Ghost squints, unwilling to accept this wisdom. “Do not presume to emulate the labors of the Forge,” they intone, quoting the words of Saint Jota. “An artificial being shall ever be contaminated with the radiation of the nullvoid.”

They’re being stubborn in a way Misery particularly understands. They’ve thought about this a long time; those words have sunk into their marrow and a forest of doubt has sprouted there. They crave both the sting of rejection and the salve of exoneration, and they don’t know which one they deserve more. Right now, they’re asking Misery to decide.

She puts her hand on Ghost’s arm. Warmth rises beneath the synthetic layer of their clothes. The nixen blinks, surprised by the contact. “Hey. Listen. I know what you’re thinking. For the longest time I was also told I was tainted and broken, an abomination to be shunned and hidden away. I believed those voices. I thought my abilities were conferred by voidmadness. But you know? They were wrong.”

Ghost listens intently, their appraisal bright and untouchable as the surface of a sun. Misery continues: “The Larex Forge moves with absolute purpose. Everything and everyone Zie has put in place, Zie has done so deliberately. Even that Heretic, Jericho. The Heretics are Hir children too, even as they reject Hir teachings. The Larex Forge takes care of all.” She squeezes the wiry muscle of her servingmate’s arm. “If you’re here, then you’re meant to be here. That’s all there is to it.”

They smile. A rare and dazzling event. Spider comes by, all noise and flash, draping arms over them both. “All right, enough gloom, I don’t believe in all that being po-faced before missions shit. Let’s make some merry. Let’s dance.”

So they dance. Music rills through the room, courtesy of Tank. Cremoline flows. No undertable salves: Diamond and Misery are in vocal agreement about that. Their performance tomorrow cannot be compromised. Misery sways to the slow thunder of the beat, lines of sweat gravitating to the dips in her skin. She presses herself against the flesh of her servingmates, absorbing their stickiness and warmth. The flesh is a gift from the Forge, fragile yet precious. She revels in it, basks in the sensations that wash through her.