The standoff lasted seven minutes.
Greaves lay pinned beneath the Cart, the Ladle's handle pressed against his throat, the Pot's heat radiating near his head. His professional calm had shattered completely. He wasn't screaming anymore—that had lasted only a few seconds before he'd recognized it as wasted energy. Now he was calculating.
His eyes moved constantly. Measuring distances. Assessing angles. Looking for the efficiency gap, the moment when the tools' coordination would falter.
The mandoline on his hip pulsed frantically, feeding him information through their seven-year connection. The Cart's damaged wheel is weakening. The Pot's heat is depleting—it has no fuel source, burning through reserves. The Ladle is operating beyond normal parameters, will exhaust soon.
Greaves could feel it. The tools were running on pure will, and will—however admirable—eventually failed against practical limitations.
He just had to wait.
