San looked at ‘Tincan’ and smiled.
“With pleasure” he whispered, drawing his dagger from his belt.
He moved along the wall and glanced round the corner. The heretic was facing towards the opposite wall, appearing to be admiring graffiti on the wall.
Crouching low and moving with care, he quickly found himself within inches of the cultist. San could tell that personal hygiene was not a high priority for those in the service to chaos, as he was suddenly hit by a wave of body odour. Taking a deep breath, he stood up quickly, grabbed the cultist and slit his throat, holding his head in a vice grip making sure he could not scream. The cultist struggled for only a few seconds before going limp in his arms. San turned to watch the shadow behind the crate, it showed no sign of movement or alarm; it appears the other cultists had not heard their comrade’s fate. Good. San silently laid the cultist onto the ground and signalled the others to move up to the crates. Before moving up himself, he decided to search the body for anything of use. He was only armed with a pen knife and an autopistol, nothing of use. The cultist appeared to wear no mark of allegiance, be it uniform or symbol.
‘Curious’, he thought.
San moved to the crates and edged himself towards the corner. He peered quickly round the edge to see what they were dealing with.
‘Looks like Tincan was right’ San thought to himself, ‘Two cultists, one leaning against the wall, the other in the middle of the room.’
He moved back behind the crates and considered the situation. With limited visibility it is unclear how many more cultists are on this floor, there could be one directly behind the corner. This possibility makes sneaking past them dangerous, as it would leave them in the open. No, they would have to take the chance of taking both out silently and hope not to attract too much attention.
San sheaved his dagger and pulled out his bolt pistol. He had taken care before venturing into the room to make sure it was loaded, but his ammo count did not look good. This shot had better count. Turning to his companions, he signalled that there were two ahead of them and they would have to take out both cultists at the same time with their pistols. He would deal with the one in the middle of the room. Before they could even give him a gesture of acknowledgement, San moved back to the edge of the crate and took aim.
‘This had better work’, he thought.
‘Trust me’, came the reply, ‘it will’.
San fired, feeling the familiar kickback from his trusty pistol. The cultist dropped to floor with a loud thud, blood pouring from the gaping hole in his head.
“Insane? You dare to claim that we are insane? I find this very amusing. You see, there is no such thing as sanity. Why? Because the nature of sanity depends on the context the term is used. A man living in squalor may call the rich man insane for wasting food, while the rich man in return may call the poor insane for living off his waste. You slaughter thousands and squander the resources of planets on foolish incursions to please a corpse and his corrupted followers. And you have the nerve to call me insane? Oh poor misguided individual, pray to whatever deity you serve and hope he is merciful, for those who find themselves trapped in the spiders web have little else they can do”
Lord Nerthro of the ‘Heralds of Absurdity’ to what remained of an Imperial scouting party