“M’Late!” Kroger shouts, attempting not to trip on the laces of his untied boots. His brother sighs, lowering the top of the newsprint just enough to stare at Kroger from behind the multifaceted goggles that always makes Kroger so bloody dizzy.

“Rushing round half dressed don’t help no one,” Lance points out with a scowl, gesturing with one long, permanently stained hand at the chair across the little table from him. It seems even when he is away from the automata he so loves, his creations stay with him in the form of skin-like layers of grease and dirt. “Sit yourself down a tick.”

“But the exams begin -” Kroger feels a little bit faint saying it out loud as he sinks into the proffered chair. Becoming a real airship pilot, that’s always been his dream – now the reality has come, and he’s so afraid his hands are shaking.

“An hour away,” Lance is steadfast. “Now eat, simpleton. And chew your bloody food. You aren’t a squirrel, no need to hide it in your cheeks!”
Kroger straightens his tie before breakfast.