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Pencil drawing in color, with black ink outlines. A gorgeous female, short red hair, and a perfect female with buzz cut yellow hair, are standing in a field, looking up at the machine next to them, seemingly worried. Next to them is an intricate, steampunk brass machine with the label 'lightning folding device', a long complicated antenna, and the logo of the National Archive of Lost Weather: an art-deco drawing with 1960s influences forming the letters 'NAoLW'. Above the field some roll clouds are present. Lightning strikes the machine, that appears to be smoking and loaded with electricity sparks. The females are wearing revealing outfits with short skirts and wet crop-tops. Their clothes are dripping wet from the rain that is falling from the sky. The crop tops have a text 'National Archive of Lost Weather' on the front and back. A white goose with a bow-tie, small spectacles and an open umbrella is looking startled at them, his feathers tangled and fluffy.
The first drops fell precisely at the moment Mara decided that the device probably posed no immediate explosion hazard. “That is usually a good sign,” she said. “You said that about the pneumatic hail recorder too,” Esi replied. “And that didn’t explode until *after* lunch.” Together they stood on the wet hill above the archive building, while the wind tugged at their shirts as if it wanted to drag them back inside. Behind them lay the National Archive of Lost Weather, a huge complex of dark brick, copper pipes, and leaking gutters, half library, half machine room. In front of them stood the device.
The thing was bigger than Mara had expected. In the inventory, it was described as:
OBJECT 77-B
PORTABLE ATMOSPHERIC FOLDING UNIT
Possibly lightning-proof.
That “possibly” had reassured no one. The device itself looked like a cross between a church organ, a locomotive, and an overenthusiastic toaster. Brass gears clicked nervously against each other. A needle oscillated between SAFE and UNFORTUNATE. On top, a telescopic antenna stuck into the sky, straight at the increasingly darkening clouds.
Professor Clatterwick inspected the whole thing with a professional look that seemed intended primarily to hide panic. According to the manual,” he said as he unfolded a soaking wet notebook, “this device can fold lost lightning into compact atmospheric segments.”
Esi blinked. “What exactly is lost lightning?” The professor coughed.
“Lightning that has nowhere to go.” “That is not an answer.” “It is, however, the official definition.” A deep thud rolled over the hills. The sky grew darker; grey-blue slowly turned into almost purple. The machine suddenly began to hum softly. Mara looked up.
“Did someone turn it on?”
No one answered. The buzzing grew louder. Inside the cabinet, coils began to glow red. Small electrical sparks jumped between copper contacts. One of the meters swung so hard that its glass vibrated. Professor Clatterwick immediately took three steps back. “Excellent,” he said nervously. “That means it is probably functioning.” “Probably?” “With devices from room C, we use that word quite broadly.” Esi walked carefully around the device. On a copper plate it read:
WARNING: Never fold more than one thunderstorm at a time. “That feels like a rule someone added for a reason,” she said. The wind suddenly tugged hard at their clothes. Rain lashed diagonally across the hilltop. High above them, a white vein of lightning snaked through the clouds, but it did not strike. It lingered, as if hesitating. Then the antenna began to whistle.
A thin, rising sound, as if a kettle were trying to boil the air itself.
Mara’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” she said softly. “I think he sees him.” “Who sees whom?” asked Esi. At that moment, a blue spark shot from the sky straight to the top of the antenna. The machine struck with a bang.
Gears began to spin rapidly. Levers moved on their own. From a hidden compartment, a strip of thick, black paper slowly rolled out.
