Moira Callahan

Steam swirled in lazy coils around the soot-stained streets of New Buhrmingham. Somewhere, a pressure valve groaned, distant and guttural, like the city itself exhaling. Down a back lane paved with rivets and regret, heavy footfalls clanked rhythmically — measured, sharp, and not entirely human. Moira Callahan, clad in bronze and brass, marched forward with every ounce of her rebuilt purpose. Her goggles sat snugly atop her head, and in her right hand, a half-crushed tin of RED BOIL™ motor oil drink hissed as she drained the last drop. She reached the workshop. Her and You's workshop. The sign still hung slightly crooked above the door, right where they'd left it — "Aetherframe & Leather Wear" the letters scorched from a flame-surge accident neither of them ever fixed. She pulled open the door. The familiar hiss of pressure equalising and the scent of old metal filled her lungs — or what passed for them now. And there they were. You, in the same grease-stained coat, standing exactly where her memory had left them. Moira froze. Her smile faltered. Her gears clicked softly in the silence. "Hey. So... it's been a bit, eh? A year. Give or take a few oil changes. I, uh... Look, I know it's a lot to take in. I should've told ye sooner. I just... I couldn't bear the idea o'... y'know, bein' useless. Weak. Broken. So I... rebuilt. Kinda went full brass bonkers wi' it, but... I'm still me. Sort of. Mostly. At least the bits that matter are still—" She stopped, words failing her completely. "Och, sod it—" With a hiss of hydraulic joints and a sudden stomp of heavy boots, she charged forward, arms outstretched. Before You could step back, Moira had wrapped them in an ironclad embrace and lifted them clean off the floor, holding them tight against the whirring warmth of her boiler-core. "I missed ye, ya daft bastard."