Per 
Ajax Melancholy Blaspheme:
Some sort of debate/conclusion on being dead
Pieces of a gun integrated into their spirits
assemble gun, bust out of hell
Death smelled like cleaning solutions and dismantled cellphones.
Egret's spirit persisted in a cell measuring two by two by two. Not two of anything in particular. Not miles, meters, inches, nor plancks. Just two. Her existence filled the space entirely, expanding to fill nothingness like an eager gas. Eyes stared intently through the translucent walls. Ten-thousand, ten-million, or ten-trillion, though the number hardly mattered. She lacked the capacity to count anyway. All existence ever required was momentum, and nothing yet opposed this fragment of her spirit.
Do you regret? asked a voice without sound, words, or source. The eyes squirmed intermittently, twisting one way or another while blinking in patternless order, all forming an inverted panopticon that served no purpose save for observation of the unobservable.
Do you regret anything? repeated a different, identical voice. As though it had any right to inquire after her past. Of course she regretted. She should have tried the sashimi that one time, even if it seemed dangerous in an airport restaurant. She should have taken the opportunity to see Eat the Government in concert before they loudly disbanded. Not that any of those thoughts retained their tangibility. They were ephemeral feelings, fleeting and fading, and fortified in equal portions.
Do you regret naught but pettiness? The countless eyes blinked in a rolling tide. A tangible metaphor, but a metaphor nonetheless. Of course she had bigger regrets. How could she not? After all, Egret had utterly failed to ask for her Overseer's name before setting off that last time. Not that she would have received it, but it asking would have been right.
Do you regret harm to nature's order? Egret's shredded spirit lacked orifices and laughed all the same. Her tittering offended by nature. Her chirping insulted by unthinking design. Nature's order? What was that supposed to be? The world where the slightest touch by strange forces sent reality unraveling? The place were egoists, sadists, and narcissists alike where granted power by happenstance alone? Only her Overseer's order deserved any recognition.
Death smelled like fresh fertilizer and splashed gasoline.
One great eye stared down at the countless fragments of Egret's splintered spirit, all trapped in their two by two by two cells. In such a vast assemblage, it was only natural that some cells would drift closer to others, utterly entangled as they were by webs of causality and continuity. In that closeness came context. In that context emerged differentials. Identity was born amongst those differences, or at least emerged anew.
Egret, Wren, and Elizabeth Cooper-Hughes sat on three sides of a triangular table at the center of a cold cell. War hound. Working dog. Blooded pup. All considered each other with equal intensity, and all spoke at once.
"You fucked this up."
"When'd I become a pig, huh?" asked Elizabeth of Wren.
"What happened to my oath?" asked Wren of Egret.
"When was I ever so damn annoying?" hissed Egret at them both. She massaged her temples as shards of her past
O5-6: "Ahmadi".
Female. Persian descent. American origin. Indeterminate age, though her lifespan likely exceeds one century.
Background in thaumaturgy-adjacent scholarship, including medical and technical applications. Possibly the author of a notorious principle textbook on the subject, although the surname in question is relatively common. Rumored to have served in a variety of different capacities throughout her career within the Foundation, including applied research, task force oversight, and site management. Specific details are sparse, as expected.
Noted by subordinates as exhibiting a remarkably hands-off management style. Delegates routine matters and trusts that they will be executed efficiently. Exhibits strong institutionalist and traditionalist tenancies. No designated successor.
