You have already engaged in model train repair and improvised weapon manufacture here. There is nothing else to do at the workbench.

You have already engaged in model train repair and improvised weapon manufacture here. There is nothing else to do at the workbench.

You return to the workbench.

Try to repair the model train.

It sounds simple. Unfortunately, you have melted part of that train in an effort to make an improvised gun.

Wait, how do these pieces fit together?

The wheel is just a decorative add-on. It protrudes somehow from the front of the train like the statue crowning a ship's prow.

The key appears to lie within the mangled plastic of the fracture-point. You'll need to prune a few millimetres before what's left can fit together.

Very hard to tell where the fracture point is. The plastic is simply too disfigured.

Repair the train.

As you have already perceived, the key to a successful mend here is to snip off the deformed ends of the little plastic rods.

Use the scissors.

The blades do the job beautifully, opening and closing with the delicacy of dragonfly wings.

You should do this kind of work more often. It suits you.

Never thought this would be as satisfying as it is.

It's important to take pride in your work every now and then.

Now to glue the pieces back together.

The subtlest of pleasure: you watch as the plastic surfaces melt ever so slightly under the corrosive effects of the glue.

Once everything is covered that needs to be, you make the two pieces kiss and watch the plastic bind.

No suture-line. No scar. Only two little droplets of liquid solidifying as one.

Review your handiwork.

Crowned with its free-spinning bronze wheel and curling designs, the train is a thing of exquisite craftsmanship.

On second thought, I don't even think I want to give this back. It's nice.

Upon close inspection, you can see that the key to a successful mend here is to snip off the deformed ends of the little plastic rods.

The spindly rods and axels that connect wheel to train are of an obscene frailty in your hands.

Dexterity has never been your forté, but now all of a sudden you have full-on palsy.

You generously daub glue on all concerned surfaces and then bring the two parts together like you were making dolls kiss.

I am practically a professional hobbyist.

You may have found the train in a hot tub, but only now does it actually look like it emerged from a sordid orgy.

Covered in white, gooey spiderwebs of glue.

AN IDOL TO MINDLESS CONSUMERISM, NOW BECOME WHAT IT IS.

Why does everything I touch turn to shit?

It doesn't. Some of it turns to worthless burnt plastic.

You leave the debased and mangled train on the shelf, yet another monument to your failures.

Maybe if you look at it from just the right angle.

There is no such angle according to geometry as it exists in this dimension.

Well, that's that.

Scarred and scratched up from the corrosive effects of the plastic glue.

How's it look?

Another time, maybe. (Go back.)

You never were much for arts and crafts.

There's not much you can do to repair half a train without the other half.

Alternative wording

There's not much you can do to repair a single train wheel without the train.

Alright. Now it's plastic-melting time. (Finish crafting your gun.)

You pick up the half-finished thing you created. Glued springs, makeshift stock -- and a mould, waiting to be filled.

Which luxury article do you wish to uncreate?

Melt the Critical Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Toxic white fumes rise with alarming immediacy from the pot as, inside, the plastic begins its tortuous transformation.

Alternative wording

Toxic white fumes rise with alarming immediacy from the pot as, inside, the model train begins its tortuous transformation.

Alternative wording

Toxic white fumes rise with alarming immediacy from the pot as, inside, the fuckwand begins its tortuous transformation.

Alternative wording

Toxic white fumes rise with alarming immediacy from the pot as, inside, the wolf cup begins its tortuous transformation.

Alternative wording

Toxic white fumes rise with alarming immediacy from the pot as, inside, the cosmonaut begins its tortuous transformation.

Thankfully, the plastic visor and built-in respirator of the limpador hood spare you any ill effects.

Pour the plastic into the mould.

The setting plastic emits an evil hiss. A line of bubbles like solder appears along the vertices where droplets of hot plastic escape.

It cools in real time, re-solidifying before your eyes.

Hey, at least it didn't just pour through the mould this time.

Whatever you have created, it is not abstract art this time.

Peel off the plywood.

Your creation emerges: barrel and trigger emerge from a mottled, vaguely orthogonal plastic body.

That thing's not surviving a gunshot.

Right. Just needs stabilising. (Tape it up.)

The plastic body disappears below the wadded layers of electrical tape.

It emanates the desperation of the battlefield, the ugly cunning of guerillas fabricating weapons of war from out of nothing but saliva and bolts.

Now the last step. The silencer.

Attach the can.

Padded internally with layers of cloth, paper, and foam, the can completes your weapon's chimeric appearance.

I am the plastic goddess, shaper of death-tools.

Whose death remains to be seen.

You can hear the prayers of the tribespeople echoing up from the pass:

'Ave gunmother, may many atrocities be committed in your name.'

The tape on the grip is slick and uneven in your hands, the barrel heavy.

(Whisper.) "The Death-fuck Wand..."

The hushed words do not echo in the small room. No one heard you say that.

Except your self-doubt.

Load the bullets into the magazine well. (Conclude.)

Though inelegant, the magwell receives each bullet with silent precision. All six slide into place exactly as they are meant to.

May death be at your back, and may the stars direct your hand.

(To the gun.) "Surely this is what all cosmonauts want -- to become the rocket?"

Nothing remains of the cosmonaut in this form. You just spoke, outloud, to a crude mechanical weapon.

Still not convinced about this whole thing...

Yet you are now armed, and one step closer to fulfilling the demands of your assignment.

"Time to Wang some cunts."

You can hear the voice of the Clandestine Gunmaster in your head: 'Sometimes, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary to Wang some people.'

Let's hope this kills my enemies before it kills me.

You will find out. First shot you fire, you will find out.

Looking at it does not fill you with positive feelings.

Anything to be done?

If you had any soldering skills you might be able to give it some more stability. As it stands, tape is your only option.

Fuck it, just tape it up.

Gripping the barrel in a plastic vice.

Assemble the barrel and stock.

You cut a length out of the broom and sand it down. Next, you glue the springs in place onto a metal backboard, making a notch in the pipe, and solder the coin onto the top of the springs.

Pass the barrel through the mold.

A satisfying, rough tessalation as the pipe slides through and the backboard aligns with the plywood face. Behold -- it is suddenly recognisable as a weapon.

A twelve year old child in the gun-crafting colonies of Dream of Rustam makes the exact same movement.

Brother death. Salud.

As the barrel slides into place, you slide into your place in the tradition of gun-makers.

Now, for the plastic... (Pick an item to melt.)

Pour the plastic.

You're about to make a body for a gun without a barrel. Put the barrel in first.

I could get really into this.

The docile pastime of the hobbyist painting assembling model airplanes, except the death machine at the end is real.

Even through your face covering the fumes singe the hairs inside your nose and leave a weird coating in your respiratory tracts.

Alternative wording

The brown paper bag offers no protection as the fumes singe the hairs inside your nose and leave a weird coating in your respiratory tracts.

Alternative wording

The oversized mascot head offers no protection as the fumes singe the hairs inside your nose and leave a weird coating in your respiratory tracts.

Even covering your face and turning away, you feel it singe the hairs inside your nose and leave a weird coating in your respiratory tracts.

Melt the Dream Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Eager Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Placid Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Stubborn Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Tyrant Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Reconstructed Model Train. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Broken Model Train. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Luzian Fuckwand. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Cosmonaut Figurine. (Sacrifice this item.)

Wait, changed my mind! (Don't melt anything. Return to this step later.)

You back away from the bench, your work incomplete -- for now.

Try to craft a gun.

The instrument of death calls out from the future, begging you to bring it into being.

Let me go over the principles again.

You picture the mechanism of a firearm:

Simple: the strike of a metal pin ignites the bullet's firing cartridge. Having nowhere else to go, the energy from that contained explosion pushes the bullet out of the gun's muzzle.

If you hit the bullet hard enough it flies towards your enemy.

Go over the list of materials.

You consult the Wang guide and rattle off the materials checklist:

Plywood, glue, and tools: Check. Broomstick: Check. Pipe: Check.

All found among the junk in your near vicinity.

See? The Opera provides.

First: One aluminium can.

Check.

Completion rate: 100%.

The inside of your skull lights up like a cheap arcade cabinet -- flashing, loud, deeply satisfying.

Nod solemnly.

A prophet of assembly in her domain.

Yeaahhhh... That's the good stuff...

Now comes the part where you try not to blow off a finger.

Alright, I've got everything I need.

It's all nothing but assorted junk unless you manage to successfully transform it into a tool.

From the profoundest, most autistic depths of your self, a sense of universal harmony and order wells up.

Like a guerilla fighter in the depths of this human jungle, you have gathered piece by piece the tools for your campaign.

Canned beverage: missing.

Clang. A can clattering down, cutting through the Bazaar's noise. Patrons walking around, sipping cold coffee.

Second: One coin.

Check.

You search yourself with a sinking feeling.

Oh, come on. (Shake your pockets extra hard.)

You don't have a solitary sol to your name. The depths of poverty you have attained prevent you from making even the humblest of pipe guns.

Just sigh.

As for the plastic... (Check for items you could melt down.)

500 grams of molten plastic or epoxy: Check.

Reno's beloved model train.

One of the prized Wolf Cups.

The techno-fascist fuckwand. Possibly last used by a monkey.

The beloved cosmonaut figurine, ready for takeoff.

500 grams of molten plastic or epoxy: Missing.

The plastic is to craft the feed mechanism. Without that, what you have on your hands is a one-shot zipgun. A dangerous toy for delinquent teenagers, not a weapon to carry in-theatre.

"Whatever, I think I can make it with what I have."

Alternative wording

"Alright, time to get to work."

It's all nothing but assorted junk unless you manage to successfully transform it into a tool.

Until you acquire every last material, you are still just a mentally unwell person hoarding garbage.

Assemble the weapon.

You place the planks below the schematics, tape them in place and follow the dotted lines with the tip of the box-cutter.

Slowly, it acquires dimensions as you assemble the panes -- a plywood model of a brutalist edifice rising in a series of blocky chambers. Two circular holes on either side of the largest box await the insertion of the barrel...

You get to work, tracing the outlines of the schematics onto the plywood and cutting it into shape, gluing the coin into place.

The mould that emerges looks... less than impermeable.

Which luxury article do you wish to uncreate?

Melt the Critical Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice the item.)

Soon the plastic is nothing but a nightmarish stew of toxic bubbles in ambiguous multicolour.

Stare into the melting plastic.

From the safety of the limpador hood's oversized visor, you contemplate the liquid atrocity.

A clotted, sickly rainbow sludge, haunted by the tenuous remains of discernible shapes.

Take a big whiff of the foul, swirling sludge.

Closer by the second, the marbled, bubbling surface looms before you like a toxic planet on approach.

"Fuck it." (Take a massive, honking rip of the forbidden broth.)

If it weren't for the limpador hood, you would find yourself on a collision course.

"Come on, come on..." (Pour the plastic into the mould.)

That orifice-riddled aberration couldn't hold a liquid in your wildest dreams. You pour it in anyway and watch the vile liquid harden into wild, fluid shapes.

Bubble of molten gun pop out between the corners in the plywood.

Well, shit.

That's not a weapon. It's not even an abstract sculpture. What you have created is an elaborate piece of trash.

No, no, this is good. I can work with this, right?

Poppers. Squirming motes in the visual field. Idiocy and pleasure.

A lurch. Far back in a remote corner of your mind, you are aware of what is happening.

Unmade back into synthetic polymer, the primordial soup from which a race of anti-lifeforms might emerge.

Retinas, gums, nostrils -- everything burns like the sky over a refinery as you gaze inside.

Sigh. (Dump the sludge and back away.)

Another worthless aberration, not even fit to throw at your enemies.

All this precious plastic... (Dump the sludge and back away.)

Melt the Dream Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice the item.)

Melt the Eager Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Placid Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Stubborn Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Tyrant Wolf Cup. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Reconstructed Model Train. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Broken Model Train. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Luzian Fuckwand. (Sacrifice this item.)

Melt the Cosmonaut Figurine. (Sacrifice this item.)

Much like last time, the mould you created does not look capable of holding molten plastic.

Never mind, I'm in a pacifist mood today. (Go back.)

Your dreams of death remain unrealised potential for now.

If only you knew how. You'll need to find schematics for a gun somewhere before you can realise the potential of this place.

That's enough crafting for now. [Leave.]

You leave the bench as it was.

While you were successful in gluing together a toy train, a firearm may be slightly more technical.

You have already repaired your model train, you have nothing else to do here -- for now.

Alternative wording

You have already built your firearm, you have nothing else to do here -- for now.

The toxic residue from building a working firearm has solidified on the wood. Luckily, there's enough clean space left to accommodate the repair of a model train.

Don't start thinking that, after your last success, this will be child's play. Model trains can get complex -- it's serious craftsmanship.

As far as Reno's toy train goes, all you need to do is glue two pieces of plastic together.

It can be finnicky, but you should have the nimbleness of finger to deal with that.

If only it were as trivial as that. Your dexterity may be severely tested.

Your reason for being here is simple: glue two pieces of a toy together.

This now is a gunsmith's workshop, just waiting to realise itself.

The perfect place for your first attempt at improvised weapon manufacture.

You are not a craftswoman, you have nothing to do here -- for now.

The lenses, camera bodies, flashes, and other indiscernible parts littering the workbench give off an alien and slightly intimidating aura.

Nestled among the camera gear, a black cardboard box with a red band immediately catches your eye: SIDEWINDER 9mm.

What have we here?

Handgun rounds, more likely than not abandoned by a previous tenant in circumstances similar to your own.

Or they're Constanz's: Another manifestation of the murky impulse that got her mixed up with your people in the first place.

Good to know.

They're compatible with the Rohrenmacht you acquired, though it already has a full magazine.

Sit down at the workbench.

Useless, until you procure the gun.

[Leave.]

Its future potential noted, you turn away from the workbench.