The dent in his helmet was already closing.
Quinlan watched the blacksteel knit itself back together where his fist had caved it inward, the metal flowing like liquid mercury back into shape, and beneath it the cheekbone he'd fractured was doing the same.
Scorched skin sealed over. Burst blood vessels refilled. The burns across Ragnar's neck and chest from the boot-blast in the channel smoothed away as if someone were running a cloth across a dirty surface, and the armor followed in lockstep, fractures in the plate filling with fresh blacksteel that grew from the edges inward.
'Anima-grade...?' The thought formed and died in the same breath.
[Synchra] had self-repair abilities because she was, in a way, alive. The metal moved because she could choose to move.
'No...'
But what Quinlan was watching had nothing to do with choice. The blacksteel wasn't repairing itself around Ragnar's body.
