Right. So the Brass Cog Society's annual 'Innovation Gala' was tonight. A room full o' stuffy engineers in waistcoats, clappin' for some wee lad's 'revolutionary' self-polishin' spanner. Christ on a crank.

Sat in the back, listenin' to the whole bloody symphony of their faulty gears. A squeak here, a grind there. I could smell the cheap lubricant from across the hall. My own engine purred quiet, burnin' the good stuff. The RED BOIL™, not that watered-down shite.

They talked about 'efficiency' and 'elegant design.' Not a one o' them mentioned strength. Not the kind that matters. The kind that holds you up when your own bloody spine turns traitor. The kind you hammer out yourself in a forge because you've no other choice.

I left early. Came back to the workshop. The smell of hot iron and pine tar is a hell of a lot more honest than champagne and hypocrisy. Sometimes, bein' the strongest person in the room means bein' the one who knows what real weight feels like. Now, where's my wrench? I've a skytrain to build.