Martel shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. “You're trying to go backwards,” he says, more patiently than might have been anticipated, having ever met the man. “Old tasks and new hands. That you don't do things the same way now as you did as a boy would be natural enough if you'd lived a quiet, unremarkable life performing quiet, unremarkable feats. The violence of change makes it apparent in a way you've got to account for, moving forward. So long as you think of yourself as a broken tool,” which is a presumption and a half, but in its own way reflective of the last conversation they'd had, about listening, “you'll keep yourself treading water. I'm no blacksmith and you're no artifact.”