The MiniWax polyurethane satin can yawns wide, inviting. From it waft fumes that promise a change. Each one in turn is pulled up, attached to the mechano-harness, baptized. They emerge different, the fluid streaming down their faces a torrent of tears. One-hundred seven of them disappear into the hungry silver mouth, one-hundred seven emerge. They long for battle. No shake of transport shall dislodge them. No errant hand will shatter their limbs. They are...finished.
There was a feeling of piquant sadness as I looked at the assembled hordes. The waft of varnish fumes was harsh in my nostrils. They gibbered. More than a year. Each one must represent an hour of hobbying, from their exquisite kitbashes to their custom bases. Nearly an hour and a half a week went into them over the last eighteen months. That's a lot of time to spend with anything. There was no way that they could be good enough to justify that. They just don't look good enough. There's no going back. Finished.
