A Mechanic - Epilogue

The mechanic's boots crunch through frost-covered gravel as he makes his way through CryoCore's maintenance wing. His breath clouds in the pre-dawn air, mixing with steam from the facility's vents.

"Hey." Dave from accounting waves him down. "You hear about that Caspia mess?"

The mechanic pauses, toolkit heavy in his hand. "What about it?"

"Never mind." Dave shakes his head. "Probably just a load of nonsense."

"Whatever you say."

Dave rifles through his papers. "Oh, right. Got a job for you. Olrog's CryoCore needs maintenance - their usual guy's out sick. Pay's good, if you're interested."

The mechanic takes the work order, scanning the details. Simple enough job, just routine checks on the older models. Better than being stuck here watching frost form on windows.

***

The docks are quiet when he arrives, most ships already out on their morning routes. All except one - a ship, scarred and weather-beaten, its hull a patchwork of repairs. No name painted on its side. A chicken struts along the deck, pecking at invisible crumbs. It pauses to stare at him with one beady eye before disappearing below deck.

The mechanic studies the ship. Something about it sets his teeth on edge. The toolkit grows heavier in his grip as he hesitates at the edge of the dock.

A weathered face pokes out from the nearby booth window. "Whatcha waitin' for, son? Ship ain't gonna bite ya."

The mechanic glances at the ferryman. "I've heard stories about this ship."

"Stories?" The ferryman waves his hand. "Bunch of dock talk from sailors who've had too much to drink. She's quiet, keeps to herself. Does her job, same as any of us." He scratches his stubbled chin. "Though that chicken of hers - now that's the real mystery. Never seen a bird with such attitude."

As if summoned, the chicken reappears on deck, fixing them both with an imperious stare before strutting away.

"See? Even the bird's tellin' you to get movin'. Tide won't wait forever." The ferryman settles back in his booth. "You'll be fine, mark my words. Just don't go pokin' your nose where it don't belong."

***

The mechanic steps onto the gangplank, metal groaning beneath him.

On deck, Shiro sits cross-legged against a stack of crates. Her white hair spills over her oversized black shirt as she dangles a dried oat above Friend. The chicken hops, pecking at the treat with determined focus.

"Come on." Shiro's voice carries a rare softness. Friend misses another grab at the oat, stumbling with an indignant squawk. The corner of Shiro's mouth twitches.

Movement draws the mechanic's eye. A woman emerges from below deck, her chestnut hair flowing in the breeze. Her amber eyes meet his, radiating a warmth that seems out of place on this weathered ship.

Friend abandons the oat game, waddling over to peck at the newcomer's dress. The woman - Nemi - laughs, a sound like wind chimes.

"Where to?"