V
REBIRTH

1
The Angrboedha

When Losa entered, she found the Master reclined in his throne and surrounded by his holoscreen dome. One screen was from a hull-mounted pict recorder, magnified and focused to watch a meteor shower impacting the nearby planetoid; another holoscreen looked over a hangar, where a squad of crewmen patrolled the narrow spaces between the racks of stored Hell Blades.
When Losa stepped up to the outer ring around the Master's throne, several screens flashed and changed to blurry human faces, all of them staring at her.
"What is it?" the Master spoke, his voice bounding off the walls.
"I just finished with my inspection. I heard that the Marine's vessel was spotted on the outskirts of the system…"
One of the screens directly in front of Vok went dark, and then began to flash a string of text.
Losa tilted her head and slowly, cautiously approached. "What is-"
"A conversation which I was not meant to see." Another screen turned black, and the text appeared on it too, reversed so that Losa could read:
MP// We will arrive within the day.
MP// My Lord wishes to know your instructions for the bounty.
Losa glanced up. "This is…"
"A two-way telegraphic vox between Magos Sevanar and our fine mercenary's Tech-Priest," Vok said, motionless in his seat. "And yes, I was made aware that he is within the system."
Losa frowned, and looked back at the scrolling text – there was a pause before the next message appeared:
MS// The boy is safe?
MP// He is alive.
Another pause before a repetition:
MS// The boy is safe?
MP// He is safe.
MS// Then after you have delivered the Master's target, shuttle him over and bring him to me personally. Be discreet.
MP// My Lord sends his greetings. He wishes to know the status of his commission.
MS// The armor is built and anointed.
MP// And he requests swift reply on the other items we spoke of earlier.
MS// Yes. I will construct new augmetics for him.
The holoscreen facing Losa disappeared, followed by the whole dome. Yrtzen Vok leaned forward.
"Do they conspire against you?" Losa Proga asked.
"No," the Master declared. "They conspire to smuggle a bounty of Sevanar's aboard."
Losa frowned and cocked her head. "Did the Magos inform you of this?" she asked.
"No. She sought to hide this from me." Vok stood up. He stepped down from his seat, passing his servant. "We will have a word with her about this once all things are said and done. Now, however, we must prepare to receive our friend."

There was a foul breath blowing upon the Lady's neck - as she squirmed to be rid of the unpleasant tingling it caused, the men laughed. The lot exchanged words in a vulgar and unfamiliar language, though the Lady knew from their tone that they were mocking her. The armsmen had blindfolded her – for what purpose, she did not know. The concept was familiar to her as a preparatory measure for torture, but since the last several weeks of transit had been empty of anything besides imprisonment, she doubted they intended to interrogate her.
The flesh of the Lady's knee dug into the corrugated metal of the floor, bringing a renewed spring of pain to her broken leg. The Chaos pirates had cared only enough to provide a basic bracing for her snapped leg, and had left parts of the flesh exposed and strained. Given the nature of her injury, however, the Lady doubted a cast would do much of anything.
Somewhere behind her, the Lady Inquisitor could hear the strained mechanical hiss of the Chaos Marine's gasps – a modified rebreather from the stock of the Reign's armsmen had been strapped to his face, and the Lady assumed a tube had been run down his throat, judging by the sound. She had seen the damage done to him, when the crew had removed her from her cell and taken her through the halls to her present location: apart from the mask, the Traitor Marine now sported a thin emergency augmetic leg which contrasted his power armor. The gauntlet of Torturer's left hand was removed, revealing a series of bionic fingers on a gnarled and dead-pale hand, makeshift prosthetics composed of little more than bits of scrap-metal fashioned into pointed tips.
In an attempt to intimidate the Lady, Magos Phoeb had told her that Moerchen – or "the impudent Chaplain," as the heretek knew him – would pay dearly for doing all this to Torturer. She desperately hoped that the Traitor Marine was still in pain.
Brushing against the Lady's arm was, she assumed, Freia. Roslindis breathed about as unsteadily as the Chaos Marine. The Hereticus Inquisitor shivered in the nude – the two of them had been stripped of all clothing shortly after their confinement, when one unfortunate crewman had found out Inquisitor Freia kept a power blade hidden under her tunic. Her first attacker's battery was not the last, either: after they had moved Freia to another part of the hold, the Lady had heard no end of her colleague's screams.
Of Heidrich's fate, the Lady knew nothing - in fact, she had not seen him aboard the Traitor Marine's vessel. The thought of the Korpsman's death sapped any of the energy which remained in her.
The hull groaned, the vessel shuddered, and the Lady felt her own panting pick up pace. Then an aperture before them opened, and a blast of fresh, cold air hit the Lady. One of the armsmen grabbed her by her hair and dragged her forward. She winced and obeyed, crawling forward on her knees, an act which brought great pain given the state of her leg.
The armsman released his grip on her hair and pushed her to the floor.
"What is this?" came a voice, one which the Lady recalled too well.
"This is the Lady Inquisitor, as you commanded," Phoeb said.
The Lady was beginning to form the name of this benefactor on her tongue when a metal hand clamped down on her face by her jaw, and forced her up. Her blindfold was ripped away, freeing her eyes to see just who she stood before.
The thing which stared down at her was in no way human: it bore four arms, one pair of which ended in vorpal talons; its metal ribcage dropped away into a plated cable imitating a backbone; blue orbs seated within an elongated skull looked out at her, internal pieces spinning, apertures focusing; the skeletal body was supported by long legs which ended in toeless feet. Few signs of vital machinery could be seen – it was as though the creature were a statue.
Statuesque, the Lady thought - a macabre paragon of mechanical obsession and supremacy.
"Yrtzen Vok," she wheezed through her clenched teeth.
The Master scanned over the naked, poorly-bandaged Lady Inquisitor, released his grip on her mouth, and then looked up at the Traitor Marine. "I instructed you to keep her unharmed."
Phoeb stepped forward. "My Lord Torturer found that breaking her leg was necessary to immobilize her."
Apparently content with this answer, Vok turned his head as Freia was brought before him. The Lady looked over: her colleague was pale, covered in cuts and bruises, and seemed a hollow shell of the fit arbitrator she had last seen. Roslindis Freia stared up at Vok with deep-set eyes that radiated hate and exhaustion. The display apparently amused the machine-man, for he chuckled before he looked back at Torturer.
"I see you also bring me Inquisitor Freia," Vok noted. "And in a violated state as well. Are you incapable of keeping your crew's urges in check?"
"I assure you, every measure was taken to keep such a thing from happening to the Lady," Phoeb said. "Freia, however, earned her punishment."
The Lady noticed the woman standing close behind Vok, then. Small and thin, the young lady wore a light jacket over a synskin bodyglove, along with a belt webbed with vials of blood, which lead the Lady to conclude that she was the blood sorcerer from Hive Tarsus. The Lady perceived her shifting uncomfortably, eyes darting between the two bound Inquisitors – they had left an impression in the hangar-fight.
Vok stared hard at Torturer, and cocked his head. "You did not come out of your little hunt in one piece, did you?"
Phoeb cleared his throat. "While bringing in the Lady, my Lord was mauled by a thrice-damned loyalist-"
A deep and guttural rumble like an engine caused Phoeb to flinch and grow quiet. "I can speak for myself, worm," Torturer snapped, his artificial voice deep and strained. He glared up at Vok. "A sycophant-Chaplain of the Corpse-God attacked me when I took the Inquisitors. But I have done as you instructed."
Vok nodded. "Indeed. Do not imply that I am not appreciative, however. If you so-wish, we can go discuss your payments…"
The Marine's look turned to what would have been a sick grin had he still possessed full muscles in the lower part of his face. "I would wish that."
Vok glanced at the Inquisitors again, and turned to his cyber-partisans – he clicked out a series of binary-commands to them. One of the bulky augmetic guards took the Lady by her shoulder and forced her to her feet, staring at her the entire time as though to ensure she did not escape his grasp. She dared not look back at its beady eye-lenses.
Vok beckoned the Traitor Marine, who followed him with a shaky limp in his unbalanced step. Freia, tired yet defiant, weakly struggled against the superior strength of the cyber-partisan attempting to restrain her before the cyborg simply lifted her off her feet and carried her; the cyber-partisan holding the Lady adjusted its grip to her arm and pulled her forward along the hall.
Losa Proga stood for a while, watching the prisoners as they were hauled away. Once the two Inquisitors and their keepers passed through the first bulkhead, she turned and followed after her Master, which left Phoeb alone with the armsmen from the Reign of Agony.
The magos straightened out his robes, and pointed back into the umbilical passage's airlock.
"Go get the other, quickly," he ordered one of the crew. The masked armsman nodded, and stepped through into the airlock while Phoeb stood watch.

Losa became aware of an interesting factor to the Chaos Marine's movement as they passed into the vaults: Torturer literally limped with each motion. His breathing was ragged, cautious – as if air passing along by his wounded features pained him; when he spoke, it came out as a rasp, for any vibration from his mask's vox likely hurt as well. Losa quickly realized that he was not being anesthetized, which was curious, for she knew Space Marine armor automatically administered pain-suppressants to critical wounds. The thought occurred to her that he may have been like this the entirety of his journey to the Angrboedha.
The numerous seals on the vault doors slid open, and Vok stepped in, with Torturer hobbling close behind him, and Losa holding a steady distance. The Traitor Marine was at least hiding any mental fatigue he held, as a basic observation of his mind did not alert Losa to any anguish.
"Take whatever you wish," Vok said to his guest, motioning around the long vault hall – lit alcoves lined the walls with shelves stocked full of weapons, and pedestals stood between each unit, stocked with their own macabre tools. "As much as you want. Just, I do ask you to be tasteful about it."
Torturer stopped between two display tables laden with a myriad of killing-machines: curved knives with venous markings, serrated short swords with consciences which bit and lashed at Losa's mind, deceptively simple puzzle boxes, and a great number of stranger artifacts.
Torturer scanned along the aisles, yet his attention was caught by the weapons stored in the nearest section of the wall. He limped along, fixated on one particularly exotic blade, covered in sharp spikes and serrations, its handle ridged with spiny bone. He reached forth to take it from its supports.
"I would not advise picking that up," Vok warned, "not with gauntlets like those. You need something thicker, with more grip."
"What is it?" Torturer rasped.
"The Dark Eldar call it a huskblade." Vok stepped up beside the Chaos Marine, and plucked the weapon up – the ridges and bumps along the blade glimmered as he twisted it about in his hand. "And they call it such for good reason. Upon contact with flesh, it dries you out like a baked carcass in a desert. A gruesome blade, one which I earned from very…" he paused, as though coming upon a lengthy recollection, then continued, "from very interesting dealings with its creators."
Torturer let out a breath of amazement, and glanced over the rest of the weapons on the shelf: they all bore a similar motif to the huskblade, with dark coloring and vicious curvature.
"This, what is this?" the Chaos Marine asked, pointing to a sword with what appeared to be a small canister attached above its hilt.
"An Eldar power sword, borne of the smiths of Commoragh. It's lighter and far more nimble than anything the Imperium has ever produced, but you need to be able to activate it… and that requires an Eldar's understanding of technology."
Torturer grunted in acknowledgment, then moved away from the shelf, passing Vok to move to another display.
As the Chaos Marine leaned towards a short, thin blade, the Master spoke again: "I purchased that from the Stryxis. I have yet to uncover its origin, but it delivers a very interesting venom."
Torturer looked up at Vok. "Interesting, how?"
"Upon contact, it causes one to swell up like a pustule…" Vok held up a clenched hand to emphasize. "Then burst." He quickly opened up his palm, ending the pantomime.
"Amazing," Torturer said.
"All of life is to die," Vok told him with a shrug. "And we living make a point of expediting others to that fate, and with increasingly ingenious methods." The man-machine paced along the displays, keeping a hand hovering gently above each weapon. "It is a hobby of mine to collect all these implements of murder."
The Traitor Marine quickly grew disinterested with the blades, and limped along past Vok, hunched over to examine the collection more closely. Then his eyes fell upon a most peculiar instrument.
To Losa, distantly watching Torturer's childish browsing, "instrument" was the word which came to mind: it looked like a lyre strapped to a large gun's casing. The length of the gun broadened at the end into a metal effigy of a human skull, its mouth gaping wide with the barrel passing through the hole in its jaw; where the lips would have parted was instead a vox-grill.
"Is that what I think it is?" Torturer asked, gesturing to the weapon.
Vok approached, and nodded to the device. "That, is one of the oldest sonic blasters in existence," he said. "It first belonged to Szanaraeus, among the earliest Noise Marines of the Emperor's Children." Mentioning the excommunicated legion's name brought a chuckle out of the Master.
Vok took up the blaster by its tubular casing. "I have it on authority that this was built either after the Isstvan Massacre or the Siege of Terra, but I have confirmed the musical instrument implemented in its construction originated from the performance of the Maraviglia. Its owner died to penitent loyalists during the Age of Redemption, and has passed on to a hundred heritors, before coming into my hands by way of the Noise Marine Farenius.
"Szanaraeus was no great artist. He was mocked by his fellow Slaaneshi for his inability to make this weapon a spectacular shrine to his patron god. It is a brutish and misshapen creation when compared to those constructed by his peers and competitors, but Szanaraeus more than made up for his craftsmanship with his profound musical ability…"
Vok looked again to Torturer. "For it is said a full thousand sycophant-Astartes have died by this weapon - by Szanaraeus and by those his music inspired."
"Amusing that you would keep such a sentimental weapon," Torturer noted.
Vok threw his head back and his artificial voice boomed with laughter – the effect was startling, as the bellows bounced about the high vaulted ceiling numerous times. Losa shivered lightly, fearfully.
"Each weapon here is a monument to some great killer." Vok lifted up all four of his arms to the vast collection. "The sonic blaster of Noise Marine Szanaraeus, who is long-dead and forgotten; the haunted claw of the Khornate Dreadnought Drivar, annihilated by a strike from the cannon of the Shadowsword tank Malleus Furiae; the mind-wretching dancing blades of the Dark Eldar Wych Helissari, who was mortally pinned upon an arena spike by the depraved Torsaryth and then ravished before a hundred thousand of her people. Each of their wielders is remembered here, and only here - in my consecrated halls!"
Vok drew close to the Chaos Marine, and leaned forward - Losa truly realized only then just how much taller her Master was than Torturer.
"Perhaps, just perhaps, one day your implements shall become part of this memoria," the man-machine said, and slipped past the Traitor Marine and headed for the door.
"Or perhaps not. That depends on what becomes of you. Losa," he called to his servant; she instinctively stood at attention. "Stay with the good Lord Torturer. I shall send down a few partisans to help him move his selection. Guide him out when he is satisfied, and bring him to see me on the bridge so that we may consider further employment."
Losa Proga bowed. "Yes, my Master."
Vok took his leave of the two, and Losa was alone with Torturer.
And then, Losa Proga felt the faintest shudder of a horrendous pain:
She felt the wounds dealt to the Traitor Marine's pride. Suddenly, she felt much less worried to be in his presence.

The open sores on the Lady's wrists still brought her pain – renewed pain, now that the cyber-partisans had removed the shackles. The air bit at the exposed wounds, and the sharp sting of exposed flesh throbbed as though fresh.
The guards had simply tossed her and Freia together in one cell. There were no clear restraints present in the room; no torture implements, no apparent security measures. The Lady entertained the notion that the door was unlocked. Vok seemed to be mocking them.
There was no furniture at all in the room, which suggested it was only a transitional holding cell. The only sound to be heard was an irritable buzzing which made any attempt at extended focus impossible – yet another psychological weapon of Vok's, the Lady supposed.
Up against the opposite wall, Freia stirred. The Hereticus Inquisitor suddenly lacked her defiant airs, and looked the part of a broken woman. That worried the Lady.
"Roslind," the Lady softly called.
Freia lifted her head up, and weakly smiled. "Yeah?"
"Are you… are you-"
Freia scoffed before the Lady could finish. "Don't even ask. The question's so funny, it hurts."
"We'll find a way out of this," the Lady emptily assured her.
"I sure as shit hope so." Freia looked around the room. "I've got some people who I want dead now."
The Lady sighed, and rested her head back - Roslindis Freia was alive and well, it seemed.
Freia's smile dissipated a moment after. "Vok's got people in the Ordos," she said.
The Lady looked over at her again. "You thought about that too, did you?"
"It's the only thing that makes sense. Hell, the last several months make sense when you look at this… everything, as a trap. He had someone who let him know in the first place we were onto him. I think that's why he had all the top people for Turas-Hie killed."
"But why would he go so far just to catch us?"
"I don't know." Freia curled up against the wall and quivered. "But I think you might have something to do with it."
The Lady would have considered that comment further, but instead her attention turned to the exit as the door swung open.
The giant Vok entered, carrying pieces of cloth folded over one of his lower arms. Freia instinctively leapt from her hiding place, and attempted to slip past him. The Hereticus Inquisitor failed to fully account for the man-machine's reach, however, and when he held up his other arm she ran straight into it before she could stop hereself. Before Freia could recover, Vok took her by the neck, lifted her up, and then casually strode forward until he was pressing her against the wall. The Lady simply watched as her companion choked.
"You are my guests," Vok told her as she began beating on his arm with her fist. "You will stay here until I decide where to put the two of you… and especially until I decide what to do with you, Freia. You weren't supposed to be brought here."
Vok looked back at the Lady, and stared down at her. "But I suppose it ensures nobody is capable of searching for you right away. Your agents – the Chaplain and the Tech-Priest – they lack any real authority. They'll have to go running back to Scintilla, get a petition written up to search for you, and by that time, any trace of me will be long-gone…"
Freia gagged beneath Vok's grip; the man-machine let go, dropping her to the floor. As the Hereticus Inquisitor curled up and hyperventilated, Vok dropped one of the pieces of cloth from his arm onto her. He took a few steps over to the Lady, and tossed her the other. The Lady caught it, and then unfolded it: she found it was actually a simple dress.
"Garments for you two. Torturer was able to completely disarm the two of you, or so I trust, and thus you have no need to be kept fully exposed." Vok stepped over to the cell door, and then turned back to look at his two prisoners. "There is no escape from here. Any attempt to leave will be futile. Resign yourselves, for it will be much less painful that way."
With that, the Master shut the door, leaving the two alone.

Halfway along to the bridge-lift, Vok paused, and turned back to the corridor. A faint pulse drummed at his head, and he glanced about the hall.
"What is the matter?" the Master called out.
"The Marine," was the rumbling response.
"What has he done?"
One of the holo-panels on the wall lit up, revealing a diagram of the deck. "He has parted with Losa, and is going for the captives' holding pen."
Vok shook his head. "Idiot. Why did Losa not force him to stop?"
"She was unsure of whether you would approve."
"What is your analysis?"
The hologram disintegrated, and was replaced by the indistinct shape of a human face.  "You brought up feelings of weakness, it appears. He may wish to rectify that impotency. He may kill the prisoners."
"No, I fear he has something else in plan." Vok turned from the face, and strode along the direction he came from. "He is evaluating his faith."
The hologram followed him along the wall, disappearing at each bulkhead, only to reappear adjacent to the Master in the next session. "At this current rate you will reach him within a half-minute of his arrival at the cell. Shall the cyber-partisans repel him?"
"No," Vok growled. "Have them stand down. I will quell his foolery myself."
The face stopped following, and then turned to watch Vok as he disappeared in the long halls. Once it became impossible to see him any longer, the hologram disappeared.

Freia was still breathing heavily when the Lady heard the pounding at the cell door - her heart began to beat faster, and her own breathing intensified.
Then the door came crashing open. In stumbled Torturer, his eyes wide with madness, his rebreather letting out ragged hisses of respiration. He looked between the Lady and Freia, and staggered toward the former.
"Whores! Whores of the corpse-god!" his modulated voice spat. The Lady pressed up against the wall as he advanced.
"Vok wants us alive. He wants us unharmed," the Lady quickly warned.
The Chaos Marine let out what was meant to be a laugh. "Vok can do nothing to save you. You will die because I command it." Torturer lunged for her, and before she could make any move his gauntlet smacked across her cheek and sent her to the floor.
"Because I command it," he repeated. "Because your pain pleases me!"
While Torturer grabbed the Lady by her arm, Freia scrambled to her feet and rushed at him. The Hereticus Inquisitor pounced the Chaos Marine and, climbing over his backpack, forced him to let go of the Lady, who dropped again to the ground.
Freia got a grip on Torturer's collar, dodging each of the Chaos Marine's stiff-armed attempts to pull her off.
"Run!" Freia shouted. "Get away!"
The Lady pushed herself up and began to limp for the door, glancing over her shoulder to watch Torturer desperately flail about – Freia had taken hold of his skull and was attempting to claw at his eyes.
All the Lady knew was that she needed to get out of the room. She hobbled into the doorway, and as she turned to go for the hall, she was met by Vok. The Master towered above her over twice her size, and the sight of him nearly made the Lady scream.
The Lady began to step back into the room. A low grumble swelled up from Vok, growing louder and harsher as he followed her back into the cell, until he finally pushed her aside and charged at Torturer.
The Chaos Marine had just pulled Freia off from atop him when the Master collided with him. Torturer was small for a Marine, making the menace of Vok all the worse. Furious, the man-machine stomped on Torturer's replacement leg, and clamped down on the Marine's arm - Torturer's rebreather emitted a warbled howl as the plating crumpled under the Master's tightening grasp.
Vok let go and moved off the Marine, but Torturer lashed out at him. Vok leaned back to avoid a strike from the Traitor Marine, and then was atop him again. Vok took Torturer by the gorget of his armor and brought his ruined face close.
"Your mistake," the Master snarled, "was to think you could best me."
Vok leveled a claw from one of his secondary arms with the Marine's face, and made sure that Torturer could see the mono-edged metal glistening with wetness. "I have never had the opportunity to test this poison on a Marine. Do something like this again, and you will be the first Astartes to receive that honor. I needn't even cut at you… all that is necessary is that I peel that pathetic mask from your face and watch it drip onto the flesh beneath."
A pair of cyber-partisans entered then, and clicked off a burst of binary to Vok. The Master released Torturer, and looked back at them. He gave them his command, and they moved to the wounded Chaos Marine.
"I am fully willing to overlook this," Vok said. "I can value you as an asset, but not if you are going to be this unstable." The cyber-partisans hoisted up Torturer by his arms. "They will take you to Magos Sevanar. Go, get your new armor and all your cute trinkets. And once you are fit we will speak about new contracting."
"How…" Torturer wheezed.
"Nothing is said on my vessel without my knowledge. Don't think you can conceal any conversation – any dealing – from me."
The cyber-partisans pulled Torturer out, dragging the ruined mess of his bionic leg behind him. The Lady uneasily eyed Vok curling and uncurling his hands, gnashing his claws – he was coming off of a blood-high, she thought.
Vok turned his head and glared down at her. He stepped over to her, and kneeled low. "Your wounds will be treated," he told her.
The Lady said nothing.
Vok looked from the Lady to Freia – the Hereticus Inquisitor was unconscious after her bout with the Chaos Marine. Content, Vok looked back at the Lady.
"As I told you before, there is no escape. Do not even try to run. I have my uses for you. Your friend there would be wise to avoid doing anything stupid, because she is without worth." With this, the man-machine stood up and stormed out, shutting the cell door behind him.
The Lady pushed herself up against the wall, and buried her face in her knees.

Time had ceased to exist for Heidrich. Any few moments he spent awake was indistinct and fleeting, and seemed more like nightmares than anything. The stub of his arm would taunt him, and endless pain would erupt from the base of his spine and spread out through his skull. The Korpsman would shiver, the air against his skin cold and merciless; he knew it was fever, and he knew it came from his wounds. In those vague moments of consciousness he knew he was dying.
Sleep brought dreams, more so than usual, and none of them pleasant: he saw infants suckle from skeletons; hideous beings whose pink flesh would pour blood as they mocked him and his weakness.
None of the imagery would leave Heidrich's mind. Adding to his anxiety, there was also the most vivid of his nightmares.
He ran in an infinite sea of white, stumbling, flailing, sick and in horrible pain. He slipped, fell forward with the force of an artillery shell; he tried to get back to his feet, not daring to look back, but then something caught his leg. Still too fearful to look back, he grabbed at a segmented metal cable which had caught around his ankle. No matter how hard he tugged, the cable would tense up and refuse to loosen – it felt as if it would crush his foot.
Another cable came down before the Korpsman like a thrashing tentacle, and as it dragged backwards it raked up Heidrich by his arm. A second slid around his other limb, and then slowly began to bury itself under his skin. He watched the studded pattern of the metal covering snake a path along his arm, felt every muscle numb and clench as the tip tore up and burrowed a new path. He panicked, frantically watched as more and more cables took ahold of him and dug in; fire shot up from each entry-point, quickly engulfing his entire body. A wire shot into the back of his skull, forcing him to lurch his head back and scream.

Then he woke up, numbly moaning in parody of his bawling. His sore vision registered a dark blue wall lit bright by an angled light. Heidrich rolled over, cursing his phantom-limb and the feeling of contradictory wholeness it brought. He realized he was atop a cushioned slab in the middle of a square room. Obviously, he realized, he was no longer onboard the vessel which the Marine had put him on – it was too sterile, and there was a keen lack of the rust-red color which had permeated whatever he saw.
His lost limb ached. He slapped at the stump, thinking that would relieve it…
Then he realized there was no stump. A solid scar circling around his bicep indicated where his limb had been severed, but below it was a complete arm which exactly matched with his other appendage. He flexed it, and a few seconds of testing revealed that he could actually control its fingers. He considered for a moment that he might be dreaming again, but his unmistakable dizziness all but confirmed he was awake.
Heidrich scanned over the room from his seat: the only real detail was an open doorway tucked away against a corner, inviting him to pass through. He considered getting up and investigating when a soft, gentle noise sent him into chilling convulsions.
From some hall beyond the door echoed a woman's singing. The voice had a metallic rattle to it, but nevertheless Heidrich supposed he would have found it comforting were it not for the fact that he knew the melody.
A minute passed before Heidrich could hear a steady pattern of scraping sounds in the hallway. The singing grew louder as the source came closer, and before long he realized he could hear the soft thud and hiss of hydraulics.
Then a shape entered the room, completely obscured by piles of rags. A long, heavy stalk at the forward-facing end of it stared off at the Korpsman with a flayed face pinned to its flat tip, through which a bright light shone.
The Korpsman felt his fever rise as he backed off to the edge of his perch. The far-end of the mechanical monstrosity sprouted hundreds of wires which attached to a pair of miniature power generators that dragged along behind the mass. The base-legs of the generators scraped along the ground as the creature approached Heidrich like a prisoner's ball-and-chain.
Heidrich's breathing grew erratic, then labored. He heaved and heaved, trembling with such intensity that his breaths grew shaky in distress.
"Hush, little baby, don't you weep…" the creature sang, coming close to the Korpsman and reaching out with a manipulator arm. Heidrich yelped and slid clear off the back of the slab, and continued to crawl backwards on his rear. The machine-mass followed him too, circling around the seat to get close to him.
"Poor, poor child…" it cooed. Heidrich hit up against the wall, and pressed up against it as close as he could. The creature came upon him, lifting itself up, its two forward limbs against the wall to expose its underbelly – the two human arms protruding from amidst the dirty and torn cloths dangled as if useless. Then the arms twitched and bent up, reaching for Heidrich. They palmed his face, rubbed through his hair, and stroked his neckline, and he was too afraid to react.
"The bad man hurt you. I told him not to dare, but he couldn't help himself." The creature took its hands away from the Korpsman, and let them swing loosely again. "Don't you worry, my dear baby. He'll be punished for it. He'll know what your suffering was like."
Pressurized air spewed from vents along the creature's underside; Heidrich could hear screws being undone and pneumatic locks unlatching. Strands of fabric tore apart to make way as some hatch on the creature slid open. Heidrich, nearly ready to faint, could hardly make out what he was seeing until the process was complete.
From the belly of the mass dropped the upper body of a pale woman. Unkempt lengths of dead-silver hair obscured her face, and countless cables suspended her from the shell of the main body. The arms which had stuck out from the body belonged to her, studded with connector-ports and autosanguinator filaments poking up from under her flesh. Her skin shared a consistency with that of an embalmed corpse. Her lower body was either gone or hidden away in a skirt of wires which lead into the back of the mass.
The woman pressed herself up with her arms – Heidrich could make out the soft glow of an augmetic lens before she shook her hair from her face. She smiled up at the stunned Korpsman with a motherly admiration, and climbed her way up along his body until she was level with his face. The whole left side of her bare chest was completely replaced with machinery, connected to her shell by huge pumps, fans and redundant tubing. There was no heat to her body – in fact, Heidrich could feel the cold of her hands up close along his neck.
She tenderly kissed him on the forehead, and stared down into his eyes. "My sweet little child. You've been so brave. You've been hurt and hurt and hurt, but you've continued to suffer a life you don't deserve. But nobody will ever try to harm you ever again, my Heidrich…"
She retracted from him, and slid back into her shell. The hatches closed over her; the locks and screws sealed her tight again. She backed away from the Korpsman, and slowly turned to exit.
Heidrich promptly fainted watching what had once been the lady in red depart.

Unrelenting pain engulfed Torturer as he lay on the table. The sensations brought him no end of discomfort, yet at the same time the pain seemed to be all that kept him alert. Pain had been all he could feel in the weeks spent traveling – his armor's injectors had failed completely, leaving him wracked with the suffering his wounds brought.
He heard the Magos enter. He attempted to lift his head to see her, but it was useless – he was confined in his armor, for his power pack had been removed by Sevanar's adepts before he was prepared for operation.
"We shall begin by removing all articles of present coverage," Sevanar plainly announced. Her tone worried Torturer – every other time she had conversed with him, it had been with an annoyingly tranquil tune, as opposed to the dead-flatness with which she now spoke.
The adepts in the room began to mumble prayers amongst themselves. The bottom of the table opened up, and dozens of mechadendrites shot up from within it and lifted Torturer up; another set grasped the front of his power armor. The two sets of manipulators began to work the Chaos Marine's coverings, releasing bolts and pulling up rivets which had long-since entangled with body tissue. Torturer howled as patches of flesh were torn free of his body; it only became worse when all the fasteners were removed. Torturer inwardly began cursing Magos Sevanar: she was working him without desperately-wanted anesthesia.
"Bring in the armor segments now," the Magos ordered.
The arms began to rip Torturer free of his exoskeleton, pulling away more and more of his skin with it. The pain was beyond compare for the Chaos Marine. Then the mechadendrite mass undid the nerve-connections to his augmetic legs, and wrested the bionics from his body… forcefully. The result sent a renewed shock through every part of the Chaos Marine's body.
A number of the manipulator arms took hold of his rebreather, and then cut it loose from his face. With the mask gone Torturer could not draw breath, as the mechanisms of the rebreather had been hooked directly to his windpipe in light of his destroyed pharynx. He gurgled pitifully, trying to plea with the Magos to return his breath, fearful in spite of his impressive ability to retain air.
Then the mechadendrites hoisted a pair of circular plates to the sides of his zygomatics – the plates held parallel to one-another as a second set of manipulators bored rivets deep into the bone. Torturer responded to this assault on his face with a scraping yowl from his muffled voice box. Another pair of mechadendrites jammed a long breathing tube down into the framework Phoeb had created in his throat, and after a few connections were drilled into the roof of his mouth the Chaos Marine was able to breathe again.
Blood dripped down from within the wreckage of Torturer's maw and from his face, spattering against his front. He dizzily peered down at his withered body, distraught of the weakness he seemed to embody in that moment.
"Pathetic creature," sang a voice, resonating in Torturer's ears.
Torturer squirmed, attempting to spot who had taunted him – the motion nearly caused a mechadendrite to solder an impulse cable meant for Phoeb's interfaces on the Chaos Marine's cheekbone to his ear.
"Who said that?" Torturer demanded – in his weakness, the message did not make it out far enough from his mind to enter those of the tech-adepts.
"Weak mortal, you have no right to address me, let alone demand my name."
Unable to respond, Torturer simply watched as piece after piece was added to his lower face, rebuilding his jaw. Once the process was complete, a pair of adepts came forward with the Chaos Marine's new right leg carried between them – it was one of two huge, double-jointed bionic pieces ending in great talons worthy of a Raptor, and had been requested on very short notice, which greatly impressed Torturer.
The manipulators took up the leg and began to adapt it to the metal cap over the Chaos Marine's flesh. After a few moments, the work was complete, and Torturer realized he could grasp with the claw while the left leg was added.
"You pout and scowl because you have been bested. Because you are weak."
The first parts of the actual power armor to be added were the guard-plates for the new legs. Once that was over, the mechadendrites began to layer the Marine's body in synskin, slowly forming a new set of under armor. When that was complete, the adepts renewed their chants and began to feed the manipulator-mass the leg-armor pieces, starting with the support-skeleton and its various motors before progressing to the actual armor itself.
"By what right do you claim yourself a true servant of the Great Gods, when there you are, exposed and fragile without your petty armor?"
The primary structure for the Chaos Marine's arms were then attached and wired together; an injection port was installed along his upper arm. Then the plates were slipped on, jointed, sealed, and the gauntlet was placed over his right hand. The same was done with the left hand, but a group of six adepts stepped up beside Torturer, holding up a power fist for the manipulators. The hulking weapon was locked in place, and power cables were connected in preparation for the power pack.
"You do not understand the first nuance of true power… of what it means to be a devotee of the true Gods."
The framework of Torturer's torso-section was added, and then as much of the wiring as could be done at the time was added along his back and chest. The simple bands of his abdominal armor were put in place and riveted together, and then slowly the chestplate was put in place, along with the backplate.
A pair of manipulators quickly sealed the plates shut and withdrew to allow the insertion of the underpauldrons on the Chaos Marine's shoulders. A clear cable was run through the spot in the armor which corresponded with the injection port on Torturer's right arm; the cable was woven around his back, between the connector-joints for the power pack, and then was fed to a receptacle jack.
"This way, you may continue to sustain yourself without the need to eat," Sevanar explained.
"Yes… because you are too weak to feed yourself now."
"Who are you?…" Torturer asked, bewildered.
A set of manipulators leveled with Torturer's skull along the back of his head – drill-bits on the tips of each of them began to spin, and they jammed themselves down into his skull. The Chaos Marine's eyes rolled back into his head, and he began to groan.
The world turned white for him, then black; color returned, except in vast clouds consisting of impossible combinations of hues.
Before him in this vortex stood the perfect woman. She was naked, soft features hypnotizing Torturer from a simple glance alone.
"I am the will of Slaanesh, the Prince of Pleasure's immaculate finger," the woman told him. "I am the Way, and you and I are now joined together in pact by the machinations of Magos Sevanar."
"You are in my armor," Torturer realized.
"Yes. And I can offer you far greater opportunities than Khorne ever did." The Way approached the Chaos Marine, and lifted up a perfectly slender hand to his brow. Instantly images filled Torturer's head: great acts of hedonism, thousands of worshippers, hundreds of triumphant conquests and untold wealths of every sort; his ascension to a greater state, and the rightful return of his lost features as well.
"Power, pure and true, can all be yours," the Way whispered – her voice was soft and low, and yet it filled Torturer's head, deafening out the sound of the drills burrowing deep into his mind and the pulse of his heart.
"Every glorious whim you wish shall be made reality. I will answer on your beck and call. I will be your loving slave, so long as you continue to worship the Dark Prince through your wondrous actions."
The Way brushed against Torturer's chest, and then dissipated. As he awoke from his dream, his eyes began to burn with an intense fury – the Magos was nearly finished installing his psy-amps. Mechadendrites rushed to connect all the proper cables along Torturer's neck and the back of his head, while the power pack was attached.
Torturer's mindless squeals turned into a mad laughter as his armor came to life. Electricity arced from his power fist to every nearby piece of metal. The manipulators attached his pauldrons, one fashioned as a plain Mark-VII rounded pad and the other a tiered pair of plates with an elongated trim-edge.
The transformation was complete. Unwilling to wait to be released, Torturer broke free from the supportive bed of mechadendrites, tearing away several of the ceiling-mounted arms with a light tug as he broke away. He descended upon Magos Sevanar's adepts, unable to stop laughing and killing.
Torturer, the servant of Slaanesh, was born.