"No."
The prey's voice is barely above a whisper, yet Vath hears it clearly despite the clamoring of ancient machinery and the echoing screams of the warband's latest victims. It is not a plea for mercy or respite; rather, it is a statement – a declaration of purpose. The male human he is hunting has stopped running; Vath pauses in his pursuit, intrigued despite himself. The mortal stands under one of the few flickering lumen bulbs still illuminating the primary maintenance tunnel; beads of sweat glisten on his shaven scalp as he trembles, soiling the recycled air with his fear-stench. The man is an indentured menial, unarmed and incapable of harming Vath in any way. His powerlessness is beyond contemptible – and yet…
The prey turns, eyes straining in vain to glimpse his shadow-shrouded stalker. His hands curl into white-knuckled fists. "No." he whispers again, expelling the word through gritted teeth. It is not a plea. "I'm not going to run anymore. Face me, you coward; come out and face me like a man."
The Night Lord obliges. He paces out from the preternatural gloom, the concealing shadows shifting about his body like a cloak woven of sentient darkness. The renegade Astartes advances upon the menial, striding forward at a leisurely place – giving the man's unenhanced mind ample time to drink its terrified fill of his midnight-clad form. Vath spreads his arms so the prey can better see the knives, the gristly trophies of skins and skulls adorning his bloodstained war-plate and the huge Eviscerater chainsword clamped across his powerpack. Behind the snarling visage of his jackal-skull helm Vath keeps his gaze fixed on the menial's haggard face as he awaits the moment when the man's newfound defiance crumbles, when his terror eclipses his courage and he either flees once more or falls to his knees screaming for mercy or for the False Emperor to deliver him.
Yet the man does not run, nor does he plead for his life. He does not cower or babble worthless prayers; he merely stands fast, fists clenched, as the Night Lord stalks closer. Vath comes to a halt just within striking distance. The man shudders and twitches, consumed by dread yet refusing to succumb to it. Vath is glad the two of them are alone; few amongst his brothers are capable of appreciating such rare displays of bravery.
"Now we face one another, mortal," Vath hisses softly through his helm's vox-speakers. "I am the bringer of the Night; the Terror that stalks between the stars. I am the avenging talon of a murdered god and I have come for you; kneel before me and I might grant you a painless death."
"N – no…I…I kneel only to the God-Emperor." The menial remains obstinate despite his fear. Extending a gauntleted hand Vath seizes him by the front of his grimy oil-stained coveralls and hauls him effortlessly into the air. The man does not resist except to grip the Night Lord's wrist, his expression still defiant. Vath draws his combat knife and presses the tip of the blade against the menial's stomach. The man curses and spits at him even as his bladder lets go. He will squeal like a pig when gutted but he will not beg for death, Vath can read as much in his eyes. Admiration stirs in his hearts, almost against his will.
"You are brave, mortal, though no amount of courage or cowardice shall anvil you. Still, your skills can be put to far better uses then maintaining this wretched relay-station. My warship is always in need of strong capable thralls able to keep her old bones void-worthy. You will play your part in the Long War, corpse-worshipper – consider it the reward your defiance has reaped."
Vath sheathes his knife and retraces his steps, carrying the menial before him. The man began to struggle in earnest, the prospect of spending the rest of his life toiling in the belly of a Chaos warship more terrifying then torture or death. He kicks and thrashes uselessly in the Traitor Marine's grip in a fit of impotent fury that only betrays the true depths of his helplessness.
"No! You bastard! You…you traitor! You attacked and killed my friends – then you hunted down the survivors like animals for sport! I will never serve you! Do you hear me, false angel? I will never be your slave!"
The Night Lord chuckles, reveling in the despairing panic underlying the man's hollow threats. "Then you should have just kept on running – who knows, perhaps you might have gotten away."
At this the man's resolve cracks and he begins to scream; Vath is almost disappointed. Still, they all scream in the end, the righteous and unrighteous alike – one day the False Emperor Himself will scream when the sons of the Night Haunter come for Him and cast Him down in fire and ruin from his Throne of lies. Vath smiles at the thought, his abyssal-black eyes alight with anticipation. One day Curze shall be avenged; one day the Eighth Legion will be vindicated, even if the Long War must rage on for another ten thousand years – and until then?
Let the galaxy scream…