[ There's a tug at the bottom of his shirt, hoisting it up to wipe at his own face. It's awfully simple, more function than fashion. It was almost... unsuitable. Lyney had spent the past five years tailoring his image and expectations with the crowd. His adoring public wouldn't look twice at him like this, just as they ignored orphans begging for scraps. ]

This place doesn't run itself. You made that clear. [ He sighs a bit. ] ...No one else can enter into the main pipe in the hub. The latch is corroded, flimsy. It'll keep bursting the diverter.

[ He knows a few things about tinkering, but nothing like Freminet. ]