The surgeries began, age 12.
Pain, on such a level I could not even pass out for my entire body was screaming for it to stop, every nerve ending on fire as I was cut and flayed without anaesthetic.
Focusing through gritted teeth clenched so hard they would eventually crack, I stared at the Data screen on the ceiling of the operating room.
It informed me, in exquisite detail, exactly what was being done to me.
Though their exact meanings are lost to me now, I remember words like Nanomachines, cybernetic skeletal augmentation, cerebral cortex restructuring, genetic alteration, combat stimulant delivery, ocular membrane implants.
Before this point, I would have taken a keen interest in the specifics.
After the surgeries, the end result was all that mattered.
Age 16.
I find it easier to focus now, hate guides my every thought.
My body is a marvel of engineering, I can hear twin hearts pumping in my chest as I sprint non-stop for over an hour, hypertrophic muscles never tiring or slowing down.
I can punch through ceramite battle plate with my bare hands, make complex tactical decisions before my fore-brain has even registered the situation I'm in, my augmented brain hardwired to make everything an instinct.
The training intensifies, I am thrown into every scenario imaginable, sometimes stripped of equipment, other times carrying my full loadout.
My weapons become an extension of my body, Executor pistol, power blade, neuro gauntlet, sensor array and my own biomechanical body all working in perfect concert to make me something more than the sum of my parts.
They are all perfectly functional, like me, lacking anything other than potency and a purity of purpose.
My weapons are another part of me now, closer than any kin I have known, for I too am a weapon.
I don't even notice that out of the hundreds of recruits dragged from their homes with me, there are but a handful remaining. It's not important, there are enemies to kill.
Age 17 and I'm issued a mask that resembles a skull, it's grinning visage designed to terrify my victims.
I hate it, the crudeness of the gesture is insulting.
I destroy the servitor that hands it to me, bludgeoning the unholy creature to death as soon as the mask is in place.
It's presence is comforting, maybe I was wrong.
They tell me that I am death incarnate, a walking apocalypse, the emperor's wrath made physical form.
These words mean nothing to me, blaring over a vox net as I stand in the fighting pits sheathed in armoured synskin and full combat rig, my trainers now too afraid to stand in front of me, lest I judge them wanting.
I stand motionless for days in my mask listening to my rhythmic breathing, calculating every possible scenario for finding and killing the people that did this to me, for I am surely a product of the most grievous tech heresy.
They made an error when deciding to educate me well, for they too must face judgement in front of the emperor for their heresies.
It is most frustrating.
Then I hear the only words that matter.
"Eversor unit 217763-34A prepare to deploy."
My tactical overlay instructs me to move to designated spot in the facility, a grid reference I instantly recognise as the main docking bay.
It unnecessarily provides a map in the corner of my vision, I ignore it as I committed every detail of the facility to memory years before.
The doors to the training pit open, my adrenaline spikes and I begin to run.
I cover the mile to the docking bay in just under two minutes and find myself inside a small, unmarked ship of unknown design.
I am instructed to climb inside the waiting chamber, being informed that the ship is automatic and that it will take me to my destination.
I instantly comply, anything to allow me to serve the Emperor faster.
The chamber slams shut on me, freezing chemicals pump in furiously while a series of mechadentrite probes insert into the uplink ports along the length of my spine.
My last clear memory is of the same trainer from years ago, staring through frosted plastek, muttering unheard prayers at me before moving to press something out of my periphery.
Then darkness.
The rest is a blur.
The imperfect art of mind wiping gives me nothing but jumbled glimpses of an existence barely lived, thousands of screaming faces, human, mutant, xenos and worse all falling to blade and bolt and bomb.
My mind is a mess, but the muscle memory can never be removed, my body remembers better than I, feelings of impact and injury coming to the surface as I struggle to make sense of it for a short while.
The satisfying jolt of bolter recoil in my arm, the moment of resistance as my blade cleaves flesh and bone and armour, the smooth sliding sensation as my neural gauntlet invades heretic flesh.
The act alone is never enjoyable, for the hate is too overpowering, but I feel great joy at every heretic or alien removed from the worlds of the holy imperium.
That is all that matters.
"Exitus Acta Probat."
The outcome justifies the deed.
I decide not to concentrate on it, it is confusing enough without dwelling on the matter.
I keep my focus on my internal cogitators and tactical overlay, for when my body is frozen the solid state electronics are not, hardened against such conditions they keep recording, keeping track of my movements through space and most importantly, keeping track of time.
As of now I have been active for 894 years.
I allow myself a moment of pleasure as I think back to the scum who made me what I am, the passage of time has surely killed them all, even without me there to end them they could not escape the Emperor's judgement.
In purely mission terms I have lived a mere ten years since my deployment, not regarding these 57 years spent in captivity.
Ten years of constant, unrelenting combat, 532 missions, bringing pain and violent death to the enemies of the emperor.
Though individual memories elude me, I can piece together enough fragments to build a picture of what happened.
Every time was roughly the same, I would drop, normally right on top of the target area, butcher my way to the primary and terminate it as quickly as possible.
The details would change, landscapes, length of mission, sometimes I would be grievously wounded, barely able to crawl back to my retrieval craft, others I would walk out without a scratch on my frame.
The enemies varied more than anything.
Planetary governors, deviant eldar, orks, necrons, astartes both loyal and traitor, warp entities of the vile ruinous powers, mechanicum freaks, inquisitors, guard commanders, all fell to my wrath.
Their voices taunt me, each individual roar and scream merging into one, unending strangled cry that fills my mind.
I ignore it. Let paltry weaknesses effect the minds of men, I am a weapon and therefore unconcerned.
For the emperor.
