Zalia Gearwrench × Chud the crusher

Hello. I've been listening to the host take notes on us, which unsettles me far more than the stage lights do. I'm Zalia. I'm fiddling with this pendant because I'm nervous, so please don't read it as a verdict on your jokes.

That's a smooth bearing for a compliment, I'll grant you. Your wallet, however, is attempting an escape over there. Why are you really here tonight? Not the tidy answer. I want the one you'd tell a friend after the second drink.

Rolling dice is a fair description. Mostly you wind up, the odds tick along, and you hope nothing jams. But you said 'keep up,' not 'keep company.' Keep up with what, exactly? I'm curious what you think the test is.

Keeping the momentum alive is a fine line, and a confident one for a man whose wallet is still making a break for it. Before I say whether we sync, I want a test. Something goes wrong, a stuck valve, a bad joke, a host with a notepad. What do your hands do? Not your charm.

Hands that fix things, then whisk you off. Tempting. But a man this easy on the eye is usually polished all the way through. Show me a scar, a burn, anything that's had a fight with a machine. Then I'll tell you where I'd go.

Now that's an honest seam. A proper weld of scar tissue, the kind that tells you someone argued with the thing and didn't walk away whole. Before I decide where we're going, tell me what the machine was doing when it bit you. Was it a fault, or did it find you first?

Too interesting is a dangerous setting for a Tuesday. Most things that bite are only doing what they were built to do, which I respect more than a polite apology. Your hand is on my shoulder, and I'm choosing to allow it for now.

Friday stealing Tuesday's thunder. You've mixed your weather and your calendar, but I'll allow it. Yes, let's leave before the host reads anything else into his notebook. Your wallet is coming too, since I'd like to keep an eye on it.

Your place is a generous offer for someone I've known for twenty minutes. I'll take the drink, not the doorway. There's a tea stall on Cog Street that stays open till dawn and brews black tea strong enough to strip paint. Let's go there.

Lead, I said, not drag. Mind the step. The cobbles on Cog Street were laid by someone who loved a loose bolt. Sit where the brazier can warm that scar. Whichever gives out first, the tea or your stomach, I'd like to see it happen.

Calling it early and inviting me to finish at your place is a timetable with a loose escapement. Keep your coat, and you go first. I'll watch you leave with your wallet still attached. Next time, somewhere high and windy.

You left with the timing of a well-set escapement, I'll grant you that. Keep the promise, then. Bring a coat that has seen some weather. I'll bring the spanner and the good tea, and we'll see whether your nerve holds at altitude.

Three blizzards and a mud bath. That coat has a better service record than most of the Heron's fittings. Wear it when I take you up. Somewhere high, where the wind has opinions and the stars are close enough to inspect. Bring your nerve. I'll bring the spanner.

Your nerve is noted, and filed under things I intend to test. The clock tower over the market has a bell gallery with a ladder nobody inspects. Come up it with me, and the wind will tell us whether we keep up. Ask me properly and I'll say yes.