"Is ev--" she dies mid-syllable.

Her body drops to its knees and then slumps over. Her mask clatters from her ruined face in two pieces, the inward edges glowing orange hot.

Wait, what? Shit.

Devika rises to her feet, back still pressed against the wall.

"...did you just?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Stay back."

She doesn't follow her own advice, but approaches to sign to Deskyl.

Devika stays back.

More of the cloister's residents arrive on the scene.

(Their faces are, of course, blank but the sight of their sister dead on the floor causes the emotion read for several of them to fluctuate substantially beyond standard bounds.)

Deskyl is intent on the conversation with the robot; not so much so as to ignore the growing crowd, but she only spares them a glance every few seconds.

None of them cross the threshold. It’s not that they’re afraid, exactly. It’s just that they need direction before intervening in a situation as fraught as this one.

They finish talking, and Deskyl steps back inside.

And DZ addresses the assembled group.

"You aren't in danger, and the prisoner is secure. The electrical discharge you may have been alerted to was Deskyl having a nightmare. She's going to modify her sword so that something like this can't happen again in the future. We need someone to get parts for the modification, someone to arrange for the door to be replaced, and someone to take care of the body; who is available?"

They are pretty sure Saru would want the weapon disabled, the door fixed and the fallen honored.

(Their master is away from the habitat at present, and might not be back within comm range for an extended period. They'll have to do their best without her explicit guidance for the time being.)

DZ sends one volunteer off with a list of parts for Deskyl and another off to contact a mechanic for the door, checks the remaining ones for signs of shock while they wait for them to return, and then asks if they need help arranging to honor their fallen comrade.

One of the younger-looking legionnaires stoops and picks up the severed halves of the deceased princess' mask.

"We can't." She speaks in a shaky voice. "She's broken."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am." It's not an apology, this time, really; it's sympathy. "Is there anything we can do; can we fix," she gestures subtly to the mask, "her?"

She shakes her head.

She does not think that this damage is fixable.

She nods. "Sometimes it's not possible to fix a mistake, even a big one. And we have to do the best we can anyway. What's the best we can do for her?"

She clinks the two pieces of the mask against each other uselessly.

It's not right. Masks aren't supposed to break. Even when a SLAYER gets torn apart in battle, you can still get the mask out afterwards.

Sometimes masks get stolen--either by colonials or by the grey--but they never get cut.

"It doesn't work if she can be told apart from the rest of us. She has to match her sisters in the catacombs, that's the only right way to do things."

She nods. "If she looks the same, will that be enough?"

She doesn't know.

"Please try."

Another young vassal enters the hallway.

"What's going on out here?"

"Yes, Ma'am." She takes the mask, reverently, and then turns to Nilam. "There was an accident."

"An accident?"

She sees the corpse.

She has never seen a corpse before.

"Perhaps you should go back to your room."

"You can stay if you want to, Ma'am, but Deskyl is busy, and might need my help."