Touching that armour is a mistake. You can feel data-geists crawling over every inch of that connection, frozen cyberwarfare spikes draw themselves up from the earth, the chill of ash and long night - and then your microbead sparks and dies. You fear what might have been if you had used your own cybernetics to make that connection.

It has turned its cyclopean visor to face you. Beneath the line of crimson light a network of multispectral visors peel away stone and secrets. In swift silence two serfs affix a jump pack attachment to the outside of its armour, and the angel spreads wings of dark fire. Every eye turns towards it for a moment but it does not address the crowd. Instead it ascends above you like a pagan god, illuminated by the crimson crack of las-light and the terrible fire of its sword. 

This thing is not human. It is not knowable. It cannot be bargained with, manipulated or directed. This is the engine that marched into the pit of Old Night and dragged the sun screaming back into the sky. If He wanted His Angels to be reasonable He would have given them fear.