Art deco blimps dotted the overcast sky like oil drums. Von Hessler met with the labour leader John Bishop, casting a steely gaze on the young lad. Arranged behind him, crowded above and behind the tall wooden fence, were men and women clad in overalls and black grease. Behind the fence, they were spread out, not one person closer to anyone in particular, as if they were expecting a volley of explosives to be thrown their way. They occupied a factory, caked in ash but silent as the dead with smokestacks that lay cold.

The landscape lay barren, and soot covered.

“Have I not done enough for you people?” Von Hessler’s translator said, dutifully replicating the outraged cadence and volume of his voice, “You have money; you have families you can go home to in safety. What more could you possibly want?”

John Bishop smirked through the pain and shook his head, looking down at the floor.

“The list of what we could possibly want is endless,” he said, the translator gabbing to the industrialist in German, “But the list of what we want now is simply to even see our families. You are forcing us to pull double duty for the sake of your own greed. And if you would like to discuss it, it will be in our territory on our terms.”

As each word John spoke was relayed in German to the man, his face grew redder.

“That double duty is for the largest order this factory,” the translator said, not doing the slightest justice to the rage of the shouting German industrialist, “And indeed possibly the world, has ever seen. If you do this now, one little missed opportunity to meet your family, then you will be rewarded many times over in your pay.”