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== Eversor == <div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">''''' His eyes opened. The fog of sleep receded, and the image before him focused. Grey. A metal bulkhead, same as every time he awakened. He stretched slightly. Muscles biological and artificial tensed, then relaxed. Everything functioning properly. Good. His jaw clenched as a flood of information was dumped into his mind. Names, faces, places. Targets. He flicked through them, then stored them. The flow of data abruptly ceased. He exhaled. The walls of the cryo pod pressed down around him. Once, they had been suffocating. Now they were snug. Familiar. Oases of calm that broke up the unending violence that was his life. He reached for his touchstone. The singular emotion that reminded all who gave their humanity for the Imperium they were not yet beasts. Each one was different, unique and personal to the operative. Joy, honor, fear. He vaguely recalled that Operative XIV’s was contentment. When had she told him that? He couldn’t remember. <div class="mw-collapsible-content"> He found his. It flared along nerves and neurons deadened by training and drugs and surgery. A moment of unfettered emotion. Sorrow. That was his. Sorrow for the lives he would take. The things he would do. He nodded even as he blinked back tears. Death still had this effect on him. He wasn’t a monster yet. Satisfied, he leaned his head back against his headrest. He closed his eyes, and waited. --- The sun was bright as he crossed the plaza towards the towering spire. It had rained during his last three awakenings, and he felt a brief twinge of pleasure at the warmth. Only a twinge though. He was already at a quarter of combat dose. He could feel the mix of chemicals upon his brain, deadening unnecessary sensation. The glass doors at the entrance slid open with a hiss, and he stepped through. His eyes flicked over the lobby, left to right, and memorized the layout in that glance. Columns for cover, access points both up and out of the building. He compared it to the blueprints already stored in the back of his mind. More decorative vegetation than indicated. Could obscure lines of sight. He adjusted his thick black coat and shifted the large case he carried in his right hand as he approached the front desk. The receptionist smiled up at him. He focused on her face. Images and text flitted up on the inside of his retina: Elisa Sodes, 26, recently hired by the organization. No match on his list of targets. Not a tertiary threat. Existence acceptable. He blinked, and the images disappeared. He allowed the corners of his mouth to tug up in a pleasantly neutral expression. “Hello,” he said. “Special courier delivery for House Feckward.” The receptionist nodded and gestured toward an elevator bank. “That will be signed for and received at the public reception hall on floor 80.” He nodded in thanks and stepped into an open elevator. He paused, and called back to the receptionist. “There may be a commotion in a moment. Perhaps you should leave before then.” Confused, she frowned and turned towards the elevator. The doors were shut and he was already gone. Inside the elevator, he pulled a small device from his pocket and tapped a few buttons. The device took several moments as it sliced through the electronic security in the elevator’s cogitator, and a panel on the wall lit up as it acknowledged its destination. Floor 275. The elevator shuddered as it was shunted into a secondary, high-security shaft. Floor 275 was the level on which House Feckward’s personal compound began, where they had their private offices and where their members lived. Where they manipulated the planetary government. Where they consorted with daemons. The rotten heart of this Trader house that was condemned to die. As the elevator began to move he set down his case and shrugged off his coat. Beneath it lay the black armored synskin bodyglove taut over his augmented musculature. If anyone was watching the elevator cameras they were sure to raise the alarm. But then, subtlety wasn’t the point. He bent down and opened his case. Two tiers of equipment unfolded before him. Melta charges, grenades, clawed gauntlets, Executioner pistol and phase sword lay nestled in the foam before him. In the center lay the leering, white skull helm that was the mark of his Temple. His hands flicked across the case as he prepared his equipment. Under his breath he murmured the creed he had learned long ago. A moment of quiet before the storm. A prayer for the damned. “The Imperium calls, and this loyal servant answers.” He fastened the melta charges to his belt, and slotted the grenades into the bandolier across his chest. “Lost men have sown the seeds of their destruction, and I come to reap these souls of the tainted.” He flicked the switch on the phase sword, sending it crackling to life. Another flick, and he sheathed it at his side. “Let them fear me, and in their fear learn the meaning of righteousness.” He racked the slide on the Executioner pistol, locking a bolt into place in the top chamber. He activated bottom chamber, and it hissed as a needle slid into place, filled with mutagenic acid. He secured the pistol in the holster on his thigh. “Let the Throne watch over me, and grant blessing to my vengeance.” He pulled on the clawed gauntlets, and paused as they tightened and integrated with his bodyglove. The pressure sensitive pumps on the claws activated, ready to inject their lethal payload. Quick, blissful death via endorphin overload on the left, slow, agonizing paralysis on the right. “Let us never again break our vows, or forget the truth…” He picked up his helm, the skull grinning back at him. He slid it over his head and waited as the autosenses activated and it sealed into his armor with a click. The elevator was slowing. He turned towards the doors. “…of these things we do, that others may live,” he finished. The doors slid open. </div> </div>
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