Still and cold, Mother-Desmond stares with empty eyes toward the tall ceiling of the laboratory. I hover over and speak, but he does not answer. He lies in a great pool of red oil that appears to have come from a hole in his middle.

With thread and needle I patch up the hole, but Mother-Desmond is heavy and awkward, and not at all helpful. Fear suddenly grips me, and I become desperate for my Mother's gentle words. Speak! When he does not, I tear free one of his arms and hurl it at the Machine. It was the Machine that made me open my eyes for the first time, but now I loathe it. Once magical and wonderous, it is now ugly to me. I rip at the controls, I twist off the levers, I smash the spiralling tubes and valves.

Shards of the broken glass leave streaks of red oil on my arms and they sting. What have I done? Now the Machine is broken. Just like Mother-Desmond.