The Disposable Enquiry [Round 1: Kyyhkynen]

God is #!@^$ERROR ^@!72 the mechanical construct. Make sure to secure the fusion generators within the chest in order to 2475#$*$*///QUERRER34627&@$% have eternal life.

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The prophet’s white robes fluttered in the air as he collapsed to the cracked cobblestone beneath him. He had been placed in a deep alleyway by the hand of the being, be it God or Angel or Devil, and only a single sliver of light streamed through the canopy of ancient buildings, illuminating the prostrate Malachi. If one was close, he or she could hear him profusely praying, albeit in rather hushed tones.

“Our engineer, who art in factory, iron be thy name. Thy production line come, thy schematics be done, on Wasteland as it is within the mechanical satellite array. Ensure the safety of our daily bread, and forgive us our TRESPASSERS. ANY AND ALL WE WILL SHOOT those who trespass against us. And lead us not into biological needs, which are inessential for the mechanical beings proposed in the document, but deliver us from evil, for thine are superior mechanical constructions than the previous series, Amen.”

Shakily, the prophet rose, the robotic eye glinting in the sunlight. He breathed deeply in the thick silence, this section of city that had been quickly abandoned.

And then he broke the quiet, his ragged, halting laugh echoing of the stone around him, sudden and perhaps a bit too loud, before falling off back into quiet. He stared at nothing, a smile on his face that would have been charming out of context.

He then began to scream to the sky.

“Oh, what mercy is yours, Machina! You have shown your follower a great vision, and I beheld The Inquirer with my mechanical eye! I will please you in the battle, my Lord, have entered me, and my machinery will bring death upon the heretics you have set met to kill! Give me the strength of iron, the power of fusion, and the holiness of augmentation in this time!”

He took a few steps, his limbs shaking profusely, before stumbling and crashing to the ground once again. More laughs roared from his lips like a flooding river.

Malachi flipped over onto his back, and stared into the spiraling and spinning sky through the small window that was available in the dark alleyway. The ebony shaft of the arrow was visible in his view for short bursts of time, when the Dove of Kyyhkynen’s wings were at their peaks, before ducking back down beneath the rooftops. It was like the massive mechanical finger of God, clasping and unclasping, running itself across the heavens in swooping, unpredictable lines.

In many ways, it was beautiful.

Suddenly, the prophet was up off the ground, the drunken, chaotic demeanor completely evaporated. A determined grin was sprawled across his face, and he began charging for his goal, his mechanical leg loudly thumping on the cobblestone. He knew his first course of action, however crazy, however irrational it was. But he had faith. He had to do it.

He was going to climb the finger of God.