The corridors of 'The Waking Nightmare' were a warren, and the vessel's hissing bowels flickered with the crimson glow of derelict power cells; emergency lights that'd missed their cue millennia ago. The grinding of ancient servos and metal groaned under untold centuries sof disrepair and only saw relief when a corrupted servitor was tasked to their insufficient maintenance; Kira could smell the taint in the offensive air.
In such a place, the Asuryani outcast found it difficult to preserve her stoic heart and uphold the proud resiliency of her people. She'd been trapped in the imperious darkness of a serrated cell and bound by adamantium manacles; stripped of modesty and bound in a suspended position that contorted joints into immovable knots. It was the anticipation that ate at her now, the faulty promise of hope given by the fact that her captors had not yet begun their unspeakable torture. Of all the lesser beings to be captured by, the Night Lord traitor legion was second only to the Drukhari in their savagery; a quick death was the greatest gift their barbarous brood could bestow. They would savor every last moment before allowing her release from what felt like endless torment.
Kira felt like screaming, and her throat burned as she swallowed down the hot bile that threatened to erupt; a consequence of her own frayed nerves. She bit back against the rising tide until the hydraulic cry of her cell doors gave way to a visitor. There was no light, only a glowering set of scarlet lens, sunken into the eyeports of a ivory faced, bat-winged power helmet. A corrupted Mon-keigh, foul blooded beyond salvation, strode through the blackness with calculated measure. Despite his enormity, the Night Lord concealed his position within the shadows with utmost ease.
"You are an intriguing specimen," the traitor astartes asserted with intelligent malice and curiosity, "a suitable candidate in fair health. Good." His voice sounded oddly melodic for one so decayed. As Kira's eyes began to adjust, she could begin to make out the features of her captor. He was strong and dangerous looking; a whole and a half as tall as her and almost twice as broad across the shoulders. A mysterious cadre of drills, saws and bubbling vials decorated the toolbelt of his wargear: the instruments of an apothecary whose purpose had long substituted healing with torture. Heavy plates of ceramite, scrawled with tempestuous reliefs of lightning against a midnight-blue backdrop, bore the leering skulls of Night Lord heraldry. An evolving terror took hold of Kira once more as the horrible form of her would-be-tormentor was given life.
"Butchers all," the young Eldar spat, "craven creatures on the threshold between living flesh and rotten meat!" She shook violently in her chains but fought to retain control; control of her emotions was all that remained, for the time. The sound of metal grating over metal preceded the traitor marine's approach. Even after millennia of banishment to the Eye of Terror, even after the tragedy of their species' decline, the horror they wrought upon each other never failed to befuddle and sicken the Eldar. The Night Lord reminded her of her own kin's ancient folly, and now she would be not but a plaything to a genehanced surgeon of unfathomable amorality. A pang of sorrow flashed through her heart like a jagged shard of ice at the thought.
"Fret not, youngling, as I could've extracted your sumptuous screams much earlier. It is best if you're still able to think clearly when I begin my work." He made a few quick gestures with his gauntlets; light flooded out from the helmet-mounted orbs with a stifling brightness. "The mind is a much more curious plaything than the flesh," he continued with cold matter-of-factness, "as I'm sure you well know..." A gauntleted hand caressed the ivory locks of the Eldar's crown, gently running fingertips over her exposed skull, careful to avoid any direct contact. Kira shuddered, her body betraying her for what it was: weak, helpless and so very afraid. Her head was yanked back by a chain about her neck as her tormentor leaned in closer; the foul breath of an ancient abomination bathed her face. "Your eyes are beautiful," he said in a tone both coarse and affectionate.
Her fear magnified as armored fingers tightened ever so slightly, and with his free hand, the Night Lord retrieved a frothing syringe from his flayed satchel. Its tip shone with a terrible glow of sickly green that roused both disgust and morbid curiosity within Kira; whatever manner of foul biomancy that dripped, it smelled of something unholy. The young Eldar squirmed against her restraints, instinctively trying to pull away, to recoil, but she was bound too tight to escape. There would be no fight left inside her now. The traitor held up the needle, examining its oozing proboscis, and she found herself looking into its fanglike point.
"I'll be gentle…" His voice had a trace of sorrow now as the device bore down upon the bronze flesh of her neck, "...this time." As if grappled by some fiend of the Warp, a caustic sting swept over Kira's sweat-beaded flesh as the narcotic flooded through her veins; a powerful elixir that amplified all sense impressions tenfold, simultaneously eradicating every vestige of sanity. She saw everything through new eyes, vivid and precise—the sensation of weightlessness, floating above the cramped confines of her cell against biting chains. The very air, once tepid and foul, set Kira's flesh ablaze with color and fire. It felt as though her own essence were being torn apart at its seams by raw emotion, and yet she still lived! That was the cruelest part of it all: how could she still live? The very act of screaming felt as though her blood had been replaceed with acid. Every inch of skin screamed in protest under the sudden onslaught.
"You see?" said the Night Lord. "It is perfect." Her captor stood back, his crimson gaze unwavering; Kira forced her heavy eyelids open with an effort to meet his triumphant stare.
"My legion is rotten to its core," the Night Lord admitted, the casual cruelty of his usual tone replaced with sobering truth, "and the stock of our unbloodied heirs," he delayed, "unremarkable. What is needed is properly bred stock, and while the Black Legion has had some varied 'success' in their endeavors for breeding new blood, the capricious nature of daemonic rituals is rather unsavory." The corrupted marine shook his head and grimaced, apparently disgusted by the idea, "but the anatomy of your people is rather fascinating; far more robust. Yes." He turned to regard her with a hint of what might be admiration shining behind his cold lenses.
Kira shook her head wildly as she fought the inevitable tide that washed over her mind. If there was a battle of attrition to be waged, she had already lost. Electrifying agony blossomed into a blinding white, filling her world, and she knew nothing else. The fear was gone now... or rather, she had drowned in its embrace, given into its welcoming arms. Sweat-sleek and hot, the naked Eldar instinctively bucked as the all-consuming sensation unearthed a savage madness from deep within—the same fire that had lain dormant since birth erupted forth like an inferno. She saw red, then purple—she saw black—and it all felt so right. Pleasure! Primeval, raw and untamed pleasure! It exploded through every vein in her body, searing away every ounce of exhaustion, leaving only euphoria and pain in its wake. Kira felt the urge to scream again but held back her screams, desperate to savor the moment.
"I have many plans for you, and I am a generous man. Your pain, though eternal, need not be uncomfortable. All that is required of you is a 'change of perspective'; suffering need not be unenjoyable." the apothecary's gauntlet, its emulsifying touch like the white-hot iron of a brand, trailed its way along the trembling length of Kira's inner thigh, "You simply require reeducation."