The Aeteline leans down over Akaithon. Isn't it beautiful? 

Look at it. 

No hint of the organic textures or plates that mark Zaldarian mechs; this is a thing of sharp angles and Imperial ambition. The bladed angles of it are sculpted, three overlapping triangular patterns for chest and shoulders. A head like a razor beak, lit from within by a pale violet glow. It is painted with a hexagonal pattern of dark blue and black on its raised armour plating, giving it the impression of computerized scales even across its smooth and unbroken flat surfaces. The underchassis shines in green-tinted silver, the body underneath that armour even brighter and more beautiful than the patterns on its plate. Its arms have the curved, fine arcs of fishbones; its remaining leg rests on a dainty foot without the complication of claws or talons. It's such a simple design, almost basic - no tricks or gimmicks, no concessions to the inhuman or the alien, nothing that would cause friction between it and the mind-impulse unity of its pilot. It makes everything else feel monstrous in comparison.

It looks down at Akaithon. No, not at Akaithon.

It reaches down into the wreck of the Kathresis, armoured fingers grasping, passing right past the shouting girl. It reaches into the Kathresis and finds it's computer core. And it crushes it into pieces with a single remorseless flex even as the recovery engines race towards them.

Then the Aeteline stands, takes up its severed limb, ignites its thrusters, and leaves Akaithon behind.