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You sighed at your generally terrible tarot readings. Glancing around, your gaze fell on a levi-trolley hauling familiar-looking plastic barrels – the same kind you'd... 'acquired' a few days ago, but empty. That should be useful for hauling around the dung and urine.
"Can we use that cart?" you asked the Tech-Priest, your voice a touch too eager.
Her gaze narrowed, and the whirring of her cogitators intensified as she processed your request. "Uh, sure, alé," she finally conceded, her voice laced with suspicion. "But be mindful, don't get creative with the machines. Always double-check with a Priest, alright?"
"Is it really that bad?" you wondered.
"It really is that bad," she replied, her tone grave. "Remember, each machine has its own Ontological Range. Egrigiously bypassing these holy protocols... well, let's just say that you'll suddenly not be an intern anymore. Alright?"
You nodded, stiffly. You had no idea what an "Ontological Range" was, but you could guess it meant something like, the proper use of a machine.
---
Unlike the Schola, Zlatino had no set breaks. The Tech-Adepts around you, including those not attending to the Oilmother, toiled tirelessly, fueled by occasional bites of the same ration-cubes from the Cryo-Conservation Cabinets. Jamarco, you had noticed, had already silently snagged and swallowed down a couple of the cubes himself, so you did too.
Exhausted from hours of hauling greasy cubes and overflowing waste canisters, you finally stumbled out of the Zlatino workshop. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the industrial sprawl, and the rumble of departing vehicles filled the air. Unlike the bulky levi-buses of the Schola, these were sleek personal transports, often accompanied by impeccably polished servitors. You watched, fascinated, as a group of well-dressed civilians emerged, their Zlatino servitor twitching and emitting a low, rhythmic whine.
Jamarco nudged you, a glint in his eye. "Fancy checking out the Public Shrine, newbie? That's where all the fancy people go with their fancy broken toys. I'll keep an eye out for the bus, alé."
"Oh, sure. Thanks!"
---
The thrum of the workshop replaced by a dull, frustrated murmur. The Public Shrine was a vast, neoclassical cathedral bathed in the eerie glow of flickering chem-lamps. Unlike the brutal efficiency of the workshop, the shrine felt... opulent. Paintings adorned the walls, depicting scenes of techno-religious dogma and Imperial legend. At the shrine's heart, atop a raised dais, a colossal war machine stood sentinel. Its intricately etched outer shell gleamed under the light, a breathtaking testament to the Machine God's beautiful artistry. Exposed archeo-mechanisms hinted at its ancient power slumbering within.
