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This is a story of a prisoner of the dark eldar i wrote, and i hope you like it:
All the prisoner knew was pain, suffering, and hatred. Hatred for the Haemonuclei that tortured him, the wyches that captured him, the universe that abandoned him. He had been tortured for so long he knew of nothing else, except a vague notion of an imperium that had failed him, long ago. As time had passed, his sense of pain had dulled, as he became almost accustomed to the tortures. He had grown far stronger, as a side effect of the evil concoctions of the Haemonuclei, and had gradually become able to twist his body like a contortionist, a result of limbs being repeatedly bent out of place. The final loss of his identity had come when a Heamonucleus had filled his mind with the power of the warp using a strange device, eradicating most of his memories, and his conscience, his compassion, his humanity, while replacing them with greater intelligence, and a calculating manner no human could ever achieve.
As he stood in front of the door, he heard a roar from the crowd, and felt rising apprehension as he knew his turn had come. Beyond the door, lay death, or revenge, and death would be as a gift to him. The door into the arena opened, and he stepped out into a an area like a coliseum filled with baying dark eldar. As he neared his opponent, a wych, he saw her face, and recognised his original captor, a final act of sadism from his tormentors. In her hands were two viciously curved mono-molecular blades, which she flourished expertly, showing incredible skill as he walked towards her. He stood in front of her, then time seemed to slow down, as she began to move her weapons towards him, the left moving in an uppercut the would gut him, as the right glided gracefully towards his neck. In his state of heightened awareness, he saw the patterns of light on the blades as they moved slowly towards him, saw every individual face in the crowd, every strand of the wyches hair. He twisted to the left and threw himself at the wyches right forearm, inside the arc of the deadly blade. As he flew sluggishly through the air, the wych altered the direction of her uppercut, so it would slice through his stomach, but he was moving too fast. He hit the wyches forearm with both hands, swinging under it while twisting it with him. Now his feet landed behind the wych, and twisted the arm up behind the wyches head, as he leaned back to avoid the sword this brought perilously close to his stomach. As he twisted the wyches arm up, he heard a loud crack, and splinters of bone erupted in slow-motion from the arm. The wych cried out in pain, and The prisoner hit the broken arm with his free hand. The wych screamed and dropped her weapons, falling to her knees in agony. He seized one of the curved swords from the ground, and began hacking at the wyches back, delighting in the screams of his captor, watching in joy as blood sprayed from the open wounds. He hit the dark eldar in the side, spinning her so she was facing him. He stabbed the sword through her stomach, pinning her to the ground, then slowly picked up the other blade and slowly, ritualistically, cut out the beating heart. He held it aloft, then slowly ate it.
Silence. Then, the crowd exploded with cheers, but the prisoner was too busy savouring the death of his foe. For a second, the thought flashed across his brain: ‘I have become that I hate most”, before the euphoria of his revenge swept the thought away, replacing it with the belief that the imperium had caused his pain. The imperium would suffer next...
Very nice, I like it a lot, very visceral.