#CorpseStarch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deathbyvalentine · 7 years ago

Text

DuD Fiction Mild FOIP

Family

Cal said a prayer for each of them, every night. They said a prayer for everybody of course, for all those they knew and all those they didn’t, but these by name.

Nic first. They prayed that he would hate himself a little less, that his mind would heal without fracturing more. They prayed even for the parts they shouldn’t. They prayed that he wouldn’t leave them or forget them. They prayed that they wouldn’t stray too far from him, or forget him either. Half of the prayer was merely his name, trying to carve it so not even the sea of souls could wash it away.

Silvestro. They prayed for his darkness. They prayed that his duties wouldn’t leave too deep a mark on him. They prayed for his resentment and his bitterness and his anger, and mostly for his healing.

Bridge, who’s name still tasted wrong compared to the one they heard in a hospital bed that was not theirs. They prayed for him because they were sure he prayed for everybody else and weren’t sure that anybody prayed for him. They prayed that his family wouldn’t get lost from him.

Anoretta. For all her mistakes, real and imagined. For all her wounds, her own and others. For all her stubborness, for all her tears, for the future Cal so desperately wanted them to have together.

Baris. Baris, always. Baris who had broken them to the point where their words were barely even a prayer, and more of a litany of begging for forgiveness. Forgive me for all the things I did, but most importantly, the ones I did not do.

Often Argento, Gwyn. Sometimes Mitra-Shadi, Aleph. Rarely Esme, if they were feeling particularly selfless. Then they felt guilty for not always including her, and prayed for some forgiveness. They did not pray for Grulge, as they figured he had his own lookout and quite enough help as it stood.

Their prayers never truly ceased.

Emperor’s Chosen

They had spent the first half of their life wishing they were special. They had tried to be, trained and worked and sweated for the chance to win at something. They didn’t even care what the prize was - it was the winning that mattered, the acknowledgement, the victory. And they failed, ultimately.

And the next quarter of their life was spent wishing they didn’t exist. Wishing to be the opposite of special, wishing to be invisible and obscure. Being a psyker was not a blessing. Everybody knew it was a curse at best and a death sentence at worst.

And now. Something had changed. Irrefutable proof they were special. It didn’t feel uncomplicatedly good. It hurt. It was hard. Harder than anything else they had ever faced. Lonely too. Nobody else could possibly understand this. The horror of a body that was not only not your own, but was supposed to be a gift. They couldn’t rage, they couldn’t fight, they had to bite back their anger and transform it into gratitude. Their destiny, their fate was inescapable and all consuming and suddenly, their specialness didn’t seem like something they wanted any more.

And they couldn’t tell a single damn person.

Sacrifice/ Duty

You want to talk about sacrifice? Let’s talk about sacrifice.

Let’s talk about blood and oil. Let’s talk about how they both oiled the factory gears equally and how you never fucking saw what you made. Let’s talk about sleepless nights and blistered hands and sweltering heat. Seeing gears in every time you close your eyes. Everything aching.

Then there’s the sacrifice you give to the ships. Your joy, your love, your bravery until nothing of the old you is left. Until you’re a shadow with a body. The screaming in your head starts here, and never goes away, not really, not truly.

Your eyes aren’t even the last thing you give. You give your life, really. This was it, forever, owned and branded and owned. You are property all over again, except not to the Admech, to the Imperium. So many people have claims to you, there is none left for yourself. You whittle off parts of yourself and hand them over to the powers that be.

And now your palms bleed and ache. And now you can’t sleep. And your chest had wounds in it that go deeper than skin, and everyone looks at you with wide, hopeful eyes, and you know you’re going to let them down. You become more than a person to these pilgrims. You don’t matter, not really, but the voice in your head does. You sacrifice your feelings, because they can’t matter with lives at stake.

But people will still look at you, and see nothing but what you have, not what you gave.

The Virtues of Shooting Psykers

Lance loved his work. He loved the arid simplicity of it, the clean lines and choices that made it the direct opposite of his somewhat messy personal life. Someone was placed in front of him, and he broke them or killed them. He was placed in his cockpit and he destroyed whatever machine they told him to. No thinking required, half the time. Just muscle memory and instincts.

Idly, he crushed his cigarette underneath the heel of his boot, leaving a smear of ash across the metal floor. His leather gloves were a little tacky with blood still, the air conditioning in the room drying it unnaturally fast. The psyker’s head was drooped, chin to chest, a small trickle of scarlet dried by the corner of his mouth. Lance wasn’t quite sure how long he had been in custody total, but he had been in his care for three days now. The cuffs had dug angry red lines into his wrists, his shoulders tight and surely agonising from hours sitting in the same unforgiving chair.

Lance didn’t feel sympathy towards him. Nor did he feel disgust. Rather he felt an abstract distaste, making him want to turn away, not look the creature in the eyes. It was almost an acute embarrassment, that this person could exist and not simply just fade away of their own accord. No, they had insisted on living and both of them had to live with the consequences.

His dataslate buzzed obnoxiously, clattering across the table set in front of the psyker. He opened it casually, sighing as he read his orders, locking it again a moment after. He unsheathed the laz pistol strapped to his outer thigh and began checking the energy pack. The psyker started, feet pushing fruitlessly at the floor in a vain effort to retreat.

“I would say this isn’t personal, but we both know that’s not exactly true, don’t we?” His voice betrayed no hint of anger, pity or resignation. In fact, it betrayed nothing at all. No emotion. “You have betrayed the Throne, which makes it personal to well, basically everybody.” He cocked his gun. “But well, I’d be lying if I said that was the main reason. Mostly, well, I like it. And I’m good at it. Pray while you still can. Someone’s gotta hear you, right?”

Corruption

“A-Argento, is this… Okay. Right.

The Imperium is facing some difficult choices. Some of these choices will seem too much for us to bear, but we must not lose hope. All of us are special - all of us are blessed with the presence of the God Emperor.

But this does not mean we can be complacent. We must all look inside ourselves and decide what we can do to bring Her glory. We must fight and we must die. We must sacrifice. We must obey just authority. We must root out the corruption and the rot, wherever we find it. We will cleanse it with pain, with prayer, and with flame. Faith is our weapon and it will never fail us.

I know sometimes the work can seem too huge to bear. I have been frightened, I have been weak. But I find His love, and it gives me strength. I remember that my fear does not excuse me from doing Her holy work. A friend… A captain once said to me, that everything you must do, when you stand before His golden you must be able to justify to Her. Think - have you done enough to defeat His enemies? Have you done your duty to the best of your ability? Have you fulfilled your purpose to Her? Have you dedicated your life to Him alone?

A future is ahead of us, and it is beautiful. We will move on from the ashes of our past sins, and bathe in the light of a galaxy lit only with flame and golden light. I pray for all of us, and She listens. This much I know to be true.”

Ave Imperator

It felt odd sometimes, knowing what they knew, feeling what they felt. The God they worshipped had turned out to be a stranger to them, and yet now, they were closer than ever. Cal felt the lines between them had truly began to blur. Cal knew that with every dream, every changed perspective, every time they forgot where they were or what someone’s name was.

Their love had deepened for Her. They were obsessed in all honesty, their every other thought coming back to Her. It was understandable - His voice was echoing in their head constantly after all, drenching everything in molten gold.

Distantly, they remembered Olethra. They remembered reverent faces reaching out to touch their skirts, their hands, their hair. They remembered crouching, healing every wound they came across, whispering of the Omnissiah and the God Emperor, code switching with alarming ease. It was like speaking two languages, fluent in both. This was the tiniest hint of worship, and they wondered what He must feel like.

Did She get tired of the constant requests and cries for help, thousands upon thousands all at once? Did He wish He could talk, just talk to someone, about something other than the fate of the known universe? Cal thought She must be very lonely, and strove to pray about everything and nothing, just wanting the intimacy of baring your soul and expecting nothing in return.

Lazgun

She crouched in the vents, bandanna pulled over her nose and mouth, and tilted her head, listening to the noise below her. The hive market was bustling, calls carrying over the heads of patrons, bartering and arguments intermingling, all the little noises of life. Steam rose from freshly cooked corpsestarch and smoke rose from Iho sticks. The comings and goings in the narrow corridors into the plaza made the populace look almost like the sea, waves upon waves.

She scanned the crowd manually, knowing her auxspecs was useless here. There were too many bodies. However, it was easier than she predicted. When everybody was moving, her eyes picked out the solid points easily. The arbites leaned against a far wall, guns hanging idly by their sides. One had their visor up, chewing idly on some hive-food, murmuring something to their partner. The partner had their visor down, reflecting the market back at them, rendering them anonymous. A surge of furious, hot hate ignited in her heart, and she had to swallow it. She remembered what her leader said - her hot head would get her killed if she didn’t cool it down.

Careful not to bang her elbows against the side of the vent, she opened her backpack, removing a bundle of cloth. They unwrapped it in their hands, feeling the intoxicating weight. The gun was sleek and clean, apart from the muzzle which seemed chunkier than the rest of it put together. The energy pack slid in with only the smallest click, a tiny light flickering green to show it was ready to be used.

On her stomach, she wiggled to the grate at the front of the vent. She had been working towards this moment for longer than she could remember. Rising Flame had found her when she had nothing, absolutely nothing, and gave her all the tools she needed to avenge her sister. She could remember her death only in the vaguest impressions - an arbiter’s gun, screaming, not being allowed to stay with the body. It had started a hatred burning in her heart that had only grown and grown with every injustice the Imperium committed and they were oh so numerous. She rested the barrel on the grate, flicking on the sight. This was a small action, to be sure. Not killing a high lord, not killing a inquisitor. But it was cutting off a finger of those institutions, sending a clear message; this would not stand.

She took a deep breath, noticing how her hands were not shaking at all. Good. She had never felt this calm in her life. And now, it was time to fire.

Hidden Things/The Night

The hillside seemed quiet. The chattering and chittering and hissing of the animals had faded. The rapidly darkening evening had granted a fragile peace from the hustle of the day. The locals had left their fields and returned inside to huddle by the fire, rest and sleep.

And one by one, pairs of red lights flickered to life on the hillside. The skitarri woke up, shaking the leaves and dirt from their metal casings. They didn’t have to concern themselves with being silent. Stealth was not their objective. They were not a secret. They were looking for someone and were did not worry if he knew they were coming.

They slowly advanced down the mountainside, brushing trees aside as if they were cobwebs, not glancing back at the destruction they left in their wake. In their stone houses, the locals flinched, and pulled their blankets around them a little tighter. They knew if they were innocent they had nothing to fear. But the skitarri were strange creatures and who knew what their definition of guilty was? They had razed entire fields to find a energy pack casing, had burnt down a forest to find a few dissidents.

They walked in loose lines, no two looking entirely similar, but they were all clearly from the same pack. Some had claws that shone in the bright moonlight. Some had hoods that hid their faces deep in the recesses. Some made whirring sounds as the pistons inside them pushed them on. One in particular had a fur wrapped around it’s torso, some exotic creature coloured like ink.

In the middle, was a Magos. And they were the worst of all, somehow, their humanity both more and less apparent. There was a savage intelligence in her eyes, but there was little mercy. If the skitarri were a pack, this was their alpha, the nucleus to their molecules. And tonight, they were hunting.

Kingfisher

Las sat on the riverbank, trousers rolled up, feet dangling into the cool water. All was quiet, if you ignored the distant gunfire in the hills. It didn’t concern him too much. Nothing had been entirely peaceful since the Imperials came.

This could have been paradise otherwise. The forests were full and alive, the river quick moving and populated, the winters kinder than they had any right to be. Las walked the same path through the woods he always had, the ground worn bare from hundreds of feet similar to his own.

He wasn’t sure what was going to happen now. Things had been changing, going wrong. People found dead in the woods, mauled by claws that matched no animals they knew of. The Governor's hunting becoming more and more vicious as they all pretended they didn’t know the fate of those who went missing. The planet had started to feel... wrong. It gave him a deeply unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like the feeling before a storm.

But right now, he was sitting at the river, watching the birds swoop and chatter, excited by the arrival of summer, undisturbed by his presence. He wished he could stay in this moment, crystallised and untouchable. But times arrow only flew forward, and soon it would be dark.

Cal and Anoretta Go for a Walk Outside

This is what happily ever after felt like. Their bones were still aching - they had never fully recovered from the blessings of the Emperor, and they were hardly getting any younger, but they lean on each other, and their sticks, and made their way slowly to the porch. They spent most of their evenings here, side by side, petting the gyrinx that wound around their ankles.

They had made this home for themselves, carved it out with blood and tears and sacrifice. Finnesterra had waited for them, patiently, and returning to it felt like finally coming home. The first home Cal had ever really had. It felt like they could finally rest. The voice in their head had quietened, but not abandoned them completely. Cal knew they would meet again, for the final time, but that time wasn’t now. Their embrace could wait a little longer.

For now, it was time to enjoy their life. They meddled happily, they were rarely seen without Nic or Anoretta. They wore their Guardian sash at all times, never too busy to help if asked. They slept, deeply, untroubled by bad dreams. They dreamt instead of Baris, distant but safe. He had a different destiny. One which tragically, was not with them.

But they were never hungry here, and they hadn’t held a gun in years. The stigmata in their hands had ceased bleeding some time ago, though the marks remained, unmoving. On the porch, they rested their head on Anoretta’s shoulder, reading her contentment as thought it were their own, because maybe it was. “Told you we’d retire happy.”

Forgiveness/Trust Issues/ Disappointment

Cal kept thinking that they were supposed to be better than this. They were meant to be working past human desires and needs, becoming something better. But instead, the resentments simmered. All the tiny hurts they had ever felt did not fade away, but stuck to the inside of their ribs, mostly unnoticeable, occasionally suffocating.

They were fundamentally petty at their core. It was a sign of their mind becoming their own again. No longer would they accept hurt from others as a matter of course, something they deserved without further examination. Their mind prickled at the small injustices rather than the grand pains.

George and Esme were the principle figures these complicated feelings revolved around. So George was hurting. It didn’t negate her microaggressions, or how she spoke to Cal, or the fear in her eyes. Her pain was regrettable but her actions were not excusable.

Then Esme, the woman that had inspired the most doubt and fear in Cal out of all the naysayers, her gentle voice worming its way into their head the most, now deciding she believed Cal. And thinking that that was alright, that things were fine now. Not to mention the bloody Grulge complication.

This is why Cal didn’t trust anyone who wasn’t hive or factory scum easily. They never realised when they were hurting, or thought moving on was the best way of healing it for all involved. Nobles had no self awareness. They’d never had to develop it.

Knights are Awesome

The two girls sat on the edge of the pier, legs dangling over, kicking in tandem. Streamers hung off every available surface, banners snapping in the wind. They knew it was a special day because they’d been given a day off work, the machines minding themselves for twelve hours. This was next to unheard of. Certainly they could never remember this happening before, but they were very young.

Underneath them, a crowd surged and pushed on the sand, facing towards the long path of concrete that had been cleared. They weren’t strictly supposed to be up here, but they were adept climbers, and they wanted to see.

And see they did. They started small on the horizon, lost amongst the factory pipes and chimneys. But as the crowd chattered and parted, and they got closer and closer, they came into view. Machines made into a form resembling human, metal twisted into an offering to the Omnissiah. This was the closest to a titan they would ever get, and it was close enough. Their mouths hung open in awe, a thousand futures flashing through their head where they became knights together, moulding their mind to link to their machines, never once realising that this future was never meant for them. They were shut out from it, destined instead to be the oil that kept the gears turning.

Right now though, that didn’t matter. It was enough to be close to holiness, to be a part of the system that kept these artefacts moving. They were all tools of the Machine God, even if some parts were bigger than others.

Astropath Small Talk

“I’m still not used to this.” “I’m not sure I’ll ever be used to this.” “It’s so dark.” “It’s okay. I’m right here.” “This has got to be easier for telepaths.” “Mm, only when it comes to bumping into other people. Objects are still posing a bit of a challenge. Telekinetics still have the lead on that one.” “And diviners are just cheating honestly.” “As always.” “... What do you think being in a choir is like?” “I’m not sure. I didn’t even know there were people like me.” “You didn’t have posters up about psykers?” “I grew up on a half-empty agriworld, we didn’t have posters up about anything. The whole Warp thing came as a bit of a shock to be honest.” “I think a choir might be nice. Feeling close to others.” “Not sure I want anyone in my head though.” “I’m not sure you are. I think it’s like... you occupy a different space together. Not your head but somewhere else - “ “Shhh. I can hear the hourly check in.” “Goodnight.” “Shhh.”

Thought for the Fortnight/Loyalty

His voice echoed through the hallways of the Chaser, through the dormitories and mess halls, canteens and officers, decks and bridges. It seemed to belong there, not seeming imperative or out of place. It added a presence that the Chaser had been desperately missing. Everyone had noticed it, from the lowliest rating to the arm-screws to the archivists.

Cal had been amazed by the feeling on the ship, the comradeship, the sense of fierce pride and protection they all had for it. They weren’t sure if their isolation prevented them from seeing it on the Lord’s Confidence or if it simply just didn’t exist. But here was different, and it was at least mostly because Bridge and Nic made it different. It wasn’t just a job for so many of the people here, it was a home, a livelihood they had previously not been afforded. Sitting in the security dormitory, Cal saw crowds of people that had been given a second chance.

Cal realised that it wasn’t solely because of their righteousness that they had hung their flag to their mast. It was because of their kindness, the softness that came from not wanting other people to suffer the same as they had. They thought of Bridge’s hand on their shoulder, Nic’s arms around them, Silvestro’s steely protectiveness. It would kill Cal if they were on the opposite side to them, so they were infinitely glad they were not.

Drawings

Davian glanced over his brother’s shoulder, at the paper he was pouring over. This was yet another talent he lacked that his brother had in shed loads. Not that Sol was perfect at it, he had a long way to go to greatness, but there was a care and skill there that Davian couldn’t dream to have.

He was sketching out the flowers blooming from the biodeck, a riot of colour and movement, the air regulation making the leaves shiver and twitch. Davian had never particularly stopped to look at it before, its practical function far outweighing its aesthetic one. But Sol had grown up in a hive. He hadn’t seen anything like it before, and he wondered at it. And through his fresh eyes, Davian shared the experience. The biodeck was no longer merely a necessity but also an indulgence, something to admire.

A small part of him was satisfied with the idea that Sol only had this cheap imitation of plant life. He had been on an agri-planet, he had walked in open fields, seen whole forests, seen the open pink sky above them. He had that beauty cradled close to his chest and used it to affirm his own superiority. As it was his right to do.

And yet here was Sol, sketching out flowers with agonising care, trying to document the beauty he saw in gene-altered flowers on a ships biodeck. And Davian was jealous.

Bad Taste

Lance’s shoulders hit the wall, and the Commissar’s lips hit his a moment later. “This is a bad idea.” He said, discarding the iconic hat, much to Lance’s sorrow.

“Yes.” Lance agreed, nodding, his lips moving to press kisses along his shaven jaw, occasionally biting the soft skin there, leaving small red marks. He liked the idea that the next morning, the mirror would reflect the evening before.

“I should go back to my own room.” His hands tugged on Lance’s shirt impatiently, sending a button fraying and making him laugh. He shrugged it off, revealing a torso painted with faint and not-so-faint scars. An entire history on his skin, nothing and nowhere to hide.

“Probably.” Lance experimentally moved a hand to his belt buckle, quirking an eyebrow, asking for permission. Without hesitation, the Commissar nodded, his fingers fumbling with his own belt, clumsy in his hurry.

The next few hours passed as one would expect. Sweat, bruises, moans, desperately trying to muffle noises as the walls in this ship were not all that thin. Lance wasn’t sure if he was insulted or not, when he was getting dressed, quite how much the Commissar emphasised the need for discretion and secrecy. He wanted to believe it was because of their respective positions, no pun intended, but a niggling thought in the back of his head wouldn’t quite quit.

The idea that it was him he was ashamed of, that his personality or his manner somehow made him a guilty pleasure. This had been somewhat of a reoccurring theme in his flings, and he was starting to get sick to the back teeth of it. He was a goddamn war hero, a member of the Inqusition, an amazing pilot and a great fuck to boot. What was it about him that was so shameful?

Whatever. It’s not like it mattered. He liked his sex casual and compartmentalised. He didn’t want a relationship, or even someone to talk to. He just wanted a body in or around him, and to lose himself for a few hours. Emotions didn’t factor into this.

Thankfully.

Murder Servitor

They could hear it still. The metal clicking. The slide of something dragging. The whirr of a blade.

They heard it in the oddest of places. The mess hall. The security bunk rooms. Even in the corridors as they walked with their armscrew on one side and Argento on the other. Their footsteps would falter, their muscles would tense and the air would be caught inside their throat.

Then the moment would pass, and they would realise it was nothing. A vent creaking open to release some heat, a grinding belt. Something mundane. Something safe. But their heart would still be racing and they’d be forced to smile at Argento, assure him it was nothing, nothing at all. They were doing that with a worrying amount of intensity these days.

Sometimes, when Baris came calling for them, they’d mistake the sound of his footsteps for something more sinister. That hurt most of all. They swore to learn him by heart again, so his movements could never be mistaken for a threat, for better or worse. Mitra-Shadi was even worse, possibly because Cal always got the sense she was barely holding back from killing them anyway.

It was almost laughable, this mundane fear, so far removed from the cosmos and the forces pushing and pulling them this way and that. So rooted in reality and the physical realm. The nightmares that came were memories, not imaginings. So Cal couldn’t quite laugh.

Devotion

Cal wondered if mad people knew they were mad. If they could feel their sanity slipping through their fingers bit by bit, or if they were oblivious to their mind splintering apart like rotten wood.

Cal thought sometimes they were being driven mad. Not going, no, nothing so natural or inevitable. Being driven. Inch by inch, digging their heels in every step of the way.

They couldn’t sleep. They tossed and turned, blanket tangling between their legs, cold sweat coating them in an unhealthy sheen. No matter who’s head they tuned into, what songs or stories filled their mind, how much they relaxed... The voice wouldn’t go away.

It was there, molten and golden, touching everything. All-encompassing. Deafening. Absolutely incomprehensible. The first few nights they spent on their knees, lips moving in constant prayer, begging to be told what to do, what their God wanted. No answer came, but the voice remained.

They couldn’t sleep. And they couldn’t eat, after two weeks of restless nights, their appetite wiped away. They grew thinner, dark shadows falling under their cheekbones, their skin looking even more pale and unhealthy than their usual. Their hair was brittle and dry, their nails breaking constantly. They couldn’t recognise themselves.

What else was there to do? They lay in bed, and they prayed. It stopped being a plea for help, it stopped being coherent. Instead Cal just talked inside their own head, for hours, every thought that came into their head, sharing their whole self with Her. She didn’t care if Cal was on their knees, or if their hands shook too much to make the right shape. She cared about the intention, and everything about Cal leaned towards Him, yearning, working, striving.

Soon, something inside them promised. Soon.

#prompts #Death Unto Darkness #larp #prose

2 notes · View notes