The Work of Arn

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A vast warrior walked into the hallway, his axe slung over his right shoulder, thudding softly. He strolled through the open door into the cold room; the thick metal door closed behind him. The room was well lit, with a work table along the far wall. Machines for recording and data analysis were stored under the metal table. On top were all manner of tools and blades hanging on pegs fixed to the wall. Work lights hung down on arms and a large bright light sat in the center of the ceiling, illuminating the room. All was made of stone, minus the door and equipment. A voxcaster was mounted to the wall near the door and picters were affixed to the ceiling, part of the array of equipment needed. The walls were covered with traitors’ helmets, not the whole helmet, only the face plates. The helmets had the faces sawn off to only reveal the forward most portions. Every known traitor legion, even unknown chapters, covered the stone walls. He crossed the floor of the cell and placed his axe against the table edge. The center of the room held a chair and in that chair was another warrior.

What was left of an Astartes sat strapped in a cold metal chair. The Blood Claws that had captured him beat him within an inch of his life. His injuries were not healing and his black blood trickled from multiple wounds. His head hung low and his breathing was labored. He stared at the floor. He noticed it was stained and had a drain directly under him. He wondered how many of his kind had died in that seat. He saw the other warrior with a sluggish glance as he had entered the room but chose not to speak to this newcomer. This one was not like the others, not as feral.

After turning on a few of the machines, the newcomer turned and stared at the wall. His armor was a pale blue-grey and he wore no helm. His hair was cut very short but he had a long beard. He had the face of a seasoned veteran and his armor bore totems and many leather pouches; some with weapons, some with strange items. As he was staring at the far wall, he spoke, “My name is Arnor Bruni Brodrup. I am called Arn. It will be the last name of anyone you will ever see again.” Still staring at the wall, he placed his hands on his hips and rocked forward stating, “I care not if you speak with your mouth, I have tools to speak for you but know this, speak you will.” A smile then creased across his face and he turned around sharply to his work table. “You waste your time dog, I have nothing to say to you,” slurred the prisoner. He had been stripped of his red armor. Now it lay in a ramshackle heap in the corner. Arn stepped over to the pile of gear and pulled out a helmet. He held it up and studied it with a trained eye. “Oh, you have much to tell me filth of Lorgar, much indeed.”

Arn tossed the helmet onto his workbench and crossed over to the prisoner. He stopped in front of him and bent down. The prisoner spat on the ground before him. Arn shook his head, “poor taste, that foul blood of yours makes for dim wit as well. We will remedy that!” He laughed, stepping back to his bench, he reached down and turned on some black metal machines, each with blinking lights. “So it begins and I will do the talking. The other legions, always thought us to be barbarians, stupid, feral, and only good for a hunt. I will show you otherwise but you will not live to tell anyone else,” he said with a dark tone. Suddenly with a whimsical twist he said, “It is our way. We don’t want you to know,” as he smiled. He stepped behind the wounded warrior and put a metal band around his bleeding head. He attached sensors to his hands, arms, and chest. He plugged cables into the corroded sockets of the traitors black carapace. “You all think we don’t know, but we do, we watch and we record just as the other chapters do.” He knelt down and attached more sensors to the legs and tightened the restraints. He grunted as he straightened back up and leaned in front of the Word Bearer. “Two options, cooperate or don’t, I don’t care which you choose. Most choose to not, then I watch them drool and their brains boil. Win, win for me. What will it be Lorgar filth?”

He pulled out a dataslate and read the intel log, “Eos Tor, formerly of the Chapter of the Crescent Moon, an initiate upon turning traitor along with the XVII legion. You have been sighted on multiple raider runs, attacks on Ultramar, and the battle of Terra. The Allfather will not save your soul and before you spit any vile jibberish.” He hit a button and Eos was hit with a lethal amount of electricity. A normal man would have died, his heart stopped and his inside melted. Eos bolted upright, his muscles tensed and his jaw clinched. Arn hit the button again and the pain stopped. Smoke coiled away from Eos as his blood had boiled off, his head hung low once more. Arn picked it up and said, “Underneath those black stains of your filth brothers, are sigils. You know what they do? They keep your heresy in check. Unlike the other chapters, I don’t need any confession from you, only information. These machines will get that from your brain, the locations of your vile brethren. How do you think we hunt so well? We will put them to the axe but before that, I will turn your brain to mush.” Eos stared up, eyes in shock and disbelief, then the machine assaulted his mind.

(Disclaimer: I do not work for Games Workshop or affiliated companies. This is fan fiction. All items associated are owned by Games Workshop/Black Library with trademarked items to the Warhammer 40K universe.)

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