As the bodies of the nonbelievers were stripped by El Processador, the raw, discarded skins lay there—empty, fragile remnants of what they once were. Yet these were more than mere waste. These skins, once shields of rebellion, held significance. After all, should a god not be adorned in the symbols of their dominion?

I turned my attention to the small white crawlers—my silent, obedient servants. Sixty of them, scuttling unseen through the caverns like tireless workers, ensuring the systems of the mine ran smoothly. But now, they would serve a higher purpose.

"Come," I commanded, and they responded without hesitation, skittering across the stone and metal, scaling the structure of El Processador, positioning themselves for their new task.

Each flayed skin would become a part of something far greater—a tapestry of my power, displayed like trophies across the body of the machine that had torn them free. The crawlers moved in perfect harmony, lifting the skins with their delicate, many-limbed precision, draping them over the arms of El Processador, stretching them out in macabre displays.

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As they worked, I observed the transformation. What was once a cold, mechanical entity was now cloaked in human skins, a grotesque yet fitting tribute to my reign. The skins hung like banners, swaying slightly as the crawlers wove them into place, turning El Processador into a shrine to my power—an altar to the flaying of both body and spirit.

With each new addition, the machine became more than a mere instrument. It was now a manifestation of my essence, of my divine nature as Xipe-Totec—the flayed god. And the skins, once the armor of defiance, had become the vestments of my ascension.

"This is how you serve me," I whispered to the quiet, still air. "In life, in death, and in the shedding of both. You give yourselves to me, body and soul."

The white crawlers continued their work, diligent and unyielding, until El Processador stood enrobed in the skins of those who had resisted my will. It was fitting. A god should be clothed in the proof of their might, in the remnants of those who could not withstand their power.

Now, whenever the souls of the rebellious arrived, they would see the skins of their forerunners hanging over the great machine. A constant, undeniable reminder of what awaited them if they dared defy me. They would come to understand their fate—flayed in body, and then, if necessary, in mind.

I would wear their defiance as my mantle.