It was easy to pull the throne room from the Grand Highblood's memories, even easier to place the Helmsman there, in the state he was in when he was finally captured: beaten down and subdued. He was still the Ψiioniic in name and mind, but his punishment was already set. Soon, a change in title would be in order. There on the wall was his future, an installation of paint and gore depicting a broken rebel trussed up in fuchsia biowires. The Condesce was a nice propagandist touch, an extra dose of fear. Psii's stomach always roiled at the thought of sea dwellers.

Strong highblood arms circled around his own and held him up to view the painting properly. He could barely stand on his own two feet after the beating he'd taken. Rudimentary psionic suppression gear webbed over his head, but the red and blue sparks dancing around it warned that it would have to be replaced before he overloaded it. Psii was the most powerful mage they'd seen. The Empress would be pleased.

His head was swimming with pain, and at first he didn't register that he was being asked a direct question. He opened his mouth to speak, hoping something would come out, but his mind was blank. Blood dribbled from his lips and clotted his words.

Fuck this.

He wadded up the metallic taste and spat derisive yellow on the painting, ruining a perfectly rendered tyrian high heel.