Saint-Étienne Arsenal, Loire.
France
The factory reeked of hot oil and scorched steel.
Sparks burst intermittently from a grinding wheel where an apprentice honed bayonet blanks for rifles no one wanted to carry anymore.
Steam hissed from the pressure ducts, and through it all moved Lebesgue grizzled, cursing, commanding.
"You're balancing that spring with your gut again, aren't you?"
Moreau said, arms crossed behind him, watching from the threshold.
Lebesgue grunted without turning. "I've been balancing springs longer than you've been eating solid food, Major."
"And yet your last one jammed on the second round."
Lebesgue looked up, wrench in hand. "Then we call it French craftsmanship makes every shot feel earned."
Moreau smirked, stepping further in. "And if I wanted a paperweight, I'd have asked Renault."
They had been at this for days six, to be precise.
