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Summary
It's meditative work. He sinks into it, ministering to the armor's needs; he's never felt the machine spirit of a set of power armor directly, but he imagines it somewhat like its owner, fierce and focused, wary, requiring him to demonstrate why he's trustworthy. Talos himself sits on the other side of the room, back to the wall, his bolter held against his chest like an honor guard's. Sometimes when Septimus glances over at him, his eyes are closed, but Septimus is sure he's still perfectly alert anyway.
