[ He takes a step away to shine his light on a pile of rubble in one corner; a casual, almost absent move, but one that keeps him at least an arm's length from her, and moves his face out of view. Back home, and what comes to mind are mazes of spinning steel and churning copper, the whistle of steam in sweltering chambers, the rumble of a thousand gears in concert as he moved among them, repairing, upgrading, maintaining...

...for a purpose. And this, too--- this empty, unlit lot, where breath mists and freezes in the air-- there's a purpose for the work to be done here, too. Even if the view's a different story. ]

...it's not my chosen field. I specialized in mechanics. [ A hand rummages in a pants pocket, pulling out a small cardboard box. ] But every apprentice spends at least two years in construction. The art of building that which lasts.

[ A tap against his palm, and he tugs out a stubby, hand-rolled cigarette, sticking it between his teeth. ]

Though shelter against explosives of continental magnitude were never a factor to be considered.