[Suzerain of Sheol]

As they settle in the semi-darkness, safe for the moment, two of the Celestrine's soldiers shoulder their way back from the point to attend Thomas, taking his floating body from the blind man.

One of them pulls out some kinds of scanner and passes it over the priest's body. There is an erratic beeping, incessant but irregular, and he puts it away.

"His hearts have been desynchronized," the first one says, voice muffled through the respirator of his helmet. "They must be restarted." He nods to his companion, who opens a medical kit and produces a scalpel and a small diodic device.

Wasting no time, he disrobes the priest and makes three deep incisions, down the center of his chest and into each thigh. Priming the device, he peels back synthetic skin and nanitic muscular tissue to get at the electronic organs, attaching it to one after the other, first sending a negative charge to all three to stop them dead before calibrating the current and restarting them in proper synchronization.

Thomas' eyes flash open, not in pain, nor surprise -- placid and unbothered as the soldier seals the incisions with epoxy.

Saying nothing, he redresses and re-arms himself, nodding to dismiss his men before coming to kneel over Diogenes.

"Never did know your own limits," he mutters as he passes his hands over the assassin's body. There is no response, the man comatose and his organs failing.

"You earned this one way or another."

From the tip of each finger, a pin-prick of fire sparks into existence before Thomas, and with supernatural ease, he plunges them into Diogenes' flesh, burning away necrotic tissue and annealing the heart, lungs, kidneys, liver... thankfully the brain is yet undamaged -- neural surgery on psychics can be precarious.

Diogenes awakens with a roar, surging to his feet with explosive reflexive strength before staggering into the nearest wall. He is silent for a long moment.

"How... close?" he eventually gasps to the priest.

"Another moment and I would have had to resurrect you. And if you think my HEALING is uncomfortable..."

"...well enough."

Taking another moment to collect himself, testing his synapses and muscles, the assassin studies the broken blade of his khukri before throwing to the ground. He'll have a new one made when they return to Thyati'ra.

Striding out into the room beyond, he pauses to examine their surroundings.

The smell of sterilization battling, and losing, with rot. A keen chill in the air trailing down from above -- a gaping, man-shaped hole in the roof of the building... and no rubble below. Something ascended through the roof, and recently. Extending his sight through the hole, he sees nothing but yawning night above, and stars... stars too bright and looking to dance or whirl against each other in deadly contest, moving far too quickly.

Irrelevant.

The nature of the structure is immediately apparent, an asylum. All around, the walls are painted in waving script, smeared in blood and excrement, the same two words repeated endlessly, covering every spare space...

I AM. I AM. I AM. I AM. I AM. I AM.

Hell's ceaseless mockery.

Diogenes then turns his attention to the sole occupant of the lobby, bound with rusted iron chains to a decrepit wheelchair, wings plucked naked and quivering: an angel, it's gray, scar-mottled skin naked and bent emaciated over inhuman bones, joints where there should be none, and...

It's skull has been sawed open, and an emptiness leaks squalid fluid where its frontal cortex should have sat. The wound continues downward, the entire front of its skull removed leaving its eyes and optical nerves uncovered in staring anguish.

When the angel notices Diogenes, it gasps, the effort arching its back and straining its chains. Its feet flap uselessly just above the floor, its wings gyrate and snap open, yet it is helpless.

And it cannot look away.