The mont the Apothecarion hatch hissed open, Enkidu truly understood the aning of profanity. He understood Slaanesh.
The erratic Varex had long since vanished into the depths of the ship, and Morpheus the Apothecary had no intention of playing nanny to a batch of recruits. He remained behind the seal, watching with cold indifference as his "lambs" were led away by warband serfs.
The lead slave was dressed in tattered finery, his skull pierced by heavy golden thorns that forced his head into a permanent, submissive tilt. Enkidu followed him, his bare feet pressing against the deck. With every step, his heightened senses cataloged the texture of the floor—it was warm, yielding, and smooth as silk, with a faint, rhythmic pulse vibrating beneath the surface.
The corridor had once boasted elegant arches and a dignified palette of regal purple and gold. Now, it was choked by layers of calcified bone-flowers and slick with the secretions of unknown organisms. It was a scene of simultaneous rot and perverse beauty. Every ten paces, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their verdigris-coated fras groaning under their own weight. Thick, sweet vapors billowed from oversized diamonds embedded in the fixtures, staining the air a hazy, neon pink.
Enkidu felt his thoughts begin to drift, a dangerous lethargy creeping into his mind. He gritted his teeth, praying his Astartes augntations would filter the toxins. Behind him, the other initiates seed to draw a frantic sort of energy from the smoke, losing the catatonic stupor they had displayed in the vats.
The Apothecary had clearly laced the nutrient solution with sothing "potent." But considering this was a Slaaneshi warband... that was to be expected.
Halfway down the hall, they passed an Astartes slumped against the wall. His breastplate was pried open, his helt discarded. He was twitching in an unconscious rhythm, a viscous fluid seeping from the seams of his black-and-pink armor. A slave stood over him, trembling with terror as he tried to pour a glowing concoction down the warrior's throat.
Enkidu looked away.
At the end of the long gallery, the doors to a Great Hall stood ajar. A deafening cacotomy of discordant music and the sharp tang of musk erupted from within. Enkidu's preomnor and neuro-glottis imdiately detected the copper scent of blood and the stench of decay hidden beneath the perfu.
The serf took a sharp turn at a junction, steering them far away from that door.
The further they marched, the darker and more dilapidated the surroundings beca. The stench of rot gave way to the sharp, biting sll of rusted iron and ozone. Paradoxically, Enkidu's multi-lung expanded, welcoming the "cleaner," harsher air. Whether it was his constitution finally stabilizing or the "smoke" from the gallery wearing off, the other recruits began to stir. Unrest and panic flickered in their eyes.
Ten minutes later, they reached a hangar bay. A scarred veteran barked orders, herding them onto a shuttle like frightened livestock. They were ferried to a secondary vessel. When Subject Three and Subject Seventeen tried to bolt, the veteran lashed out with a whip that seed to writhe with a mind of its own. They collapsed into sobbing heaps and were dragged into a dormitory filled with cold, iron bunk beds.
"My... my Lords... my Angels... this is where you will stay," the lead serf stamred. He set down a pile of basic hygiene kits and coarse tunics, then turned to flee.
"Hold it!" Enkidu barked.
The slave went bone-white and froze.
"Tell ," Enkidu said, his voice carrying the new, resonant bass of his Astartes throat. "What is your na? Where are you from? And where exactly are we?"
Enkidu was a modern man who had never seen a real storm, let alone the end of the world. Now that he was temporarily "settled," he needed information, and this terrified mortal was his best source.
"Yes... yes, my Lord!" The slave looked as if he might burst into tears, but he choked them back. "My na is Paul. I was a manager at the Eternal Forge factory in the hive world of Aerius. Thirteen years ago, I heard there was a new expansion zone opening near the Calixis Sector. I thought I'd try my luck, but..."
He had encountered a Chaos warband. He had been "lucky" enough to survive.
"I t the Angels... and I have served here ever since," Paul's voice dropped to a whisper. He stole a glance at Enkidu, terrified of sparking a tantrum. "The others call this ship The Blissful Spiral. The Angels... they enjoy their banquets very much."
"I see. You've been very helpful."
Enkidu dismissed Paul to the corner and pulled on a purple robe, his mind racing.
As a man who had been turned into a pawn for the Third Legion, his priorities were clear:
Stay alive.Don't turn into a "tin can" addict.Escape this hellhole.
If those failed, he hoped for a quick death—anything but becoming a drooling freak like the marine in the hallway. If he ever managed to escape, maybe he could disappear into the fringe, or find the Deathwatch and take the Blackshield's oath. But those were distant dreams.
Enkidu sat on a bunk, his fingers unconsciously tapping a rhythm on the iron fra. He surveyed the other "Astartes" from his batch.
Aside from the miserable Three and Seventeen, most had claid a bed. So were already brawling over the "best" spots—all except the area around Enkidu.
Perhaps because he was the first to wake, or because the Apothecary had singled him out, the others looked at him with a budding, instinctive fear.
He cleared his throat.
"Listen up. Let's get to know each other."
The room went silent. The recruits who were fighting paused, fists hovering mid-air.
"You can call Enkidu. What are your nas? Not the numbers. Your real nas. If you still rember them."
Subject Two watched him for a long beat before speaking.
"Truen. I was a miner. All I rember is my work crew being hit by slavers. Then... nothing until the vat."
"I am Bellator," a younger-looking initiate said. "They took from the market. They... they killed my mother."
"Pius, from Abramis VII..."
"Soler, I lived in Semper..."
"Varangis..."
One by one, they spoke. Surprisingly, most retained their mories—likely because Chaos warbands didn't bother with the rigorous psycho-indoctrination and mory-wiping common in Imperial Chapters.
Finally, only Three and Seventeen remained silent. They were curled in the corner, faces ash-gray, shivering in visible agony.
Enkidu recalled the veteran's whip—the way it had pulsed with a life of its own. Given the Emperor's Children's love for poisons and sensory pain, the truth was obvious.
"Paul," Enkidu called out, looking at the cowering slave. "Do you have anything for toxins?"
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