All killed on impact.

As soon as he heard that, some part of his holographic mind died a death. A small subroutine that he barely noted said, "don't think about it, don't think about her," but it was already too late. The thoughts were coming, faster and faster, a sadness he couldn't halt or fight, a feeling of depression that he managed to hide successfully, to his surprise as much as anything else.

And then they opened a drawer. It made him sick to look at her, and all he could say was "she looks perfectly preserved".

He hated himself for it. And then he cut her apart irreparably, each cut and removal of muscle desecrating her, each cut marring his own soul. He was glad beyond reason when he finally went into cybernetic oblivion. There were no nightmares there, just the eternal darkness and lack of thought, lack of problems, lack of reason, lack of anything. He was grateful for it.

He wouldn't have to dream of her eye, staring at him accusingly, reminding him every single second of his own failures. Cybernetic oblivion would be heaven be comparison.