Since she'd given the Blue Bug to Viola, Emily had been trinkering a lot. Echo leaving had really knocked her confidence, and she'd moped around a lot, ate a lot of junk, and generally sealed herself in.

But a couple of nights out with Bea had finally enhanced her motivations to get Baby finished.

The shocks were tested. All the undercarriage was tightened, sealed, oiled. The wiring had all worked, mostly - the dud wires were fed through. The engine she had taken apart, scrubbed, cleaned - in some parts, completely replaced -- and rebuilt, peice by agonising peice. It had turned over the, and had gone in last week. Then had come a few busy days at work where Baby got left.

Then checking all the connections. The Cam belt. The gears.

Sweat. Grunting. Effort. Swearing. Beer. More effort. More swearing, louder.

Replacement bolts. Hand slips sheering some metal. Cut arm. Blood. Bandage. Trusted to super-wolf regen.

Re-checking the engine. Adding oil and coolant. Battery. Fuses. All new.

Be Dalu. Put the new frame pieces on for the first tme. Electric Blue with a black centre stripe. Bending them slightly to fit. Checking the internet for restotartion advice. Screwing the modified parts down. Hishu for fiddly work.

On the night where she knew eveything would come together, Emily worked all evening and long into the night. Pinged messages where initially left for a moment, then forgotten utterly. It was like a fervour. She was so close. Almost there. Almost there.

Finally, she stood back. Sweaty, panting, aching, tired. It was gone two in the morning.

She fished around in her overalls for the keys. The same keys that she had kept in there as a reminder to finish this ever since she bought it. Trembling slightly, Emily crept around to the driver's seat and put tthe keys in the ignition. She took a hand on the wheel, and turned.

Nothing.

"C'mon. Don't be a bitch..." Emily muttered, twisting.

Still nothing. The car gets a frustrated thump on the dash.

Growling ferally the Ithaeur slipped out and went around to the propped hood. The smells of assourted grease and oil and polish (nomatter what her apartment looked like, this car war practically Emily's flesh and blood). Something was missing, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

There was oil where it should be. Nothing was out of place. The plugs were sealed. The cables in place. The fuel line was conected and tight.

The fuel line.

Something Emily's strung out brain nudged her. She didn't look away. What? It's a fuel line. It's where it's meant to be.

Carefully she disconnected the fuel line and slid her thumb over the end. Again, that nudge. Something not right. Emily sniffed, shaking her head, trying to get the tiredness to clear. She rubbed an itch on her nose. The smell of grease filled her vision.

Grease. Just oil and Grease and...

Gas?

The mechanic looks at her bone-dry thumb holding the fuel line and slowly pulls it away.

Gas. Fucking idiot. You need sleep.

No. not yet. too close.

Fuel line back on. Wrench.

Tumbling over to her tank, Emily syphons off some gas and adds it to the tank. Back in the chair. Drowsily, Emily turns the key.

Theres a splutter. And another. And another.

Outside the garage, an engine roars thunderously into life, quickly followed by a horn honking a high-pitched squeal.



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