AN: This was originally a one-shot. That is no longer the case.
It was deep beneath the Tower of Hegemon that those chosen for ascension to the ranks of the Adeptus Custodes died. For many of the chosen aspirants, this was not literal death. Certainly, some would be brought into the laboratories buried deep within the bedrock beneath the Imperial Palace never to rise out of them again. Such had always been a danger of the total rebirth performed within the sterile laboratories filled to bursting with genesmiths and bio-alchemists, even when it had been Him who oversaw them.
No, for many this death would be largely metaphorical. For some, this death would not even be truly metaphorical; not all who were brought beneath the Tower of Hegemon rose as Custodians. For those that did, however, their death would entail every piece of their existence being unravelled, everything they had been, were, or could have been would be erased by precision genetic engineering and bio-alchemy. Something would become nothing. The individual would cease to exist. Their bodies would be unmade. Their minds would be emptied and carved apart. Their souls would be unravelled.
What they once were would not simply be forgotten nor simply erased, it would cease to be. It would be as if they had never been anything else; as if their existence had only begun at the moment of their unmaking and only given shape at the moment of their rebirth. They were the noble children of Terra, the infant sons of the most august aristocrats in the Imperium. This fact would cease to be, their present destroyed as thoroughly as their past. They would no longer be anything. They would simply exist.
With their pasts gone, with their present gone, whatever future might have awaited them would cease to be as well. The scions of nobility would die. Something new, beings far beyond mongrel humanity, would be fashioned from the ashes of their former existence.
It was a process that began with the death of an identity, a mind, a soul. It concluded with the birth of a new identity, a new mind, a new soul.
For ten-millennia it had fallen to the Phanetori to oversee every step of this process. Their function had granted them a greater degree of autonomy then many of their brothers and the Phanetori had always exploited that autonomy to ensure the Ten Thousand were never again so disastrously depleted as they had been following the War Within the Webway. They had tirelessly engineered and maintained their twin systems of recruitment; the mass draft of the families who traditionally carried the genetics required for ascension, and the consistent – but lower-intake – volunteers from families of traditionally dubious genetic quality.
The draftees allowed for the replacement of a large number of combat induced casualties, while the volunteers allowed the Order to maintain their numbers as the millennia wore on. The Phanetori had seen to it that recruitment into the Custodes became a cultural artefact of all noble families upon Terra and then ensured that it maintained its cultural momentum throughout the millennia. The notion prevalent amongst the aristocrats that the Custodes voracious appetite for their infant sons was the very thing which marked them as aristocrats and superior to all others was little more than a cultural fiction artificially induced by the Phanetori millennia ago.
Despite the importance of their work, the Phanetori had never numbered more then one hundred. The seventy-three Custodians who were currently counted amongst the numbers of the Phanetori had gathered to execute the draft they had called to replace the losses suffered during one of the Custodes recent engagements off-planet. Following the selection at the Ascensor's Gate, it was to the laboratories beneath the Tower of Hegemon they brought their precious cargo; forty-seven prospective aspirants of ostensibly proper genetic stock.
The Platform of Rebirth held within its guts a wide array of sensors and medicae equipment, yet even it could not burrow down deep enough into the infant's very existence to fully validate a candidate. The powerful machinery buried within its golden core could only invalidate a candidate, detecting points of failure not buried within the subject's baser composition or spiritual nature. So it was that, before even the genesmiths and bio-alchemists, it was into the hands of the chiurgeons that the forms of the black-velvet shrouded infants were placed.
The infants were stripped and thoroughly cleansed by Custodes serfs in an antechamber under the watchful eyes of the chiurgeons who would be responsible for the meticulous examination of the physical and mental existences of the children. Beyond the gateway of the antechamber ancient machinery purred to life; large diamond-glass tubes surrounded by an array of increasingly arcane scanning equipment dominating the sanctum of the chiurgeons. Only five such collections of arcane equipment existed within the entirety of the Imperium, and each of them was in the possession of the Imperial Household.
Most of the equipment was not, in truth, all that rare. In many ways, the fundamentals of even the most esoteric piece of scanning equipment were still in use in the wider Imperium. Individually the equipment was specialized to analyze separate pieces of the human body and mind, the molecular foundations, organisms, organs, bones, nerves, blood, neural pathways, and a dozen other facets of the human being. When combined, the equipment simultaneously analyzed and collated every ounce of information one could glean about a subject's physical and mental existence.
Once complete, the chiurgeon responsible for operating and monitoring the equipment would have access to everything from the subject's atomic structure to their mental state. The most minor of impurities in the subject's physical or mental existence would be swiftly found and should any of the plethora of impurities all subjects possessed prove to be a disqualifying one then the infant would be returned to the care of the Custodes serfs. They would not ascend to the ranks of the Brotherhood, though they would serve all the same.
To sift through the stuff of even a child's existence took time; to do so forty-seven times with the capacity for a mere five would take three days and almost a dozen shifts of chiurgeons. They began their arduous task the moment the first of the children had been scrubbed clean of the accumulated filth from Terra's surface and placed within the diamond-glass tube.
The task was routine for them, each of the chiurgeons in service to the Custodes a veteran of their craft. Their subjects were placed within a harness at the core of the tube, which was then physically and hermetically sealed when the retracted diamond-glass front was elevated back into position. The tube was filled with a relatively common oxygenated liquid and sedative mixture that allowed the occupant to breathe within the hermetically sealed system of the tube, piping, liquid reservoir and liquid filtration equipment.
With their subject suspended in the gel-like liquid, the harness would release and retract to prevent incomplete or incorrect scanning. The cogitators of the scanning arrays spun up and then engaged, bathing the subject in a reddish glow.
The process began and ended twenty-one times uninterrupted and without anything out of the ordinary occurring until an aberration in the process appeared.
The white-robed chiurgeon bringing forward an infant was not an aberration by any means, indeed, were it only the chiurgeon who walked through the reinforced plasteel doors it would be part of the typical, expected process. Except the chiurgeon was not alone when they passed through the doorway, though the haste in their step and the anxiety etched across their face made it clear they dearly wished they had been. The room fell into a lull of confused silence as the towering figure entered the laboratory, the first of its kind to have entered the room in decades.
The tower of golden auramite followed the chiurgeon and their infant cargo from the doorway to the recently vacated and cleansed diamond-glass tube marked with the Gothic numeral 'III' at its base. It was with measured haste that the chiurgeon placed the infant into its harness at the centre of the tube, so as to hasten their escape from the looming shadow of the auramite demigod. He said nothing to any of the chiurgeons within the room, providing no other disruption beyond the unignorable physical and mental presence every of his kind possessed. The chiurgeons were veterans of their craft, however, and so they returned to their given tasks with admirable resilience.
The diamond-glass front was elevated back into position. Pressurised air hissed, and the thumping of locks engaging deep within the machinery could be heard over the silence of the laboratory. A cleansing agent had been run through the tube and its various components, breaking apart any germs or remaining clumps of oxygenated liquid from its previous occupant. The orangish, oxygenated liquid that pumped into the tube now was fresh and free of any cross-contamination.
The child was awake when the liquid submerged him. Its grey eyes found that it was no more difficult to see underneath the liquid then out of it, and they stared curiously into crimson lenses. Beneath the crimson lenses, eyes the green of jade stared back with their own, more subdued curiosity.
Mechanical straps across the harness snapped open, the metal filament connected to it retracting the piece of equipment into a compartment at the roof of the tube. The liquid was far too viscous for the child to be moved by gravity or through his own strength, so he hung there, suspended at the centre of the tube. The sedatives laced throughout the liquid began to fill the child's system, his body relaxing into the embrace of the viscous slurry he had been placed within. The banks of cogitators spun up, emitting an incessant thrumming of energy that grew louder until it reached its crescendo and died away as the scanners came online.
The process lasted for six hours, and for six hours the Custodian stood there. While the chiurgeons came and went, speaking in hushed whispers easily heard by his augmented hearing and occupying themselves with fulfilling their duties, he remained static. He did not move from his position, no, he did not even so much as twitch over the course of six hours of intensive scanning. He was a statue carved from auramite, placed within the sanctum of the chiurgeons without so much as a word of warning.
None of them dared speak to him once during those six long hours. It would not be until the examination was over that a chiurgeon would dare approach the towering figure, spurred forwards by a desire to satiate what she believed to be the demigod's interest in her subject.
"Would you… would you like to know the results, Lord Custodian?"
Twin slivers of crimson fixed upon the chiurgeon's form faster than should have been possible or was at all-natural. The chiurgeon flinched visibly at the inhuman movement.
"In brief, Lady Chiurgeon."
His voice was deep, a deepness that could only be achieved by a body expanded beyond natural constraints. For all its depth, though, it was crystal clear even through the distortion of the speakers it was emitted from. It possessed no discernable accent or at least none that any of the diverse chiurgeons who heard it could place.
"I am flattered, my Lord Custodian, but I am no Lady."
"And I am no Lord."
The retort was immediate; as if the Custodian had planned for if not fully expected her renunciation of the title 'Lady'. She quaked slightly at what she imagined to be a harsh censure, a great failure on her part to properly obey the rules of decorum that, in truth, she – nor any other of the chiurgeons – had ever actually been told about.
His voice had not raised by even an octave, though perhaps the stoic articulation served to sow terror better then even naked aggression would have.
"I am sorry, my Lo-," She caught herself before finishing the word her hysteria addled mind now believed to be the gravest of insults one could levy against the demigod before her. Her stumbled over attempt at apologizing a second time was cut off.
"Be at peace. You may call me Hektor."
The diamond-glass rattled silently at the rumble of his voice, every word like a hammer cast from his mouth to lay waste to the world surrounding him.
"I am Elizbieta." She sketched a superfluous curtsey in her medicae robes, giving him a nervous smile fueled more by adrenaline and undisguised terror then genuine joy.
"Well met, Elizbieta." He inclined his head slightly; the greatest tell of the movement being the plumage of crimson horsehair sliding to the side of his conical helmet. "Tell me of the little one. In brief."
Some measure of strength returned to her form. The muscles which had become taut beneath her sweat-slick onyx skin relaxed, her breathing and heart rate plateauing from their meteoric climb as she was provided with a task her mind latched upon.
"The subject's physical health and mental state fall well within the acceptable tolerances laid out by Him." She paused; her face sketched in uncertainty over whether she should continue. The conical helmet of auramite tilted to the side in curiosity, as if beckoning her to continue. "The subjects… condition, is, for lack of a better term, ideal. It is unlikely – incredibly unlikely – for there to be any sort of physical or mental rejection."
"It is not unheard of, mind you," She continued unprompted, voice trailing on as her nerves compelled her to speak further. "For such a thing to occur. Perhaps once every quarter-of-a-century, yes, but not unheard of nor alarmingly unusual. Short of being improperly administered or purposefully sabotaged, it would be all but impossible for the subject's physicality or mentality to reject ascension."
The term 'reject ascension' was merely the conversational way of saying the subject's body ripped itself to bloody ribbons, ribbons which were then shredded down to their base components. It was the fate that awaited a child who physically, mentally, or spiritually – or any combination of the three – failed to withstand the primordial forces the genesmiths and bio-alchemists unleashed upon them. Such a death was neither swift nor pleasant, given the process could last for weeks and every spark of pain would be felt intimately by the mind and soul that was rending itself apart.
"Thank you, Chiurgeon Elizbieta. Your assistance is appreciated."
The woman performed another curtsey and returned to her station at the bank of cogitators connected to the tube. The viscous liquid within began to thin, allowing the child within it to sink gently down to the padded base of the tube. The quiet hum of the filtration pumps died to be replaced with the thrumming of more powerful pumps designed to drain the entire system of the fluid, a process which took nearly fifteen minutes.
Pressurised air hissed as the diamond-glass front retracted. The child lay sedated upon the foam padding, slick with the oxygenated liquid. From now until the completion of the process the grey-eyed child would remain in some form of sedation. The child's eyes would either open as the eyes of one of the Custodes, or they would never truly open again.
A Custodes serf approached the tube with greater confidence then Chiurgeon Elizbieta had. Having grown to maturity in the shadows and service of the auramite-clad demigod's none of their order found the presence of their masters as terrifying as others did. The serf wrapped the infant in an absorbent fabric and lifted its small frame out of the tube, mindful that the crimson lenses of a Custodian bored into their back. The serfs might not have been afraid of their masters but that did not mean they were any less conscious of the intensity of a Custodian's sheer physical presence.
With the infant in hand, the serf made his way out of the laboratory and into another antechamber leading deeper into the labyrinthine complex. To the spoken and unspoken relief of the chiurgeons, the slab of auramite trailed after the serf. The interest of the Custodian extended to none of their other subjects, and so he left the chiurgeons to perform their duty without his suffocating presence weighing down their minds.
The antechamber was smaller than the sprawling laboratory they had left, though that by no means meant it was small. It was large enough for one hundred of the Order to occupy comfortably, though occupation had never been the room's purpose. It was here that the infants were cleaned and purified of the viscous liquid that clung to their bodies and lingered within their systems, a dozen large tubs of water spread equally throughout the chamber for that very purpose.
The child was taken to one such tub and given over to another serf for purifying. There was the slightest of hushes at the sight of the Custodian, though the serfs never truly ceased performing their duties to take in the presence of one of their masters. The Custodian did not linger within the room, long, powerful strides never slowing from the entrance to the exit.
He had not waited with the infant every moment of the process up to this moment, and there was little point for him to start now. The mundanity of the purification process would not reveal anything new to him, and he felt no compulsion to watch over the little one during such a trivial stage of its journey. He had not watched over it during the day that had passed between its selection and examination by the chiurgeons, rather, a serf had informed him when the little one was to be brought forwards for inspection and he had arrived only then.
So it was that now he strode through the well-lit hallways of the laboratory complex. He did not need to follow the child to know its destination. The chiurgeons reported it pure, and so there was but one place for it to go.
The architecture within the laboratory complex lacked the garish ostentation of other sections of the Imperial Palace. This place had been built in a different time, a different time of different sensibilities when the bloated edifices of Imperial architecture had yet to gain the traction they would in later years. The laboratory was minimalist in decoration and construction, favouring function over form. Well-maintained lumen-strips provided ample lighting in the hallways and chambers constructed from polished white metal.
His long strides carried him deeper into the labyrinthine complex. This deep into the complex there were few other living souls, the majority of the living staff being the chiurgeons and Custodes serfs who never ventured into the oppressive depths he was now within. This was the underground kingdom of the genesmiths and bio-alchemists, of men and women who had given their lives over to the service of the Custodes. Many had toiled in the artificially lit bowels of the Palace for decades or centuries on end, the kiss of the sun upon their skin long forgotten if they had ever known it to begin with.
It was into their experienced hands that the little one would come to rest.
He took a turn into one of the ancillary hallways, leaving the arterial one behind him. Whereas the arterial hallways could comfortably fit five of his brothers should-to-shoulder, the majority of the ancillary hallways dug into Terra's crust were only large enough for a single Custodian to stride down at once. It was rare that one of the Order would find a need to pass through them, given that they were primarily used for maintenance and the dormitories of the mortals who toiled within the complex.
Even after five-hundred years within the Phanetori, he had only traversed down one of these cramped hallways twice. With this as his third time within the bright hallways the colour of white enamel, he was likely the Custodian to have used them the most over the preceding millennia.
His powerful strides carried him past hundreds of doors leading to an assortment of rooms; everything from dormitories, storage rooms, maintenance halls, lounges, libraries, minor laboratories, medicae halls. Everything the chiurgeons, genesmiths and bio-alchemists would require to not only survive but thrive within the underground complex was present along the ancillary tunnels. Many of the mortal's present had been born within Terra's crust, raised and trained to assume the duties of their forebearers within the laboratory complex. Some had been plucked from the surface, of course, the exceptionally talented were desired within the laboratory complex whether they had been born within it or not.
All of them, born within the families of chiurgeons and genesmiths and bio-alchemists or the new-blood introduced into those sprawling lineages, the unifying trait of them all was that they would die within Terra's crust. There was no luxurious end for them, only a lifetime of service in His name and an honourable death when their minds and bodies could no longer function. Their deaths and their service would be remembered within the laboratory complex, but beyond its adamantium gates, none would notice nor care about their passing.
He arrived at a solid plasteel gateway affixed with the symbol of the Ten Thousand; the head of an eagle superimposed over twin lightning bolts set within the centre of an 'I'. The grey plasteel and golden iconography were the first deviations from the uniform enamel white metal that was present throughout the rest of the laboratory complex.
Though he could not see them nor feel their touch, he knew that buried within the gateway a suite of sensors had activated. Runes flashed across his vision informing him of twenty-seven separate types of passive scans alone scouring his auramite clad form, three-times the number that had been fixed upon him throughout his journey. There was an almost inaudible click from somewhere within the gateways mechanisms as his identity was confirmed and the multitude of locks were deactivated. The gateway split open before him, allowing him to enter into the room beyond.
Despite the relative ostentation of its gateway, the room was as sparsely decorated as the rest of the laboratory complex. There was little in the way of furniture within it, and for all that, it was well kept it had not seen any use for millennia. The far wall was dominated by a two-way crystalflex mirror that peered into the sanctum of the genesmiths and bio-alchemists below. It had once served a purpose, perhaps as an observatory for one his kind to watch the genesmiths and bio-alchemists work. The mirror certainly gave that impression, though the truth was long forgotten and ultimately irrelevant.
He crossed the room in five powerful strides and took up a position before the mirror. Whether this room had once served as an observatory or not was irrelevant; it would serve as one now. He peered into the workspace occupied by dozens of genesmiths and bio-alchemists. Reinforced pods of a material harder then even diamond-glass stood in recesses throughout the room, each large enough to hold a fully-grown Custodian. Five were already occupied, the forms of infants little more than dark shadows within the viscous golden liquids that would sustain them during the process of ascension.
The central medicae slab was occupied as well. The infant was undergoing the preliminary stages of the process; this is where what had once been was unmade. He did not know the secrets of the process, and in truth, he did not care to know them. He knew the results all the same, of course, but knowing the conclusion of the process did not grant any insights into the process itself.
Devices, handheld and mounted alike, were brought to bear on the infant laying on the slab. Liquids of a dozen separate colours were administered to the child. It was not the crude surgeries and implantations of the Astartes that gave birth to a warrior of the Ten Thousand, rather, the existence of the infant would be turned upon itself. The body would unmake itself as if its purpose had always been to do so. The mind would unmake itself, uncaring that doing so would spell its death. The soul would unmake itself, utterly at peace knowing that to do so would mean ruination.
The body would forge itself into something new. The mind would forge itself into something new. The soul would forge itself into something new. The natural processes of the child's existence would be suborned by genesmithing and bio-alchemy into both unmaking itself and then remaking itself.
Pressurised air hissed from the collar of his auramite armour. The seals of his helmet released, and the stale bite of recycled air dug into his lungs. He removed his conical helmet and held it within the crook of his arm. He saw the suggestion of his dusky skin and stoic, aristocratic features in the mirror he stared through, the image fading in and out of clarity as the lumen-strips within the laboratory below adjusted to the needs of their masters.
Time ground on as the figures below saw to the completion of the procedure. Nine-hundred-twenty-three minutes after he removed his helmet the genesmiths and bio-alchemists finished the initial steps of the procedure, leaving the sedated form on the medicae slab as little more than a hollowed-out shell of meat. The process of uncreation would take longer to truly finish, scraps of the little one's former existence still clinging onto its being waiting to be scraped away. The process had been started, though, and so the process would largely complete itself without the need for further direct intervention.
There was a grinding noise of machinery behind him, signifying that the gateway was opening once more. He did not need to look to see who it was; armour whirred and thrummed with power as the figure walked into the room. It was the noise of Custodial armour, and of his brothers, few would journey so deeply beneath the surface.
"You spoke." The low timbre of his new companion's voice emerged unmolested by the filters of a helmets vox-speakers. His jade eyes flicked to the side on instinct, cold and assessing. The head of his brother Custodian was bare, olive skin pulled tautly across hard, austere features.
"I apologize, Shield-Captain."
The words were spoken though not truly felt. He respected Shield-Captain Rostam, he would even consider himself close with the older Custodian, but if his brother expected amenable humility in the face of censure then Rostam would be disappointed by his recalcitrance.
"I do not say it as censure, Hektor." The reply was swift and tinged with the mildest of amusement. "I admit, though, that I am curious as to why you did."
"It seemed appropriate at the time."
"Does it no longer seem so?"
"No," He shook his head in the negative to underscore the sentiment. "I still believe it was appropriate."
Rostam made a noise of amusement at the back of his throat while his lips twitched upwards into an expression that might have been a smile.
"I have never seen you as a sentimental individual, Hektor. Comforting weeping mothers, how saccharine of you." The words were not said with any bite to them, rather, they were laced through with genuine amusement and a teasing undertone.
He smiled despite himself.
"Was it also this newfound sentimentality that led you to personally overseeing the little one?"
"No. I have staked a position on the little one's survival, so his fate is now of personal interest."
Rostam spoke no words in response, instead, he made a noise of understanding and nodded his head in acknowledgement.
They both fell into a companionable silence, watching as the genesmiths and bio-alchemists below placed their subject within one of the reinforced pods to be suspended within the golden amniotic fluid. Minutes dragged into hours as the forms below worked to prepare for their next subject, servitors scrubbing clean the layer of accumulated filth upon the medicae slab while soiled equipment was replaced with clean and sanitized equipment. New vials full of liquid took the places of empty vials, medicae tubing was replaced and connected to fresh bags filled with crimson lifeblood.
They maintained their silence while the genesmiths and bio-alchemists saw to the process of replenishing the tools of rebirth. One of the genesmiths disappeared from view, reappearing with the familiar form of the little one cradled cautiously within their arms. Rostam peered down at the infant in what could only be interest.
"You were not wrong to say he was strong, Hektor. He stands as one of only seventeen to have passed the inspection of the chiurgeons."
He hummed in acknowledgement, though in truth his attention was fixed below. The genesmith placed the child onto the medicae slab, their peers swarming around to begin the process anew. Needles were slotted into veins, restraints were connected and tightened. Cogitators whined as power flowed into them once more, arcane arrays of Dark Age technology lowering from their positions on the ceiling. A latticework of psycho-reactive circuits buried within the skin of the medicae table came alive as golden power flowed through them.
"Do you intend to watch over him throughout his ascension?"
"At the pivotal moments, yes. I do not intend to stay down here for fifty-years if that is what you truly desire to know."
"It was."
Rostam stood beside him for a moment longer. Servos hummed with power as he stepped back from the mirror.
"I take my leave of you, then. There is work to be done within the Palace, preparations to be made for however many of the little ones survive."
He turned and brought his gauntleted fist up against his chest in a quiet thumping of auramite, inclining his head in respect all the while.
"Shield-Captain."
Rostam returned the ancient salute and inclined his own head in respect.
"Hektor."
Then Rostam was gone, back through the gateway and into the hallways. Once again, he was alone within the room. He turned back to the mirror, once more observing in silence as the genesmiths and bio-alchemists worked their craft.
The small form of the grey-eyed infant was obscured now, surrounded as he was by the flesh sculptors working their craft upon him. Ancient devices with purposes now known only to a few thrummed with barely restrained power as they were brought to bear against the child. Arcs of silver lightning – barely perceivable from the angle and distance he viewed them from – flashed along the surface of indistinct metallic plates and lashed downwards at the concealed form of the child.
An arm fashioned from adamantium descended, at its end a convex instrument studded with protrusions angled downwards. The instrument lowered down towards the area the lightning had saturated only moments earlier, the lights within the room dimming as power flooded down the cabling along the length of the adamantium arm.
The psycho-reactive circuitry of the medicae slab pulsed furiously with a golden glow that should have been blinding. The dimmed lighting had cast shadows throughout the room that now seemed to deepen in intensity as the false light emitted from the slab suffused the room. Grey shadows became black smears as dark as the void, twisting and writhing along the floors and the walls of the laboratory below. Hoarfrost webbed across the mirror's crystalflex surface, steaming in nonexistent heat while spreading all the same.
The phenomena lasted for seventy-eight seconds. The golden unlight faded, the hoarfrost and the steam did not so much fade or disappear as they simply ceased to be. Lumen-globes flashed to high-intensity, burning away whatever shadows remained within the room. The adamantium arm retracted, the convex instrument trailing clumps of greasy, congealed blood that slid off of its protrusions.
This was only the beginning, both of these early preparatory steps and the process as a whole. Over the next dozen hours, the beginning of the first step would be completed, as the genesmiths and bio-alchemists tore into the infant's base existence to unmake said existence. Throughout the next year, existence would become nonexistence, and something would become nothing.
The next decade would see that nothing once more become something, as the genesmiths and bio-alchemists worked tirelessly to facilitate and encourage the infant's ascension. Though not familiar with the minutia of the process, he was familiar with the broader concept. They were not stitched full of artificial organs and bloated with chemicals like the Astartes; useful though they may be the Astartes were not images of humanities future.
The Custodians, in what he had always considered a very literal sense, were the images of humanities future. To describe the process as an ascension was not something as petty as self-aggrandizement, nor was it something as inane as pretentiousness. The genesmiths and the bio-alchemists unleashed upon the infants bodies the forces of millions of years of evolution to create a paragon of human perfection designed by Him millennia earlier.
Through the medium of the genesmiths and the bio-alchemists, every Custodian was moulded in His image and by His hand. Though they performed the important role of facilitating His touch they were not, in truth, responsible for the creation of a Custodian.
Below, a concave instrument lowered from the ceiling. The instrument came down further up the slab then the earlier instrument had and was doubtlessly placed above the infant's head.
He would maintain his position here, alone and unmoving within the bowels of the catacombs until the little one was submerged within the golden amniotic fluids of its designated pod seventeen hours later. He would return a dozen times over the following fifty years to attend the major stages of the ascension process, returning again and again to the room he now found himself in to observe as an infant grew into something more.
He was the last thing the grey-eyed child had ever seen, and he would be the first thing his newborn brother would see.