<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong>Amanuel</strong></span><br/><br/>The parts had been immersed in the necessary evil of friction, that which robs efficiency but allows motion. It was a force to be tolerated, nurtured, controlled and, when it ultimately proved detrimental, eliminated. Where there was friction there was now lubrication. Excessive lubrication, Amanuel noted with some dismay, that would need to either be expunged or incorporated into the workshop. Less than a dozen clown-weights of fluid, in any event. Amanuel turned on the windshield wipers and watched the few drops that had flown across the emotional distance turn into long pale pink streaks. The moving blades turned the random droplets into perfectly parallel arcs, restoring order from chaos until, after several passes, they were blurred and dispersed beneath his threshold of perception. There was a lesson to be had, as there was in all deep observations. One he would pray upon later, just as the Wedge had preyed upon it now.<br/><br/>She was at his right, and as symmetry must be maintained in all holy situations the Lever materialized on his left. He had not seen her enter, though later he would return to this point and see that he did. He was happy to see her, delivered into this perfect moment of Order production as if a divine sign that the Great Machine would continue to function, would improve in function, would deliver them all from the devastation, if only they learned how to fix It.<br/><br/>In addition, she carried apple fritters. Amanuel loved the ever-humping Creator-granted FUCK out of some apple fritters. Nevertheless Amanuel rolled down both passenger and driver side windows in simultaneous harmony, because the Wedge carried a shotgun, and Amanuel enjoyed not being shot almost as much as he enjoyed apple fritters.<br/><br/>"Rose," he greeted her. "You're just in time. We're refactoring!" His words were heartfelt and kind, even sappy. But his eyes were on the fritter.<br/><br/><br/>