Chevya sighed. A ship was in her drydock. She'd worked all night and through the morning, and was finally reaching that critical point where she started to forget which end of the hammer to hold. It was rapidly approaching time to take her 4 hour nap before her next 18-hour shift of work. Chevya usually found it hard to sleep when there was work to be done, so she endeavored to do it as little as possible.

In the meantime, she needed a 3/16th flange wrench. She knew she left it somewhere in her workshop, but she hadn't the vaguest notion where. She scrounged through the loose piles of spare parts, shoving boxes aside in her search.

She sighed. She was increasingly suspecting that she would have to make do with a 3/16th socket wrench - hardly ideal. She shrugged and began the search for that particular tool.

Rosalie was usually a morning person, in that she was awake in the morning and able to function at the peak of her abilities. The alarm went off and she was on her feet, ready to defend or shout or discipline, sword at her hip and...and...

And today, it was early afternoon and her head was spinning, her stomach roiling around the halfway-stale hunk of bread she'd managed to choke down upon waking. Drinking had, the night before, seemed like a brilliant idea and the best way to deal with her welling, growing frustration with the world.

As she stood leaning and watching Chevya work on her -- ah, her employers's ship, Rosalie regretted her decision. Her eyes were red and narrowed against the bright light of the sun, fingers hovering near her weapon...

"Hoy, girl." Her voice brittle; she had to cough to smooth it out, some. "How's the Undertow, there?"

Chevya glared at the woman for a moment before turning back to her search. Just great. Now I've got a clockin' audience "She's shit, is what she is." She snarled, at nobody in particular.

She ranted as she dug through a toolbox. "Her keel's been torn up somethin' harsh, her bilge pump is scrapiron, and her rudder's shot half to sawdust. And that's not even mentioning all the---" Her rant abruptly died. "Aha!" Victorious at last, she pulled out a wrench that looked pretty much identical to any one of the other dozen wrenches that lay scattered about.

She was about to dive back into the depths of the Undertow's hold when a thought occurred to her. She turned to face the stranger, resting her hand on her hip. Her eyes narrowed. "Why? What'sit to ya?" Chevya had a terrible head for names and faces, so even if she'd seen Rosalie before when the Undertow rolled in, she'd hardly remember now. On the other hand, the scantlings of a ship she worked on three years ago? That she would never forget.

"I brought her limping back." Rosalie's tone was cool, her eyebrows raised, fighting down a soft burst of frustration. It wasn't Chevya's faults pirates had attacked, no, it was her own. More or less her own. She took the responsibility for it, anyway.

She took one step forward, wincing at the light and bringing fingers up to her temple thoughtlessly. What had she been drinking? She thought she could taste it. Cat piss. "And am stuck here until she can head out again. So I have some personal interest..."

"Well, next time, do the both of us a big favor and keep all the clockin' cannon fire away from the bilge pump." she said, as she turned back towards the ship.

Chevya stopped and regarded Rosalie with a critical eye. "You look like you've got a strong pair a arms on you. You wanna lend a hand? Everything goes faster with more hands."

She shrugged. "If you want outta here faster, grab those two toolboxes and follow me." She started up the gangplank.

There was the start of a growl, deep in her throat, and Rosalie had to fight it down. It made her battered, abused throat hurt; she'd already lost all the slop she ate with her drink last night. It hadn't been much.

For a moment, she just scowled. Then, tensely, she crept in to nab the required toolboxes and creeping over to do what she could. Smartly, she kept her mouth closed.

The inside of the Undertow stank of glue, varnish, seawater, and sawdust. Intermittantly, the damaged wood straining against the drydock creaked ominously, and the floor would shift slightly.

None of the lanterns were lit, none of the windows were open, and it was dank, dark, sticky, and generally repugnant to all the senses.

Chevya - who had a phosphor flashlight hitched to her head - led Rosalie down into the depths of the ship, until she found a tiny hatch. She turned, treating Rosalie to a wry smile. She passed her a spare phosphor flashlight. "Get ready, now's when it gets unpleasant."

She pulled open the hatch to the bilge. A vile stench that could on be described as 'nightmarish' rose from the hole in a fetid wave, quickly overwhelming all lessor stenches. The inky black bilgewater spashed about, revealing the occasional floating dead rat. "Smells nice, eh?" joked Chevya.

Chevya quickly put on a set of fishing waders that she had hung up nearby - big rubber waterproof overalls. When she was fully suited up, she clambered through the hatch and lowered herself into the black filth.

Poor Rosalie. Her stomach was already churning, hung over as she was, the stale bread a rock that turned and grumbled and made her shudder. The smell left her gagging, fumbling to keep everything down. She had to pull her shirt sleeve over her mouth, close her eyes and focus.

Alcohol...she'd never again. Well, actually, she probably would. She was thinking about it already.

"...I am not going down there." Each word was well enough enunciated to be understood through the thickness of her shirt, sharply focused. Rosalie shook her head. "But I can pass you tools."

Chevya laughed. "Only room for one set of hands, down here. You'd just get in the way." echoed Chevya's voice, mixed in among the splashing and clanking of metal against metal. "But that don't make you less of a ponce for sayin' so." She laughed riotously, seemingly unaffected by the godawful smell.

"Oh, balls." She shouted, as something heavy splashed. "You don't happen to know what a riveter looks like, do you? Big red widget what looks like a pair of pliers, but with a funny little hole-punch jobbo on the end. Should be in the blue toolbox."

Ponce indeed. Rosalie made one sharp noise but let the comment slide away. Mostly. "I prefer to consider myself refined."

She paused to nab a handkerchief, wrap it around her face, before leaning out to root around in the blue box for a red tool that looked like it could punch holes. Perhaps she'd never seen a riveter before, but at the very least she could try to match the description and dangle what she found down into the hole. "This it?"

A hand dripping with the vile black sludge appeared from around the corner and snatched the tool. "That's the one!"

There were a few more miscellaneous noises: slams, hammering, splashing, squeaking, twisting, and the occasional grunt of exertion or annoyance. Suddenly, there was the loud sound of water hitting water. "What the clock?"

She was enraged, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Sack it! When is the last time you cleaned this poxy piece of blackback dross?" There was some frantic hammering. "Is that what I think it is? Good gods almighty! No wonder one good smack blew the chain."

"That is not my job or responsibility." Calm again, now, crouched in the shade with her eyes closed and that pounding headache fading down to a soft throb instead of the pounding of a dozen drums. She shifted on her heels, settling in more comfortably.

"Repairs are Javis's job. If you'd like, I could drag him down by the scruff of his neck and make him apologize?" Her voice lilted, like she was joking, but...it was hard to tell.

"Apologise nothing! I want him down here, so he can pull this . . . pox . . . cursed . . . " Her voice trailed off as she strained to pull something loose. At last, something gave way, and there was the echoing clamor of steel smashing against steel. "MOTHER-" What followed was a string of creatively obscene curses the likes of which would send even the most grizzled of pirates fleeing for a thesaurus.

Eventually, however, she ran out of breath. A slime-covered hand rose from the hatch. "Ok, got it. Gimmie a hand up."

For a very long moment, Rosalie just crouched and stared at the disgusting mess which was the girl's hand. She had no problem with the girl calling her a pansy; fact of the matter was that she didn't mind getting her hands dirty when she had to. It was just that this time she didn't really have to. And, as such, what was the point?

Oh, right, getting her -- er, the ship back into good repair. So Rosalie stared at the hand for a very long, thoughtful moment before shifting to wrap the handkerchief around her palm and lever Chevya up out of the sludge.

Chevya held the hand for a thoughtful moment, as the girl considered giving the hand a good solid yank, dragging it's poor owner into depths of the abyss. However, Chevya quickly decided that she wanted out of the muck substantially more than she wanted to be a horrible human being. Thus, she settled for splashing slightly more than strictly nessessary as she clambered from the vile ooze.

Once out, she stripped off the fishing waders as fast as she could, made somewhat more difficult since they were by this point coated in a deep layer of tarry slime. Idly, she wiped her hands off against her apron before kicking the hatch shut behind her.

The mousy little engineer hopped up onto a barrel to catch her breath, her legs dangling. "Hatcher's nadgers, mate. That didn't harf smell, eh?" She said with a laugh.

"By the by, I don't think I caught your name."

((Blackberry browser ftw! I think I weeded out all the spelling mistakes.))

((edit: Ech. I'll never do that again! Edited for not-awfulness.))

"Rosalie." It was all Chevya was going to get out of her, for the moment. She raised her eyebrows at the girl, left the handkerchief draped over the grimy hand, and slid back several smooth steps. She had no urge to get coated in goo. The smell might never come out. Being a filthy mess when nothing could be done, at sea, was one thing -- here on land, when should could prevent it, was a different story.

"Can you give me an estimate now, perhaps? I need to know how long I'm stranded in this gods-forsaken city."

Chevya couldn't quite suppress a yawn. "Weeell . . . " she began, idly swinging her dangling feet. "It all depends, it all depends. How bad do you want to sail out there, and how certain do you want to be that you'll be able to sail back, ya know?"

"I'm sayin - I could slap her back together with glue and patches and hope - only take a few weeks - but one over-eager gale and she'd start leakin' like a happy puppy, an if your bilge pump ain't up to scratch, well, then it's buckets or bath time, mate." Chevya giggled like a drunk schoolgirl. She had not slept in some time. "I mean, fer the love of a hatcher, Rosie, your hull's got so many sodding patches it's practic'ly a quilt."

Bobbed her head excitedly, she babbled on. "Don't you worry, though. When I'm done with her she'll be slick as shit - an' faster than new. Resurface the hull! New Rudder! New Pump! and then Caulk the bajobbo out of every sacking thing in sight!" Bursting out laughing, She lost her balance and tumbled off the barrel, collapsing to the floor in a giddy heap.

"ow." She said, after a moment's introspection.

"Damnit, girl." Rosalie eased back, quickly, as Chevya thudded to the ground -- out of the way of flying limbs and the muck that splashed off her fingertips. A slow breath out, even and calming, and this time when Rosalie spoke it was slow and careful, like she was talking to a halfwit. Or maybe just showing that she wasn't really taking the chrove shit...

"How long. I need a number. Do I need another job while I wait?"

"Bugger, I need to get more sleep." Muttered Chevya, as she scrambled to her feet. "Awfully pushy, ain'tcha." She added, with a shrug. "If everything goes right, an' all yer old patches hold, and I miraculously find all the parts I need, and I manage to salvage the pump, and ya get real lucky, and yer boss pays through the nose, I'd say I could be done inside a month, but I wouldn't hold me breath. Probably gonna be longer. Lot longer, good chance." With a slow, thoughtful sigh, the engineer mentally reviewed the long, monotonous ordeal that stood before her, in exquisite detail.

In the meantime, however, there were still a few interesting engineering problems left. She grinned excitedly up at the tall passive. "C'mon. Let's go take a look at the pump, see if I actually got it unjammed." With all the excitement and enthusiasm of a child with a new toy, she started scrambling up the ladder back to the upper decks.

Rosalie stayed where she was for a long moment, gaping after Chevya. A month...a month wasn't terrible. It was bad, sure, but she could probably manage on short-term jobs; revert back to loading and unloading cargo, mindlessly guarding the cargo at the docs, making sure her swords didn't go rusty. More than that, though, and it was going to mean she was out of her job. Permanently. And she did not want to work her way up again...

Finally she started after the girl, hauling herself up the ladder after with an easy sword of speed, dodging as much of the muck and the grease as she could manage. She swiped palms against her knees as she came out up top, expression so flat and neutral that it was almost dangerous. "How long before you know? When should I come back?"

"I'll know when it's bloody well done." She snapped, irritably. "This ain't a simple patch job! Most folk in my business would take one look at this ship, and tell you to break it down for parts and lumber."

"She's hurt bad. She was a good ship, once, but now? She's so full of holes, she's technically a colander." She strode up to the pump handle. "All right, the moment of truth . . . "

She put all her weight on the handle, but it didn't budge. "Damn, could you help me with this thing?"

Rosalie started to do it, and then hesitated, turning a narrow sort of look on Chevya. Trying to judge her expression, her tone, the way she held her body..."When I turn this, is the water going to explode out and drench me while you stand there and giggle like a halfwit?"

Slow, eloquent, and serious. And Chevya better not lie about it.

She giggled a bit, unable to help herself. "No, no. Nothing like that, I promise." She tried to put on a serious face, but she found herself too giddy and sleep deprived. Thus, she settled for grinning like an idiot.

"I mean, technically anything is possible in engineering, but it's exceedingly unlikely. Like, not unless someone put a bomb in there or something." She babbled, her mouth on automatic. "Worst case, it might leak a bit on your hand. More likely, though, is that it won't do nothing at all, and I'm just gonna have to replace the whole damn thing . . . "

"I'm not turning it." Rosalie shook her head and stepped back, far out of the way and to the left, where it seemed less likely she would be hit by a conveniently entertaining spout of water. It would soak her boots, and right about now, she only had the one pair

"You're supposed to be good at this. Give it a few sharp raps and then try it again. Loosen it up. Show that you know what you're doing." Certain and confident and, really, about done with this, Rosalie folded her arms over her chest.

Chevya stared at the woman incredulously. "Look, just because I'm a bit wonked from lack of sleep, it don't make me a crazy person." She sighed and clamped a wrench to the pump handle. "And rappin' it would just get it jammed up worse."

She put her entire weight on the wrench handle, using the leverage of the wrench to force the handle down. She grunted with exertion. With a ear-splitting creak, the handle slowly surrendered to the little engineer.

When she had pulled it all the way down, she wiped the sweat from her brow, and pushed it back up again. it moved much more easily now, and soon she could work the pump with one hand. "Now, the moment of truth . . . "

Despite her pumping, nothing came out of the spout but a sad, solitary drop of brown water. "Well, shit . . . "