Finally turning to face the fly on the table, X'ltan examined him more closely. His frame seemed small and slight compared to his synthesized brethren, like he'd been shoved into circulation before his time. Whatever features he had blurred together and the Haemonculus' fingers began to itch. She could see to him later, after she reforged him the first time. Her Mandrake already prepared the slight man, stripping him down; leaving only the wriggling, flesh-sleeved organs. Reaching up, she pulled the vent grille from her face, drinking in the smells of her canvas.
"What shall we call you, Tin Man?" Her throat itched from using the base language, but she did so love to see how they reacted. "What did my last sculpture name you? I can't quite recall." Drool slid down her chin, the dead muscles in her face twitching into a weak smile. "We'll call you Sael'thas, won't we, Lesaka?" The Mandrake nodded mutely. Grabbing one of many needles strewn about her worktable, Zhrysha stabbed it uncerimoniously into the Guardsman's neck.
Recoiling from the drool dripping onto his chest, KK4046696 stared at the horrendous gash in the Dark Eldar's face. Her mouth extended vertically, splitting her chin and part of her nose. Quickly, his attention focused on his own body. The air he pumped through his lungs seemed suddenly sharper somehow. Quickly, his throat began to burn and sweat broke out across his body. Swallowing sent a sharp stab of pain through his throat. Cold from the metal slab seemed to freeze his skin, and the heat from all the twisted bodies in the room burned his other half.
Above him, his torturer smiled again, wiping drool from her face. "You feel it, Sael." Simply breathing sapped his willpower. In the corner of his vision, he saw the pale Eldar grab something. Her form shifted just under his field of vision. Something sharp pressed into his skin and his entire body clenched in response. Gritting his teeth, the Krieger tried to block out the pain radiating from his leg. Sickening waves of it passed over him, crushing him beneath their weight. Finally, it pierced through his skin.
After the agonizing slowness of that first cut, the Eldar moved quickly. Small incisions crawled up his limbs. Eyes rolling back into his head, the Korpsman clenched his mouth shut, trying to drown out the pain with prayer. The Emperor protects all his servants. Xenos will never triumph over the all-powerful God-Emperor. Clinging to the scrap of faith he had, KK4046696 stoutly refused to acknowledge the pain throwing his body into spasms. Slices travelled further up, crossing his chest and finally ending at his palms.
Some time passed before he realized the biting knife stopped savaging his flesh. A little more pain worked its way through his numbed body. Blinking film out of his eyes, the Kriegsman watched the Haemonculus shifting through numerous tools, before she finally pulled out what vaguely resembled tongs. Deftly snatching another syringe from a disorganized mass, she pressed it into the meat of his arm. Whatever drugs the vial contained tore the soft fog of shock away from his body. Leaning over the table, she held the tongs languidly at her side. "What is your name, Tin Man?"
He almost spat at her. Lying or refusing to answer would only inspire her wrath. "K-" Before he made it any further, the Haemonculus dug the tongs into one of the incisions on his left arm. Hooking the flat ends under and above the skin, she tore until it connected with the cut above it. She twisted for good measure, her slobber seeping into the raw wound.
"Incorrect. What is your name?"
Again, he tried to answer, and again she pulled another cut larger. Shutting his mouth, he resolutely refused to answer her. Waiting patiently for a minute or so, the Dark Eldar went silently back to work, ripping a jagged line into the skin of his arm. Breathing shallowly, he tried to ignore the pain roaring to his brain, blocking it out with dogma instilled in him since overseers first decanted him. Incessantly, it pounded at the mental walls he put up, threatening to break him. Wracking his brain for the answer she wanted, he ventured her own suggestion. "My name... is Sael'thas." Even saying it made him feel dirty, but anything was better than this continued assault.
"My, my! You do learn slow." She gave him a pat on the head that sent his skin crawling. That freaky sideways smile of hers twitched again, the pale, bloodless lips stretched too far to be natural. The tongs dug into his flesh again, tearing another connection between the cuts on his body. Even this did not make her stop. Anger reared up inside the Guardsman and he used it as a shield. As she continued her work, Sael hung on the edge of madness; anger and frustration acted as an impotent barrier. When his grip seemed about to slip, the hateful monster stopped, tossing the tongs aside.
Once more, he heard the soft metallic scratching of her tools skittering across their places. An unnaturally swift black shape flitted to her side and picked up the massive construct she wanted. Latching it to the table, she swung it over his chest. Massive, curled spikes jutted down from the contraption. From this angle, the black and blue shape looked unusually bulky for Eldar equipment. There was no mistaking the machine's purpose. Idly, his torturer flicked a hand across the side of it, and the curled wedges slammed down into his chest, tearing through the muscle and lodging deep in bone.
Loosing a howl, the Guardsman thrashed against his bindings. This new violation drove straight into his mind, ripping away any thought he could still make. A snapping splinter accompanied fresh waves of agony. The spikes began to spread outwards, shattering the bones protecting his body. Muscles stretched and snapped, torn asunder by the Haemonculus' weapon. Breath hiked in his throat, choking him into near-oblivion as the infernal thing tore him wider.
When it stopped moving, he snapped straight back into his body. A hand wriggled its way around the opened cavity, squishing noises disorienting him. His sight told him something moved within him, but he could not feel it. Suddenly, his difficulty breathing increased tenfold. His body convulsed, liquid filling up his lungs. chocking to death on his own blood, he glared at the Haemonculus. Drawing some of the blood into his mouth, he tried to spit at her. The shot fell woefully short.
"This simply won't do, Sael." With a gesture, the table flipped over. Blood poured in a brief, thick waterfall from the ruined remnants of his chest, draining out of his lungs. With another inversion, he stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling. "Lesaka, fetch me the repairer." Idly, he watched the shadow-black shape wander out of his vision, then return. The sharp spikes holding his shattered chest apart were removed, and something small plopped inside. Sharp, occasional jolts of pain kept him awake for a few more moments, but at last his mind passed through a grey fog.
Then, he felt nothing.
Inquisitor Friia stalked across the bridge of Sword of Defiance. It would still be another day before the ship emerged into realspace above the mostly-uninhabited planet the Mechanicus dubbed M77823. Stopping next to the flesh-and-steel column of the Defiance's captain, she wondered once more wether or not they would arrive too late. Before, her duty consisted of watching Inquisitor Rylas, whose behaviour recently became erratic. Friia's investigation hit several dead-ends, leaving her with conjecture and rumour, and finally she'd decided to take it directly to the source of the problem.
Staring forward, she focused on driving the doubt from her mind. If Inquisitor Rylas had indeed joined with the hideous xenos forces, it would be her duty to see him executed. After a moment, she waved over her aide, Interrogator Gregor. "Go over final gear checks. We're only here as long as the Korps are." Quietly nodding, the Interrogator vanished from the bridge. Friia's own flagship, Voice of Doom was dry-docked for extensive repair. At least if Rylas had even the slightly inkling she was after him, he wouldn't expect it before her ship's repair.
It was finally done. After all his work, he could finally reap the rewards of decadence. His colleges surely called him corrupt and confused behind his back, a traitor at best, a heretic at worse. After studying the Dark Eldar for sixty years, he understood them as none of them ever would. It was abundantly clear that they were right, in everything. How else would they have survived all these years, hunted by not only their own kind, but every other species in this galaxy? Long ago, he had tried those arcane rituals that stole the soul of another. He felt the poor woman's soul fill his body with new strength and a mental clarity he'd lacked before.
Of course, he needed more. Inquisitor Rylas had not yet seen Comorragh in the flesh and he would not stop until he did. At first, it started small. Little bits of misinformation, hints dropped to the Eldar Pirates out in the darker reaches of space. Never before had he dared to directly interfere. Those Kriegsmen were worth nothing to the Imperium, and nothing to him. Nothing beyond what they gave him with their deaths.
He finished setting the last of the explosives in his base, and prepared the research fail-safes. In a day or so, only grey, ashy snow would show anything had been there at all. In truth, there never had been anything there. Simply another front to cover his tracks. Walking out the single entrance, Rylas boarded his small ship and took off. As the snowy world dropped beneath him, he remotely activated the detonation sequence. To far away to see the damage himself, the Inquisitor angled his ship into orbit.
The Eldar promised him passage to Comorragh in exchange for enough souls to fill the quota they owed their archon, and he fully intended to lead The Scytherunner to as many as they needed. Anything to reach the Dark City.
Deep in her Garden, Zhrysha listened to the soft, whistle-y chorus of breathy voices. Each of her statues, fixed upon the walls, screamed their torment. Without voice or force, it produced a soft susseration that filtered through her drug-induced haze. Every now and again, Lesaka would molest the wounds of the Haemonculus' statues, playing their misery in a perfect song. Smiling beneath her blue vent-grille, she decised new punishments for the sacrifices M'kai and his ilk brought onboard.
As if even a tangental thought of him called the Jetbike Captain, M'kai strode into The Garden, knocking a limbless body to the ground. Out of one, heavily-lidded eye, X'ltan saw her Mandrake step from the Jetbiker's shadow and quickly right the groaning body. Stepping over a puddle of some pinkish fluid, he stopped in front of the Scytherunner's torturer. "My Haemonculus, I-"
"Speak your wish, M'kai." She had no time to listen to his panderings. For some time, he tried and failed to convince her to follow him. M'kai fancied himself better suited to lead the Scytherunner. In truth, the Haemonculus cared little for who ran the ship, as long as it continued its voyage of blood and fear. It seemed the worm still cowered away from a true confrontation.
"If you would just reconsider..." Though his voice betrayed nothing, she could see it in his body. They feared her Mandrake, and they feared her. Zhrysha intended not to interfere with either side in this petty struggle, though M'kai seemed to think she would.
"No, M'kai. If you cannot prove you deserve this ship, I will not help you." Growling deep in his throat, the Jetbiker drew his knife, fully prepared to carve a new scar into the Haemonculus' flesh. Closing her eye, she listened to Lesaka forcefully escorting the Jetbiker out of her Garden. He would move soon, and she looked forward to it.