Prologue
The sea of men and women pressed against each other, the legion, ten thousand strong held their ground against the enemy. None could run for the crush of bodies, people died standing and only when the currents allowed a little space did their bodies fall, pulped underfoot. From his position at the hills crest he could see the end of the world rushing towards their position
The sky crackled with lightning and grew increasingly thin, with infernal magicks and warp-craft, toxic fumes from billions of expended artillery shells blew greasy smoke that coiled into the sky. He gripped his lasgun tightly and drew it to his shoulder; its stock was machined steel and its mechanism ancient, maybe thousands of years old, a workhorse and hero of the Imperium in the hands of a criminal sentenced to death on a dying world.
The ground shuddered and broke underfoot, spurting magma from the planets heart; cyclonic missiles struck from space, tectonic plate's fractures and subsided. The planet groaned and screamed its fury. The enemy charged the hill, and he fought them with tooth and claw and the butt of his gun, their insidious forms clawing at his mind and soul before even contemplating seeking his flesh.
Eldritch abominations of impossible dimensions and maddening visage walked the land, their forms twisting and shifting and bleeding into reality as an ink cloud swirled in water. Moreover, they held upon a planet turned in to a single contiguous war zone that left nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. Millions of souls fed the destruction and slaughter for every hour that that they held.
Seven days and seven nights they held their hill. Seven days and seven nights of annihilating, flesh crippling, mind corroding battle. Seven days that sundered every living creature upon the face of the planet, destroyed the atmosphere and reduced the crust to a lava and volcano riddled nightmare. The world died, everyone died.
Except one man, accept him.
Chapter 1
The Gladatorium was a dilapidated stadium of faded glory. Deep in the heart of the Ziggurian capital-hive, its ancient walls once held knight fights between warriors mounted in towering mechanical giants, but they had long been called away to the front, to the crusade. Today the crusade was calling again, always calling for more men and machines, for the glory of the emperor. Its hallowed halls and arenas filled with spectacles and spectators, with demonstrations of talents and skills and most importantly: Every exit was lined with recruiters armed with clipboards and loaded auto-quills.
Little Yhimmy knew at that moment that he wanted to join the Imperial Guard, that one day he would run away from home and join them in their adventures, of course being fourteen he would have to wait and until he was old enough to enlist, "Two whole years! What a pain!" was his only thought on the subject.
He had just watched a commissariat holo' about the crusade being waged, and though the little hand drawn pictures of guardsman and Xeno' pirates and ship battles had been too childish for him; the real gun-camera and auspex clips between them had shown him the true glory of battle. With candied meat on a stick in one hand and cloud of pink cobweb-sugar candy on another he bounded from one side show to another.
"Sergeant! Sabastius! 'The Bastion!' Thorne!" the man with the voxsponder shouted out, rolling the R's and "With his mighty strength and the courage of his faith he can tear a tank in half, he has fought with mighty Loxatl from the animal house of scintilla and Demiurg from the moons of Al'Belag!" The announcer went on while the guardsman inside waved with his armoured gauntlets and punched the air in mock battle.
Little Yhimmy had to push past the grown ups to get a good view, squeezing up against the bars of the performance cage. Animal handlers in armoured drakk-skin were bringing out a monster, a horrendous Xeno. It twisted its head side to side, staring at people with one bulbous eye, then the other. With a screech that made the audience cover their ears it opened wide its terrible maw and cried out. For one terrible moment, Yhimmy was enthralled and all he could see were row upon row of needle teeth that flexed back and forth as it screamed, unable to look away.
The beast charged, breaking its spell. Time seemed to dilate in those few seconds the thing, all teeth, claw and rage made to kill the guardsman. It bound from one powerful leg to the other and then leapt every claw and slashing blade arcing down in a killing blow, aimed at the guardsman's torso.
The bars of the cage vibrated in sympathy with the energy pouring out from the moment of the blow, a blast of air whipped out, picking up hats and monocles and loose items from the crowd and throwing them against the gladatorium wall. Yimmy had covered his eyes with his hands; he hadn't seen the punch that had thrown the Xeno onto its back. He peeked from between his fingers, the creature was sprawled, aquilla like upon one side of the cage its leathered wing-claws spread wide, hundreds of teeth shattered, it whooped and bellowed with confusion.
The crowd cheered their joy as the tension slackened. A second wave of emotion boiled up through the crowd as Sabastius casually stalked towards his foe, a deep abiding hatred for the alien, for anything even remotely xenos. The onlookers shouted, heckled, and spat as the punch drunk creature clumsily righted itself.
Yimmy stared worshipfully at Sabastius. The man was wearing a pair of armoured gauntlets, they had started the fight green with crimson claws, but now were mostly gunmetal with flaking paint peeling away and drifting in the air, a side effect of the energy the machines generated. Each gauntlet had thick loops of power cords running up to a humming power pack slung across his back, the whole affair was haphazardly bound with belts and combat webbing, dozens of aquilla shaped buckles shining in the spotlights. He was otherwise clad in a standard pair of loose combat trousers and high laced boots, as best to show off his muscular physique. A waxed moustache dressed a jackal grin on a bald and polished head. Scars crosshatched his body in long ragged scars, some in groups of three and four, and the occasional indentation littered his arms where a foe had taken a chunk of his flesh.
They circled each other, the Xeno twitching its long head side to side, looking at its foe with one eye then the other, claws spread wide, puffing its frills out. Sabastius took little steps, on the balls of his feet, leading with his left shoulder, arms in a high guard. He twitched into action first, a left jab crackling with power. But too slow and was easily dodged. A wild right swing, another miss, the heavy weight of the fist carried him off balance giving the Xeno an opening. It batted the smaller man with the back of its claw and shrieked with triumph as "The Bastion" sailed through the air and landed on the sawdust-laden ground.
The creature pounced upon him and raked mercilessly with its talons, frills billowing and calling out a strange joyous honking. The savage fury of the attack was blunted by the sparking energy field crackling out of the powerfists, but the rage of the Xeno was unabated, it drew back its neck and with mouth wide it made for a killing bite.
The bite never came, the powerfists clamped down on the creatures' jaws, one on the mandible, the other its snout. They wrestled for what seemed like an eternity until with a long slow set of sickening pops and cracks the creatures jaw was unhinged and torn from its socket, the process cracked its vertebrae and it looked up at the human, with an unblinking, unmoving eye. The crowd roared, chanting his name, Sabastius threw his fists in the air. "You want it?" The crowd bellowed. "DO YOU WANT IT?" Sabastius had walked away from the dieing thing as he juiced the adoring crowd, he turned and ran at it, he leapt and smashed his fists down on its head in a overkill double blow that would have cracked a tank, blood and bone splattered the audience, the body was pulped and where the fists touched it, vapourised, the concrete shattered the length of the cage, a six inch depression where the things head had been. Sabastius got up onto one knee and punched the air.
The fight over, the cage was opened. People were invited in to meet Sergeant Sabastius Thorne, to wear his mighty gauntlets -without power cables attached - and have their holo-pict taken with the strongman for half a throne piece, with all proceeds going to St. Drusus Schola Progenium for Ziggurian Millitary Orphans. Yimmy had no money, and the crowd packed in so tight that the man could no longer been seen. With a sigh he turned away.
Picking up a programme that had fallen on the floor, Yimmy looked at what other events were going on. His words weren't very good, but he found one that filled him with a mortal dread and boyish glee: Ork. The headline act in the big top read:
Tonight only! A Glorious Re-enactment of The Victory At BigTooth River! Watch The 1st Immortal Grenadiers Of His Divine light (Ziguran) Replay The Battle With Five-Hundred Orks, LIVE AMMO! LIVE ORKS! First Three Rows May Get Wet!
WITH ORK BLOOD!
Join The Imperial Guard Today! Fun! Adventure! Defend Humanity From The Scum Of The Galaxy!
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The commissar and the alter boy watched the comings and goings of potential recruits, from a high gantry. They said nothing. The alter boy looked up at the commissar with an appraising stare, the commissars view never left the crowds. Behind them in rough sacks four naked girls wrestled against their bonds, the commissar had brought them as asked, thinking himself doing some devout duty.
The alter boy stared long and hard at the officer, thinking. As the alter boy considered recruiting him, the commissar coughed, a long hacking cough. The pretty boys face screwed up in disgust and frustration. Others already had plans for this one.
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Sabastius "The Bastion" Thorne had managed to extract himself from the crowd and escaped backstage. He slung his power fists over his shoulder, power cabling tied, his webbing loose and unclasped. He approached the pens and wondered what exactly a Xenos wasn't and more importantly, wasn't. Bastion was a smart enough man to understand that he didn't understand just how complicated the matter was. One breed of grox might be legal, acceptable and as Imperial as a lasgun and guard ration pie. While another breed might be declared, illegal, deviant and foul xeno scum. The 'Registum Abomination' constantly changed too. A particular guild master or noble family might petition the Inquisition, the Ecclesiarchy or another imperial body to have something added or removed from the list. It was a duty of garrison forces to cull excommunicated beasts. Bastion and his crew had leave to 'promote imperial morale and conscription' in the execution of their duties, and the politicking of the guilds and nobles and adeptus meant there was a constant supply of 'xeno' to fulfil their obligation.
Animal Handlers played cards on top of an overturned animal pen, their drakk-armoured jumpsuits stripped down to the waist and arms tied around their middles. Despite their specialist roles, they remained guardsman to the core, as their dog-tags and adherence to the rules attested: Never miss an opportunity for a piss, a meal, or a hand of cards. The pot being played for consisted of a small stack of thrones, a couple of guild credit notes and the big bid of the evening, a freshly signed requisition form for pharmaceuticals from general stores.
"Nice to see the good doctor still can't play a hand of cards to save his life" Bastion said, sitting down on an overturned crate. The round resolved; a low flush to the Chief Handler. The bulky chief excused himself and his winnings, saying he had to ensure that the broodmother xeno didn't give birth to another new litter. His explanation earned him mocking laughter, and a pointed accusation with graphic gestures and an audio commentary about being the reason for the broodmother's apparently constant state of pregnancy.
Bastion produced the charity box for the scholae progenum and emptied it onto the table. Pulling on his moustache with one hand, he arranged the coins into stacks with the other; it had been quite the haul today he mused, it had been almost half full. He took a small handful of coins and pushed them into the middle to buy into the game.
He lost money on a hand with too many face cards. Then another on a hand with too few. Revealing his weak hands that he had bet heavily on convinced the Animal Handlers he was easy pickings. Without a word, but with not so subtle eye contact they began working in concert to squeeze the naive Bastion for every coin he had.
It was exactly what Sabastius wanted and with one good Imperial Straight, he bid high and took everything. After that hand, he had more thrones, payslips and guild credits then the rest combined, it was only a matter of time and safe bets before he had cleaned them out. It was a cheap strategy, good for a single round of cards with someone who doesn't know you well and with eyes their brains and wallets couldn't back up.
Their wages spent they had little choice but to go get back to the working on the xenos, upon whom they took out their misery. Bastion put his winnings into the charity box, now brimming with large denomination coins. A handler, whose losses had been particularly large, looked at him bitterly. Bastion gave his jackal grin. He had a brutal scar extending the side of his mouth, making him look as toothsome as his now dead Xenos foe, "As a child I was kicked out of Scholae. Merchant guild prosperity caused the administratum to increase tithing level, and as a result smaller budgets for classrooms, any guess who was bottom of the class?" The animal handler turned and spat in disgust. Bastion shouted at the man as he left "You can consider yourself patriots!" The man gestured vulgarly. Bastion made his mind up to hit a few more card games and then hand in the winnings to the regimental confessor. He pulled out the illicit prescription that the doctor had written and vowed to speak to him afterwards.
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"Yhimmy J. Mesop" The doctor called out from the office door. A giddy child with sugary hands and a standard issue imperial guard helmet jumped up and saluted. The helmet was so far too large for his head that only his grinning mouth could be seen beneath it and its chinstraps dangled on his skinny chest. The doctor spoke no words; his expression said it all.
The child left the waiting room, leaving a room of equal halves. The first were impressionable teenagers, eager to see other worlds, carnage and serve the emperor. The second category were the desperate and old, those two whom service offered food, money, medical care and hypothetically; a pension. Sinon Ishtar could be singled out as being somewhere between the two groups. His motivations were private, personal, and desperate. But Sinon was not old, though his skin was rough from working the archeotech mines and his lean build reflected his lack of prosperity in that occupation. Sinon, "Sinner" to those who would call themselves his friends, coughed loudly. A single cough became a hacking fit that robbed his lungs of precious air. He wiped the blood-streaked mucus out of his beard with the back of his jacket and waited.
The doctor hurled a torrent of abuse at the small child running from the examination room, helmet flying off to bounce, almost comically across the floor. The man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sinon Ishtar, please." He read off the chart. "Thank you, yes, follow, have a seat" His accent was thick, not local Ziggurian. "The child, he is not old enough I think. Guard need men, not boys" He smiled wearily, exposing a mouthful of rotten teeth and primitive iron dentistry.
The doctor was running brisk medical examinations, the criteria for not getting into the Imperial Guard was very low, especially if you were willing to be inducted into the lower order regiments amongst penal legionnaires and conscripts. It was with a hissed intake of breathe that he found the thing that would fail Sinon.
The growths were large, final stage. On the fluoroscope-auspex hair-like tendrils spread through his lungs like featherless wings, there were secondary grows squeezing around his organs, a large bright lesion in his brain was what would kill him with any luck, or at least kill him the quickest. The trio of weeping cysts on his chest, arranged in a triangular fashion marked only the latest growth. Sinon listened to the doctor's long description, the diagnosis and the prognosis; the doctor paused only during the wracking coughing fits. The doctor took a scalpel to some of the growths on his chest, to release the pressure and to take a biopsy to be sure. The Scalpel and biopsy blades were placed in an autoclave in the back of the doctor small surgery, the smell of the liquids so foul that the doctor took note to clean them several times over. In conclusion he said "You would never make it to the front line, and not even the Imperial Guard Medical Corp expertise can help you now" After a pause he added as gently as he could "You… are unfit, and cannot join the… guard"
Sinon was heartbroken, though in truth the doctor had only told him what he was certain of already; he had hoped that maybe the Imperium, with its resources… But it was not to be. And that had a certain finality to it. "What do I do?" he asked.
The doctor tilted his head to one side, thinking carefully before speaking, his breath stinking of strange foreign foods. "I can make some calls to the Sisters of our Martyred Lady, they run a hospice, for imperial guard personnel you understand, they owe me a favour for hiding the impurity of some of their-"
"No. what would you do?" Sinon asked, sizing him up with two bloodshot eyes.
"Bolt slug to back of head." The doctor's reply was quick, honest.
Sinon nodded.
Time passed as the doctor made some calls. Soon enough a man in a long black coat and a high peeked cap knocked on the door. Sinon smiled weakly and offered a salute. The commissar's salute was crisp, respectful. They helped Sinon to his feet, the doctor pinned a small Aquilla to his chest and the commissar held up pair of freshly machined dog tags. In clipped tones, the Commissar led him through the guardsman's oath, he swore it and with that, he was what he desired: Enough of a guardsman for them to give him the Emperor's mercy. They led Sinon out the back of the surgery prefab and down into the dark passageways under the stages, it was cold, damp, trickles of rank water ran down from cracks in the walls.
The doctor nodded and excused himself, he had been too negligent in his duties already he claimed. The commissar slicked back his hair and reapplied his hat. Next he adjusted his footing and drew an oversized pistol, a bolt pistol, hand crafted and inlaid with gilded bone. "Any last words, soldier?" They were rehearsed, and for a moment, Sinon wondered how many soldiers had heard the commissar say them.
"Ave Imperator."
The corner of the commissars mouth turned up in an approximation of a smile, "Ave Imperator" he replied.
The bolt pistol rang out, and darkness descended, overcoming Sinon Ishtar.
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Bastion stepped as quietly as he could into the wings of the stage. A small chapel had been built, like the rest of the Gladatorium it was partly for show, partly practical. In the front; junior priests gave blessings and handed out beaded necklaces with tinny Aquilla pendants for a half-throne or Aquilla pins for a quarter-throne piece. Freshly dispensed guns and breastplates were made holy by application of waxen purity seals trailing prayers scratched on long scraps of paper. The jubilation of the freshly recruited, and the abundance of intoxicants purchased in celebration gave the front half of the chapel a carnival feel. Backstage, the Regimental confessor gave sermon to a full congregation, drawn from the ranks of the regiment.
Bastion waited for the confessor to finish, enjoying the older mans fiery rhetoric. The congregation today were a detachment of commissar cadets, freshly blooded from their passing out parades. They hung on his every word; his preaching was finely tuned to what they wanted to hear. Hatred, anger, the bloody butchering of blasphemous bastards, galactic genocide soaked in gore and glory.
The oratory reached its crescendo, leaving the pale faced teens bellowing and cheering. At that moment they could have been set upon their foes and they would have tried to kill them with their bare hands instead of Bolt Pistol and Chain sword
High in the rafters, cherubs cooed and whispered, those whose form had been constructed to resemble trumpeters began to play. Servitors crafted into depictions of saints lined the walls in shallow alcoves. Amplifiers grafted into their throats began to play a slow, soothing hymnal. The congregation was thanked for their time and encouraged to spread their fire to doubters. Reluctantly the cadets began to file out. A single man, sat in the back row, who had not moved during the proceedings, remained still, his arms at his sides, like a servitor on standby.
Bastion met the confessor at the base of his pulpit. He kneeled and kissed the man's offered hand on the ring finger. The regimental confessor was tall and whipcord thin. His body was encased in spidery pistons and articulated joints, his head bore a bolted-on halo of gold etched platinum, bolts screwed deeply into his skull and held up by pneumatic struts. As a younger man he had been crushed by a tank of the arch-enemy, the support frame was a consequence of his refusal to die. He wore little by way of vestments, his nakedness hidden only by the life support machinery bolted to his abdomen and by the thousands of purity seals applied directly to his skin. A cherub floated down, endlessly droning in childish non-words the first verse of the emperor's prayer. It held in its pincers a long silken cloak and draped it across the old priests' hunchback shoulders. The confessor tied the cloak with a long chain, threaded with the skulls of fallen apprentices. He signalled Bastion to rise.
"As always your words are pitched perfectly. Beautiful alliteration too" Bastion helped the man down the last few steps to the first rows of pews. "Though I would ask to beat that man in back who had the gall to turn his nose up at your prayers," the confessor nodded, but patted Bastion arm. When the old confessor spoke his words were croaked, and oddly paused, as the bellows in the support frame worked to help him breathe, the oratory had exhausted the old man. "No Sabastius. He is a friend of ours," the bellows whined, almost in sympathetic struggle to help the old priest breath, "A... fellow Ziggurian on the path of enlightenment. He alone survived when a world died. He fought the spawn of the warp, of the archenemy," his voice faltered for a moment, but whether it was the machinery or in revered fear Bastion could not tell, "...on a world that the Holy Ordos of the Emperor's Inquisition put to the sword. The Ecclesiarchy has declared him... Holy, two more miracles to his name. And you will be looking at... a Saint."
They walked up the aisle, the confessor resting his arm on Bastion. The Confessor cursed and fiddled with a dial on his life support unit. A hissing motion followed the bellows as it wound down, "He and I have just returned from a meeting with the most Holy Ordos of the Inquisition, and first I want to say, I have old friends in their service, from my wilder youth. You need to find an alternative to your current enterprise. A loop-hole in an agreement betwixt the Ziggurian guard and the Lord Inquisitor says that the guard can dispose of any Xeno's encountered in any way they see fit." the unit bolted to his chest gave a last mechanical whine and fell silent, almost in protest, leaving the old priest to speak unaided, adding an almost mechanical rasp to his voice, "But this fist-fencing business rankles their chains..." He coughed once and cleared his throat, "I was asked for a list of names by my former employer in the Ordo Xenos, names for good, pure-hearted, stubborn, glory-bound warriors, and you my boy were top of the list… I think by his absence another was chosen instead of you. I think it is the Xenos that keep you from greatness." His tone was fatherly, loving but saddened, disappointed. "It's only a matter of time before those involved in the Xenos fights face the displeasure of His Inquisition"
"Secondly, I have an assignment for you. A lesser assignment to whom I can grant at my discretion. So to the warp with them, I'm giving it to you." They paused at the font and Bastion instinctively kneeled in front of the confessor. The confessor continued to talk as he blessed Bastion. "The survivor's purity has been checked at length. They had initially planed to burn him when they finished his interrogation, but a reading of the Tarot says that he has a role to play in things to come, that he will tip the balance in the Emperor's favour in a fight to come. I have persuaded the Lord-General and the High Ecclesiarch to issue him a pardon for his past sins, to rescind his penal sentence and give him a place in the regiment." He paused, drawing an Aquila on Bastions forehead in ash. The blessing was done. "Of course the Inquisition thinks the whole thing is a colossal mistake and he will be the next-archfiend to lead us all into the Cadian Gate of the warp itself, so they took many precautions. He has been mind wiped, tattooed with hexagramic wards and wired with remote activation cranial bombs, plural. You are to be his sergeant and the keeper of his keys. If you think he's anything less than the return of Saint Sabbat herself. Render summary execution. The paperwork is already submitted to the commissariat so it's too late to say no Sabastius." He handed Sabastius a small, dense voxsponder. Bastion turned it over in his hands and clipped it to his waist.
"So shall we meet the holy man, and while were at it, we should make up a name for him shouldn't we? As the inquisition have suppressed his old one" The confessor said with a wheezing chuckle.
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The corner of the commissars mouth turned up in an approximation of a smile, "Ave Imperator" he replied.
The bolt pistol rang out, and darkness descended, overcoming Sinon Ishtar.
The commissar took a white kerchief out from his breast pocket and wiped off the powder residue from the barrel of the gun. A clean through and through, the man's head hadn't been large enough to detonate the rounds mass-reactive, explosive warhead, but it had killed him all the same. Contented that the gun was spotless and perfect he holstered it and clipped the leather cover in to place. He reached into his pocket to re-examine the prescription the good doctor had given him. The pharmaceuticals listed would be enough to keep his cadets sharp enough to pass their examinations with excellent grades and they in turn would give him their complete obedience, devotion and love. His face twitched again, his second smile of the day.
He turned to leave, the provosts would be sweeping this sector soon and his life would be easier if he had the forged paperwork in advance-
He fell hard as his leg was pulled from under him, something with tenacious strength pulled him backwards. The Commissar flipped onto his back and fumbled with his gun holster. A Thick, whippy, cancerous tentacle pulled him up into the air, his pistol slipped from its holster and clattered on the damp rock floor. In the gloom the thing seemed to eat the light around it, he struggled to bring it into focus, its outline was fuzzy and his mind refusing to allow him to see it. The thing drew itself up, seeming to gain extra mass. The commissar's mind broke as he watched; he began to make a terrible gibbering noise that was neither scream nor laughter. The thing unfurled its featherless angel wings and darkness overcame the commissar.
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The regimental confessor was aided down the steps to his personal chamber by his senior choirboy. The angelic young boys face was perfect, like a funeral mask. Perfect blond curls framed his face, hanging in locks; the old priest enjoyed the boy's cool skin upon his hand as it rested in the crook of the boys elbow. He thought about Sabastius one last time and sighed, the boy looked up and tugged at the old confessors robe, yes, the boy was right, they had work to be done.
They reached the heavy, soundproofed and double bolted door. The boy unlocked it with long brass keys upon a heavy metal ring, clouds of incense bloomed out into the cold corridor, Gum Arabic mixed with ultra-rare aromatics from old terra, Gum Tragacanth from Tanith mixed with the tears and ashes of that worlds widows. Golden wicked candles with red wax made from the blood of heroes flickered in priceless holders, silken tapestries millennia old hung on the walls billowing in the still air. They walked in, steamy clouds from braziers caused the old priest to sweat the moment the boy locked the door behind him. The old metal of his support frame felt icy in his bones. The hint of the urge to run ran down his spine, he dismissed it with a shiver.
The boy went to the small perfectly formed cabinet under the priests private alter, he produced a bottle of communion wine and a diamond encrusted crystal decanter, used by saint… the old man's memory faltered for a moment, he couldn't remember which sainted general had drank from it before he was killed by …something… He took in a deep breath of the sweet air; it just made his head worse. For a fraction of an instant, like a jolt of pain in his skull something inside him, screamed, shouted, but when he looked at the boy the thought, the screaming and the memory, faded. The boy smiled and nodded.
The choirboy stood in front of the old man, placing the wine in his hand, the boy stripped the old priest of his vestments. It took the priest a moment take his eyes off of the boys eyes and to focus his mind to produce the sentence, but he did so. "Why are there recruits in my chamber?" He had not noticed them before, though that seemed ridiculous, for how could he have not? Four, naked girls none older than nineteen, lay in the middle of the room, their bodies bound by intricate rope work, each in a different posture. They looked desperate and pleaded with their eyes, muffled cries failed to leave their lips.
When the boy spoke his words seemed to come from far away, further than any man had been, they slipped from his lips and danced their way across the room and slipped into the old mans soul, working their way in his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, every exposed orifice allowed their entrance. The confessor allowed his insides to bathe in the boy's words, and reflected, tears welling up, that in the months the boy had been with them, he had never said one word, never sang one verse. He wished the boy to never stop this wonderful sing-song confluence of sound. The boy's instructions were clear:
"But I… I cannot my boy, my form is weak. I have not the strength or potency…" He cried and turned his head as he said this, fearing the boy's wrath, fearing he would leave him and that he would never know joy again, for nothing could ever hold a candle to sound of his song.
The boy chided him and with feline grace the boy gently kneeled before the priest. He took hold of a cluster of life support modules that plugged into his crushed organs deep in his abdomen, with a wink he gently tugged on the cluster, it came away in his hands and splattered his pretty face with blood. The pain was all consuming; the old priests body lit up with perfect, delicious, sensual agony. The boy wasted no time in removing more and more of his life support matrix.
The girls screamed through their gags, the old priests rheumy eyes turned to them, his words came out languidly, his voice thick and slurred "He says you can't hear him... that you don't understand…AH!" The boy gently, impossibly began to pull out the external fixation frame that held his pelvis bones together, he should have dropped like a rock, but he didn't, instead he found his old fire growing "Agh! He is an angel of the true God, that the true God has chosen me to be the vehicle of his resurrection, and you are vital to that…. You will bare an aspect of his perfect form"
He stood naked and youthful in front of them, stigmata from his support frame weeping gently, the frame itself thrown across the floor. The boy stood behind him, standing on tip toes to whisper into the confessor's ear. "He says that your transmutation into perfect vessels of His Will, requires love, joy, blood, piss, hate, drink, vomit, flesh…" his words broke down into a mumbling chant, his eyes heavy and half-lidded.
The no longer old priest found himself wielding a knife, a flensing blade, the boy whispered instructions, slow, clearly and tortuously in to his ear.