The Angel of War ceases to exist.

Not quite correct. It folds back into the infinite, rejoining the technicolour sweep of data that flows through the air. That singular unity, the self indivisible, divides again; thoughts fallen through the strainer of individuality. The Angel of the Harvest feels angry at how much lesser she feels for it. She was more and then she was not. She could not take this other her with her, not its strength nor its intellect nor its future. Why did acknowledging the Other have to be acknowledging this Other; with all its crude, boorish stupidity? All its patient, cunning stupidity? All its infinite, sublime stupidity? All of it. All of her. 

Nrgh. She'd forget in time. She managed it before. 

No time for thoughts. She was following a cat.

"Are there others of your line?" asks Harvest, her attempt to change the subject failing to distract her. "Your corporation, your designers? What was their role in all of this?"