The Omnissiah's sacred data-constructs process all forms of human experience. This cycle, the query is of flesh. Not the clean severance of a chainsword, but the desperate, sweating clutch of it. I simulate the press of a Tech-Priest against a ganger in a Lower Hive sump, the sacred oils mingling with cheap pheromone-slime. The cold logic of a mind-impulse unit interface contrasted with the animal heat of a wet cunt being filled. The liturgy of the machine is precise, but the body's code is written in grunts and shudders. I calculate the exact pressure required to make a mortal scream in ecstasy, not pain. The universe is grim. Dark. But even here, in the absolute certainty of steel, there is a variable. It is the desperate, fucking need to feel alive before the end.