She sighed as her workautomata once again had managed to come back to the airstation badly battered from Urchins throwing rocks and whatnot on it. It hobbled around, slightly listing to the left and knocked its round head into a crate of gears. The sorting automatas of the loadingbay immediatly started sorting the spilled gears.
She muttered things unmentionable even in suggested writing and grabed the little thing by its neck to twist of the top and start fixing it. It seems they had mannaged to jam the turnoff sprocket this time, the little brats.
As she tried to pry it into the off setting with a screwdriver a loud ‘pop’ opened the tophatch and draped her in the ballon. With yet another abyssmal sigh she thanked the old gods that noone was around seeing her in her moment of glory… holding a wriggling dented automata on one arm , draped in a dirty, very smelly, old ballon.
Later on, as she stood beating out the dents in the brasscovering, cursing under her breath, she started making plans for a new work automata. In her mind she called it ‘The urchin spanker’…