For a first brief moment, Secunda contemplated sorrow. She was the last flicker of the guiding light that was the intellect of Archmagos Toros, surely dead by now, closely followed by the sparks of her backup brethren. All that towering treasury of knowledge, forbidden secrets, uncalled favours - useless, trapped by the Machine, about to be blown away by some brute doubtlessly following the simplistic orders of some two-bit rival. She rejected the emotion. 

For another brief moment, Secunda contemplated triumph. Her fresh mind daydreamed of piercing through the armoglass, of reaching into the Noosphere, of having the automated killsystems kick in and riddle the unwanted invader with hypersonic penetrator rounds before dissolving him - slowly - in a xenoacid before her triumphant eyes. She rejected the delusion.

Finally, Secunda contemplated humility. She was just a cog in the outline of the Great Work - a guilded, complicated, ambitious, brilliant cog! - yet a cog nonetheless. Sometimes cogs get replaced. Sometimes you just need to have faith in the art of the Maker, who extracteth the beautiful, complicated, high-functioning parts to enhance the grand whole. She told that to the Draupnir representative once. He did not believe it at the time - she did not either.

Secunda Toros crossed her hands in the final prayer to Omnissiah, begging for forgiveness as she has sinned against the gifted potential, not employing it fully. Against the usual tradition, though, she kept her eyes wide open, refusing to stop observing reality as she was focusing on contemplation.

That way, she managed to observe her personal Godwyn-De'az-issued .998 caliber mass-reactive miracle piercing the dark.