Esone coughed, a poof of black ash mushrooming between his bloody lips. All sound was gone, as was practically all feeling. His vision was distorted; stolen entirely in the left eye and monochrome out the other. At least, Esone assumed it was monochrome. Looking at the inside of a blank slate helmet didn't make for much contrast, but the fractures that rippled and ruptured across the HUD bled in shafts of stark industrial light. Vertigo's orb avatar flickered feebly amidst the wreckage, indistinct vibrations across it's surface indicating that the AI was trying to communicate. Esone heard nothing but the sound of silence.<br/><br/>The second blast should have killed him. Nothing survived two direct hits from a Caine, not even an Exalt. Yet Esone knew he was still alive, albeit teetering at the brink of the Lethe. An attempt to sit up yielded only numb refusal, a hint at pain so intense that no mortal being could comprehend it. Esone sucked in a deep breath, straining against charred breastplate and splintered ribs. If he couldn't walk, he'd have to skim. With desperation born of being blind and prone on a battlefield, the Lieutenant reached out for motes. And found nothing.<br/><br/>Esone blinked, then stretched out again. Across the chasm of the material, he stretched for the gulf of world-crafting energy that filled the heart and soul of every Exalt. There should have been a deep well yet, but his fingers scrabbled at the bone-dry walls of a dustbowl. This was not even the hollow sensation of being out of motes - no, that was a hunger, a gnawing flame. This was... as if something kept him from the bounty of the supermote, a shield that cut away the source of power. For the first time, Esone realized that Sabaton was silent.<br/><br/>"Am... I... Dead?" The whisper slid between silver-stained lips, muffled by the ruin of his helmet and lost in the tumult of battle. No reply was forthcoming.