CW: Abuse and Strong Language
The Royal Artificer lethargically sets their screwdriver down among the myriad of other tools that have seen activity in the past few hours. His desk is a cacophony of metal, wood, and intricate little mechanisms. A workspace that would make one go cross-eyed if looked at for too long.
âI recalibrated the coils and oiled the finger joints. I reckon youâre good to go.â
The scruffy wolf sitting next to the workstation raises their newly primed and polished prosthetic arm and tests the fingers by making a repeated grasping motion. The clicks and squeaks are much less prominent. He extends the claws on the fingers with a sudden âChk!â, and they pulsate a bright blue, filling the workshop with an eerie glow.
The wolf smiles, jagged yellow teeth glistening in the dull blue light. âAinât that top-hole.â
He stands up and starts to head toward the door, but is interrupted.
The wolf stops, and halfway turns around with a grunt.
âWellâŠyou come in for repairs and tune-ups at the same time every week. Itâs always more beat up than it really should be. What do youâŠdo with that thing?â
The wolf fully turns around and stares at the Artificer. His menacing, hulking frame casting an equally as threatening shadow in the dim light of the claws he kept unsheathed. He stomps toward the Artificer, shoulder pauldrons jostling and clinking as he approaches, and points a glowing claw at him, making him flinch.
âYouâre here to make shit, not ask questions. Got it, kid?â
The Artificer looks up at the wolfâs snarling face. Artificial lenses reflecting his anxious expression.
He eventually stutters out. âW-well I umâŠItâs just that since Iâm the one that makes your augments, I believe I h-have a right to know what-â
Before the sentence can be finished, the wolf suddenly smacks him to the ground with his non-mechanical hand. A feeble yelp reverberates throughout the workshop.
âKnow your place, you pathetic little yokel! Just do what youâre bloody told! Understand? Or do I have to drill it into that brainy head of yours?"
He raises his artificial arm, blueish white electricity courses through the forearm and lights up the workshop even more.
The bedraggled Artificer coughs and sputters. He looks up at the wolf, clutching his head. All he can give in response is a meek nod.
Chk! The claws sheath back into his mechanical hand. He spits on the ground.
âGlad weâre on the same page.â
He mutters something else to himself as he turns back around and stomps out of the workshop, slamming the door shut.Â
The Artificer, now alone in his shop, stands up, brushes himself off, and stumbles to his desk on shaky legs. He takes off his goggles and tosses them to the side.Â
Tears silently stream down his face.
