2goodarms | [Milliways Gym]

[Milliways Gym]

Curtis has started to develop a workout routine. Since his gym visits shifted from "occasional" to "nearly every day," he's taken to quiet observation whenever he's on one of the treadmills, watching the gym's other occupants to see what they're doing, cataloging all the exercises that don't involve two working arms. Some trigger a flash of oh, right, I remember that. Others...not really.

But, one at a time, he works them into his own circuit. Squats. Crunches. Jumps. More time at the heavy bag (his hand always wrapped properly nowadays). All of it's getting easier. He even figures out how to start working his way toward one-armed push-ups: just put his hands higher than his feet, like on a wall or a bench or something.

That's what he's focusing on today -- wall push-ups. It's the last thing on his agenda before he heads out, and damn, it's a strain to make it through the last few reps.

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She stays close, eyes shut, a smile on her lips.

After a moment, she peeks at him with one eye. "You're going to be a terrible distraction. I can already tell."

"I was going to wait a little longer before coming to visit," he says, judiciously. "Blame Woola."

She pulls back, one eyebrow cocked.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing. I do like a challenge."

She leans in to nuzzle his cheek before finally stepping away. She reaches over and rummages under her schematics, coming up with a book. "Here. This is for you."

She offers him the copy of Introduction to Blacksmithing.

"Oh -- uh, thanks," he says as he accepts the book. "You need it back any time soon?"

Because it's not like she's going to let him keep something as valuable as a real book, right?

Her brow furrows, looking down at the book and back up at him.

"It's a gift," she says, her tone belying a modicum of caution. She doesn't want him to feel beholden to her for anything.

"...Oh."

Quieter now, as he turns the book over to study the back cover.

She's not going to ask for anything more. When she says gift, she means it: something freely given. But Curtis still wants to push it back all of a sudden, like the longer he holds it, the more likely she'll be to ask for payment.

He swallows down the reflex -- and the lump lodged in his throat -- and forces himself to say it. "Thank you."

She doesn't answer. Not at first. Instead, her hand lights on his cheek and she steps in to rest her forehead against his.

"I like giving you things. It makes me happy. To see you happy."

Saying the words out loud, she feels a little light-headed. Isn't that the very definition of love? The very essence of it?

His eyes fall closed at the touch. Even with the growing heat of the forge, her hand feels warm against his skin; he breathes in the greenhouse scent that lingers underneath the soot and smoke.

Carefully, after a beat, Curtis nods, accepting her words.

Her hand pets over the short stubble on his head, rests at the back of his neck for a moment. And then she sighs, pulls back, a smile light as dawn on her lips.

"So, I have a few ideas I want to try. I've cut the plates, I just need to shape them."

She shuffles through the materials weighing down the schematics.

"I chose silver, though we can change the color later, if you like."

Curtis opens his eyes as she draws back. Setting the book aside for now, he shifts to get a better look at the schematics.

"Silver's good," he assures her. "What else are you thinking about?"

She frowns in thought, drawing a fingertip over the lines she'd sketched. "I don't know. There's room for a certain artistry. Not anything ornate, mind. Just..." She glances over to him, chewing on her lower lip.

Again, she reaches for his hand. This time it's to touch his wrist and forearm. "I want it to look like it's a part of you, even if it's clearly a machine. It should be yours, wholly and completely." Her palm smoothes over his skin as she contemplates how to convey that in cold metal.

His. Not a hand-me-down, not trash occasionally thrown back to the tail when the front got sick of it, but something Curtis owns from the start. When she puts it like that, the gravitas of this whole project coalesces like ice, taking on a solid shape, a weight it didn't have before.

Curtis doesn't know what to make of it.

"It'll be mine no matter what," he tries.

"Yes," she says, watching him from beneath her lashes. "As much yours as this hand is. Only the new one will need servicing occasionally. No getting around that."

She picks up one of the leaf-shaped plates and lays it against his forearm. The metal is light and warms to his skin almost instantly. "These plates will be supported from beneath by a layer of isolates acting as the muscle. They need to be able to slip passed and over one another fluidly, and still lend strength to the structure as a whole. It's a delicate balancing act, but we'll figure it out."

He nods as he examines the metal. Gently, so as not to shake it off, he lifts his arm a couple inches to test the weight.

"How many are you going to need to cover the whole arm?"

"Not as many as you'd think. Once they're incorporated into the isolate matrix, they will flex, stretch and contract according to the movements of the substructure. And depending on how you calibrate them, they'll be transmitting sensory information as well. Temperature and pressure mostly. They'll be impervious to a blade, but sufficient blunt force will damage them. The isolates are incredibly resilient, so you'd be able to take far more damage than a flesh and blood arm, but it's not indestructible. And this design allows the damaged parts to be removed and replaced quickly."

One side of Curtis' mouth quirks. "So don't try to punch a moving car with it, pretty much," he says.

Everything she's saying sounds incredible -- more magic than technology. Which kind of fits, considering they're in some magical pocket dimension or whatever-the-hell Milliways really is.

She mirrors that smirk, her hands beginning to layout the plates in a specific order.

"Well, you can try. But I'll laugh at you when you come back with a twisted hunk of metal for me to fix."

He snorts. "I wouldn't do that to you."

Not when she's put so much work into this already. If somebody destroyed something Curtis spent months building, laughter wouldn't be his first reaction.

Dejah touches the thin silver bracelet she always wears and then, slips on a pair of long gloves. A pale shimmer of blue light quickly covered the gloves and she began shifting the plates over to the forge. She had tongs laid out so she could move them in and out of the forge itself, and there were a series of hammers laid out beside the small anvil at her workstation.

"Oh, it's your arm. You do whatever you feel is necessary. It's my job to put you back together after." She slowly moved the first series of plates into the center of the forge, letting them heat up slowly. "This is a tool, Curtis. I will only be upset with you if you treat it like some sort of delicate piece of jewelry, all right?"

Curtis hesitates. "I know," he says at last. "All right."

(He still hears tool and thinks pipe, knife, umbrella hook. The basics, not the ornate. What you use when you don't have anything else.)

Mindful of her tools, Curtis swings his heels up onto the table, getting comfortable before he reaches for the book.

She puts her hammer to the metal with the same quiet intensity she does everything else, focusing on shaping each piece to fit some form only she can see in her mind. Every tap is light, precise, and very quickly, that form begins to take shape. She sets the completed pieces next to him on the bench, lining them up.

"I didn't know if you preferred a self-guided curriculum, or if you wanted a hand's on lesson. I do know they have these little -- tablet things at the bar. They'll play educational videos, so you can learn from an expert on your own schedule."

"Huh." He looks up from the book, intrigued. "Yeah? Might not be a bad idea."

His crooked smile goes a little wry.

"Give me something to do besides punch stuff every day."

"Yes, well. That was my thought." The corner of her mouth quirked up, but she didn't look up from her work. "I was considering the kind of -- undertaking it must have been to escape the Tail..."

To muster and train troops. To manufacture and hide weapons. To escape whatever mechanism by which they were imprisoned. The days, hours, weeks, months of planning. He must have been so deeply involved in the plan, to have it be finished.

She knows what it's like to be on the other side of such a plan. It always left her feeling adrift. At least, until the next one came along.

The smile fades entirely. "Yeah."

Curtis glances back down at the book.

"Took a while."

"And now you're here. With nothing to do but, how did you put it? Eat and sleep and -- punch stuff everyday."

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