A seed of an idea took shape in his mind, one that grew as its roots entangled stray memories and shaped them into a cohesive narrative. Lorende, guised as a human, strapped to the same machine as row after countless row of humans, died, ripped apart by the grappling, incompatible powers that slew everyone else. No, not simply dead, but blown apart, reduced to a bloody smear on the walls and ankle-deep puddles on the floor, all burned and congealed into sticky black paste. No bones, no heads, not even clothes remained to mark the dead. Dead, destroyed, because of him.
