Then my broken body was hauled upright. Instinct compelled me to stand, but my leg was a bloody mess and could not support me. The pain drove me down and away and I fled my body, syncing with Iwazar, who was still embedded in the craft. The pict quality was dreadful, the skull struggling to focus, but through its eye I surveyed the wreckage.

The remains of the Avenger lay half-submerged in the quagmire. It had been torn to scrap, the fuselage cracked and wingless, the tail absent. There was some problem with the image, the sky in place of the swamp. It took me a moment to realise the seer-skull was inverted, as was the shattered wing in which it was secured.

A figure was bending over the rear cockpit, attempting to retrieve my body from the wreckage. Given the pict quality I would have struggled to identify her, were it not for the torn flight suit and sabre bound to her waist. It was curious observing her dragging my prone form. Perhaps it was Iwazar’s influence, but I found I was rather unattached to that sack of skin and bone. The adepts of the Mechanicus disdain the flesh as weak, revering the machine as its superior. In that moment I understood their creed. Nestled inside Iwazar’s neural network, I was untroubled by shattered limbs, the skull’s own damage registering as nothing more than an inconvenience to standard operations.

I wondered how long I could linger there. If my body were to expire, would I die too, or persist as some electronic gheist? Would it even be me, or an echo wrought by the machine?

Shard had somehow dragged my body over her shoulders. She was breathing heavily, and favouring her left foot, but was able to haul my slight frame. I was surprised she had bothered retrieving me, particularly as there was nowhere to go. But I watched as she trudged through the swamp, its waters lapping at her waist. Slowly, she waded from my field of view. I tried to rotate to follow her, but something jammed the hard point, and she slipped from my sight, taking with her my link to the world of flesh. I could feel it tug on my consciousness, just as it had when I abandoned Mizar in the swamp. Only this time I would not be drawn back to that prison of pain. I would remain a detached observer, awaiting the expiration of Iwazar’s power reserves with stoic acceptance. Then I would blink from existence. It would be the cold oblivion I craved. My fears would not find me then.

But that separation never quite came. Propagandist Simlex’s body clung to life, persisting like a fly I could not quite swat. She could not have taken it far enough. That was easily deduced given the number of return trips. I had nothing to do besides watch her scavenge the crash site for whatever she could salvage.