Jiral Outskirts, early morningAt the Northeast boundary of historical Columbian expansionism, where its spirit grew blurry and the roads wider to acccomodate the convoys that once ran the length of the goddess's state, there was a mostly defunct industrial center. The refinaries no longer blew as thickly, the rumble of production distant, and large lots bare entirely of anything but ruins. Before the secession of the Columbian splinters, a great deal of non-human and monstrous humanoids made up the brunt of the manpower. When Jiral wrote its constitution, the acclaim of the workers became an eyesore and a source of enmity. The portion of the local economy they embodied could not endure the conflicts that erupted - too thin at the time, the armed forces could not subjugate these people before the majority found asylum in Halloween Town, and too aggressive to compromise, part of the facilities were themselves demolished by the retaliation of the so-called monsters.
One particular, L-shaped factory had been unused for years, but in a matter of days, new activity had sprung up, and countless sounds could be heard inside. Brass tumbled and clattered, trumpets and keys sang in perfectly calibrated dissonance, and a foundry roared tirelessly. No humans manned these things for now, for they interacted with each other only according to their written directives.
The inner walls had been stripped of metal, exposing the steaming guts of the building, replacing tight and tall corridors with open halls where workstations zealously overlooked one another and instruments dangled from the forest of rafters and support beams above, except where one part of the machines, grown on the old skeleton like fungus over an ancient tree, required the isolation or the security. The first floor had been remodeled as such, and below it that science of an old world never meant to live again stretched like roots, in chambers that could never be mistaken for industry of this age.
In the second floor, which overlay only a part of the factory, there lay new repositories of data, storage units, and experiment benches, each in a room behind a sealed door. At the very depths, what might have once been the heart of administration, he languished, cast dimly from every direction in the brighteness of many monitors and old structural illumination.
Longirsu, the World Orchestrator
"There is no discussion to have", the man said, clicking his tongue at a small speaker on the desk. "My units will be there as battery forces, and you will funnel your contacts to deliver the alloys we discussed."
He did not wait for a response before willing the line to turn off, and swung in his chair towards the streams of information in the monitors. He was impeccably dressed, something between a military official and an engineer, hands wearing gloves highlighted with circuitry, but the pallor of his face and the curly mess of his hair did not speak of any attention to grooming.
When Longirsu reached for the cup on the tray behind him, he found it cold and empty. A sigh escaped.
