Twist of luck

[Namespace] of the Rose

Cogs in the mind of Secunda Toros whirred into action as she processed the answer while trying to balance looking dignified and unintimidating. The second was not a significant problem for the default flesh configuration fresh out of the decanter tank.

Primo, there has been a murder and the interloper happened to be ignorant of any new Arch-Fabricators coming onto the top of the food chain. Any successor would have made damn sure that everyone remembers who is the new ruler of the Forge. Toros herself spent her first year on highly aggressive prole indoctrination campaign, after all.

Secundo, nobody on Isohedron, especially no servant of the Omnissiah, would dare call it "a factory". This was a reductionist take on what Isohedron was supposed to be, the manufactorums being almost an Olympia-enforced byproduct of the cathedral of knowledge. She was of another faith and walked under different skies, that's for sure.

Tertio et ultimo, only two Adepta would have sent someone clad in power armour and brandishing a bolter. And last time Toros checked, you needed a weapon between your legs before being allowed to wield one for Astartes. Which brought her to the obvious, yet inexplicable conclusion that she has an independent, armed and dangerous Sororitas in the inner sanctum of the Mechanicum facility - and, due to miscellaneous mishaps in the succession protocol, Secunda was NOT the one in a position to ask any of the thousand angry questions in her head.

"Sister, it is a bit complicated, but I am not with Archmagos Toros, for I am Archmagos Toros. You, of all people, should know that 'only in death doth the Duty end' is a luxury not everyone can afford.", Secunda raised her hands and forced out a weak smile as she was desperately trying not to shiver (of course, it was just cold). "And before I eagerly answer any further questions... If I am not mistaken, there should be a robe in the drawer on the wall behind you. I would appreciate being allowed some dignity."

[Namespace] of the Rose

Secunda dropped out of the vat on her knees as the lid gave in, still viciously coughing. Biology might have saved her life, but did little to save her dignity. The usual, almost subconscious routine of "deep breaths" was backfiring in a quite spectacular manner. Finally, she managed to slowly raise her hands and lift her corporal prison from the ground in at least somewhat non-pitiful way.

Armed people tend to reserve the right to ask questions for themselves. This, of course, puts every unarmed tech-priest in a precarious state where following the natural instinct to seek knowledge makes things difficult when communicating with people from the wrong side of the barrel. That, by the way, was the core reason why the unofficial motto of Explorator Division was "You get more with curiosity and a gun than with curiosity alone".

That being said, Maga bet that she would be able to ask a single question before being put in her natural, unarmed position of the one giving answers. The holodex of potential things to learn flurried through her mind in a slow, unoptimized manner. Stupidity of "Who are you?", boldness of "What are you doing in my laboratorium?", sheer incompetence of "What was that?"... Toros ascended to Arch-Magos through lifting herself above tactical problems, always focusing on the bigger picture. Until, of course, someone with more focus on tactical problems seemed to kill her and put Secunda in the uncaring arms of an unrecognizing machine spirits. The proper question to ask would've been "Who am I?", yet, Secunda somehow doubted that a complete stranger would give her this particular answer. Specifically because the answer hinged on another important question.

"Who... rules... the Iso... hedron?", vocal cords, soaked in decanter liquid, torn by coughing fits, fought her. She secured her first little victory.

'Archmagos Toros' would be the preferred, if unlikely, answer - she could step into her own shoes, as nobody has yet noticed her demise through the passed days in the vat and uncounted days before activation. "Regency Council" would put her as a "candidate", as she would have to work through the cogs in the cogs in the cogs, spinning on the way to re-secure the Prima Key to the world. Another Archmagos would mean a long time of working her way out of Martian guilded cage or Draupnir's exile.

Even the smartest golden cog would still prefer to know her place in the grand scheme of things before starting to spin things her way.

[Namespace] of the Rose

Toros shortly considered playing dead.

Her longevity has been, at least partially, secured by not attracting attention from bolter-wielding trespassers. She could reasonably stay in the decanter until this enemy-of-an-enemy leaves the premises and start figuring it all out all on her own. In fact, that one was, perhaps, the most reasonable course of action. Thought of the day: "Trust in your fear".

Secunda bit the inside of her lip, enhancing her connection with the Godhead with the metal taste on her tongue. Choosing the reasonable course of action time after time was exactly the path she would have expected from herself. She wouldn't be here if that one worked out perfectly. The path was generally clear - gently knock on the glass so that the interloper doesn't recognize her as another ambusher, work her way through the locking mechanism and through the hard conversation. After all, that won't be the first time Archmagos silver tongue sliced her way out of mortal danger.

She opened her mouth a split second before realizing the trappings of the flesh she had failed to account for. Silver-tongued approach had to give way for a violent fit of coughing and retching against the flat surface, the lungs switching to a disgustingly natural way to clear themselves from the liquid. Secunda tried to comfort herself with the thought that at least she was not looking remotely dangerous in this miserable state.

Somehow, that exact thought made her want to die again.

[Namespace] of the Rose

Secunda, still trapped in the cloning pod, observed the miracles with a degree of stoic resignation. As one venerable Sister Famulous once uttered with merry bitterness in her croaky voice... "When nothing can be done - relax, observe, and let the Emperor sort it out for you, cog-lass".

She denied the optimism of staying alive - the newfound enemy of her enemy has been under no obligation to be her saviour, after all. In fact, that could still be a gambit to win her trust. More convoluted and less likely schemes were planned as cogs spinned within cogs in the Isohedron See-Tertio Bastion.

She denied the rage as the miracle saviour proceeded to smash her laboratory with stray explosions. She had only herself to blame for that - stupid paranoid data-djinni that she put in charge of autodefense systems denied her accesses, while two active trespassers were turning her little sanctum into the battleground. She designed the whole thing, after all, having admitted that she was capable of making sufficient mistakes that would lead to this particular place seeing any activity in the first place.

She even denied the curiosity at this point. Whatever this thing was, whatever foul emerald gizmo it brought into the play - she'll either learn its functions in the immediate future through immediate observation or, in a rare case of a happy ending, through personal interaction after she's done dissecting the frame of the wielder. Gathering Knowledge for its own sake would mean bowing to the God-Machine alone, ignoring the warnings against misguided inquisitiveness streaming from the Omnissiah and neglecting the practical usage of the gathered data to honour the Motive Force. Yet another test from the Godhead Trinity, indubitably.

Secunda could only hope that whatever stray blast or rolling shockwave shatters the armoglass of the decanter pod, she would not be shattered herself as a sad case of collateral damage. She already died three times to direct action - would've been unfortunate to die the fourth and final time on a complete accident.

[Namespace] of the Rose

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.