As precursor of the manufactorium, Fleb had overseen production of children’s toys for over three decacycles. A favorite of children the world over (Fleb’s grandchildren included), replica weapons from a bygone age were always top sellers for Mortlin’s Friendly Fabtech Manufactorium, who was his beneficent employer his entire adult life.

“I don’t like it,” Fleb repeated for the hundredth time. “I can’t believe you agreed to turn our factory of imagination into an arms manufactorium.”

“We’re best equipped to meet demand, Fleb, and you know it. Our replicas only require swapping in a few working real parts to turn a child’s plaything into the real deal. Christ, Fleb, even the Pope is behind this mobilization. How can I argue with the Pope?”

“You aren’t even Christian, Mort. Since when do you care what he says? Just last week, you were making fun of his hat.”

“As a devoted worshiper of mother Altterra, let me tell you, Mommy is pissed off. Nearly half her face just got rearranged and poisoned, and the rest covered in ash. I think it’s safe to say Mother has come to an accord with Pope Doob and his doofy hat.”

“Eye for an eye, hardly a sentiment for this enlightened age…” Fleb’s head dipped. “No good will come of this.

“Don’t like it, quit. I need you here, Fleb, we both know I can’t run things as smoothly as you can after all these years. But if you’re going to fight me on this, I want you out. Those blasted humans could be planning another attack to finish the job for all we know, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it never happens.”

Fleb wanted to argue; every bit of his body railed against the idea of war, but ultimately he had to accept facts. “I guess you’re right.”

Fleb opened his arms and embraced oblivion.