Observation and Hypothesis
The screams continued to reverberate throughout the circular room even as the doctor removed his scalpel from the frontal lobe. The human, positioned so that his arms were above his head in a spread-eagle position, thrashed against his spiked restraints as the pain in his cranium wracked his body. Normally, the pain would absolutely cripple a lesser man, quite possibly even one greater than the one on the metal slab in front of the mad doctor right now.
Blood ran in thick streams down his muscular arms as the inward spikes on the manacles pushed further into his wrists. His exposed cranium shivered as the mad surgeon removed the barbed scalpel from the frontal lobe, spraying brain matter all over the lowered observation lamp. His eyes, held open by a series of rings and staples, darted frantically around the room, surveying all the grotesque horrors that stared back at him in intense fascination.
Due to the almost pitch-black atmosphere of the room, the observation lamp illuminated anything within five feet of the brutal surgery. Through the blood, grey matter and tears streaking down his face, he saw a menagerie of monsters watching him. Several were tall, elegant warriors, clad in bronze and gunmetal armor wearing conical helmets as well as spiked and bladed shoulder pads. Others were bare-chested, wearing black iron masks, attending to a twisted corpse next to the table. It was bent over backwards with its chest splayed open, the curved ribs providing hooks for an assortment of containers and drips that were hooked into the poor soul trapped on the metal slab. If he looked closely, he could see the organs in the make-shift table’s chest still throb and squirm.
But the most horrifying of all was the doctor who operated on him. He couldn’t even call it a doctor; it was more akin to a madman with an artist’s vision and a surgeon’s hand. It floated in the air, an extremely gaunt…thing; that was the best word he could think of. On its back, there was a hump that quite possibly contained all of the meat and muscle in its body. It looked like a withered corpse with the hump of a camel. Spreading out from the hump were several racks of bones that acted a lot like the ribs on the “table”. Several drip feeds and tubes hung on the curved bones as well as a human skull, impaled on the longest bone spike in the rack.
Its masked face stared in interest at the exposed area above his eyes. “That is quite an interesting reaction.” It stated flatly. Dead, black eyes bored into his in curiosity. Though only the top part of his bald head was bared to him, the rest of it from the nose down was covered by a piece of black latex that fitted smoothly into his uniform, his skin was utterly flawless. He could see the suggestion of scars in the middle of his face, running straight down his nose, but aside from that, in was smooth like that of a newborn child.
The surgeon floated away from him and turned to the bare-chested warriors. One of them turned and revealed a hump on its back, like that of the doctor. “You there.” It beckoned, watching as the warrior snapped straight. “Record the changes in the subject’s vitals. Inform me of any drastic changes.” It affirmed its orders with a curt nod and picked up a delicate slate from inside the ribbed “table”. It poked the slate a few times and waved it over the prone human being operated on.
“You.” The doctor pointed at the other bare-chested warrior. It snapped up straight like the other one and awaited it orders. “Tend to this thing.” He pointed at the operating table. At that, the doctor floated past the observers to leave its helper to its devices and tend the screaming mortal on the table.
*******
Scorne sighed as he exited the room and into the hallway as the pitiful mon-keigh continued to scream. He closed his eyes and listened to the other Haemonculi working on their subjects as well. Their screams and cries for mercy, sprinkled with laughter from their resident Haemonculi, caused a rise in him as he reminisced about the days of old.
Millennia ago, he was at the top of his game. Although he was never the best flesh-crafter around, he was nonetheless hired out by the Kabal of the Iron Lotus. Their connections with the mon-keigh Iron Warriors provided a steady influx of resources. Including vast amounts of stock for his love of the arts.
Give him a slave and he’ll give you a twisted work of flesh as well as a deadly beast. A proud and steadfast warrior of the Emperor would be broken and his slave in three days’ time. The weakest gretchin of the barbarian Orks could become a ferocious, snarling beast loyal to him and him alone. The meek and intelligent Tau of the Eastern Fringe would be reduced to vicious berserkers, tugging at their black-iron chains. For three thousand years, he prospered, working under Lord Bane and his royal court, reducing armies to dust and bringing empires to their knees.
Then, all of a sudden, the fun went away. Although the slaves kept pouring in, he became less and less motivated to do anything. He couldn’t even watch his Talos in obscene delight as it hollowed out the bones of their sniveling cousin race, the Eldar. He couldn’t even find the motivation to sew the scalps of any two slave stock, enhance their aggression levels, and watch as they stumble around, trying to kill each other.
He sat floating in the cold hallway, suspended only by his elongated spine as it coiled in place, strengthened only by metal implants and bracing. The portal next to him slid open again as a tall, bare-chested warrior stepped slowly out, cleaning an elegant, yet gruesome kukri. He sported a black iron mask over a face twisted in agony; in fact, Scorne could see the glitter of eyes between the mask’s vision slits. His neck was covered in shining latex and connected to his neck with thick, surgical staples. His garments, made of flayed skin, were stapled to his waist and a long intricate crest of metal ran down his abdomen and past his knees. He wore sandals that were connected to the pants and his feet by more staples. Thick, green tubes flowed into his body and around his waist, pumping life-sustaining fluids and steroids into his muscular, yet withered form, connected to his body by bronze bulbs. Like Scorne, he carried a large hump on his back which carried all of his vital organs as well as reservoirs for vitamins and macro-steroids. Due to the unique bone rack that strutted out from the back-hump, he could tell which one this warrior was.
Wrack-117 was the one hundredth and seventeenth Wrack he created ever since he began his career of flesh-crafting. Made from the submissive body of a lowly psyker, it was his latest flesh-piece and most likely the last if his demotivation kept up with him. Although he usually paid it no mind, 117 always had a tendency to stay close to his creator. While Scorne found this annoying, he never really got around to fixing him.
He walked towards Scorne very slowly and deliberately while wiping his kukri with an ivory cloth. His hands were only connected to their respective arms by a series of tendons, metal braces, and, unsurprisingly, more staples. He stopped exactly three-point-three feet away from Scorne and stood ramrod straight and awaited for his creator to give him permission to talk.
“What do you want, one-one-seven?” Scorne snarled as he twirled his lower arm in a circle, a motion for the slave to speak.
“My lord,” he began, “we have noticed something wrong. We would wish to inquire what seems to be troubling you.”
Scorne frowned beneath his mask. “We” would probably refer to multiple Wracks in his workplace. Was his demotivation really that noticeable that it was clearly obvious to his lowly helper?
“Explain slave, before I decide to drown my sorrows in your brain matter.”
“We have noticed that you no longer partake in joy or revel in happy things.” 117 said. “For example, we noticed that you no longer produced feelings expressing joy when you would elicit a scream from our current test subject.”
Scorne folded both sets of his arms in frustration. He did not like having things pointed out about him, especially if the one pointing these out isn’t even from the same species or held any rank above you. But even though he felt like slitting open the Wrack’s throat and detail the pattern of blood flecks in the fan of blood, he saw what he was pointing out.
Scorne sneered and slithered away from 117. He turned around a second later and motioned for him to follow. They moved their way down the long hallway, 117 walking silently on padded soles and Scorne being propelled by his slithering spine. All along the hallway, there were portals similar to the one 117 exited just moments ago. All along their route, they continued to listen to the screams and cries for mercy echoing down the halls. Scorne stopped by one portal and slithered in as it unfolded.
Scorne and 117 stepped into another small room, but, unlike his office, there was no operating table and no filthy wretch splayed upon it. Long ago, Scorne had repurposed this room to serve as his private quarters where he spent his time in between slaves. The walls were replaced by thick glass, providing a scenic overlook of the surrounding city.
The Dark City.
Commorragh.
Tall spires impaled the sky, stretching higher and higher until the observer would break his back while bending backwards to see the top. Tall, black, and extremely top-heavy, these spires defied all mortal reason. Large hives and hubs dotted these spires, providing homes for an assortment of aircraft and hunting vehicles. Roads and streets lined the gaps between the spires and Scorne could see all the little people walking around miles below him. Merchants sold their wares; a couple consummated their love to a group of onlookers; even a trio of warriors chased down a member of another Kabal.
He followed the main road to an enormous structure amongst the forest of spires. Although there was no true light in Commorragh—in fact, the room was pitch-black—the brightest light spilled up from the enormous hole in the middle. Tall towers ringed the outside at intervals, each one proudly displaying their sign of loyalty. A budding floret was inlaid with the sigil of victory. The royal crest of Scorne’s Kabal.
The Kabal of the Iron Lotus.
Even though his thoughts were far away, Scorne listened as 117 slowly stepped into the room. He turned and saw 117 stand ramrod-straight once more. His kukri had been sheathed into a slit in his back hump. Scorne saw blood pooling around the base of 117’s left foot; he must have stuck the kukri in the wrong place again.
“My lord,” 117 said. “I assume you wish to speak here.”
“Yes, one-one-seven. I would like to discuss the matter of my mood as of late.” Scorne turned around again and faced the window. He folded his top arms with each other and placed the lower two behind his back. After sweeping his eyes over the district once more, he spoke again. “I have been feeling depressed lately."
“We have noticed, my lord.” He heard from behind him.
“Do not speak unless I tell you to or any reason otherwise. Now why are my lowly subjects so concerned about how I feel?”
For a moment there was silence. Scorne watched as a pair of winged Scourges fought each other to the death, feeling a pang of delight as one impaled the other on a spike jutting out from one of the towers. It was no doubt one of his Scourges, he could tell by the gunmetal glint of its armor and the telltale details of bronze.
“Due to your use of the word ‘subject’, you wish to imply that we are the subjects and you are the ruler.” 117 said as he stepped next to Scorne. He could not tell if 117 was just looking out at the city or if he was just mimicking him. Either way, Scorne wanted to reach out and throttle the life out of 117 for him not already knowing that. “If that is the case, we only wish to make you, the ruler, happy as a token of gratitude from your ‘subjects’.”
Scorne turned to him. “Really?” he said condescendingly “And how do you propose to make me happy?” He chuckled to himself; it was amusing to him that his own creation was trying to appease him. As soon as it came, that fleeting moment of happiness died and Scorne continued to listen.
“Perhaps…” 117 said, clearly giving away that he had not expected to get this far with his master. He cocked his head to the side in thought.
“Perhaps…what?” Scorne said impatiently.
“Perhaps…another…raid, my lord?” 117 said which came out more as a question.
Scorne thought about this. It had been ages since the last raid. Almost a century or so ago, he had participated in a real-space raid with Lord Bane and his Kabal. He remembered it well; they were to attack and absolutely ravage one of the minor trade routes near a planet called Bakka. He closed his eyes as the memories came back to him. The looks on the crew’s face as they saw their elegant craft tear into their brutish pieces of floating monastery, the rush of sterilized air into the cold void as dark lances flayed away the decks of each ship, the horrendous tearing of metal and meat as the boarding pods punched into the vermin’s ship, and even the captain’s face twist in horror as an Ur-Ghul was let into the bridge.
He smiled beneath his mask as all the memories of that raid came back to him. He was paid well that day, in slaves as well as a wench or two to add to his collection of pets. He poured over each one again and again and almost felt a tear shed as they were gradually milked of all their worth. 117 was right. A raid was profusely needed.
Scorne looked again at 117, who was standing straight with his arms at his side still looking out over the city. Scorne beamed under his mask. “Of course! Another raid should help me overcome this bout of depression!” 117 turned to Scorne and listened to his master go on about the raid he proposed.
“It will be wonderful! Glorious! Me, riding atop the lead craft, sword pointed towards our prey, ever ready to taste more and more delicious flesh! My creations, riding alongside me, ever ready to prove their worth to me and me alone. The spoils will be boundless! What poor, worthless vermin have attracted your attention as of late, slave?” Scorne slithered over to 117 and placed both of his right hands on his shoulder and arm, waiting for a response.
117 thought for a moment. “I have several suitable candidates for your incursion, my lord. Perhaps the mon-keigh of the Nocturne system will prove satisfactory?”
“No,” Scorne said dully, “not them again.” He remembered the last time the Kabal participated in a raid on Nocturne. The entire house of the Iron Lotus participated in the raid as well as several other Kabals. Only ragged survivors and a few Space Marine slaves returned. The only good thing that came from the raid was a one-on-one sit down with a black-skinned warrior of Nocturne. Although living on a death-world could be hard and toughen up lesser warriors, each one of the mon-keigh lasted three weeks collectively. “What else?”
“Perhaps the Tau located along the Eastern Fringe, my lord?”
“No, they don’t last long with me, even in a good mood.”
“Maybe the Orks of Sulairn? They appear to be amassing for another one of their crusades.”
“Don’t use the term ‘crusade’ when talking about Orks and their wars, 117. They do not deserve such a dignified word. And besides, whenever we attack the Orks, they act like insects scrabbling over and defending a kicked hive. What else?”
“I have heard rumors of the Tyrani—”
“Stop right there. Move on to the next one.”
117 paused for a moment, once more deep in thought. Scorne realized that he had stooped down and straightened himself as 117 provided yet another option.
“What about the Equidae, my lord?”
Scorne stood on his lengthened spine for a long moment in thought about these “Equidae”. “Aren’t they on the Western Fringe, right next to the Eye of Terror?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Scorne continued to think about this one. While the Orks or the Tyranids required no further thoughts, the prospect of raiding a civilization so close to the Eye of Terror would prove disastrous should the Warp decide to churn up another Storm or daemonic crusade. “Remind me of these Equidae again, slave, and why we should inquire Lord Bane for a task force.”
117 took a deep, labored breath and put his hands behind his back, right below his back hump. “You hypothesized that the Equidae stamina and slightly increased resilience would improve your future creations by a small percentage. As you may already know, my lord, our last Equidae test subject died in the slave pens almost a year ago from lack of sustenance. It was the only one leftover from a real-space raid into their system long ago. In fact, I believe you created Grotesque 1 out of the slaves captured.”
Grotesque 1. Now there was a painful memory. After years of making Wracks and the occasional surgery to produce a proud Scourge warrior, he had wanted to try his hand at making a Grotesque. He knew he was not ready, but he hypothesized it wouldn’t hurt to try. Using the parts left over from Equidae in the Arena, he stitched together a small bastard creature. As he force-fed the infant Grotesque macro-steroids to keep it alive and growing, Scorne knew it was futile and a waste of resources to even keep the wretch alive, let alone grow. So, a little over a millennia ago, he dropped it off on its planet of origin and laughed in delight as he watched it attack anything in sight.
Since then, Scorne had busied himself making four more Grotesques, each one better than the last. Like all good creators, he learned from his mistakes and went on to churn out better Wracks and the occasional Grotesque.
It had been so long since he had last stepped on that primitive world. Quadrupeds, like that of a juvenile equestrian, filled the land like a pox that needed to be exterminated. They descended upon them, watching in delight as the poor creatures stumbled around, trying to escape. They were much slower and uncoordinated back then; Scorne hoped that this had changed over time.
“So, slave, you propose that I should participate in another real-space raid on these…” Scorne trailed off.
“Equidae, my lord.” 117 added.
“Yes, yes, Equidae. So I should take part in ravaging these Equidae in an effort to make me happy?”
“Yes, my lord. We only wish for you to be content with your work.”
Had Scorne been a lesser mortal, he would have smiled and shown gratitude towards his loyal slave. But instead, he only put his hands behind his back, only smiling slightly behind his black mask.
“Petition Lord Bale. We ride in three days' time.”
