«Doloroso»
Blank faces in the ranks. If sentience be the lowest form of intellect, then he toyed with the notion these blank-faced automatons did not even grasp the value of knowledge - Blessed be the Omnissiah and His gifts - ; did not even spare any thought to be grateful for what little they were offered. Their empty stares conveyed to him the absolute absence of cognition, and not for the first time his thoughts strayed to matters of the soul. Surely not, the Omnissiah must have bestowed this blessing upon them or how could their existence in His service be tolerated ? Nevertheless, they were but the basest and most repugnant of tools, utterly unnatural ingrates that would presently threaten all in their paths until properly purged and programmed. Knowledge would be imparted on them, its glory unappreciated by those soft-fleshed abominations whose strange depths were plundered by lurking corruption.
A bitter, hateful sneer contorts bloodless lips, gracing his usual indifferent mien with a barely-contained aura of ire. He can feel their emptiness ripple with fear, a splash and little rivulets of rankness down their spines, splatters down the deep pool of their hollow eyes. A tremor of anticipation, the kind that clamps down on the bowels and rigidifies the muscles, has run down the nearest abhorrent. Red augmentics sweep across his flock, and he scans vigilantly as they are herded towards their awaiting fate. Praised be the Omnissiah in His all-encompassing wisdom, he subvocalizes. A reminder that there is a purpose to this, one greater and grander in its pattern than could ever be humanly discerned. Faith, ritual and unerring obedience. That is enough.
The pungent smell of fear-soaked sweat and unwashed flesh are branded in his circuitry, stamping the memory in a haze of despair.