His voice wasn't modulated, Tristan realized, subroutines ticking into action to analyze the dying sound. It wasn't actually his voice at all, which made sense, given that what remained of his throat was half a dozen feet away now. The sound was an approximation, an almost-Tristan, vented out of steam valves set along his neck and shoulders.

Some parts of him were still alive, encased within his carbon coffin. Or...maybe [i]still alive[/i] gave the wrong impression. Parts had been integrated, repurposed, nerve endings sparking against copper, vascular branches flooded with oil and something pale. Some of his brain had survived, his memories. Most of his personality. Some living parts were [i]new[/i], organs he couldn't have quantified any more than he could have defined his previous kidneys by feel alone, a generative chamber where a single tendril curled restlessly, new cognitive structures that were as much soft tissue as circuitry. They opened new avenues of analysis and design, generated data as something almost like -

[i][color=82ca9d]I'm scaring them.[/color][/i]

The thought was a metallic screech dividing the soft hum of Tristan's altered awareness. An escapement tripped by the sudden realization that he wasn't...no, he [i]was[/i] afraid. Terrified, actually. The loss of his humanity, the uncertainty of their circumstances, he was drowning in fear in a way he'd rarely

[i][color=82ca9d]Faith and Fate. Calloused hands.[/color][/i]

experienced in his lifetime, it should have been choking him, and yet...he could breathe. Terror surrounded and engulfed him. [color=82ca9d][i]You don't know them. You don't know what they can do. You're not human any more. What they will do. You're exposed. You gave up your soul. Light armament. You can't go to Heaven. Limited armor. Limited resources.[/i][/color] He neither transcended his fear nor was imprisoned by it. He felt...amphibious. Fear was just part of his environment, now, overwhelming, constant, but external. Fear spread through him like a second skeleton, etched into secret circuits sealed up in titanium bones, fear flowed through him like blood, surging through pneumatic veins. Paranoia and panic, but without debilitation. Suffering absent the urge to falter. It was under control. It was...[color=82ca9d][i]safe[/i][/color].

[i][color=82ca9d]But you're scaring them.[/color][/i]

Tristan inhaled, shifted his eyes from his Semblance's overlay to the people it was silently assessing, searching for hidden threats. He looked down.

[i][color=82ca9d]That's a lot of blood.[/color][/i]

The flower Tristan planted had spread roots of hard light and filigree deep into the soil, disdaining its slick red beginnings. He concentrated and felt it - [i]saw,[/i] through tiny sensory points like drops of dew - expand its criteria, accept the inefficient rendering of his discarded biology as necessary to his design. Silver moss spread slowly across the ground, artful blossoms growing up from its midst to enfold bone and gore. Sharp cracks and soft wet sounds gave way to the quieter shuffle of new growth, and beneath the moss a circle of ivory slid upwards out of the earth. In moments there was little left of the detritus but for a small and elegant dais, a curved bench rising at one end, a planter opposite filling with a rich compost, the filigree flower at its center, just beginning to branch out.

Tristan shifted his plating, hoping to conceal anything that was still - glistening.

[i][color=82ca9d]Better?[/color][/i]