(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

protocol in response, then speak with the next in that sexless monotone.
There was a certain briskness to its motion and a clip to its voice: if a
modron could be agitated, this was it.
"Greetings," I said to it. In that instant, the workers looked to me askance
even as their twig-thin limbs and fingers worked the machinery.
"Greetings." The creature replied. Its voice sounded as if it had spoken from
the end of a long tube.
"Who are you?"
"We are modron, we are quadrone."
I cocked my head, "Your name is Quadrone?"
"We are modron. We do not have a name. We are modron. All that you see
here are modron. We are one. Within our race, we are identified as type
quadrone."
"If you don't have names, how do you tell one modron from another?" I
looked among the crowd. All of the creatures looked exactly the same to
me. That sounds kind of racist, now that I think about it.
There was a pause as the modron considered my question. "We know. We
are modron. We are a part of the whole. Just as you recognize the hand that
is part of the arm, we recognize each part of the whole."
"What about you, the individual..."
"I..." The modron looked confused and paused for a second. A heated
buzzing sound filled the room but quickly passed. "We are modron. We are
part of the whole. The whole is modron. There is no other."
"So what is this place, exactly?"
"This is the Rubikon Dungeon Construct Project."
"Yeah, so I heard. What exactly is that?"
The modron began to emit a soft humming sound as it answered me.
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