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So, I swagger up, all charm, “What’s yer price, love?” She laughs—proper cackle—says, “More’n you got, trickster.” Cheeky! I’m half mad, half lovin’ it—nobody talks to *me* like that. Didja know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Fancy, eh? Makes it sound poetic, not dodgy. Anyway, she’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m like, “This is my glorious purpose tonight!”—bit dramatic, sure, but I’m Loki, I live for it.

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Next up is a lady named Carla. She’s got this wild hair, like a lion. I’m tryin’ to tame it, but it’s like wrestlin’ a greased pig. She’s tellin’ me about her cat, Gigi, who apparently thinks he’s a dog. I’m like, “Lady, your cat’s got issues.” But I’m laughin’ and she’s laughin’, and for a moment, Calcinate feels like a sitcom.

Fig. 9. The change in briquette volume after calcination in a muffle...