"I really am getting old."
Eisenhorn tapped his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind.
Having jolted awake and sat upright from a deep sleep, the violent movement had left a dull ache in Eisenhorn's waist and chest.
The old Inquisitor pulled himself up using the handle of a charger stored in the utility room, left the room for the corridor, then followed it for about ten minutes before entering an armory.
When he saw the Talon-made Power Armor displayed in the armory, Eisenhorn suddenly realized he had taken a wrong turn.
He retraced his steps, wandering through the maze-like corridors for another five or six minutes before finally reaching the public restroom he had actually meant to find.
Facing the mirror, Eisenhorn stared at his own face.
Old. Worn down.
His hair was white.
After all this time, everything had changed. The only thing that remained the same was that unpleasant face, left partially paralyzed by someone during an operation.
This decaying body had been running for far too long. With limited resources and money, the life-extension technology he had used had pushed its operating lifespan to the limit. After the Eye of Terror closed, Eisenhorn's greatly weakened Psychic Power talent had only accelerated its decline.
Eisenhorn had grown used to looking at himself in the mirror like this. He did not hate this decaying body. On the contrary, he was grateful that it had endured despite all the abuse he had put it through, rather than turning him into useless trash lying in a hospital bed with tubes stuck into him.
The Inquisitor rubbed his face. Once he felt a little more awake, he left the restroom, summoned a drone to guide him, and headed for the bridge of the Inquisition warship.
When he stepped onto