“Nadine Finch?” the man boomed, his voice cutting through the lingering lawn supper chatter like a freshly sharpened cleaver. He wasn't holding a plate of stew, nor did he look like he’d ever touched anything less refined than a silver fork. His polyester suit gleamed under the twilight, the charcoal-grey fabric suspiciously free of any potluck-related stains. He flashed a small, embossed leather badge, not from a culinary board, but something far more mundane, yet somehow more terrifying to Nadine: a patent attorney. “Thaddeus Bungle, Gravel & Associates Patent Attorneys. We represent the interests of the Verdant Republic in matters of industrial innovation.”
Nadine blinked, a sticky piece of caramel stuck to her front tooth. “Industrial… what?” She yawned, stretching her arms above her head. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaky purples and oranges, making a perfect backdrop for a nap. This man, however, seemed to have other plans.
“The ‘Lazy Stew,’ as it’s being colloquially dubbed,” Thaddeus continued, undeterred by Nadine’s profound disinterest, “demonstrates a revolutionary application of industrial steam byproduct in culinary preparation. The cannery down the road, which holds patents on several steam-based processing techniques, has recognized its potential. Frankly, Ms. Finch, you’ve stumbled into a goldmine. We’re prepared to offer you a 15% royalty on all future sales of your slow-cooked stew, and a substantial advance.” He produced a thick stack of papers and a pen, then a surprisingly hefty check from an inner pocket, the zeroes stretching far enough to lift Nadine's eyebrows.
“A… check?” Nadine managed, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. The smell of sweet malt balls suddenly seemed closer than the heavy molasses haze drifting off the stew. This amount of money could buy a lifetime supply. A quiet, contented hum vibrated in her chest.
“Indeed. A pre-patent advance. Just needs your signature right here.” Thaddeus tapped a line on the contract with the tip of his pen, a faint smile gracing his lips. “Consider it a down payment on a very, very comfortable future, Ms. Finch.”
Nadine reached for the pen, her fingers brushing against the cool, crisp paper of the check. Just as her thumb grazed the printed digits, a sound ripped through the air – not a murmur from the lawn, but a deep, guttural shudder from the heart of the processing plant. A metallic groan, like a dying beast, vibrated through the ground, rattling the half-empty tables and making the lanterns sway wildly.
Then came the shriek. An ear-splitting, high-pitched scream of tortured metal and escaping pressure, followed by a thunderous *BOOM* that sent a shockwave through Mudlark County. The world seemed to tilt. A geyser of thick, scalding, sickly-sweet syrup erupted from the main steam vent atop the masonry facility, showering down onto the lawn tables in an amber, glittering arc. It smelled of burnt sugar and something vaguely metallic, like blood and caramel.
People screamed, scattering in every direction, tripping over picnic blankets and overturned chairs. The air instantly grew thick and humid, the sweet steam burning the back of Nadine’s throat. A piece of twisted metal, glistening with boiling syrup, whistled past her ear, embedding itself with a sickening thud into a nearby apple tree.
Before Nadine could even register the danger, a blur of grease-stained denim and raw strength was beside her. Vance Hollister moved with the speed of a protective hawk. He scooped Nadine up, one arm cinched around her waist, the other shielding her head as he carried her behind the robust frame of his repair shop, which, providentially, sat just outside the main blast zone. The ground shook again, and a rain of scalding, sizzling debris pelted the shop's corrugated wall with violent splatters.
“Stay down, Nadine!” Vance’s voice was a low growl of command, his eyes scanning the chaos, alert and grim. He set her gently behind a stack of old tires, then peered around the corner of the shed, a heavy wrench clutched in his hand.
From her new vantage point, Nadine could see the pandemonium. Brenda Gable, always one to be in the thick of things, had been attempting to organize a cleanup crew near the plant's storage yard. Now, she was thrashing, coated in cooling syrup, her loud cries muffled by a clanging sound. She was flailing against the door of the walk-in cooler, its thick steel now firmly shut, a fresh padlock glinting on the latch.
Jolene Mercer, meanwhile, was standing a few feet away, a wide-eyed, innocent look on her face, a small, intricate locking mechanism clutched in her hand. She gestured wildly towards Brenda, her mouth moving in what looked like an apology, before she ‘tripped’ over a loose plank, sending the locking mechanism skittering into a puddle of syrup, far from reach.
Vance swore under his breath. “Brenda!” He didn’t hesitate. He charged towards the freezer, ignoring the still-falling debris and the sizzling puddles of molten sugar. With a roar of effort, he swung the heavy wrench, a resounding clang echoing as it smashed against the padlock. The lock held. He swung again, harder, his muscles bulging, sweat and syrup gleaming on his brow. The second blow crumpled the padlock, sending it flying. With a final heave, Vance ripped the freezer door open, revealing a shivering, enraged Brenda, her carefully coiffed hair now an icy, crusted mess.
“You!” Brenda shrieked, pointing a trembling, syrup-covered finger at Nadine, who was still sheltered behind Vance’s shop. Her teeth chattered. “This is all *your* fault, Nadine Finch! Your lazy, half-baked cookery! You blew up the works with your incompetence!”
Nadine, pulling a stray piece of charred metal out of her hair, merely yawned. “It’s too loud to nap now,” she grumbled, rubbing her ear. She looked down at the check still clutched in her syrupy hand, now slightly singed around the edges. “But at least I got the advance.”
Vance, having rescued Brenda, quickly returned to Nadine, his face set in a worried frown. “Are you alright, Nadine? Any burns?” He meticulously brushed a piece of debris from her shoulder, his touch gentle despite the frantic situation. He saw the check in her hand, still miraculously intact. “Looks like a good haul, even with the impromptu syrup shower.”
“Could be better,” Nadine muttered, already planning a new napping spot. “This one smells like burnt pineapple now.”
Vance just shook his head, a small, wry smile touching his lips. He started to guide her away from the plant, toward the relative safety of the bay's concrete interior. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll make sure nobody else bothers you.”
As they walked, Nadine’s gaze idly drifted towards Vance’s prized restoration car, a gleaming green ’68 Roadstrider he’d been painstakingly rebuilding for months. It sat parked near the back fence, away from the smoldering pipes. Just then, she saw Jolene Mercer, her 'innocent' act momentarily dropped, her eyes darting furtively around. Jolene quickly, almost imperceptibly, slipped a small, bundled package into the trunk of the Roadstrider before sauntering off in the opposite direction. It looked suspiciously like a bundle of dynamite.