It wasn't how he had planned it, but the Rogue One was now free from Havona and their tyrannical rule.
He was no longer the Rogue One, that was a name from a bygone era.
He was now an imperfect Angel... provided he was still an Angel, that is.
Such a being should therefore bear the mark of imperfection.
One he'd wear as his new suit of armor.
The number six.
Six wasn't alone in that base.
A little bit of sleuthing through the logs of those machines taught him that Base 3-O-97B had once been a haven for the worst of the worst: arms dealers, mercenaries... Fitting, for a renegade such as he.
His imperfect and now very cold body would soon be needing clothes, though. Maybe those criminals had something fitting for him...