It's impossible to fully remove fear.
Past indoctrination, beyond genetic manipulation, further then brutally of the soul pushed to the brink of utter sanity. There is no truer way to remove it fear. It's instinct, easy to conquer but it'll always remain. That tingling feeling is always in the deepest recesses of the brain.
It is perhaps the only thing that keeps those who are about to die, alive.
That ancient primordial thing.
The fear of simply dieing.
Here he was blood, already coagulated, coating his armour staining the white a viscose red. Down on one knee his breath laboured every breath a wheeze. Every part of his being begged for a simple death, so deliciously close begging to be answered.
For them it was something they could simply feed on.
Xenos, unclean abominations, filthy creatures unfit to exist in a galaxy that all but begged for their extinction. They once ruled, a hundred thousand perhaps millions years past. Now they existed only as a pestilence to the true ruler of the galaxy. That of humanity, beneath the light of the Emperor of Mankind.
That brought a smile to his blood stained lips. His brothers lay fallen beside him armour broken noble blood mixed in with the torental rain that poured from the heavens with a ear splitting rage that made even the transhuman ears ring.
Drukari ,they are called, degenerates from the foulest of foul. Chaos, other Xenos, would even rally against such a foe. They revealed in torture in maiming, in the perverse that would make the staunchest guts churn. No foe could ever be taken lightly such as they for no mean of conflict, exploit or pure sense of barbarity could they be expected to take to win a fight.
Once their had been ten of them, some of the Imperiums finest. Primaris Space Marines were called the new breed. Meant to be faster, stronger , everything the originals were not. Armed with the best equipment, skill, strategy the codex Astartes had to offer.
They all lay dead at his aching knees.
He was of the old stock, the 'First Born' of which they had rather snidely been named. Call it stubbornness to cross the Rubicon. He was compatible along with a good eighty percent of them. The studds dotting his scarred forehead accounting for eons of faithful servitude, perhaps the only hesitation to forgo his roots. It'd been by the Emperor's will that he'd been selected, by His grace to serve as the perfect instrument of the Angels of Death. What needed to change what he already was?
An instrument of the one true ruler of the galaxy.
His armour is stained red.
He bears the solemn duty of the Apothecary. His younger brothers lay dead around him bearing wounds of the cruelest weapons ever seen by humanity. It's a hard role, to be there to cater to the dead and dying. To serve the Emperor's peace swiftly and go on knowing that man you'd known for decades while he'd live in another would never again be alongside you.
The Drukari gather, hooting in their filthy alien tongue. They prowl around him like carron feeders, swords raised above their heads, teeth barred in wicked smiles. Even wounded they hesitate, while forgoing ranged weapons which could have easily ended his life they opted for close quarters. It's the satisfaction of killing him that they so deeply want. No from afar, that'd be to quick to easy. They want baith on his blood perhaps go so far and to flay his flesh off his bones and parade around in whatever sickening ways.
Yet still they hesitate.
He is an Astartes.
That forty plus of their own gored around him was a testament to his nature.
He was not so easy to prey.
All the more perverse satisfaction it would bring to watch him fall. His chainsword purrs in his hand, its teeth running with gore. He wonders just how many more would fall beneath it. The blade was nearly as old as he was, an Terran pattern dating to the days before the sorrow filled Heresy. An old piece that still rang true after eons of vaunted service.
There is a bunker filled with a quarter of a million civilians behind him.
The Zenos are fully aware of that tally.
He can't help but laugh.
Carron as they are, hesitates for but a moment as the armoured giant rises to his feet. He twirls the sword, slick blood slapping on the black armored corpses gored at his boots. Beneath the beaked helm a tooth filled grin dominates the Defender of Humanities features.
Would today be the day perhaps?
On some back alley world further than anything he'd ever known? For a people who probably didn't even know what the Emperor's dream was or had been for them? Aye perhaps it was to be such a fate, on some world that no one cared to remember.
He was a Space Marines, he shalt know no fear.
For only in death, does duty end.
"Come on you bastards." He growls, raising his free hand mockingly, gesturing them forwards.
"Did your balls fall off when you painted your faces like that? Or have you always been sons of bitches?"
Be it Xenos, Mutant or the Heretic such an insult is universal no matter the language. He can help but grin as all hundred of them charge in at once. Couldnt be more of a fair fight in his opinion.
"For the Emperor." He whispers chainsword gripped firmly in both hands as the Zenos descend.