Los Buitres really wanted to kick Q's balls into outer space. They wanted it<em>bad</em>. Rez could feel it on the back of her neck, all of the little hairs just standing up. There is that noticeable moment where there is the potential for her gang to just ignore her hand at their leash, to attack and savage without her crying havoc, but her will is sufficiently enforced that the gang fall in line. Some of them are happy enough with loot and clowns to make into their new torture dolls that they let it go; Buttercup and Ogre and Vaporub, though. Rez can tell they do not like it and even if they do not say anything it was a malignant seed in their hearts that might easily find purchase in that fecund soil, so capable of nursing grudges.<br/><br/>The clowns scream as they are tortured. They scream long, and they scream loud. They scream long after it seems like they should not be able to scream anymore: the noise followed Q for a long time, literally and figuratively.<br/><br/>The vehicle responded to Amanuel's touch in a way that only he could appreciate, understand, or even perceive. The others simply would not understand what Amanuel was doing. It was because they were . . . limited . . . in ways that the savvyhead was not.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">OOC</div><div class="spoiler_body">If you feel like I haven't interpreted your questions correctly or given fair answers that give you the full benefit of your move, just say the word and I will do my level best to fix it up for you, Ebb.</div></div><br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">"What immortal hand or eye framed Thy fearful symmetry?"</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br/>Over a dozen thousand hands worked for the great machine that fabricated the Great Light. Men and women who possessed the same spark that Amanuel himself possessed, and who were even wiser in the secrets of the Holy Machine and Righteous Mathematics than he! The great machine was called Osh Kosh, and it birthed many Great Lights, of which this was but one of many that was the firmament before the Apocalypse. The birthplace of this machine was far, far away, as such things were reckoned, and the enormous workshop that had fabricated it was no more: dust, ash, and ruination.<br/><br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">"Who was the man who was inside you last?"</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br/>Do you mean Q? Q the Man From Before? No. He was inside last, but he was not<em>inside</em>. Fifty years before there was a young man with hair of gold and eyes of green, with hands covered in sacred oil and bedecked in the proper vestments for paying due homage to Lights Great and Small. He was not so wise nor so knowing as the hands that fabricated, but he possessed an honest heart and pure conviction: M. Matheson, the son of Math. He set all of the pieces in their place that the choir of horsepower could ring out in harmony.<br/><br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">"Did he hurt you? You can tell me."</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br/>Not the son of Math! Never the son of Math. But Q, the Man From Before, oh yes. A litany of thoughtless misdeeds and casual cruelties. The left rear tire and its attendant parts are in such agony, Amanuel, and only you know how to make it better. Q did not notice when he went over a pothole, but there is such miscalibration now.