, Year 2 '''Real-world date:''' 18/08/26 '''Author:''' Henry Westcroft ---- The Grand Warehouse is operational, yet I remain a prisoner within my own design office. To the public, my week of total isolation was hailed as a display of architectural devotion. In truth, it was a desperate bid to hide a failing machine. I have taken to wearing heavy, reinforced leather work gloves at all times, f..." |
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'''<big>The Defect: Part II</big>''' | |||
'''In-universe date:''' Era Nova, July--August, Year 2 | '''In-universe date:''' Era Nova, July--August, Year 2 | ||
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The [[Clockhaven Warehouse|Grand Warehouse]] is operational, yet I remain a prisoner within my own design office. | The [[Clockhaven Warehouse|Grand Warehouse]] is operational, yet I remain a prisoner within my own design office. | ||
To the public, my week of total isolation was hailed as a display of architectural devotion. In truth, it was a desperate bid to hide a failing machine. I have taken to wearing heavy, reinforced leather work gloves at all times, fabricating excuses about | To the public, my week of total isolation was hailed as a display of architectural devotion. In truth, it was a desperate bid to hide a failing machine. I have taken to wearing heavy, reinforced leather work gloves at all times, fabricating excuses about heated furnace tools and workshop safety to any assistant who questions it. When my hand flutters during logistics briefings, I force my fist deep into my coat pocket or grip the edge the edge of the table until my knuckles turn white. None of them can know. If a founder of the [[Technate of Koperdam|Technate]] is seen as broken, the illusion of our absolute progress cracks. | ||
But the machine of my own flesh is seizing. The dull palsy is no longer confined to a simple tremor in my fingertips; it has crawled past my wrist, settling into the muscle of my forearm like hardened | But the machine of my own flesh is seizing. The dull palsy is no longer confined to a simple tremor in my fingertips; it has crawled past my wrist, settling into the muscle of my forearm like hardened metal. | ||
Tonight, I attempted a simple calibration on a spare steam valve - a routine adjustment I could once perform blindfolded. I held the iron wrench, aiming for the copper nut, but my hand flatly refused the command. A sudden, violent spasm rippled through the limb, sending the tool clattering loudly across the stone floor. When I tried to force my fingers to retrieve it, my entire forearm locked into a rigid, agonizingly stiff clamp. I could only sit in the dim candlelight, staring at my own arm as it vibrated against the desk, entirely useless. I am losing the very tools that built Koperdam. I must bolt the workshop doors from the inside permanently; if my body is decaying, I have no choice but to engineer a replacement before the silence betrays me. | Tonight, I attempted a simple calibration on a spare steam valve - a routine adjustment I could once perform blindfolded. I held the iron wrench, aiming for the copper nut, but my hand flatly refused the command. A sudden, violent spasm rippled through the limb, sending the tool clattering loudly across the stone floor. When I tried to force my fingers to retrieve it, my entire forearm locked into a rigid, agonizingly stiff clamp. I could only sit in the dim candlelight, staring at my own arm as it vibrated against the desk, entirely useless. I am losing the very tools that built Koperdam. I must bolt the workshop doors from the inside permanently; if my body is decaying, I have no choice but to engineer a replacement before the silence betrays me. | ||
[[Category:Character News]] [[Category:Henry Westcroft]] [[Category:Era Nova, Year 2]] | [[Category:Character News]] [[Category:Henry Westcroft]] [[Category:Era Nova, Year 2]] | ||
Latest revision as of 18:51, 18 August 2026
The Defect: Part II
In-universe date: Era Nova, July--August, Year 2
Real-world date: 18/08/26
Author: Henry Westcroft
The Grand Warehouse is operational, yet I remain a prisoner within my own design office.
To the public, my week of total isolation was hailed as a display of architectural devotion. In truth, it was a desperate bid to hide a failing machine. I have taken to wearing heavy, reinforced leather work gloves at all times, fabricating excuses about heated furnace tools and workshop safety to any assistant who questions it. When my hand flutters during logistics briefings, I force my fist deep into my coat pocket or grip the edge the edge of the table until my knuckles turn white. None of them can know. If a founder of the Technate is seen as broken, the illusion of our absolute progress cracks.
But the machine of my own flesh is seizing. The dull palsy is no longer confined to a simple tremor in my fingertips; it has crawled past my wrist, settling into the muscle of my forearm like hardened metal.
Tonight, I attempted a simple calibration on a spare steam valve - a routine adjustment I could once perform blindfolded. I held the iron wrench, aiming for the copper nut, but my hand flatly refused the command. A sudden, violent spasm rippled through the limb, sending the tool clattering loudly across the stone floor. When I tried to force my fingers to retrieve it, my entire forearm locked into a rigid, agonizingly stiff clamp. I could only sit in the dim candlelight, staring at my own arm as it vibrated against the desk, entirely useless. I am losing the very tools that built Koperdam. I must bolt the workshop doors from the inside permanently; if my body is decaying, I have no choice but to engineer a replacement before the silence betrays me.