As it tried to fend itself, digging its databases for the appropriate defensive emotion complex, X’s howling disc fleshknife embedded itself in the psycombat thoughtkiller bot’s pseudoemotive system.

A crackle, a web of lightning like constellations of fading photographs, and a hiss.

X collapsed, his psyche spilling, afterimages shifting with the wind.

The northeastern section of Mane Street lit up with a raw, tunnelling white emotion that left everyone within proximity weeping for the better part of an hour.

The death of a PsiAgent leaves oozing sores in reality, of pain or ecstasy, depending on one’s bend of mind. It was days before anyone could get close enough to the corpse for a proper burial.