Joined
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104 Posts
“So this is to be my prison?”
“It is. Let me make this abundantly clear, alien. You will die, by my hand, whenever I wish it. From what I know of your kind, this is a particularly fitting end. Captured on a slave-raid.”
It shrugs. It stands tall, proud in spite of its nudity, almost baring its taut flesh at its captor.
“Your bars will not hold me, mon-keigh. You will die, by my hand, when I wish it.”
“I have no time to bandy threats and exercise bravado with you, alien. Goodbye.”
***
[Excerpt from the log of Inquisitor Gabriel Lemarche]
It still refuses to answer my questions, despite my best efforts. The alien has proven highly resilient to my pain amplifiers; indeed, it laughs and mocks them, calling them inferior copies, toys. I confess that it vexes me. While long and bitter experience has taught me much, I had not anticipated this much resilience in an organism with such an advanced nervous system.
Visual studies of the subject’s body may reveal the answer, however. Among scars presumably from combat, on the right side of the torso alien glyphs have been scarred into the flesh, some barely visible, others red and livid. The eldar are noted for their cruelty and sadism, and I wonder if these tendencies have lead to a propensity for ritualised self-harm in my captive.
The alien certainly seems to take some form of pleasure in the pain I cause. For now, I shall cease conventional interrogation methods. I may make use of sanctionite Annabel, who has served me well before.
***
[Excerpt from the log of Inquisitor Gabriel Lemarche]
Annabel is dead. I should have foreseen this, and I could have prevented it. I spent an hour within my own pain amplifiers as penance. It is with regret and shame I report the details of her death.
I brought her to see the subject. It has become increasingly agitated over the last few days; the solitude, perhaps, and lack of mental stimulation within its cell is beginning to affect it. It mocked and threatened me, as usual, but its threats towards poor Annabel were much more graphic, and made the worse by the fact that she could sense they were indeed its desires. Shivering with fear and revulsion, she entered its mind.
She screamed, and the alien laughed. I took her away, quickly, ordering the alien suffer two hours of agony.
It said it would enjoy every moment of them.
I gave Annabel a chemical relaxant, which calmed her enough for her to relay what she had learned from the alien’s mind. She spoke of a mind filled only thoughts with thoughts of murder, torture and rape and a terrifying, boundless hunger.
She took a further sedative to ease her sleep. Concerned for her state of mind, I checked in on her early the next morning to find her body.
Her manner of death was not... pleasant. She had taken a blade and torn erratically at her flesh. It seems she died of blood loss. There was a note on her bed, or rather the incomplete final entry in her dream-log. I was difficult for me to read, but it made mention of a dark city, and some kind of thirsting entity. The last line mentioned that something was pulling at her soul.
What manner of fiend is this creature? All aliens are monsters worthy only of destruction, of course, but even the most twisted Xenoforms have some motive beyond their own perverse enjoyment. Annabel was an extremely resilient psyker and a single moment with this eldar drove to madness and suicide.
A part of me wants this experiment to end. I ought to kill it now and dissect it, or perhaps I should vivisect this alien and see if it enjoys the pain of its own death. But can I extract its motives, its secrets and its very psyche with my scalpels and probes and expose them, quivering, to the light? I cannot.
I will let it live, for now. This terrible hunger that killed my adept and, I realise in the harsh clarity of hindsight, friend intrigues me as much as it repulses me.
***
[Excerpt from the log of Inquisitor Gabriel Lemarche]
The subject’s agitation increases. It is quick to anger and its threats have grown less refined and more brutal and vicious. Pleasing progress, certainly, but I suspect it is linked to this’ hunger’ Annabel died for. So I asked it outright.
***
“Are you hungry, alien? Is our fare not to your liking?”
“Your swill tastes as disgusting as you smell, mon-keigh.”
“Your wit remains as sharp as ever, I see. It’s just you seem to want something. Crave, I should say. Perhaps I could accommodate you. You are, after all, my guest.”
The eldar presses its angular face against the bars. It seems to have grown paler over the last few days; its ashen skin appears almost translucent under the harsh lights.
“What I want is to kill you, human. You and your entire mongrel race.”
***
The subject remains as uncooperative as ever. I begin to wonder if this hunger is simply for causing pain and death. Are the eldar so depraved that their desire for bloodshed has become a literal addiction? We know little of their physiology, but the subject sweats and shakes like one in withdrawal. It mutters, sometimes, in its alien tongue when it thinks itself alone.
There is, of course, a considerable likelihood that this is a literal narcotic addiction. The eldar are known to make use of combat-drugs and for a high degree of hedonism.
I have a new, bold plan. I will ask this creature, this alien, what it is addicted to and promise to deliver it if it answers my questions.
***
“Alien.”
“Yes, mon-keigh?”
“You look terrible. Even more hideous than when you first came. And I know why.”
The prisoner chuckles.
“You’re an addict.”
It stops laughing; now it fixes Lemarche with a careful gaze.
“What do you know of it?” it spits.
“Little enough, but even with your alien biology I can recognise withdrawal when I see it. It is possible I may be able to supply what it is that you require. I am prepared to do so, in exchange for information.”
It laughs again, louder.
“You could supply it well enough, Inquisitor, but somehow I think your human sensibilities would balk at my price.”
“Name it.”
It says nothing at first; the violet eyes lock onto his, unblinking. Lemarche’s eyes begin to water, but he refuses to be the one to break contact.
“I require... to kill someone. Not some pathetic animal, I require something with ...substance...”
“A human, you mean?” Lemarche replies, in a voice of solid ice.
“Not necessarily,” it hisses, almost apologetically. “but that would suffice.”
“By Terra, you’re a sordid race, aren’t you? You’re physically addicted to murder and torture?”
The eldar growls, spits. The spittle hisses upon contact with the power field.
“You are wrong, mon-keigh! It is your race that is perverse! We kill, we torture, we rape and we take because we must! You do it simply because you can, in the name of some lunatic faith in a dead god!”
“Blaspheme again, alien, and you will receive nothing. I will let you die slowly.”
“The true face of humanity! As cruel as we are, but do you let yourselves see it? An entire race of hypocrites!”
Lemarche pauses.
“We can continue to insult one another’s species for all eternity, but we both know it would be a waste of time. I will give you what you want, alien, as much as it sickens me, as much as I feel I am soiled by it. Would a servitor do?”
“Just one?” the prisoner replies, true desperation in its voice.
“For now, alien. I will reward honesty with further... victims. My first question. What is your name?”
“You would be unable to pronounce it, human.”
“So melodramatic,” he sighs.
The eldar holds up a pale hand placatingly.
“In short, you can call me... Melekh.”
“Good. Melekh... My name is Gabriel Lemarche.”
“It is. Let me make this abundantly clear, alien. You will die, by my hand, whenever I wish it. From what I know of your kind, this is a particularly fitting end. Captured on a slave-raid.”
It shrugs. It stands tall, proud in spite of its nudity, almost baring its taut flesh at its captor.
“Your bars will not hold me, mon-keigh. You will die, by my hand, when I wish it.”
“I have no time to bandy threats and exercise bravado with you, alien. Goodbye.”
***
[Excerpt from the log of Inquisitor Gabriel Lemarche]
It still refuses to answer my questions, despite my best efforts. The alien has proven highly resilient to my pain amplifiers; indeed, it laughs and mocks them, calling them inferior copies, toys. I confess that it vexes me. While long and bitter experience has taught me much, I had not anticipated this much resilience in an organism with such an advanced nervous system.
Visual studies of the subject’s body may reveal the answer, however. Among scars presumably from combat, on the right side of the torso alien glyphs have been scarred into the flesh, some barely visible, others red and livid. The eldar are noted for their cruelty and sadism, and I wonder if these tendencies have lead to a propensity for ritualised self-harm in my captive.
The alien certainly seems to take some form of pleasure in the pain I cause. For now, I shall cease conventional interrogation methods. I may make use of sanctionite Annabel, who has served me well before.
***
[Excerpt from the log of Inquisitor Gabriel Lemarche]
Annabel is dead. I should have foreseen this, and I could have prevented it. I spent an hour within my own pain amplifiers as penance. It is with regret and shame I report the details of her death.
I brought her to see the subject. It has become increasingly agitated over the last few days; the solitude, perhaps, and lack of mental stimulation within its cell is beginning to affect it. It mocked and threatened me, as usual, but its threats towards poor Annabel were much more graphic, and made the worse by the fact that she could sense they were indeed its desires. Shivering with fear and revulsion, she entered its mind.
She screamed, and the alien laughed. I took her away, quickly, ordering the alien suffer two hours of agony.
It said it would enjoy every moment of them.
I gave Annabel a chemical relaxant, which calmed her enough for her to relay what she had learned from the alien’s mind. She spoke of a mind filled only thoughts with thoughts of murder, torture and rape and a terrifying, boundless hunger.
She took a further sedative to ease her sleep. Concerned for her state of mind, I checked in on her early the next morning to find her body.
Her manner of death was not... pleasant. She had taken a blade and torn erratically at her flesh. It seems she died of blood loss. There was a note on her bed, or rather the incomplete final entry in her dream-log. I was difficult for me to read, but it made mention of a dark city, and some kind of thirsting entity. The last line mentioned that something was pulling at her soul.
What manner of fiend is this creature? All aliens are monsters worthy only of destruction, of course, but even the most twisted Xenoforms have some motive beyond their own perverse enjoyment. Annabel was an extremely resilient psyker and a single moment with this eldar drove to madness and suicide.
A part of me wants this experiment to end. I ought to kill it now and dissect it, or perhaps I should vivisect this alien and see if it enjoys the pain of its own death. But can I extract its motives, its secrets and its very psyche with my scalpels and probes and expose them, quivering, to the light? I cannot.
I will let it live, for now. This terrible hunger that killed my adept and, I realise in the harsh clarity of hindsight, friend intrigues me as much as it repulses me.
***
[Excerpt from the log of Inquisitor Gabriel Lemarche]
The subject’s agitation increases. It is quick to anger and its threats have grown less refined and more brutal and vicious. Pleasing progress, certainly, but I suspect it is linked to this’ hunger’ Annabel died for. So I asked it outright.
***
“Are you hungry, alien? Is our fare not to your liking?”
“Your swill tastes as disgusting as you smell, mon-keigh.”
“Your wit remains as sharp as ever, I see. It’s just you seem to want something. Crave, I should say. Perhaps I could accommodate you. You are, after all, my guest.”
The eldar presses its angular face against the bars. It seems to have grown paler over the last few days; its ashen skin appears almost translucent under the harsh lights.
“What I want is to kill you, human. You and your entire mongrel race.”
***
The subject remains as uncooperative as ever. I begin to wonder if this hunger is simply for causing pain and death. Are the eldar so depraved that their desire for bloodshed has become a literal addiction? We know little of their physiology, but the subject sweats and shakes like one in withdrawal. It mutters, sometimes, in its alien tongue when it thinks itself alone.
There is, of course, a considerable likelihood that this is a literal narcotic addiction. The eldar are known to make use of combat-drugs and for a high degree of hedonism.
I have a new, bold plan. I will ask this creature, this alien, what it is addicted to and promise to deliver it if it answers my questions.
***
“Alien.”
“Yes, mon-keigh?”
“You look terrible. Even more hideous than when you first came. And I know why.”
The prisoner chuckles.
“You’re an addict.”
It stops laughing; now it fixes Lemarche with a careful gaze.
“What do you know of it?” it spits.
“Little enough, but even with your alien biology I can recognise withdrawal when I see it. It is possible I may be able to supply what it is that you require. I am prepared to do so, in exchange for information.”
It laughs again, louder.
“You could supply it well enough, Inquisitor, but somehow I think your human sensibilities would balk at my price.”
“Name it.”
It says nothing at first; the violet eyes lock onto his, unblinking. Lemarche’s eyes begin to water, but he refuses to be the one to break contact.
“I require... to kill someone. Not some pathetic animal, I require something with ...substance...”
“A human, you mean?” Lemarche replies, in a voice of solid ice.
“Not necessarily,” it hisses, almost apologetically. “but that would suffice.”
“By Terra, you’re a sordid race, aren’t you? You’re physically addicted to murder and torture?”
The eldar growls, spits. The spittle hisses upon contact with the power field.
“You are wrong, mon-keigh! It is your race that is perverse! We kill, we torture, we rape and we take because we must! You do it simply because you can, in the name of some lunatic faith in a dead god!”
“Blaspheme again, alien, and you will receive nothing. I will let you die slowly.”
“The true face of humanity! As cruel as we are, but do you let yourselves see it? An entire race of hypocrites!”
Lemarche pauses.
“We can continue to insult one another’s species for all eternity, but we both know it would be a waste of time. I will give you what you want, alien, as much as it sickens me, as much as I feel I am soiled by it. Would a servitor do?”
“Just one?” the prisoner replies, true desperation in its voice.
“For now, alien. I will reward honesty with further... victims. My first question. What is your name?”
“You would be unable to pronounce it, human.”
“So melodramatic,” he sighs.
The eldar holds up a pale hand placatingly.
“In short, you can call me... Melekh.”
“Good. Melekh... My name is Gabriel Lemarche.”