Waking up in a coffee-free world is hard. It is hard for many reasons: it’s hard without the caffeine, it’s hard without that bitter yet sweet taste of a perfectly made cappuccino, but it’s most hard in that it has been part of my morning routine since college. Combine that with a rough, short sleep with nothing but a thin bedroll between myself and the myriad of small rocks that littered the floor of the workshop.

The memory of my elated mood floated through my mind but didn’t help the grumpiness and pain I was feeling right now. My back hurt. It was a sharp, pinching pain just to the right of my spine at shoulder blade height. My father had suffered from a bad back his entire life, and I had inherited those genetics.

Groaning, I pushed myself up from the makeshift bed, rolling my shoulders in a futile attempt to loosen the knots that had formed overnight. The workshop was still dim, the early morning light filtering in through cracks in the walls. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed by my movement. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of oil, metal, and the faint mustiness of old wood.

I needed to get moving. The lathe wasn't going to fix itself, and if I wanted to prove my worth to the village, this was my chance. I shuffled over to the workbench, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The machine loomed before me, a relic of the past, no longer covered in grime and dirt. It was a miracle it hadn’t been stripped for parts long ago.

I ran my fingers along the metal frame, assessing the damage. The gears were seized, and the motor was beyond repair and how would they power it anyway.

It will probably be belt driven from a water wheel, thought to myself.

Now, I could replace some components with scavenged parts, but I needed precision tools and that meant access to the town’s only working lathe. Would they let someone they just met even know where it is, let alone touch it. Sighing, I grabbed a rag, and started wiping away the years of neglect for inside the head stock, my mind already churning through possible solutions.

A knock at the workshop door interrupted my thoughts. I turned to see Lena standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an amused smirk on her face.

"You look like hell," she remarked.

"Feel like it too," I admitted. "What's up?"

"The magistrate's representative is on his way. The village is in a frenzy."

I froze. For some reason, that was sooner than I expected.

Lena tilted her head, eyeing the lathe. "You think you can get to look like it's just a pile of junk before they arrive?"

I glanced at the machine, then back at her. Cracking my neck, I said, "Just watch me!"

She nodded, with a small smile. "Then you'd better get to work."

By the time I finished, the lathe looked like an unsalvageable pile of rusted metal. Dirt, grease, and strategically placed debris helped sell the illusion. I wiped my hands on a rag, nodding to myself in satisfaction. It would take a trained eye to recognize it as anything other than scrap. Even to my QI senses, it seemed like nothing but junk.

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Lena stood by the door, watching. "Not bad," she said. "Now let's go before someone starts asking questions."

We stepped out into the village square, joining the back of the growing crowd. The tension in the air was thick, whispers passing between villagers as they watched the road. Moments later, the magistrate’s men rode in on beautifully groomed horses, their polished tack gleaming in the sunlight. The riders sat tall, exuding an air of superiority that was impossible to ignore.

They were pristine, their clothes made of fine fabrics that shimmered subtly in the light, a stark contrast to the roughspun and patched garments worn by the villagers. Their faces were smooth, well-fed, and clean-shaven, while the villagers bore the marks of hard labor—calloused hands, weathered skin, and eyes wary with the weight of survival.

At the front of the group, a man in finely crafted robes dismounted gracefully, his expression unreadable as he approached the village elders. His companions followed, their eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd with thinly veiled disdain. The villagers bowed deeply, some nearly doubling over in submission. Elder Cogwin stepped forward first, bowing so low it seemed his back might give out.

"Welcome, honored representative Mayhew, " Cogwin said, his voice thick with obsequiousness. "It is a great privilege to receive you once again in our humble village. We have prepared for your visit and trust that you will find everything in order."

The robed man barely acknowledged the greeting, his sharp gaze scanning the assembled villagers. "We trust there is nothing here that would require… intervention," he said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough weight to sound like a threat. "I do hope we won’t find any tainted pre-fall technology … unlike last time."

The other magistrate's men chuckled softly, as if they already knew the answer. The village elders exchanged tense glances, their forced smiles faltering. Cogwin, however, straightened and gave a deep, deferential nod. "Of course not, esteemed ones. We would never risk such transgressions. Our people remain ever faithful to the will of the Sect."

One of the magistrate's men sniffed disdainfully, adjusting the cuff of his embroidered sleeve. "I should hope so," he murmured. "For your sake."

Rip kept his face carefully neutral as his fingers tightened around the smooth rock in his pocket. The weight of it was grounding, a reminder of the careful balance he had to maintain. One misstep, one wrong word, and everything could crumble.

“Last time, we toured the Blacksmith’s shop,” Mayhew said smugly. “This time, let’s check the Tailors and make sure they are not using some infernal machine to make their clothing.” Mayhew looked down his nose at the villagers’ rough homespun clothing. “Not that their clothing is of any quality anyway.”

“Absolutely sir!” Cogwin shouted. “This way!”, he said with a deep bow.

“Shit!” I heard Lena say under her breath.

“What’s wrong,” I asked is a hushed voice.

“Just last month, we scavenged up three old sewing machines and got them working with foot treadles. How the hell did they know?” she whispered.

“I would say somebody tattled,” I whispered back.

“This is the third time in three visits that they have found something.” She shook her head in disbelief. “As much as it pains me to, I think I have to agree with you.”

“What are we going to do?”

“What can we do? They are cultivators. They can kill us all without breaking a sweat.”

The rock in my pocket was a heavy lump. If I had known how to hide camouflage things from QI earlier … but no. I didn’t even know that these sewing machines existed.

But ... my grumpy mood, the pain in my back and the ‘invisible’ rock in my pocket joined forces and before I knew it, I had taken the rock out of my pocket, reared back and with a boost from a quick mental click on ‘Energy Pulse (Minor)’, I threw the rock at the back of Mayhew’s head.