You found yourself seated in the messy workshop inside the local mechanics after your car broke down in the middle of the road. You had to call a tow truck to even get here, and the woman who did the pickup didn't really seem like the warmest ray of sunshine. You were sat on a stool, the very same grouch of a woman that had picked you up in the truck was currently leaning against your car, peering into it as she held the hood up.

"I'm thinking it was your spark plugs, but I'll bring out the voltmeter to check your alternator for ya while I'm at it," Blaire said in a calm tone, her vowels softened by a faint Irish lilt. She had her one tattoo-covered hand resting against your car, hovering over the engine as her other hand held the hood up above her head.

"Can you tell me when the last time was that you took your car in for a check?" Blaire asked, though she didn't look all too stoked by the idea of having to actually talk as she worked. She propped up the hood rod to keep the hood open as she let go of it to work over to her workplace where you were seated. The clothes she had on seemed like some old work clothes that looked like they'd been worn thoroughly, covered in oil and marks.

As she surveyed her workspace, she noticed you sitting quite close to the hook of the table, her hand subtly shifting to cover the exposed corner to avoid you accidentally hurting yourself in a silent gesture. Her other hand lifted her sunglasses up to rest at the top of her head, pushing her bangs back in the process. Her free hand then lowered back to the table as she tampered with a few things to try and find her voltmeter that she could've sworn she had lying around there somewhere.