Currently, my life score is an 8.6, the transmigrator thought.
Because I'm already a little bit dead.
The sickening pink hues, the warped features of the giant before him, and the unmistakable array of chemical vats mounted to the back of that power armor told him everything. Even a casual lore-enthusiast knew what this ant: he had fallen straight into a nest of Slaanesh.
The good news: He had transmigrated into Warhamr 40,000.
The bad news: This wasn't the Emperor's Great Crusade. This was Slaanesh's recruitnt drive.
The slightly better news: He wasn't a mortal slave kept for "entertainnt." He was an Astartes initiate.
But the worst news: He was on the fast track to becoming a drug-addled junkie like the freak in front of him—destined to undergo unspeakable physical mutilations before his soul was inevitably claid for eternal tornt by She Who Thirsts.
He felt a pang of regret. He really should have downloaded Baldur's Gate 3 sooner; maybe then so golden god of light would have looked out for him. Instead, he was here.
Thanks to the emotional suppression that ca with the Astartes transformation, Enkidu found he could maintain a strange, numb composure despite being trapped in what felt like a high-budget horror film.
Outside the vat, the sensation-seeking monster watched him with a greasy, lingering gaze, scanning every inch of his body. Enkidu bit his lip, fighting the urge to react. He forced his mind to go blank.
He couldn't show fear. He couldn't cry. Extre emotions were beacons for Slaanesh, and that was doubly true in the presence of an Emperor's Children traitor. Yet, he couldn't appear too defiant either. Strength, too, invited destruction.
He blinked slowly, eting the monster's gaze with a look of hollow, confused helplessness.
The Slaaneshi Astartes seed disappointed by the lack of reaction. His mouth, split to the ears, twisted into a frown as he turned his attention to the neighboring vats.
"That old bastard Fabius might be a black-hearted thief, but the quality of this gene-seed is decent enough..."
"Lord Fabius's techniques have always been peerless," another Astartes said, stepping through the door. His power armor was equipped with a chirurgeon-arm holding a vial of shifting, iridescent liquid. "At the very least, Subject Four's awakening ti is the fastest I've seen. And the 'gifts' the Lord gave you are quite potent, aren't they?"
"The gifts? Yes! Give it to !"
Varex's eyes lit up. He snatched the vial from the Apothecary's hand and shoved the entire glass tube into his mouth. His forked tongue was sliced open, bleeding freely, but the stinging sensation combined with the drugs sent the Warband leader back into a state of glassy-eyed delirium.
Seeing that his master was sufficiently occupied, the Apothecary, Morpheus, turned to the control console. He began tapping commands to wake the remaining initiates and drain the amniotic fluid.
The fluid receded past Enkidu's chest. His secondary lung pumped for the first ti, dragging in the tallic, stale air of the ship. His feet touched cold steel. He stumbled, but before his conscious mind could process the movent, his body had already compensated. He stepped through the sliding reinforced glass and stood firmly on the floor.
"Impressive. It seems the additives in the nutrient solution didn't fry your brain after all."
Enkidu looked down at his hands.
Pale. Clearly defined knuckles. Powerful. He experinted with clenching his fist; the joints popped softly, tendons tightening as the sensation of skin on skin transmitted sharply to his brain.
He could control this body.
An Astartes body.
A spark of heat blood from that thought, thawing the chill of terror and despair that had gripped him.
As he wiped the sli from his skin, looking for anything to cover himself with, the neighboring vat hissed open. A man tumbled out, his knees hitting the tal floor with a dull thud. He didn't stand. He remained kneeling, shaking violently, a sound sowhere between a whimper and a gasp escaping his throat.
"Stand up," Morpheus said without looking up. "Unless you'd like to perform sothing more... interesting... for right now?"
The initiate didn't move.
The Apothecary finally glanced at him, his finger hovering over a button on the console as if weighing the necessity of the boy's existence.
Perhaps the proximity of death triggered a survival reflex. The initiate stood up, trembling, muttering incoherent gibberish. He shrank into the corner of his vat, his eyes showing a flicker of awareness, though he refused to look at anyone.
"A little intelligence. Subject Two, barely a pass," Morpheus noted, his tone like a butcher grading a carcass. "Stand over there. You too, Four."
Enkidu thinned his lips. He didn't know where "over there" was—the Apothecary hadn't even pointed—but he assud there were rules he was expected to know. He picked a direction and dragged Subject Two along with him.
The pale, brooding Apothecary raised an eyebrow, then activated the remaining vats.
The third opened.
The fourth.
The fifth.
Each initiate reacted differently. So leaned against their vats shivering, so hyperventilated, and others simply collapsed, their eyes as empty as the void. Soone like Enkidu—who could understand commands and move independently imdiately upon waking—was a rare specin.
The Apothecary eventually managed to cull a dozen or so viable recruits. Each ti one passed his inspection, Morpheus jerked his head toward the corner where Enkidu stood.
As for those who failed... their luck was non-existent. Morpheus would simply walk up to them and deliver a bone-shattering kick. By the ti they slid down the glass, trailing blood, they were beyond resisting.
Then the Servitors arrived—hulking masses of lobotomized at and rusted tal. They dragged the failures into the shadows. Enkidu didn't want to think about what happened next. He couldn't afford to.
Once the first "substandard" initiate was hauled away, Morpheus turned back to the survivors, a glimr of satisfaction in his cold eyes.
"One, Two, Three, Four... We must thank Lord Fabius Bile for such a bountiful harvest. Once you have passed the combat trials, you shall be granted nas."
"My dear Morpheus, why wait so long?" a velvety voice echoed through the chamber. Varex had regained a shred of lucidity. He spoke with a light, airy cadence. "I am quite eager to welco our new brothers. My banquets are so terribly dull when the guest list never changes. Why not let them join the festivities now?"
"If you want them turned into 'works of art' or drooling idiots by your 'joys' right now, be my guest," Morpheus retorted. "But don't complain when the Craftworld Aeldari raid us again and you're left with nothing but space debris."
"Fine, fine," Varex conceded, retracting the invitation with a pout. "We cannot afford more losses. Those Craftworld rats took a dozen of my dear brothers last ti. If it happens again, I shall have no guests left at all."
Suddenly, the Warband leader's voice spiked in volu. He threw his arms wide, a flush creeping up his face as if embracing an invisible lover.
"But I can still give them nas! Oh! I, as their master, shall grant them their first titles! They shall win countless glories and perform tragic dramas over the long millennia... I am moved to tears! The first to wake should be the first to be nad. Let think... what na fits such future greatness?"
"Basil? Justinian? Caesar? Belisarius? Or Enk... I have it! Enkidu! A na that is both ancient and exquisite!"
For those fallen to Chaos, life began and ended with cruel delights. Honor and glory were nothing but fading dreams. For a Slaaneshi Astartes, the only certain end was dying like a dog in a gutter-war or being consud by the Silver Palace after one too many "joys."
But at least he had a na.
The transmigrator—Enkidu—glanced at the raving Warband leader, then took his old life and buried it in the deepest, darkest corner of his mory.
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