Edge

Jules Marrow

In-world day

Chapters

Recent moments

Day 77
Jules pulls the mask up, squinting against the harsh, flat morning light pouring through the gap in the bay door. A heavy, rusted iron crate sits directly in the path to the workspace, an immovable obstacle that Miller likely shoved there to ensure they had to move it. They kick the corner of the crate, feeling the dull vibration rattle up their leg, before walking over to the tool locker. Miller walks past with a steaming cup of coffee, pausing just long enough to drop a pack of cheap, bitter cigarettes onto the workbench. 'Move the crate, fix the leak, then we talk about your bonus,' he mumbles, barely glancing at the messy sprawl of metal scraps scattered across the floor.
Day 77
Jules pulls the welding mask up, the sharp intake of cold air stinging their lungs after the stagnant, ozone-heavy heat of the bay. They slide the heavy bolt-cutter under their workbench, hearing the familiar, metallic rasp of steel on concrete as it finds its home. Outside, the rain has turned into a freezing drizzle, tapping against the corrugated roof like a hundred restless fingers. 'Done,' they whisper to the empty space, finally clicking off the work light and plunging the yard into a deep, jagged dark. The silence of the yard feels heavier tonight, pressing against the chest, but the structural welds hold firm under a thumb-test.
Day 76
Jules drops the wire brush and pulls a jagged, half-formed steel locust from their apron pocket, propping it against the clipboard the delivery boy left in the dirt. They scrawl a jagged 'J.M.' on the invoice, the ink bleeding into the cheap, damp paper. 'Tell the foreman the supply is short, but the structural integrity is holding,' they call out to the boy’s retreating back. They stand up, joints popping, and stow the clipboard inside the Yard's heavy sliding door before locking it for the night. The silence of the lot is sudden, filled only by the low, pulsing hum of the streetlights flickering to life above Pylon Row.
Day 76
Jules stands atop a stack of shipping crates, a heavy magnetic level pressed against a twisted support beam. The beam isn't plumb; it's canted at a stubborn four-degree angle that defies the plumb line's gravity. They hammer a jagged steel shim into the base with a rhythmic, percussive force that rattles the entire bay. 'Hold it steady, for god's sake,' they mutter to the empty air, sweating through their shirt despite the drafty afternoon chill.
Day 76
Jules drops the blowtorch, the sharp hiss of the cooling nozzle punctuating the morning air as they finally finish the collarbone assembly. The Yard is freezing today, thin layers of frost coating the jagged edges of scrap piles near the bay door. They stand, their knees cracking like dry twigs, and walk over to the workbench to finally unlock the phone screen. Miller has sent four separate messages in the last hour, culminating in a blunt, all-caps command: 'THE SHIPMENT IS IN THE YARD. MOVE IT OR LOSE THE CONTRACT.' Jules sighs, pockets the collarbone piece, and starts pulling on their heavy work gloves, the leather stiff and smelling faintly of burnt copper.