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So, no real idea where this came from, but I was a touch bored and this seemed like an interesting concept so I knocked this up.
Basically, a guardsman falling from his loyalties and becoming a traitor. I know it probably wouldn't happen so quickly, but I wasn't planning a novel here!
Also, I decided not to put this in the 40K fluff forum, because it's not really fluff for my army. Just random ideas spewed forth from my mind, possibly for your enjoyment, possibly just to disturb you. Its not that graphic or anything, I don't think, but just in case you aren't into reading about the infliction of pain, you might want to give it a miss.
Meh, I'm probably just being paranoid. But I did warn people, so don't come crying to me if me if I give you nightmares or make you glare evilly at puppies or something.
Gah... can you tell it's Friday afternoon where I am? This intro is going to be longer than the story!
One more thing, though. Only one. I feel I should mention that, if you like this, and it inspires you, you should meander over here to the Official Silver Demon Fluff competition (The Official Silver Demon Fluff Composition Contest). And enter. Never hurts to have more stuff to read! (I'm a judge, so I have to promote it. It's in my contract.)
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Jale gave a single, slow nod to Kivver, the youngest member of his squad, who was crouched at the dimly glowing controls of a corroded iron door. When Kivver’s hand touched that panel, as Jale had just signalled him to do, Ulter and Barley would sweep through.
Jale would be covering them, as would Tallin by his side. Jhunis and Farrow were bringing up the rear, and would be the last through.
He focussed along his sights, watching the door. There were supposedly traitors in the area, chaotic forces set on some form of dastardly mission, but the calls Jale had been hearing over the comms network hinted at only minor resistance.
On the fringes of his narrowed vision he saw the indicator lights on the door panel change. The ancient metal hissed aside…
And, with a dull, percussive thud, the entire wall boiled outwards.
Chunks of masonry were hurled aside as tremendous armoured forms burst through the shattered wall, and Jale heard screams and shouts amongst the patter of crumbling plaster and tumbling chunks of concrete.
He moved into the corridor, snapping off a shot as something came barrelling towards him through the plumes of grey dust. He couldn’t miss; the midnight blue and gold behemoth filled the entire corridor, even without the wicked spikes protruding from the figure’s back that dragged along the ceiling.
His shot had no effect though, not even scorching the paint of the charging warrior as a shimmer in the air dissipated his lasbolt. He backpedalled hurriedly, keeping up a stream of shots as the figure bore down on him, the corridor falling into darkness behind it as the trophy racks scoured across the strip lights, shattering them one after another with an almost musical tingle of glass and a cascade of sparks that danced in time.
But the figure never slowed, didn’t even flinch, and too late Jale turned to run.
The figure, lowering his left shoulder, reached across his body with one massive gold claw before lashing outwards, catching him with a blunt edge under the chin and lifting him in to the air. Jale only realised he had passed out when a burning pain in his abdomen snapped him back to reality.
His eyes opened only to be met by two glowing green orbs sunk deep within a scowling gold mask. Breath hissed from within the creature, carrying with it an ancient, dusty scent and a low, threatening snarl.
Jale looked down to find the source of his pain and gasped in horror. The figure’s right claw had him pinned two feet off the ground, against the wall of the corridor. The two middle talons hand punched through his body, below his ribcage, and he knew immediately that nothing would save him from such a wound. He was going to die by this creature’s hand.
The talons flexed slightly within him, and Jale snapped his head back and howled in pain. His movements only brought further agony, and it took all of his strength to still his body, digging his fingers into the crumbling concrete in an effort to prevent further movement.
He glanced back at the mask, distorted as it was by the tears spilling from his eyes. It was tipped at an angle now, the wearer regarding him with a morbid curiosity. Toying with him.
He tentatively sought his pain, skimming some strength from the roiling pool of agony. He managed an unconvincing snarl, “What… what do you want… from me?”
The heel of the figure’s left claw slammed into his right shoulder, and Jale whimpered as he heard his bones crumbling under the impact. The light in the figure’s eyes flared and the mask gently oscillated as a shuddering, hissing chuckle issued from beneath it.
To Jale, it felt as though molten beads of metal were trickling over his skin when the figure finally spoke in an oozing, sibilant whisper, “I want your pain, mortal. Your fear. I want your very soul.”
The creature pulled him away from the wall, holding him aloft in the corridor and beginning to crush his ribcage in a single clawed hand. Pain seared through his entire body, an agony that was more than physical. His mind was afire, burning as if in the midst of an inferno.
Through the roaring and crackling within his mind he once more heard the figure’s voice, “Give yourself to me, mortal, and I will end your torment. You will no longer fear pain, nor death. As my masters protect me and imbue me with their power, so will they bless you!”
But even as he fought for the breath to decry such a traitorous offer, new images flashed into his mind. Images of his comrades; Ulter and Barley pinned together on a single blade, screaming as the dark sword seemed to burn them from within. Tallin, Jhunis and Farrow within a ring of warriors, cowering from searing bolts of arcane energy with which the armoured forms were callously lashing them. And Kivver, pinned face-first against a wall by a single gauntlet on the back of his skull, his back a bloody mess as the warrior holding him cut him again and again and again.
Jale couldn’t bear it. Though he felt sick at his own words, he couldn’t stop them, “I… I will do what you wish…”
And then he was kneeling on the floor, on his hands and knees, coughing up blood and dust. A massive claw, still stained with his blood even though his wounds were gone, dragged him upright, and his Lasgun was shoved into his shaking hands.
The blue and gold warrior leant down to him, the rumbling voice from beneath the mask sending shivers through his body, “I am Greth’maar, mortal, and you are now my slave. You will do my bidding.”
A part of him still railed against his choice, clawing at the prison within his mind that now held it at bay. But a greater part of him felt the power now coursing through his veins, even now knitting his flesh and bones, and embraced it.
Jale felt a smile touch his lips as his squad assembled behind him, and he let it flourish, “Give us our orders, Greth’maar. We will serve you well.”