"Impeccable craftwork," Lucien admires. "Have you ever picked a lock, Carinadir? I don't think you'd like it at all. It teaches you that even the best work has flaws. Small differences between the pins in alignment can - perhaps it might be best if I just showed you?"

The machine is perfect, but the Station is warped and crooked. 

Lucien finds a very good bit of floor - which is to say, a very [i]bad[/i] bit of floor - and lies down before the machinery, arms folded over their chest, as if waiting to die. 

[Roll: 5, 3 +1 = 9 on Grace = I get there quickly, avoiding all harm]