Lead & Consequences
Chapter 1 – Lead and Consequences
The Welvin Pencil Works stood like a monument to industrial obedience. Red-brick walls, steel-framed windows, a smokestack that hadn’t puffed since ’94 but still coughed up the faint aroma of cedar and danger.
Frank Peniston adjusted his neon vest and stepped through the automatic doors like he was charging through a war zone. His eyes scanned everything—color temperatures, signage kerning, the pacing of the front desk clerk. Suspiciously rhythmic.
“A pencil,” he muttered aloud, drawing stares, “isn’t a tool. It’s a contract. Of intent. Of permanence. Of betrayal.”
Behind him, Ronald struggled with a zipper on his windbreaker and tried to keep up. “I’m just here for the gift shop, Frank. They sell commemorative sharpeners shaped like the Liberty Bell.”
Frank didn’t answer. He was already sipping from a lukewarm Full Throttle—Citrus Punch, the flavor of operational focus—and slid the can fluidly into a custom cylindrical holster on his belt. It hissed with a magnetic click, perfectly balanced next to a telescoping ruler and a miniature stapler that doubled as a flashbang.
The tour group huddled near a roped-off display: pencil prototypes from the 1930s. There was a family of five. A middle-aged man in cargo pants with too many pockets. One guy with a clipboard and eyes that twitched every time a mechanical pencil clicked.
Intel.
Their tour guide arrived at exactly 10:01 a.m.—tall, pale, and far too enthusiastic. His name tag read “Baxley,” though Frank mentally flagged it as an alias.
“Welcome to the Welvin Pencil Works,” Baxley chirped. “Where the Number Two always writes first.”
Frank scowled. “Cute. What about the unnumbered ones?”
Baxley blinked. “Sir?”
“Unmarked. Untested. Illicit graphite. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
“Sir, this is a pencil tour.”
Ronald tapped Frank’s shoulder. “Please let this be normal. Just once. Please?”
Frank took another long sip. “Fine. But the moment someone hands me a pen, we run.”
They entered through a set of glass double doors etched with looping cursive. The tour began with standard fare—cedar slats pressed into uniform blanks, wax coatings applied with industrial brushes, barrels painted a regulation yellow so bright Frank briefly shielded his eyes.
But something was off.
A “STAFF ONLY” door had biometric access. Clipboard Guy wasn’t jotting notes—he was calculating angles. And someone had spilled a streak of strange residue near an emergency fire pencil (Frank mentally noted the brand:HexaLead™, normally used only for ballot marking and scientific espionage).
“Ink can smear,” Frank whispered to himself, “but lead stains the soul.”
Ronald inspected a display showing pencil core compositions. “You’re going to have another kidney stone by the end of this tour, aren’t you?”
They reached a viewing platform overlooking the main conveyor line. Below, hundreds of pencils rolled past—freshly dipped, still drying, each one a tiny missile of opinion waiting for paper.
Children clapped. A couple kissed. Frank watched every worker like they were agents in a high-stakes smear campaign.
Then Baxley turned to the group.
“Fun fact: our factory doesn’t use erasers on-site,” he said with a smile. “We believe mistakes are a matter of intention. After all... pencils don’t make errors.”
He paused.
"People do."
Frank’s pupils dilated. He barely registered Ronald buying a pencil-shaped lollipop.
There it is,Frank thought.The philosophy. The justification. The threat.
The rest of the tour was a blur. Some trivia about bonding agents. A demonstration of the antique sharpener. Frank’s mind raced.
A controlled pencil facility. Anti-eraser rhetoric. Surveillance patterns.
There was no question now. This place was hiding something.
As they returned to the lobby, Frank noticed a janitor—mid-50s, olive jumpsuit, suspiciously blank expression—emerging from a locked side room with a fast-food bag in hand.
Lunch? Or cover?
Frank intercepted him. “What’s in the bag?”
The janitor blinked. “Sandwich?”
“Name.”
“Uh... Lenny?”
“Last name?”
“...Also Lenny.”
Frank leaned in. “People like you always go single-name when you’ve got something to hide.”
Ronald groaned. “Frank, he’s just trying to eat.”
Frank reached for his belt.
“Don’t—”
Zzzzzzzzt!
The taser sparked. Lenny collapsed, twitching next to a cup of fries and what might’ve been a tuna melt.
Frank crouched beside him. “Tell your handler: I saw the residue. I heard Baxley’s philosophy. This isn’t over.”
Security was already shouting.
Frank grabbed Ronald by the backpack strap and yanked. “Gift shop. Now. I need sharpeners. Manual only. No barcode.”
As they fled into a rack of novelty notepads shaped like raccoons, Frank whispered:
“I thought this would be a tour. But this is a draft. And I’m about to start revising.”
