<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong>Amanuel</strong></span><br/><br/>There was a new erection on the altar. The metal bench with the names of Saint Decker and Saint Black on the side was a rotating showcase of technical horrors. It was the one place within the cathedral that never seemed quite right, like a nut made of mercury that shimmered and then froze in a new configuration whenever he brought a new bolt to bear. He had thought that the music chest would serve, but it had not. He had thought of eliminating the altar completely -- perhaps it was an element of a different Machine, needed elsewhere, and the obstinance that it displayed in resisting being bent into position stemmed from a sense of longing for grander circumstance. He could not accept this. It was a challenge, nothing more, sent by the Creator.<em>Lord Creator, I do not ask for fewer problems, I ask for the wit to produce greater solutions.</em><br/><br/>Upon the cleared altar sat the emitter, the case around it long since discarded. Electricity pumped through the device, both powering and slowly turning the magnetron tube. It was in eight, not six, but not every part is perfect and there is a role for each. This one's role was to cast radiation in all directions, healing and illuminating the soul. Amanuel sat naked on the floor before the altar, crosslegged, filling the chalk outline he had traced on the ground. A dozen others sat unoccupied at various distances, showing various postures. This one was as near to perfect as could be obtained. By leaning forward slightly he could feel the warmth of the device's rays on the muscles beneath his skin, on his eyes, on his testes, on all of the liquid parts, tingling and churning. By leaning back he could rest, feel the absence of warmth that was not cool, feel the pins and needles receding.<br/><br/>0.75 meters would result in sparking from tooth to tooth from screw to screw from chest ring to chest ring from piercing to piercing. This sparking would hurt a great deal, he had found. 0.5 meters was even worse.<br/><br/>He was meditating on this when the sound at the door announced an arrival. There were no others present; the Vultures had taken the last of the contents of the kegs, and it was felt, perhaps, that with the ownership issues resolved there was no further need of additional security. Amanuel had become distracted before removing the essence of fool from the workshop floor; it was now dark and sticky, no longer lubricating passage. How long had he been sitting here? Had he missed another sunrise?<br/><br/>"Come in," he called, and knew that the courtesy of a knock reduced the set of possible entrants considerably. His face lit up, even more than it had been previously, as his dry eyeballs pieced together the form of Lady Wedge. He showed courtesy in return, clambering to his feet, falling to one knee -- this was not courtesy, but dehydration -- and then rising again to greet her with open arms. His voice was a raspy croak, desiccated vocal cords struggling to vibrate at the proper frequencies.<br/><br/>To every problem a solution. He fell to the concrete floor again, then lifted an arm to point shakily at a shelf of dirty white plastic gallon jugs. "Water, if you please. The prime numbered bottles are water."<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">ooc</div><div class="spoiler_body">No fuckery needed here, boss. Busy fucking myself.<br/></div></div>