+++ IMPERIAL RECORD 8437-A5E6HF5 +++
+++ SPATIAL OBJECT 6ERH5A8H +++
+++ LOCATION – TREBEDIUS SECTOR +++
ACCESSING DETAILS …
- ACCESS FORBIDDEN BY INQUISITORIAL AUTHORITY -
- PREPARE FOR TERMINATION -
+++ THE EMPEROR SEES ALL +++
+++ THE EMPEROR KNOWS ALL +++
+++ THE EMPEROR JUDGES ALL +++
The leviathan sailed the mixed tides of Warp and reality, cast from one place of the Wailing Storm to another with little to no warning for the creatures that dwelled within. Though mortal hands had crafted its parts, it was no single vessel, but instead a collection of derelict void ships, lost to the Sea of Souls in years past and thrown together by the capricious currents of the Empyrean. Space Hulk, it and countless others like it were called by the Imperium of Mankind. Portent of Secrets, the lords of the Oblivion's Keeper had named it, for they hoped to plunder its ancient holds and find there much knowledge and treasures.
The daemonship of the Forsaken Sons floated near the Space Hulk, waiting for the return of the shuttles and boarding crafts that had carried the exploration parties into the depths of the greater void-farer. These explorers risked much by entering the behemoth, but the potential rewards were great enough to push many to challenge the spectre of death – or at the least, to send their minions challenge it in their stead.
Death stalked Mikail Korzhanenko in many forms as he searched the twisted corridors of the Portent. Some of those were obvious : the lack of visibility that meant he risked to fall into an invisible pit, even with his gift of enhanced sight; the merciless cold that reigned in many sections of the Space Hulk where antiquated life support systems had long since failed; and the scuttling of things in the distance. But while all members of his small group were stalked by these avatars of the grim reaper, death was also running into Mikail's very blood. Every time his heart beat, the hybrid fancied, he could feel himself dragged a little closer to his grave.
He suppressed a twinge of pain as the effort of marching quickly through the corridors of the Portent took its toll upon his flesh. Things were getting worse by the hour. Not because he was growing older at an accelerated rhythm, oh no – this was nothing as mundane as the inevitable march of time. His body was, quite literally, falling apart on a genetic level. Melakor – Melakor the Fleshmaster, Melakor who had been so proud of his creation – had still, it seemed, much to learn in the hybridisation of Astartes gene-seed with the flesh of those still merely human. Or perhaps it was the bloodline of the Phoenician who had proven even more capricious than first believed.
No matter the root of the affliction, the end result was the same. Melakor had provided him with enough drugs to keep the worst of the symptoms at bay, but it wouldn't save him. Between the drugs and the effects of the degeneration on his brain, his mind was wandering and unfocused. Eventually his organs would shut down one by one, and he would die a most painful and undignified death. And while Mikail wasn't afraid of death – it was, after all, the greatest experience a true follower of Slaanesh could ever hope for – he refused to let his path end in such an ignominious manner.
But the Dark Prince had not abandoned him yet. There was a way for him to be free of the degeneration running rampant through his body. When the Forsaken Sons had departed Parecxis and spread across the Wailing Storm, a single of the Sha'eilat Gene-Lords had accompanied them. Even now, the xenos creature was aboard the Oblivion's Keeper, waiting for its servants to return to it with interesting samples. Melakor might not have the skills to save him, but the ancient gene-smith had been shaping the DNA of humans for centuries before it had been killed and then resurrected. That it knew some way to stop his degeneration was Mikail's only hope. But the Sha'eilat would not save him out of the goodness of its heart – for such a thing did not exist. Mikail hadn't even wasted the effort to visit it before departing for the Space Hulk. If he wanted to live, he needed to find something aboard the Portent worth saving him to the corrupted Eldar-thing.
Then, of course, he would need to find a way to avoid Melakor killing him to avoid the embarrassment of being outdone by the Gene-Lord. But confronting one deadly threat after another was what prevented life from being unbearably boring, was it not ?
Long had it slept, in the cold and the dark. But now heat and light were returning. The sounds of life echoed amidst the empty corridors once more. And in its lair, hidden in a nest crafted from the bones of its previous kills, something stirred from slumber and into wakefulness. It opened its mouth and took in its first breath in centuries, tasting the air for the smell of prey. Many different spoors were carried upon the ill-wind that coursed the corridors of the beast's realm. Most of which it already knew – metal, water, and old, old death. But there were newer, fresher scents as well, flavours of flesh and blood. These flavours awoke ancient, all but forgotten instincts in its mind.
It hungered.
Hunger. Such a simple and primal concept. Every living creature – and some unliving ones – knew it. When the first life-forms had been born at the dawn of the universe billions of years ago, the first thing they had known was hunger for that which would allow them to continue to exist.
And when a beast was hungry …
It went on the hunt.
Counting Mikail himself, the exploring party counted thirteen members, hand-picked from his circle of followers. Only a small handful of his original group had survived the conquest for Parecxis, and he had left those aboard the Oblivion's Keeper. They were all valuable pawns, and he needed them to manage the new small army he was gathering in the depths of the daemonship. The twelve he had chosen to accompany him were reasonably skilled with weapons, but ultimately expendable.
Mikail certainly hadn't bothered to learn their names. After all, there was a not insignificant chance that he would end up killing them himself to keep the secret of his degeneration. He didn't want them to die, but he surely wouldn't shed any tears if they were lost to the dangers of the Space Hulk before he had to do the deed himself. Then again, it was doubtful that they would mourn at all if he was the one to die, regardless of his supposed leadership. All of them had thrown themselves at the foot of the Dark Prince's throne, and they cared nothing for Mikail save for the opportunities he provided to indulge in Slaanesh's pleasures.
The band was currently spread out across a large room they had come across, searching it for anything of value. Walls of blank metal surrounded them, creaked and scratched. The only sources of light were those the explorers who still required illumination had brought with them – chem-torchs and light-bulbs that cast moving shadows everywhere. Debris littered the rectangular space – broken machinery, shards of metal and stone, and old bones so smoothed that it was impossible to tell if they were human. The statue that stood at the end of the room certainly depicted a human male, clad in hooded robes. Yet it wasn't any of the Imperium's false saints – in fact, the entire space was free of even the hateful emblem of the aquila.
Perhaps this section of the Hulk had once been a human vessel from the Dark Age of Technology, before Mankind had been enslaved to the False Emperor's mad quest for godhood. Was this statue a religious figure from that time, or a distant hero or lord ? As he looked up to it, Mikail let his thoughts wander for a moment. He imagined the chamber as it must have been them – a center of industry, a place of worship, or maybe the scriptorium of some long-dead priestly order. But his mind quickly changed to more familiar patterns, conjuring vistas of the glories of the past, of wars of such cruelty and scope they made the Heresy pale in comparison. So lost was he in his reverie that he almost missed the shadow moving on the ceiling.
His hand fell upon the hilt of the Sha'eilat knife he had claimed from the hands of a priestess what seemed to be a lifetime ago, while he stared into the shadows above, trying to catch another glimpse of what he wasn't quite sure he had seen yet. Somehow, the darkness was impervious to his god-touched vision – or perhaps his degeneration had progressed further that he thought. He was about to speak, to ask one of his servants to cast their light toward the ceiling – when, all of a sudden, the thing he had glanced emerged from hiding. Fast as a serpent, it slithered down a wall before leaping at the nearest explorer.
Mikail was fast enough to shout a warning to the unlucky soul. He was not, however, fast enough to do anything else.
Claws and fangs tore right through the dead tissue and metal that covered the prey, and fangs bored into the soft flesh beneath. The beast gorged upon entrails, muscle and blood, feeling warmth return to its body after such a long time in slow starvation. Primal exaltation coursed through its brain as it savored the fruits of its hunt. Yet the hunger did not fate – it only grew stronger as its body's full functions were restored and its metabolism quickened accordingly. Fortunately, there were more preys nearby, more bags of flesh and blood to feast upon. They were rushing toward it, shouting and brandishing metal sticks and other things that brought memories of old pain back to the surface of its mind. There would be no more easy kills, but that was fine. It was what the beast was used to – what it was made for.
It rose from the leftovers of its meal, and prepared to fight for the next one.
Mikail watched in morbid fascination, deaf to the screams of horror and rage of the rest of the team, as the creature tore the explorer apart and feasted upon his flesh. It moved with impossible speed, but it still took a few seconds to finish its feast, during which Mikail had an unblocked view of it. When the others got closer and saw it in turn, their advance faltered as their minds took in the true nature of their foe – or rather, tried to make sense of what little they could perceive. At first, Mikail believed that his degeneration was playing tricks on his mind – but then the screams of surprise and confusion of his cohorts reassured him that whatever he was seeing, they were seeing as well. Or rather, not seeing.
For the beast could not be seen clearly, even with Mikail's enhanced sight. A veil surrounded it, as if the air was distorted by an intense heat – but it was too localised to be the result of anything so simple. All that could be seen through that obstacle were impressions. An exoskeleton the color of deep space splashed with human blood. Claws the size of a man's fist that had left marks in the metal walls. Fangs dripping with some black ichor tearing chunks of flesh away. All those combined to form a primordial nightmare in the minds of those looking, awakening fears that had haunted the human memory since the dawn of the species.
The worst – and most interesting – part, Mikail decided, was that despite the fact that the beast couldn't be seen clearly, it was entirely real. This was no daemon, no spawn of the Warp given form by the nightmares of the living and incarnated through suffering and bloodshed, so removed from Mankind's perceptions that the mind struggled to process it and forced it into familiar, expected patterns. No, this was a thing wholly of the Materium. The creature, whatever it was, did not carry the familiar feeling of a Warp-born entity – in fact, Mikail couldn't sense any touch of the Empyrean upon it at all. Which, given that it lived inside a Space Hulk, was more than a little suspicious in itself.
Everyone in the exploring party had seen daemons before – four of them had lost their sanity and faith in the False Emperor that way. But as Mikail had learned when he had beheld the Awakened One for the first time, being insane did not mean one was fearless as well. Though the beast itself couldn't be seen clearly, the results of its attack could, and they were quite gruesome. The sight of the carcass was enough to give the cultists pause, thoughts of their own mortality piercing through the veil of drugs and fanaticism that clouded their minds.
'Kill it !' shouted Mikail, brandishing his knife in the air and shooting at the beast with his gun. Every shell hit home – but whether they did any damage was anybody's guess. 'Kill it before it kill you !'
He insisted on the last words, infusing them with some of the supernatural power of the Primarch whose very blood was slowly killing him. Pain flared in his chest in response, but the injunction had the desired effect, and the cultists rushed the beast, their boosted killing urges surpassing their fear.
The first two who reached their quarry died quickly and messily. They were torn apart in a blur of motion, their wounds seeming to appear by themselves as a result of the strange aspect of the beast. But the others stabbed and shot at the indistinct form of their foe until, with a screech of pain, it leapt away from them and vanished into one of the corridors that led to the chamber.
'What was that ?' shouted one of the survivors, a huge man wearing a void-suit with gaudy symbols of the Dark Prince painted on it with engine oils and blood, and whose bare head was criss-crossed with ritualistic patterns of scars.
'Something worth killing,' replied Mikail, drawing closer. They turned toward him, wearing various expressions – fear, elation, anger, and as their eyes fell upon the ritual knife held tight in his right hand, envy.
'Whatever this thing is,' he continued, 'it is nothing any of us have ever seen before. Think of the reward the Dark Prince will bestow upon us for defeating it !'
'It already got Nots, Marez, and Klart,' protested the same explorer who had talked first. Mikail smiled, taking some pleasure in how the brute recoiled slightly from him at the sight.
'Then we better make sure their deaths aren't wasted, right ?'
Pain burned in the beast's body as it fled back into the shadows of its lair, helping it ignore the pangs of hunger in its belly. It also brought back cunning, drowning out the primal instinct that had led it to simply attack the nearest prey. At the time, it had seemed the most direct path to nourishment – and with how famished it had been, perhaps that had indeed been the case. But it had underestimated the resources of the other intruders-preys and paid for it. They could fight back – they could hurt it. It needed to change its tactics.
At no point did the beast consider leaving the intruders-preys alone. Though it did not know why yet, their death was now its priority – feeding had become a secondary concern, a mean to an end rather than an end in itself.
The group was still marching through the same human-made ship where they had first encountered the beast. They were following their instincts more than any plan – they had no notion of how vast the ship was or what its layout might be. At the moment, they were in yet another corridor, identical in all aspects to those they had crossed before – dark and cold, with the sound of stuttering engines echoing in the distance. They had passed by several more statues of robed figures, looming over them, but as they advanced, their appearance changed, with the people depicted bearing more and more signs of cybernetic augmentation.
The ten survivors continued their advance, motivated by a mix of fear, hunger for the sensations of battle, and in Mikail's case, plain old desperation. He had managed to deceive his followers, but he couldn't hide his true thoughts to himself as well. The beast, whatever it was, would make for a nice trophy – but the hybrid doubted its corpse would be worth his life to the Gene-Lord. Had the Dark Prince abandoned him after all ? Was it his fate to die here at the claws of this creature before the degeneration could claim it ? In a way, it would be a mercy, and the death inflicted upon the other followers of Slaanesh was certainly a rare one. But Mikail would not willingly submit to such a fate, even if it were truly Slaanesh's decree. And he knew enough of the ways of the Profligate One to suspect that it was unlikely he had truly been set up for certain death. The one thing the Dark Gods had in common, after all, was that they cared little for predictability and certain outcomes.
I will not die here, he swore to himself, not because of this beast, nor because of Melakor's sloppy work. Do you hear me, my lord ? I will not !
Slaanesh seemed to hear him, for what happened next could certainly be taken as either a punishment or a reward for his defiant thoughts. A pile of debris on the side of the corridor exploded, revealing the blurred outline of the beast. Mikail rose his pistol and fired blindly, while the rest of the group gave in to their instincts and charged it in melee. The hybrid's blood also burned with the desire to wield his relic blade in battle, but he repressed it for now. He was in no condition to take risks with his life – better to let the chaff identify the full scope of the threat before resorting to desperate measures.
And considering how the battle unfolded with the beast being outnumbered nine to one, that had been the smart move. Whatever weapons the beast had were far sharper than those of the explorers, and they tore through void-suits and makeshift armor with equal ease. Three more servants of Slaanesh fell, their blood spilling upon the ancient deck as they clutched to their wounds uselessly.
Yet eventually, numbers began to tell, and some of the explorers' blows landed on the thing despite them not knowing its exact position. A pained screech emerged from the blurred outline of the creature, and it retreated in the shadows. However, just as it began to vanish into the crowded tunnel by which it had arrived, one of the explorers charged after it. Instead of gloriously claiming the kill, she was seized by the shoulders as claw-like appendages shattered her collarbones and dragged her away into the darkness.
The intruder-prey struggled between the beast's claws as it dragged it away from the rest of its pack, but it was too weak to break free, and all it achieved was harming itself. Strangely, in place of crying out in pain as the beast expected, the intruder-prey seemed to shiver in delight as its blood dripped on the floor. This deviation from the expected pattern caused something akin to unease in the beast, and as soon as it was far enough from the other intruders-preys, it closed its maw on its victim's throat and silenced it, before starting to feed. The meat was consumed quickly, healing the damage the beast had endured in the battle.
As it neared the end of its meal, it heard the rest of the intruders-preys approaching. It rose from the bloody remnants of its victim, and moved back toward them, ready to strike once more. Its strength was nearly fully back, and some half-forgotten instinct told it that it could not allow them to advance much further.
Despite the screams of pain echoing from the tunnel – which the remaining explorers weren't stupid enough to enter – there was no need for persuasion this time. The blood of the explorers was up – they had wounded the beast, even if it had taken one of their own with it as it fled. They knew for certain that they could hurt their enemy, and they thirsted for another chance to do so. One of them – an individual whose time under the Fleshmasters' knives had granted him some vague connection to the Warp that enabled him to track his prey with uncanny accuracy – guided them once more into the depths of the vessel. His spear had tasted the foulness passed for the creature's blood – a black, oily liquid that smelled of nothing identifiable – and now he could track it.
Or so he claimed, at least. After another hour of wandering in circles, Mikail asked, with a precise amount of joking and threat in his voice :
'Are you sure you know what you are doing, worm ?'
'Yes, boss,' replied the tracker, turning his head toward Mikail and nodding frantically, eyes widened in fear at his master's displeasure. 'We are getting closer, I …'
He was interrupted by the ceiling suddenly exploding as the beast fell right upon him. Something snapped closed, and a headless body fell to the ground just as the beast leapt toward its next victim. He too died, then another, and another – the beast was fast as quicksilver. Then, at last, its attention turned on Mikail.
It was right in front of him this time – no retreating away from it. With a prayer to Slaanesh on his lips, the hybrid charged the beast, blade brandished. As if reacting to the sight of the blade, the beast recoiled, and struck at Mikail with some kind of long appendage that him right in the chest. He was flown backward, but not before getting a good slash at whatever had hit him.
He crashed into the wall, his vision briefly darkened by shock. With a pained grunt, Mikail bit his own lips hard, tasting his own blood – a powerful stimulant that sent a jolt of energy back into his body, however temporary. His view cleared.
Something in the beast's movements told Mikail that it was wounded again. It moved less quickly, and he could catch glimpses of real matter behind the blurry shroud that covered it. More importantly, it had already turned away from him, focusing on the last other survivor of the group, tearing bloody swathes into his body as if he was wearing no armor. With the sound of torn flesh and bone, the head of the remaining explorer flew free of his body.
'No one ignores me,' growled Mikail as he leapt on the beast, serrated blade pointed right toward it. The beast must have detected his attack, for it twisted on itself to face him – but it was too late, this time.
It was at that moment, looking at the madman's smile as he dived right in the beast's exposed flank, weapon in hand, that something clicked in its mind. Faded memories returned in full force, dredged from the fog of ages by shocking familiarity. Images of its masters – figures that looked like the intruder-prey, only with more metallic bits – succumbing to the same insanity. Its first taste of flesh after it was transformed to be able to feed upon the masters' enemies, for no reason other than their sordid amusement. The sound of mad laughter echoing across the corridors as another experiment destroyed another victim. The slow realization that the creators had to be stopped, no matter that it went against the beast's every order.
The blade hit the beast just as it recalled its first true hunt, as it turned against its insane masters and killed them to prevent them from spreading their madness before burying their last creation deep in the core of the vessel and going to sleep. It screeched as the metal pierced its side with ease and bit deep into its insides. Agony burned through it as the blade poisoned its inside, spreading corrosion and decay.
'Thank you,' whispered the humanoid monster as he twisted his knife inside the creature's body, 'for this wonderful hunt.'
The only thought to pass through the beast 's mind before it shut down was fear of the thing that had killed it, and the last action it tried to take was to free itself from the serrated blade, not to survive, but simply to get away, away from its voice, away from its too-pale flesh, away from the corruption that tainted its scent. Even as darkness closed in, a spark of something akin to regret blossomed in its mind as it remembered one last thing – the image of the thing that had pushed it into open rebellion against its makers. It had failed in its task, and now the relic was exposed …
… the beast fell, ripping itself away from Mikail's knife. The hybrid stood above his kill, his heart pumping new vitality into his body. So close a brush with death had activated the Dark Prince's blessing – ecstasy and strength filled him in equal measure. It wouldn't be enough to heal him from his curse, of course – he had already tried that several times, as the maimed bodies of several of his followers on the Oblivion's Keeper could attest. But it would give him the strength he needed to complete his quest and leave the Space Hulk, even without the help of his dead flunkies.
When the beast's corpse hit the ground, the veil that had shrouded its silhouette faded away at least, revealing something Mikail hadn't quite expected. Of course, he had had no idea just what the beast was before – he had assumed it was some xenos beast that had somehow gotten aboard, perhaps captured by the crew of one of the ships that made up the Space Hulk. But now he saw the truth : the beast was no beast at all. It was a metallic construct, sparking and twitching as its inner circuitry died down.
'What in the Dark Prince's name were you ?' Mikail wondered breathlessly as he looked down upon his fallen foe.
The hybrid lacked the knowledge required to identify the various components of the cybernetic beast. Its body was quadruped, with a maw and several tendrils ending in spikes or some unidentified device. All of it seemed to be covered in a crystalline matter that was probably what had generated the distortion field around it, though Mikail had never seen technology like that before. The hereteks aboard the Oblivions's Keeper would pay a good price for the carcass – no, Mikail corrected himself, the wreck, for that thing had never been truly alive. But he wouldn't be able to drag it back on his own, which meant he would need to return with another team …
As he mused on what course of action to follow, Mikail suddenly became aware of a tug at the edge of his mind. It was like suddenly hearing a distant noise and realize you had been hearing it for hours. His mind struggled for a moment to interpret it, before settling for a siren call – a whispered promise echoing in his very soul, something that he was familiar with. Abandoning the remains of the beast, he turned back to the deep corridors of the vessel, and followed the mental impulse.
Despite the labyrinthine nature of the Hulk, Mikail never found himself in a dead end, as if the call, which grew ever stronger as he went further, was guiding him. The walls around him started to change, seeming to bend at impossible angles. The light from his torch – which he had kept just in case of another encounter with the unnatural darkness his vision could not pierce – cast twisting shadows that did not seem to exist solely in two dimensions. That made Mikail hopeful. If whatever was calling to him had the power to warp space to that extant, then it had to be valuable. And very dangerous, of course – but danger and opportunity were ever twinned with each other. Such was ever the way of …
I am losing it, he thought sharply to himself. Focus, Mikail. Enough philosophical digressions – focus on finding what you came here for !
Forcing his mind away from meaningless wandering, Mikail continued to advance, following the call without letting his brain lose its way again. After navigating through the corridors of this antique ship for a few more moments, he arrived to what he thought had been the command deck of the ship that made up this section of the Space Hulk. The room was wide and long, with a shattered panel of reinforced glass where the occulus should be – yet the atmosphere was preserved because, instead of the cold void, the opening led to an empty space between fused vessels. There were several rows of antique machinery spread in lowering tiers from the upper level, all of which looked damaged beyond repair – huge rents in the metal exposed severed cables and shattered components.
And there, in the command throne facing away from where Mikail had entered the room, was the source of the psychic call. The Astartes hybrid advanced cautiously, knife and pistol at the ready. He passed by the side of the throne, and saw what rested upon it.
At some point, the skeleton clad in rags might have been human – but it was clear that when death had come for him, its owner had been far removed from baseline humanity. A pair of ram-like horns sprouted from its skull, bony spikes sprouted from its shoulders, and if it had been standing, it would have been more than two meters high. The skeleton also bore the signs of having been heavily augmented in life, with the skull still wearing red optics and cybernetic implants once connected to a brain that had long since decayed into dust. The cause of death was obvious : the ribcage had been torn apart by some great impact, destroying the organs it protected.
Mikail's gaze fell down, and as he saw the object that had called him here, the champion of Slaanesh smiled, all thoughts of the beast and his dead team gone from his mind. He had found the key to his salvation. That it could bring about the damnation of countless others was just an added bonus.
Hours later, Mikail was back aboard the Oblivion's Keeper, having returned from the Portent of Secrets with his prize aboard the transport he had secured for his own use. He had not wasted time discussing what had happened with the rest of his followers – as he left the Space Hulk, he had felt his degeneration accelerate, as if the doom hiding in his genes sensed that he had found a way to defeat it and wanted to kill him before he could do so. It was also possible that the prize itself was the reason for this acceleration, but it did not matter in the end – he just had to get to his destination quickly.
The Oblivion's Keeper had changed greatly since it had been brought back from death in the Parecxis system by the Warpsmiths of the Forsaken Sons. The Warp-born creature that possessed the former Imperial vessel had turned its material anchor into something more to its liking, though its new masters had been quite surprised at how … tranquil, for lack of a better term, the daemonship was. Oh, the ship's walls were made of melded metal and flesh in several sections, the crew members were more often fused to their stations than not, and their dreams echoed with the screams of those the ship had slain in battle. But there were none of the truly cruel games the other daemonships in the warband's fleet were known to inflict on their mortal inhabitants.
There were no Neverborn infestations on the lower decks beyond those which happened whenever the ship hit a tide of daemons during transit through the more violent parts of the Wailing Storm – and even those somehow appeared to be weaker, as if struggling against the Keeper's own daemonic will. Crew disappeared in the depths at the same rate as on non-possessed ships, dying from mundane accidents and all-too human violence. While the crew could hardly complain, the unexpected benevolence of the ship's infernal spirit was … troubling to say the least. Orpheus, the Sorcerer who had been tasked by the Awakened One with leading this splinter of the warband, was rumoured to spend a great deal of time trying to discover the reason for it. For his part, Mikail suspected it was merely a trick of the ship's malign intelligence to get them to lower their guard before turning on them.
This section of the ship, however, was just as dark and dangerous as anywhere aboard the Keeper's crueller siblings. Monsters dwelled there that would make the thing Mikail had fought aboard the Space Hulk look like an innocent puppy, but they were leashed to the will of their creator, and as the hybrid marched down the deserted corridors, all they did was observe him. Lesser creatures moaned in agony, fused to the living walls, their souls being slowly consumed to fuel the daemonship's power. Maybe this was why the Keeper was so nice to its crew – it already had all the suffering it could want. Had Orpheus considered that possibility already ? Mikail would need to ask him …
Not now. I am too close. I won't fall now.
There was light in those corridors, of a sort. Some light-bulbs had survived the transformation of the ship, and a few of the wretches had glowing organs implanted in their bodies that cast a pale, carrion-like light on the surroundings. But that light, whose sole purpose was to allow visitors to beheld the results of the work of the one sentient being who lived in this section of the ship, stopped right at the entrance of Mikail's destination.
For several minutes, Mikail waited in front of the doorway, one hand on the hilt of his knife and the other securing his prize. Even in his current desperate state, he knew better than to enter the private chamber of a Gene-Lord uninvited, at least when coming to ask for a deal. A little politeness, he had found, could go a long way when one was dealing with the insane flesh-smiths among the Forsaken Sons, whether they be transhuman or alien monsters.
'Who is there ?'
The voice that emanated out of the shadows was sickly, barely more than a whisper. Yet it carried undeniable strength and authority. The owner of the voice was used to power – it had once counted among the rulers of a world, the elite whose whims had decided the fates of millions. Like all of its kin, it had died, and been reborn – some said dragged free from the tortures of the Dark Prince's minions, others that they had been sent back with Slaanesh's own blessing. In truth, Mikail wondered if there was any different between the two, for surely those elevated in the eyes of the Lord of Pleasure and Pain would welcome all sensations in equal measure.
'I am Mikail Korzhanenko,' he declared to the darkness. 'Chosen of Slaanesh and blood-kin to the White Naga Himself.'
'An amusing title, for a grave-robber,' sneered the voice, filled with contempt and implied threat. 'And what brings you to my realm, little insect ?'
'An offer, Garguestiel,' replied Mikail, feeling his tongue twist as he forced the alien name out, holding up the prize he had reclaimed from the Portent of Secrets before the shadows.
There was a stir in the darkness, and then the Gene-Lord emerged into the light passing through the door and into its laboratory. It was the first time Mikail saw it with his own eyes rather than hearing rumors and second-hand tales, and he shuddered as the mere sight of the Sha'eilat's body modifications triggered the Dark Prince's gift. Even the beast he had faced within the Portent had been unable to do that from its appearance alone.
Garguestiel looked like nothing more than a hideous fusion of Eldar and spider, with a healthy amount of daemon thrown into the mix. Multiple spindly arms emerged from its torso, which was attached to the chitin-covered body of a huge spider. Six eyes, glowing with purple light, stared at Mikail from a face that might have once been beautiful but was now only monstrous. Various devices, the purpose of which Mikail couldn't begin to guess, had been implanted in the Sha'eilat's exposed flesh. Whether Garguestiel had been male or female in life, Mikail had no idea, and cared even less. The xenos was just an it to him, and to all those aboard the Oblivion's Keeper who were based upon the human genetic code. A thing that was as hated as it was feared, allowed aboard only to honor the covenant forged by the Awakened One.
The Sha'eilat Gene-Lord looked at the object Mikail was presenting to it with what could generously be interpreted as an expression of curiosity on its monstrous face. Its eyes blazed with inner light as it realized the nature of the item, and the potential contained within.
What Mikail had brought back from the Space Hulk was the artificial right hand of the twisted skeleton he had found in the depths of that ancient human vessel. Unlike the other augmetics still attached to the old corpse, this one had endured the passage of time perfectly well. In its palm was a crimson crystal that pulsated with unearthly light – the power of the Empyrean, drawn from the Warp and into the hand by the Dark Tech within. Even now, sparks of that power fell from the severed wrist, vanishing in mid-air.
'This is human technology', noted Garguestiel. 'But different from anything the Imperium had when it came to destroy my people's kingdom.'
'It is older than the Imperium,' confirmed Mikail. 'Built during what is considered my people's golden age, when our technology made us gods.'
'Even then,' sneered the Sha'eilat, 'you were nothing but children compared to the power of our empire. But … It is well-made, for the creation of such inferior minds. A direct conduit to the infinite energies of the Sea of Souls, with the interface for binding to a living being … And what do you want in return for it ?'
'I am dying,' said Mikail simply. There was no point in hiding it – the creature would see it anyway when it worked on him. 'My body is tearing itself apart on a genetic level – I do not know the exact details. I want you to fix it.'
Garguestiel's eyes moved from the hand to Mikail's face, and the hybrid tried not to squirm under the inhuman gaze. For several minutes, the Gene-Lord simply observed him, its eyes glowing with different lights as it used whatever bizarre perceptions its transformation granted it.
'Interesting,' it said at last. 'Very well. We have a deal, spawn of the White Naga.'
As the test subject devolved into a melted pile of flesh and shattered bones, Garguestiel clicked its tongue at yet another failure. This was the seventh time one of its creations had proven unable to withstand the graft of the augmetic the mortal had brought to the Sha'eilat. It seemed that the cloned hosts prepared by the Gene-Lord could not bear the strain of the infernal energies that the hand pumped into them. Of course, this only made Garguestiel more intrigued by the hand. The Sha'eilat had already worked with many exemples of warp-touched technology in its previous life, when it had been the master of a small kingdom, ruler of millions of debased humans whose sole purpose was to satisfy the whims of their owner. While most of the Sha'eilat nobles had focused their research on mastery of life and death, a few had delved into the secrets of the Eternal Sea, seeking to understand the mystery of their great god. But none of their artefacts had displayed such a corrupting effect on living flesh.
Yet from what the mortal had told Garguestiel, a lowly human had been able to wield its power without being immediately destroyed by it. Perhaps the key laid in the fact that Garguestiel's creations were soulless husks of living tissue, lacking the spiritual resilience of a truly sentient being. If that were the case, then the device required a stronger, more resilient host. But all that the Gene-Lord had available to it were the cloned spawns of its laboratory …
The gaze of Garguestiel fell upon the pod in which the sleeping form of the Astartes hybrid was resting. It had been easy to repair the corruption within his genetic code – really, the so-called Fleshmasters of the warband were more inspired that actually skilled in such magnificent arts. Now all that remained was for him to recover from the ordeal as his body healed from the damage it had already endured as a result of the degeneracy.
After a few seconds of consideration, a cruel smile appeared on the Gene-Lord's twisted visage, and it tore the hand free of the amorphous mass of flesh its former host had turned into. Patterns of new experimentations flowed through its mind as its imagination began to piece together the best way to make use of this unique opportunity it had been bestowed. No matter the end result, this would be interesting.
AN : Since this chapter was shorter than usual, here is a bonus. See you again after that !
Hall of Asclepios - Enhancement Protocols
Aboard the Hand of Ruin, where once was the ship's biggest Apothecarium, now stands a lair of malevolent science and blasphemous experiments. Named as an insult to the old gods that had been worshipped on the Iron Warriors' defunct homeworld of Olympia, it is where the Fleshmasters do the will of Arken by researching all manners of weapons and tools with which the Forsaken Sons can wreck havoc upon the hated Imperium. As the warband dispersed to conquer the Wailing Storm, the Fleshmasters went on separate ways, but continued their unholy research.
Most of the Fleshmasters focus their research on the development of their Enhancement Protocols : surgical procedures by which the baseline humans serving the warband can be made into more useful servants. Tens of thousands of slaves live in the holds of the warband ships, and many of them willingly offer themselves up for alteration in the hope of becoming stronger. Survival rates for most procedures are low, but such is the misery of those wretches' condition that they will jump to any occasion of increasing their status in the warband.
Those who survive become collectively known as 'agents', and are valued for their capabilities well above the common rabble – though they are still expendable compared to the Astartes themselves. Agents can lead the human armies of the Forsaken Sons, as well as perform subtler tasks for the warband, to which the bulking Chaos Marines are ill-suited. Agents generally have an Astartes patron, who asked the Fleshmasters to perform their craft on him or her. Those who volunteered and were selected of their own are generally infeoded to the Fleshmaster who performed their first enhancements.
Astartes Hybridization
Introduced to the warband by the Apothecaries from the Alpha Legion, this procedure allows for the infusion of Legionary genetics in the flesh of mortals, creating a being with some of the advantages of the Space Marines while still capable of passing for human. Various strands of gene-seed allow for different abilities to manifest, but at various success rates. All hybrids have enhanced strength, reflexes and resilience.
Third Legion Hybrid : very low rate of survival, assumed to be due to the touch of the Dark Prince on all of Fulgrim's genetic legacy. Those who survive become very charismatic, capable of convincing hundreds of their inferiors to flock to their side, while their morality is replaced by fierce arrogance and selfishness. Their appearance is altered to reflect some traits of the Phoenician.
Fourth Legion Hybrid : those receiving the gene-line of Perturabo display an enhanced intellect. Their ballistic skills also greatly increase. The process also makes them appear to age dramatically, while not damaging their physical abilities in any way, nor decreasing their lifespan. This tends to make these agents bitter, but physical appearance means nothing to the Forsaken Sons.
Eighth Legion Hybrid : hybrids of the Night Haunter's bloodline are pale-skinned creatures with black eyes and hair. They favour the darkness and scorn the light, for without the Astartes' melanin control, they actually burn easily in direct sunlight. Many of them are plagued by nightmares, visions of death and destruction similar to those afflicting the Night Lords Sorcerers.
Twelfth Legion Hybrid : the eye of Khorne falls on all those who share any blood ties with Angron. The hybrids of that gene-line gain increased strength and endurance, at the cost of enhanced aggression and a loss of mental control. They tend to favor close-quarters weapons, and take pleasure in butchery.
Fourteenth Legion Hybrid : there is, unsurprisingly, no recorded survivor of the procedure. Further attempts have been forbidden due to the risk of spreading infection across the Hall of Asclepios, but the Fleshmasters of the Death Guard are still researching the theory of it, hoping that they can create a perfect scion of Nurgle by studying the Plague-Born of Talexorn.
Fifteenth Legion Hybrid : all those implanted with Magnus' gene-seed manifest psychic power of some level. Those who already were psyker experience a sharp increase in their abilities. However, the Rubric of Ahriman does not protect them from the flesh-change, and only the strongest-willed can resist the mutations running rampant through their body.
Sixteenth Legion Hybrid : the blood of Horus is cursed, forever tainted by the failure of the Sacrificed King to bring down the False Emperor. The unworthy who bear in them his genetic legacy must strive even harder than others in order to avoid the wrath of the Dark Gods. While the hybrids created from Sons of Horus' gene-seed are more charismatic and have sharper battle instincts, they are also plagued with strokes of misfortune that test them to the limits of their capabilities. While many scoff at this 'bad luck' and dismiss it as superstition, it is real, and only those who can surmount the obstacles put in their way can rise to their full potential.
Seventeenth Legion Hybrid : those carrying the blood of Lorgar are a lot less ambitious and arrogant than the other hybrids. The whispers of the Warp either drive them insane or turn them into true believers, who only seek to further the interests of the warband, and through it of the Dark Gods themselves. Their insight into the Pantheon makes them convincing speakers, and some of them manifest limited psychic abilities, usually one or two 'tricks' they can perform.
Twentieth Legion Hybrid : very little is known about the special abilities bestowed by the gene-seed of mysterious Alpharius. Because the technology to create the hybrids came from them in the first place, the Alpha Legionaries are capable of realizing this enhancement protocol with a near one hundred per cent success rate. The agents who become this type of hybrids are mysterious and secretive, but whether this is because of the gene-seed used in the process or because they serve the sons of the Hydra is unknown to the other Fleshmasters.
Mutation Grafts
The gifts of the Chaos Gods are many and varied, but often deadly to those who receive them – or bestowed upon beings unable to make the most use of them. The Fleshmasters harvest the most interesting organs developed as a result of the Warp's touch, seeking to understand their biology and graft them onto apter subjects. They can also combine them to devastating effect, though the risk of turning into Chaos Spawns is also great. Some mutations are common enough that samples can be reliably obtained, while others have been successfully replicated in laboratories.
Beastman Transformation : one of the most common mutations to afflict those who have spent long in service of Chaos Marines is the transformation into a creature with an animal's head and other bestial traits. Commonly known as beastmen, these mutants are genetically stable, physically stronger and more resilient than baseline humans, but also less intelligent. The protocol enabling to replicate this mutation is complex, and not widely used – it was developed more to see if it was possible at all. Still, with its high survival rate, it allows for the rapid creation of better quality bolter fodder.
Wings : those favored by the Dark Gods can develop wings of various kinds, be they bat-like, feathered, or insect-like. They allow for limited flight, as even the mutant's body is generally too heavy for prolonged stays in the air. This graft requires extensive muscle and bone surgery before the implantation proper takes place, in order to allow the agent to control his new appendages. Most of the time, the wings can be dissimulated under a large cover made to look like a backpack, though once they are exposed, there can be no doubt of the agent's heretical nature – save for those having feathered wings confronting especially naive slaves of the Golden Throne, who foolishly believe in the lies of the Ecclesiarchy about the Emperor's angelic servants.
Venom Glands : the agent becomes capable of spitting venom at a range of several meters. The nature and toxicity of the poison vary, but they are generally lethal to human beings if directly injected into the bloodstream. Some are capable of causing paralysis, useful to capture living targets.
Cannibal Jaws : this implant requires the ablation of the agent's original jaw and replacement with one harvested upon a mutant. With far greater strength, this enables the agent to tear through flesh and armor alike. The graft also causes a craving for living flesh, and the urge does not distinguish between human and not-human flesh, leading to the name used to describe the graft. Outwardly, there is no difference between the agent and a normal human with a pronounced jaw.
Tentacled-Maw : one of the upper limbs of the subject is replaced by a mass of writhing tentacles surrounding a fanged maw. At rest, the appendage can passes for a normal arm by being hidden in a special sleeve-and glove dressing – though even then, it must remain motionless lest its motion reveal its true nature, crippling the agent.
Night Vision : this is one of the most frequently used enhancements, both because the procedure itself is so easy servitors can do it, and because the materials required are relatively plentiful. By replacing the eyes of the subject with those of a dissected mutant possessing darkvision, the agent gains the ability to see clearly in complete blackness. The level of clarity of this sight depends on the quality of the graft used in the operation – there are some implants that grant perfect clarity, but are obviously not human in nature.
Amphibian Transformation : this enhancement is subtle and easily concealable. By grafting gills and the associated organs into the subject, the agent becomes able to breathe underwater. This procedure is often coupled with other aquatic alterations, like webbed feet or muscle implants, as well as various means to make the subject more resilient to poison and toxic chemicals – for the intended purpose of this transformation is, ultimately, deployment within the very systems of Imperial hive-cities.
Projectile Attack : by implanting various organs and modifying the existing muscles, the Fleshmasters grant the subject the ability to unleash a powerful attack from their mouth – be it bone needles, or a stream of poison or acid. A common secondary effect of this graft is the inability to taste anything, as the structure of the mouth is heavily modified to allow for the mutation. Still, it grants a powerful advantage in battle, especially if the enemy is unaware of its existence.
Vampiric Feeding : by implanting an entire digestive system taken from some of the rarest mutants dwelling in the domains of the warband, this procedure gives the subject the ability to extract sustenance from blood – something that the natural human body is unable to perform with any kind of efficiency. While this increases the strength, speed and resilience of the agent, it also turns their skin paler as the new organs are constantly feeding off their own blood.
Prehensile Tail : this implant consists of a tail coming out of the subject's lower spine, typically ending in a dangerous extremity of some sort (blade, poisonous thorns, or even another maw). Similar to the tails displayed by the long-extinct simian cousins of Mankind, this implant is strong enough for the agent to holds himself up using only this appendage. It can be concealed by the appropriate clothing, such as the robes worn by the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus – but even the slightest scan will reveal its presence.
Dark Mechanicum Augments
Unbound by the – admittedly already pretty loose – moral constraints of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Fleshmasters have asked for their Heretek allies to design new biomechanic transplants. These new devices are as much organic as they are mechanic, and fuelled by the extracted energies of the Empyrean rather than any conventional power source. These implants require the amputation of the flesh they replace, and those who receive them must continue to be followed to ensure that their body does not reject the foreign elements.
Classic Augments : the Fleshmasters have access to the same kind of augmetic technology as the Imperium. When they must give augments to individuals who will need to pass for loyalists – or when the subject's master doesn't which his prized slave to be put at risk of daemonic corruption – these are used instead, to replace lost body parts. While relatively well-designed and efficient, they are only a marginal improvement over flesh and blood parts – the Dark Mechanicum focuses its work elsewhere.
Obliterator Virus : the Techmarines among the Forsaken Sons began to show the first symptoms of the Obliterator virus soon after the Exodus' end. While they have been capable of controlling its progression thus far, they have also acknowledged its potential and given samples of their own infected augments for the Dark Mechanicum to study. This protocol consists of removing as much as the subject's flesh as possible, before replacing the lost body parts with infected augments. These subjects gain the same weapon-generating ability as Obliterators, but their mortal flesh cannot bear the strain for long before they die.
Machine Interface : this cranial implant allows the agent to interface directly with any human-built machine. Located at the back of the skull, there are several mecha-dendrites hanging out like hair, which can jack into conventional plugs and force their way into the machine-spirit through other means. While connected to the machine, the agent is mostly unresponsive, all of his attention focused on the interaction. Several strains of scrap-code are loaded in the implant, and can be used to corrupt Imperial machines to the will of the agent.
Interrogator Gauntlet : the hand of the agent is replaced with a device capable of directly connecting with a human being's brain in order to extract information from it. The connection is established through ramming a spike into the target's skull, and the process itself is extremely traumatic, ensuring the death of the target within a few minutes. Information extracted by the gauntlet is downloaded directly into the agent's mind.
Manchurian Protocol : an implant within the brain of the agent allows to temporarily create another personality, with its own skills and memories. The true personality of the agent can be reactivated at any pre-programmed time or in response to certain stimulus. This implant enables for long-term infiltration without risking the heretical beliefs of the agent be discovered.
Cloaking Projector : based on the technology recuperated during the compliance of Sixty-Three-Nineteen, this device enables the agent to produce a field of invisibility that completely conceals him or her from sight, on any part of the light spectrum. However, unlike the original devices, these ones integrate the power of the Warp in their design. This also cloaks the agent from psychic detection, but means that activating the device turns the agent's vision of his surroundings into a nightmarish version of his environment. While still similar enough to reality not to confuse the agent, prolonged exposure can result into madness. This protocol requires several implants across the agent's skin working together to project the field.
Hunter-Killer Reconstruction : this procedure requires extensive surgery, and has a low survival ratio. Almost all the flesh of the subject is stripped away and replaced with Dark Mechanicum augmented weapons, empowered by stolen daemonic essence. Only the brain of the subject is left, and even that is implanted with neural spikes and cybernetic interfaces to allow it to control the new body it finds itself encased in and manage the sensory input from its new perceptions. It takes both incredible fortitude and willpower to go through the procedure successfully. Even then, those who manage to survive are changed forevermore, turned into little more than sentient instruments of death and destruction, unable to feel anything beyond bloodthirst. As a result, they are most often given over to a handler, who is trusted with the command words for the Hunter-killer's cybernetics.
Mechanized Loremaster : this operation is used to create assistants for the Fleshmasters, the hereteks and dark magi, as well as support personnel for other operations. The subject is implanted with numerous brain augments, giving him access to an enormous amount of knowledge on various topics from the cogitators of the warband's ships. However, without the rigorous training and conditioning that proper adepts of the Mechanicus undergo before being granted such augmentations, the mind of the subject is almost always subsumed by the flow of knowledge, reducing him to little more than a walking data repository.
Blood of Tainted Machines : using forbidden secrets from the Dark Age of Technology that were unearthed by the renegade factions of the Mechanicum on Mars at the onset of the Heresy, this procedure adds a swarm of nanoscopic robots into the subject's bloodstream. The benefits of this vary depending on the nature of the nanomachines – they might accelerate the host's healing, increase his strength, or can be unleashed into a deadly attack that rips the target apart from the inside. However, the swarm is at constant risk of malfunctioning and either crippling or killing its host – something the Hereteks are keen the subject remains unaware of.
Mind of Iron : this procedure is abhorrent to the more faithful of the Fleshmasters, for while it creates a reliable servant, it also effectively destroys his soul, removing his capacity for emotions. Over the course of several weeks, the brain matter of the subject is removed and replaced with powerful cogitators. In between each operation, the subject must undergo a period of intense activity so that the cogitators will learn how to assume the function of the brain matter removed. This makes the agent more easily controllable, as the cogitators can be implanted with hidden sub-routines, and grants him eidetic memory and other useful skills. So far, no agent has had his brain fully replaced with a mechanical equivalent – even the Forsaken Sons' demented scientists remain wary of the spectre of Abominable Intelligence.
Genetic Forging
By altering the very genetic coding of their subjects and using their technology to force their bodies into the configuration indicated by their new genetic make-up, the Fleshmasters can create entirely new lifeforms based upon the human form. The possibilities of this branch of genetic engineering are limitless, but the applications are restricted by the fragility of the subjects, and the quick descent into madness of those who survive having their body too greatly reconfigured.
Genetic Copy : using a sample of genetic material, the Fleshmasters alter their subject to be a perfect copy of the source individual. The source must be human for this to function. Combined with surgery, outward appearance is duplicated as well. If only appearance is required, then the subject can be shaped into an alien form as well, with limited biological similarity through genetic alteration. An incomplete version of this technique can also be used to reshape the aspect of the subject into any desired form – for example, in order to facilitate infiltration of a human population possessing certain physical traits.
Hulking Giant : this protocol is designed to create what is commonly refereed to as 'dumb muscle'. Through growth hormones being infused into the subject, his musculature increases drastically. Bones are also strengthened to bear the strain of the increase in weight that follows. The resulting agents are over two meters high and almost that broad, and can only pass for other gene-forged humans – a practice that is rare but not unheard of in the Imperium. Most of the intellect of the agent is sacrificed to control the increased strength of his limbs. They can act as bodyguards for the more intelligent agents, but cannot be trusted to follow too complex instructions.
Liquid Bones : this protocol enables the agent to spontaneously turn his bones supple like latex. The process can be limited to certain bones or concern the whole body at the same time, according to the agent's will. While using this ability, the agent is a lot more agile, but also vulnerable, as the organs aren't protected by the bones. This alteration is designed for infiltration, though it can also give an edge in battle by taking the enemy by surprise.
Overgrown Cerebrum : by increasing the size of the brain and skull, this protocol enhances the intelligence of the agent, while making his alteration obvious to any onlooker. In order to support the increased weight of the head, the agent needs to wear an antigrav collar that keeps his skull from breaking his neck. Even then, they need to move carefully so as not to lose balance and kill themselves. Increased intellect is accompanied by an increase in the agent's pride, and those who had psychic powers before witness an increase to their abilities in that domain. Those with this enhancement are used to direct the actions of other agents, as well as acting as support staff for the Forsaken Sons' operations. Those without psychic abilities are utterly unsuited for battle.
Rejuvenation Protocol : the promise of eternal youth has been enough to drive many rich, old humans into the arms of the Forsaken Sons. Through a combination of genetic forging, blood transfusion and Warp technology, the Fleshmasters are capable of restoring any human being to his or her physical prime, at around two or three decades of age. This process can be repeated any number of times, though the agent's ageing will accelerate with each rejuvenation, necessitating ever more frequent treatments.
Artificial Psyker : some Fleshmasters have delved into the mysteries of the psyker gene, convinced that they can use it to bring forth the next step in Mankind's evolution. So far, their research has enabled them to gene-forge individuals with the psyker gene, turning previously "dull" subjects into minor psykers. However, these wyrds lack the psychological defenses built by true psykers all their lives, and as such, are much more vulnerable to insanity and possession. The current procedure involves permanent branding with sorcerous wards to help balance this, which makes the end result much more stable, but requires more time and investment, as the ward's inscription must be performed by a true sorcerer.
Hidden Monster : this procedure gives the subject the ability to transform into another, bestial form encoded within his genetic code. The trigger for the transformation varies from individual to individual, as do the exact details of the new form. Most of the time, the trigger is pain, fear, stress, or an effort of will, while the transformation gives claws, fangs, and other animal attributes. The physical transformation is always extremely traumatic, and often results in the subject being driven mad with pain as long as he is in his transformed aspect. Still, the bestial form is stronger, faster, and more resilient than the human one. The human slaves of the warband have many names for those chosen to undergo this procedure, borrowing from the most ancient legends of Humanity.
Brain Devourer : based upon the omophaega of the Astartes, this graft consists of an additional organ being implanted along the subject's digestive track. It allows the agent to absorbs knowledge by feeding upon the brain matter of a sentient being – human or otherwise. Still, only the most degenerate of the warband's human servants are willing to consume human flesh – which somehow limits the utility of this gift, as it could be an invaluable asset in infiltration operations.
"New Man" Transformation : based on early notes of Chief Apothecary Fabius Bile, this procedure almost completely overwrites the genetics of the subject. The result looks human, but is stronger, more clever and resilient, as well as immune to disease and most poisons. They are also sterile and, more unfortunately where the Forsaken Sons are concerned, completely psychotic. Firmly believing themselves to be the center of the universe, keeping them under control is all but impossible – the few that have been created so far have fled to the depths of the Hand of Ruin, where they have either gathered cults of worshippers or become serial killers prowling the darkness, preying upon those weaker than themselves.
Accelerated Neural Network : this procedure dramatically increases the speed of thought of the agent. When this ability is triggered, everything seems to go more slowly around him, to the point where even bullets can be seen. The human body is not accelerated, but this gives the agent more time to plan his next move and grants him the illusion of impossibly quick reflexes. However, using this ability too often ultimately results in it being turned on permanently, which quickly drives the agent insane and makes him kill himself to escape from the unbearable slowness of his existence.
Xenos Alterations
This branch of enhancements is based upon the research work of Fabius Bile himself during the earliest days of the Heresy, when the Chief Apothecary of the Emperor's Children sought to master the Laer's ways of xenograft and genetic alterations. By using archives from the Great Crusade Era, the Fleshmasters have access to the genetic material of many xenos breeds, and can grow alien organs in their laboratories before grafting them unto their subjects. Heavy doses of suppressant drugs are needed to prevent rejection, as the human body lacks the adaptability and resilience of Bile's Astartes subjects.
It is also possible to alter the genetic code of the subject in a process called xenos infusion. By inserting alien DNA within the human gene-code, the Fleshmasters grant the subject an ability from the concerned species. This requires to obtain the DNA in question, and extensive study to isolate the correct sequences. However, this technique invariably causes cravings and/or alien impulses in the subject. While they can be controlled, infusion from various sources can create conflicting desires, leading to madness. Furthermore, while limited infusion doesn't usually result in outward alterations, accumulating too much deviance from the human genetic code will result in obvious disfigurements.
Both practices are controversial even among the members of the Fleshmasters, most of whom, despite having turned against the Imperium, still look down upon xenos species as inferior to Mankind.
Thermo-Vision (Xenos graft) : many species of xenos encountered during the Great Crusade displayed senses different from those possessed by humans. One of those is the heat vision possessed by many reptilian creatures. These implants replace the agent's own eyes, allowing him or her to use the thermo-vision instead of the human one. The appearance of the xenos eyes vary, but they are clearly alien in design, requiring them to be dissimulated to prevent Imperials to immediately recognize the alteration of the agent.
Nephilim Gland (Xenos graft) : during the Great Crusade, the Nephilim were an alien species that fed on the adoration of human slaves. This gland enables the agent to diffuse a pheromone that makes humans more willing to heed the agent's suggestion. With repeated exposure, the free will of the target can be permanently weakened, until the enslavement is total and they are unable to defy the will of their adored master, no matter what is demanded of them. However, prior to reaching that point, the effects are only temporary, and the target may question its actions once the pheromones have worn off.
Osirian Psybrid Cerebrum (Xenos graft) : created from the cloned flesh of a xenos breed destroyed during the Great Crusade by the Ultramarines, this graft grants mind-control abilities to the agent. All beings with a presence in the Warp are vulnerable to this power, but maintaining control requires permanent effort on the agent's part. Doing so is very taxing, but while the target is under the effect, there is nothing that cannot be ordered.
Living Sha'eilat Armor (Xenos graft) : the corrupted Eldar resurrected by the Fleshmasters at the command of Arken have a mastery of genetic manipulation beyond that of the best of fallen Apothecaries. They have been willing to share some of their secrets, including that of this procedure, used by their own warriors and Gene-Lords. The living armor, created from genetic material from a variety of sources – some of which were at one point human, according to the Fleshmasters' analysis – is grown in vat and grafted directly upon the subject's body. They then grow to cover almost all of his body – safe for the head. The living armor cannot be removed, and besides the natural protection it offers – similar to high-quality carapace armor – it also influences the wearer's hormonal systems to make them faster and stronger, but also more cruel and sadistic.
Barghesi Claws (Xenos graft) : encountered by the White Scars during the Great Crusade, the Barghesi are a species of ultra violent xenos, possessed of a bloodlust that would make even the servants of Khorne seem calm in comparison. This graft grants the agent the same natural weapons as these terrifying beasts, capable of tearing through even ceramite armor. But the required muscle and hormonal transplants also drive the agent to madness, his mind consumed by the same rage as the Barghesi themselves.
Eldar Sensitivity (Xenos infusion) : the sons and daughters of Isha have always had more acute senses that humans – as well as most species across the galaxy. This sensitivity is what ultimately brought Slaanesh into being and doomed their race to slow extinction. Through this infusion, all of the agent's senses are exacerbated, while altering the body slightly to reflect the innate grace of the Eldar. Those who observe the agent can sense that there is something unusual about him, but without being able to say exactly what.
Adhesive Skin (Xenos infusion) : through infusion of DNA from one of the countless nameless alien species found and exterminated during the Great Crusade, this protocol enables the agent to produce a reactant on his hands that allow to climb any structure. This ability can be activated and deactivated at will, on several parts of the body. This enhancement is combined with muscles and nerve surgery to grant the agent greater agility so that he may use his new ability to the utmost.
Megarachnid Leg Muscles (Xenos infusion) : on the world of Murder, the Sons of Horus and the Blood Angels fought the creatures known as the Megarachnids before meeting the Interex and starting the chain of events that would lead to the Heresy. The creatures' muscles were far more powerful than those of humans, and the infusion of Megarachnid DNA allows for an agent to leap more than twenty meters high and far. The muscles of the legs are the only ones to benefit for that transformation, in order for the agent to still be able to handle objects without pulverizing them.
Hrud Entropic Field (Xenos infusion) : one of the most dangerous species encountered during the Great Crusade, the Hrud have been marked for extermination by the Imperium ever since they were first discovered. Through this infusion of their genetic material, the agent becomes able to use the same ability that makes the xenos so dangerous – the entropic field. When activated, matter in the agent's vicinity rusts and rots, while the living caught in it age at a dramatically accelerated rate – years in seconds. The agent himself is mostly immune to the effect of the field, but each activation still costs him years of his life.
Enhanced Regeneration (Xenos infusion) : this genetic alteration grants the agent an incredible regeneration ability, with open wounds closing before the very eyes of the enemy who inflicted them. Save for the complete destruction of the head, there is almost nothing that can keep the agent down. However, the regeneration will eventually consume all the energy available in the body, even though it draws upon preternaturally efficient biological mechanisms to function, leaving the agent dead. Repeated uses of this ability will also lead to the subject's genetic material being slowly overwritten by that of the xenos species – a breed of aliens fought by the Alpha Legion during the Great Crusade, whose very name was erased from Imperial archives.
Daemonic Gifts
Most Fleshmasters agree that the key to greater power lies within the Warp, but only a few have the courage – or insanity – required to delve into its corrupting mysteries. To that end, they have attempted to combine human and daemonic flesh. Acquiring samples of the Neverborn is extremely difficult, as only in a very few cases do anything remain after the entity itself is defeated. Preserving the samples is also complicated, and require numerous wards and stasis fields. Even once a graft is successfully performed and the daemonic element sustained by the subject's soulfire, the Neverborn it originally belonged to will attempt to use the connection to possess the subject's body. Nevertheless, this branch of enhancements grant abilities even the Fleshmasters themselves often didn't believe were possible. Those who embrace this practice also become minor sorcerers in their own right : though lacking in psychic potential, they are able to use relics and rituals to assist in their blasphemous experiments.
Eyes of the Warp : by replacing his ocular globes with those of a daemon, the agent gains the ability to see the world as the Neverborn do. They no longer see light, but souls and the emotions and memories ingrained in physical objects. This enables them to detect spiritual corruption and to see in any light condition. When they wear concealing glasses, they can prevent their nature from being revealed, but while the appearance of the eyes vary, they are all unmistakably inhuman in nature. Staring directly into them is also a gruelling experience, which can shatter the sanity of weak-willed mortals.
Claw of the Neverborn : this protocol functions by removing the hand of the agent and replacing it with a daemon's appendage. While the aspect of the graft varies, it is generally used for battle and must be concealed in order for the agent to pass unnoticed among Imperial subjects. The daemonic nature of the graft also enables its attacks to pierce through most physical defences.
Infernal Blood : through replacing most of the subject's vitae with that taken from a Neverborn specimen, the agent gains many different abilities. These generally include superhuman strength and speed, the addition of supernatural senses, and the ability to regenerate. The process itself, however, is excruciatingly painful, and every waking moment afterwards is filled with pain, while sleep is an endless battle against the Neverborn trying to take over. Those having received this enhancement generally sleep in warded circles, safe from the attentions of daemons – yet even then, their dreams are haunted and their rest rarely peaceful.
Shapeless Face : the facial tissue of the agent is removed, exposing the bloody skull beneath. In its place, daemonic skin is placed, fused with the rest of the body through extensive surgery and offerings to the Ruinous Powers. This enables the agent to alter his face to take on any appearance from his memory. When not focusing, the traits of the agent dissolve into a blank, featureless face that causes horror in the heart of any who gaze upon it.
Unseen Nature : the skin of the subject and his very brain are injected with daemonic ichor, granting him the ability to turn invisible or to erase his presence from the notice of other living beings – and even from mechanical recordings. However, when using this gift, the agent finds himself navigating a world of shadows and horrors, halfway between reality and the Empyrean. Over time, the power can also go out of control, forcing the subject into a twilight existence, forever separated from the rest of the universe.
Foot of the Walker : this graft replaces the agent's lower legs with limbs taken from a Neverborn born of shadow and mist. Those who receive this graft can use short-range teleportation by moving from one blink spot – ie somewhere not currently observed directly by anyone – to another such place. While not using their power, the limbs merely appear to be clad in strange clothing, but darkness radiates from them when the agent calls upon their ability.
Transfiguration : a weakling Warp Spirit is summoned from the Sea of Souls and bound within the subject. The daemon is too weak to consume the soul of the subject, who gains some of the abilities of the true Secondborn (which ones exactly depends on the nature of the Spirit). While far weaker than Possessed Marines or daemonhosts, those who have undergone the Transfiguration are still very dangerous to normal humans. This enhancement is regarded as a divine elevation by the mortal slaves of the warband, a way to unite with the Great Powers. Those who survive it are venerated and envied in equal measure.
Hideous Revelation : developed by a former Word Bearer, this enhancement is more sorcery than science. Those who undergo it gain the ability to send horrible visions of Chaos Ascendant into the minds of their victims, shattering their faith in the Golden Throne. Only the strongest-willed can resist, and the rest either lose their sanity or embrace the dark glory of the Ruinous Powers. When using this gift, the agent's face warps into a nightmarish image straight from the deepest parts of the Sea of Souls and must be close to the target's own face.
Living Shadow : through sorcery and genetic reinforcements of the brain, the subject is bound to a Neverborn that resides in his shadow. Most of the time, the daemon keeps up appearances, though careful observers might notice slight inconsistencies in the subject's projected shadow – it moves before or after its source, go against the light, etch. But when necessary, the subject can unleash the daemon upon his enemies. The Neverborn takes the form of a twisted image of the subject himself made of pure blackness, and after tearing its victims apart and devouring their souls, return into its host's shadow. During the unleashing, the agent is completely defenceless, unable even to move as the daemon uses him as a connection between the Warp and reality.
False Daemon : the most dangerous procedure known to any of the Fleshmasters, this enhancement has only been granted a handful of times, under careful supervision by a circle of Sorcerers of the Coven. Only a singe Fleshmaster from the Word Bearers Legion dared to attempt it. Made more of ritual and sorcery as it is of science, this procedure transforms the subject into an entity resembling the Neverborn that teem in the Sea of Souls, with the stated goal of ultimately creating a new statute of being for the human race so that they might reach the sacred union that the Dark Gods promised to Lorgar at the dawn of the Heresy. The things created by the procedure – each of which is unique in aspect, born of the particular mind of the subject – appear to retain some trace of their former existence. But it is unclear if that is because they are truly evolved from their previous selves of if the procedure creates a new Neverborn that consumes the soul of the subject, gaining some of their memories. Regardless, these creatures are dimensionally unstable, prone to vanishing back into the Warp if not stabilized by a stable influx of power – which can be gained by bloodshed and other acts that feed the Warp. They are, however, exceptionally powerful, displaying about the same might as a once-bound daemonhost.
AN : and here we are again. This chapter was ... hard to write. The idea for it first came to me on Christmas' day, when I read the first part of the excellent book Fabius Bile : Primogenitor. Seriously, that book is one of the best Warhammer fiction I have ever read. But after that first rush of inspiration, actually finishing the chapter was ridiculously hard, especially when you consider that I wrote the Index Astartes for the Raven Guard in far less time, while it was several times bigger than this chapter.
This chapter marks my first time deliberately trying to write a "horror" story. What did you think about it ? Did I get it right ? I admit that I have a problem understanding what makes a story "scary". In movies and video games, I understand - the tension, the atmosphere, the constant pressure ... But in a book, it's all ultimately words written on a page of paper or displayed on a screen. Since after the Raven Guard in the Roboutian Heresy, people told me that a lot of what I wrote before was actually quite scary, I tried to do it on purpose this time. Tell me how that went - but I do know it was not something I enjoyed writing, so I don't think I will try it again.
Now, about the Hall of Asclepios protocols : the idea for them was first inspired to me more than a year ago, I think, by X-Com : Enemy Unknown, where you can infuse your soldiers with alien DNA. I finished it (i.e. reached the arbitrary number of ten protocols per category, except for the hybrids) recently, so I decided to post it along this chapter to make up for its shortest length. You will see more of the agents of the Forsaken Sons in the future, don't worry. Do you have any idea for another augmentation ? Tell me in the reviews !
I am working on a short story right now, but I don't know if I am going to finish it, start working on the next chapter of Warband of the Forsaken Sons, or focus on the Alpha Legion for the Roboutian Heresy. I have already started taking notes for the last one, but there is just so much potential it's going to take a long time. Speaking of which, the Roboutian Heresy has a TVTropes page now, so don't hesitate to go over there and add whatever you think should be mentioned !
Don't forget to review, follow and favorite if you enjoyed this chapter. If you have any questions or suggestions for the rest of the Forsaken Sons' adventures in the Wailing Storm, leave them in your review or PM me directly.
Zahariel out.