A crystal is placed in a hydraulic press, which descends upon it, imparting great force. The crystal — well-tempered; strong; resilient — withstands admirably. The pressure increases constantly, but nothing happens: immense stress builds invisibly. Internally, the crystal flexes — not that you’d know it — but does not give way.
But the hydraulic press is relentless; undeterred; unbothered.
Before long (but longer than one might expect), the crystal cracks. A chip flies off and strikes you in the eye, blinding you permanently. The crystal regrets this — the pain; the cracks — but regret is not the greatest force at play. The press pays no mind.
More cracks. More shards. More pain. Indiscriminate projectiles, firing wildly in all directions, lash out — but the hydraulic press is not turned off; warning signs ignored. Your judgment is simple: The crystal has the responsibility to maintain its compos—
You are not given the opportunity to morally assess the explosion. Flechettes, imbued with desperate kinetic rage, tear through your body as the crystal violently realigns under unbearable pressure.
The hydraulic press cares not. It is made not of flesh and blood and soul, but of mechanism and steel. No shards can harm it. The same is not true of you.
Much is said and deliberated, justifiably so, about the harm caused by the failure of the crystal to withstand. Your family mourns; their beloved taken from them in an instant.
Another crystal is placed in the chamber; another operator selected.