Saturday 6 July 2019

Adept Primaris Rebyka Darlayn

Psyker.
A strange word, is it not? So much power, so much potential, so much hate, so much fear, all wrapped in six letters. A fitting name, though, because part of it is silent and unseen. Just one letter, one little letter 'P'. There is so much about an actual psyker that remains unseen.
I am a Primaris Battle Psyker. I look thirty-five, which is a little more than a third of my real age, sidereal. Partly a conceit to vanity, for I am considered attractive. Partly pragmatism: an individual of my skill and potency cannot be allowed to die simply by the tyranny of age. I was born psychic. The Black Ships came for me when I was seven years old, standard. Since then, I have served His Divine Majesty as an adept of the Scholastica Psykana.



I am not like those poor shackled wretches, chained in their own filth, who are herded into battle in crude Wyrdvane covens. I pity them for their fate, but see the necessity of it. I have seen what seeks to enter the world through them, and what must be done to deny such creatures. Most of those poor, shuffling creatures may live painful lives, but most will reach the Emperor's Light. Regardless, I am a different order of being.  



I can summon lightning to blast the enemies of the Imperium to ashes. I can fill the foe's mind with nightmares and shadows so that they scarcely know how to point their weapons. I can restore balance to broken men and screen my own troops from unfriendly eyes. I have stood alongside legends. Ulyssiad Sagath knows my name, and I bear a token from Aegyptor Astagath. Why do I tell you this? Because I want you to understand who I am before you attempt to lie to me. You are going to die. Let us not pretend otherwise. You, Corporal Vaylin Weisser of the 885th Volscani Cataphracts, are a traitor and a heretic. You will be remembered as such. We are here to determine two things. The first is whether a footnote will be added saying that you offered all that you knew and accepted the justice of Commissar DeSarco, the lady standing behind you. The second is whether, in doing so, in offering me everything you know, there is a small chance that you may yet be redeemed and reach the Emperor's Light. If you do not give me everything I ask for and mean it, your soul will ignite in the warp seconds after it leaves your body. This is not my judgement. This is not even the judgement of His Divine Majesty. This is the choice before you now. Confess your sins, tell me every single thing you know about the archenemy's movements in the Rubicon Sector and have a chance at redemption. Defy me and face death and damnation. Shall we begin?


The boom of DeSarco's bolt pistol was deafening. Adept Darlayn did not flinch. She looked at the corpse of the Traitor Guardsman, his head exploded like a rotten fruit. DeSarco called out into the hallway, and a pair of grim faced Ophelian Guardsmen entered. Without a word, they hauled the corpse away. Darlayn carefully added some notes to her docket. 
"Did you get anything?" DeSarco asked quietly. 
Darlayn didn't look up. 
"Some basics of troop deployment. He had no idea where Eiterfex is. He'd never even seen the Plague Lord, truthfully."


DeSarco grunted with an entire lack of surprise. She looked at Darlayn sidelong. They had been friends a long time, but neither one of them ever lost sight of the fact that part of DeSarco's job was to keep an eye on Darlayn. DeSarco was good at picking up on Darlayn's subtle tells. After twenty five interrogations, the Primaris Battle Psyker's iron will could not quite contain her tiredness. 
"You need a break, Byka?" DeSarco asked quietly. 
Darlayn looked up, pride and determination in her eyes. After a moment, she sighed and nodded.
"Just a short one," she replied. 
DeSarco pulled up a chair and sat down. They sat in companionable silence for a while. Servitors trundled in and scrubbed the blood from the floor and the wide interrogation table. Slowly, Darlayn centred herself and refocused her mind. She allowed herself a moment of sorrow for the faint sounds she had heard in the echoes of DeSarco's pistol: the shrieks of the dead traitor as he immolated in the Sea of Souls, and the Neverborn ripped his essence to shreds. Evidently, he had not sought redemption with enough conviction. 
Will they ever learn, I wonder?  she thought to herself. Then she sighed and pushed the thought away. She called for the Guardsmen standing outside.
"Send in the next one," she said. 




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