Chapter Text
Everything was strewn with the shattered remains of glass tanks, viscous green slime dripping and sliding through the floor grates in unappetizing squelches.
Tervantias - the original - was now nothing more than a lifeless husk on the floor, grotesque and deformed and riddled with holes, while his vatborn duplicates had long since begun degrading into what they had originally sprung forth from: thick, repulsive liquid, like corpses that had skipped the processes of decay and instead begun melting away as sludge. Their newly formed bodies were still too unstable to maintain their shape for long beyond death.
He had put up a tough fight, and left them with more mysteries than they had gained answers - the most prominent of which was still the gigantic hole gaping in the ceiling, bathing the carnage of the room in the light of an uncaring mid-noon sun.
They had been discussing it for decidedly too long, and Lucien had eventually grown tired of it all - observations he had already made, being voiced amongst his companions to be discussed and inevitably leading them to conclusions he had long drawn himself. He had tuned them out a fair while ago, and had allowed his gaze to trail across their surroundings instead. Across the fresh carnage they had brought, and the odd juxtaposition of the room: an abandoned Imperial facility, left to be reclaimed by nature, and misappropriated as the poor substitute of a Haemonculus lair. Gilded aquilae that had long since lost their sheen, choked with moss and grime, hung right above the jagged edges and rigid shapes of curious xenos devices.
Above them, the local fauna sang exotic songs.
And in one of the corners - an odd shape that simply did not make sense. No matter how he racked his brain, it did not seem to fit the layout. They had explored most thoroughly, looting every nook and every closet, and for every measuring step he took, his mind told him clearly: the space was unaccounted for. A narrow, negligible amount of space, and it simply did not fit into the layout of the room.
The others’ voices had long since turned into a background drone, but Abelard addressing him cut through it clearly: “Lord Captain?”
“Does that corner seem off to anyone?”
Lucien nodded his chin to the offending space, and he knew everyone's head turned towards it even without looking.
“Off how?” Cassia curiously chimed in.
“This unit's observations are correct. Upon further visual examination, the wall appears to be at a slant of approximately 3.75°, facing inward.”
“Hm.” Heinrix sounded contemplative. “Asymmetrical architecture is uncommon by most Imperial standards, even on a far-out planet like this.”
“It isn’t uncommon for strategically compromised assets to hide emergency shelters behind architecture, in this part of the system,” Abelard now helpfully provided, and when Lucien glanced at him, he could see his forehead had once again creased into a furrowed brow. “Though with how long Winterscale has neglected this planet, it is hard to gauge what reason they could’ve had for such a choice. This structure has been abandoned for well over a century.”
“Emergency shelter, you say,” Lucien repeated thoughtfully. Stepping closer to the odd corner, the footsteps of his companions followed closely behind. “How does it open?”
*
The second room was much smaller. Quieter. Colder. It seemed like some nefarious atmosphere clung to the air down here, in this lumenless, windowless plasteel tomb. An oppressive, menacing groan that drew forth from the ridges of the plating, as if the room itself resented what had been done to it.
It was a much smaller version of the lab upstairs - strange instruments of carved bone and polished metal, peculiarly humming xenos devices the only source of low glow that allowed them to see.
Scattered across one table were sheets - not of paper, though they pretended to be. They were too supple. Too irregular at the edges. One turned slightly inward, as if reacting to the cold.
Lucien knew that texture.
The skin was scraped pale and stretched thin. Spiraling notes coiled around half-finished anatomical illustrations, etched in an elegant and utterly alien script. Notes that were indecipherable in their strange notations of biochemical processes, though the quick-handed sketches still clued him in on their most general subject matter. Some of them had to be pinned down with brass hooks at the top - to keep the stubborn material from further recoiling into itself.
A handful of flash vats lined the wall, though these ones were more reminiscent of caskets rather than upright tanks. But Lucien was more preoccupied with studying the notes. This vast, incredible collection of knowledge, so cruelly beyond his comprehension. For now. It was not standard Drukhari script, else the Elucidator would have yielded its meaning to him already, but perhaps with a bit of patience and a few tweaks…
“Lucien…” There was a distinct hesitation in his sister’s voice. A worry. He looked up, to find Éliane standing over one of the tanks, peering into its glass front. “Have a look at this.”
They all stepped closer as one.
Inside, there lay a face. A sunken face. Its eyes no longer existed, leaving only the hollow space of their sockets, and the features were wrong - they looked like they had been wrong from the start, but they looked even wronger now, half liquified and bloated and sliding off the bone underneath. It was impossible to tell who it once resembled more closely. And still, the color of the skin was very distinct. A foreign, ashy, desaturated tan, the sickly pallor of a voidborn. The dark red hair had already begun falling out in lumps, but he could tell it had been long.
He could not help the feeling of unease at the back of his mind. As if the brain itself balked at the sight of seeing oneself rot. Especially in a way so uncanny. In a way so unnatural.
“It looks just like us,” he observed calmly, meeting the eyes of his twin.
Éliane pulled a face of disgust at the remark. “I should hope not.”
“The Haemonculus attempting to recreate either of you does not bode well,” Heinrix cut in sternly.
“Well, he did say he wanted to study us. Quite flattering he’d go to these lengths, really.”
“Be serious for once,” she chided. Her dismayed frown looked more like petulance to him.
“The flesh crafters do not flatter, Elantach. Even in death, his interest in you should be cause for caution.”
“The xenos is right,” Heinrix threw a glance of thinly veiled hostility at Yrliet. “Though if the Haemonculus had the biogenetic material needed to replicate you, she ought not forget who willingly delivered it to him.”
She held her chin raised proudly, but he could still see the flicker of anger. It was the same flicker that crossed her face, any time Commorragh was brought up.
“Enough, Heinrix,” Lucien warned mildly and rounded the vat, so that he might behold the next. He peered into the glass to be met with a similar sight, though this one was more advanced already. It could barely even be called a face anymore at all. He addressed Éliane once more: “Which one of us do you think he tried to make?”
“Does it matter? We should be purging these cursed things, and this whole place along with them.” He could swear he saw her shudder slightly.
He slyly smiled at her, leaning towards her across the vat as if in conspiracy. “What, aren’t you the least bit curious what Tervantias would’ve done with you? His very own cortege of little Élianes?”
Éliane crossed her arms in defiance and remained silent, though he could see her avoid his eyes for a moment. The idea was getting under her skin.
“Maybe he would’ve sent one of them to replace you. Do you think Heinrix would’ve noticed? I’m sure I wouldn’t have.”
“Lord Captain,” Heinrix sounded almost threatening, in the way he took a step towards them. A single look rendered him silent, but Lucien hoped he was fuming underneath that cold facade.
Éliane threw him one last, resentful look, and stepped away from the casket, away from him and towards the others. “You’re vile.”
“Relax. It’s probably me, anyway.”
He straightened again, and moved on to examine the puddle of flesh in the next casket.
“Is that so?” Éliane huffed quietly. “What makes you think that? A Psyker is much more valuable to a Haemonculus.”
Lucien flashed her a sweet smile. “You heard what he said earlier. I am different from you other Mon’keigh.”
“And you’d pride yourself that a xenos monster took an interest in you? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But why choose, anyway?,” he continued musing, ignoring her indignation. “He could’ve easily created a chimera from the both of us. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Moving on to the last casket, he noticed that this one… was different. Even from a distance, he could see a soft fog that clouded the glass front. It vanished a moment later.
He paused. Waiting to see if it would return, to confirm his eyes had not deceived him - and it did.
Steadily and softly it waxed and waned, as if its inhabitant was drawing calm breaths.
“It seems this one is still alive,” he noted in a soft voice, and these simple words were enough to tangibly capture everyone’s attention. All eyes were on him now. They all kept their distance - but he could feel their tension rising in the room, waiting on what he’d say next with bated breaths.
He stepped closer to lean over the vat with morbid curiosity.
For the flash of a moment, he saw only himself, reflected in the glass. It took him a moment to discern that which lay beneath it - their edges blending together perfectly.
And the face that looked back at him, eerily still and its eyes vacant…
He let his gaze trail over its features; over the sharp jaw and the pronounced nose, over the soft curve of the lips. It looked just like him. Him, except it was fully natural. No neural augmetic, no synskin jaw, no eyebags, not even a single scratch or blemish. Full eyebrows. Him, except perfect. Like a mirror into another world - one where he was still whole.
Almost what he used to look like, many years ago. Except older. He had not seen this face in a long time.
His hand lifted to settle on the glass in a mind all of its own, but he willed it to halt just in time. A moment of hesitation - he could only hope the others did not notice.
He let it drop again.
“You can stop worrying, Éliane.” He cast the group a glance, keeping his voice measured. “It’s me.”
“What,” Abelard breathed the word through his teeth and stepped closer in an alarmed yet confident stride. He came to a halt next to him, and stared into the vat.
“Lord Captain…” Heinrix sounded almost agitated. “Surely you do not need me to lay it out for you, a Haemonculus attempting to replicate a Rogue Trader is incredibly bad?”
“The Mon’keigh is right, Elantach.” Yrliet’s concern was so subtle, he doubted it was discernible to anyone but him. “This soulless abomination ought to be discarded.”
Everyone muttered in agreement, but Lucien’s gaze had already returned to his mirror. His choice had already been made.
“What are you doing, Lord Captain?” Abelard spoke up when he went to a kneel next to the casket, to examine the mechanism that kept it close. It was odd - as all xenos devices were - but surely he could manage to unlock it.
“I’m opening the vat,” he replied lightly, next to his fiddling.
Heinrix took a step towards them. “Are you sure that is wise -”
It yielded to him a second later. A loud hiss filled the room, tempestuous steam angrily spluttering forth from the gap as the lid sprung up, just an inch. Everyone fell silent once more, and the lid swung open on its own.
Lucien rose back to his feet, and studied the unmoving figure within.
His mirror was entirely in the nude - he bore no scars, and he had all of his limbs, as could be expected. His hands… Lucien could hardly believe he still remembered what they had looked like, but every subtle shift in hue, every proportion seemed correct. Lucien’s gaze travelled over the soft curves and divots of his body - one so familiar, and still so eerily foreign. There was not a single mark, not a single hair out of place. Trailing along the soft v shape of his pelvis, nearing the tuft of red that sat at its end - even there, his mirror was a perfect duplicate of him.
Abelard exhaled sharply next to him. He must see it too.
“It seems Tervantias spared no effort when it comes to accuracy,” Lucien muttered quietly. One of his hands settled to grasp the edge of the vat, and the other - the other reached inside. His augmetic fingers softly trailed across the sternum - across this perfectly smooth skin. It seemed so naked without its scars.
And then - he shuddered.
There was a sudden sensation. The lightest of tickles across his own sternum, as if he could feel his own touch through the clone. Surely, his mind was playing tricks on him.
But it was real enough to make him shudder nonetheless, and his grasp involuntarily tightened where it grabbed the edge. He could see Abelard cast a worried glance at him, evidently noticing the odd reaction. And it was immediately, inevitably followed by a mild curiosity at the back of his mind. If they were somehow linked, if they truly shared touch…
When Lucien looked up to look at his own face - he found the same curiosity staring back. Its golden eyes now lucid and almost-sharp, and boring into him. It seemed he could feel it too.
His mirror sat up in its vat.
“Oh, goodness,” Cassia exclaimed, a rosy tint climbing onto her cheeks. She turned away and shielded her eyes from his naked form.
Éliane, too, awkwardly averted her gaze, though she seemed unsure where to look.
And everyone else - everyone else simply stared in tense suspense.
His mirror remained silent. Brows furrowed, he cast a long, probing gaze across the room. His breathing was calm and measured, as was his voice when he suddenly spoke: “This is not Commorragh.”
“Astutely observed,” Lucien responded with mild sarcasm, transfixed on the man before him.
Abelard cleared his throat, straightening himself back into a stunned composure. “We are on Quetza Temer. This is an Imperial facility.”
“Do not,” Heinrix warned him sharply, his dark gaze burning into the clone, “converse with it, Seneschal.”
“You remember Commorragh then? How much do you remember? What else do you remember?” Lucien inquired.
“I do…” His mirror spoke slowly. His eyes trailed across his companions, one after the other, taking each of them in. “I remember all of you, I think. There was the arena, and the Sslyth…” His eyes found Lucien’s once more. They seemed subtly dazed, and his speech trailed off in parts. “We went to the flesh crafter for help. He operated on us... And then… I’m not sure, but now we are here.”
He exhaled slowly, bitterly overcome by the unpleasant realization: “The parasite, of course.”
His mirror blinked at him blankly. He seemed to understand, too. “It would be easy work for the likes of him.”
“Lucien, we are killing that thing, aren’t we?” Éliane impatiently cut into the conversation, still averting her gaze.
He and his mirror turned to look at her in perfect synchronicity.
“No, we are not.” His words caused a wave of immediate protest from each and every one of them, but he simply waved it away with a flick of the wrist and rendered them all silent. “We are taking him, and all the notes. I wish to understand this better.”
“Lord Captain,” Heinrix put on his stern voice again; the telltale sign he was about to get preachy. “There is no virtue in understanding heresy - it must be purged, not studied.”
“The decision is final, Heinrix.”
A petulant silence reigned for many beats. Eventually, it was Cassia who spoke up, the blush only deepening every time she stole a quick glance in their direction: “Well, can we get him - it some clothes, at least?”
Abelard sighed in quiet defeat, and shrugged the Officer’s coat off his shoulders. Stepping between the vat and the rest of his companions, he shielded the mirror from their view with his body as he climbed out of his casket. The heavy coat hung way too large around his frame - its sheer size almost seemed to swallow him, and the sleeves extended far past his hands. It was as cozy as it looked, and Lucien knew that firsthand. He watched the Seneschal swiftly button it up around him.
“Thank you, Seneschal,” the mirror purred quietly, his hands ghosting over Abelard’s as they fiddled to straighten the collar. It seemed he was trying to intertwine his fingers - his natural fingers - with Abelard’s.
Lucien heard Abelard’s sharp exhale, overcome by a subtle shudder, and he withdrew his hand. He immediately stepped back a few steps, demurely folding his hands behind his back with perfect naval posture, and cast a quick glance in Lucien’s direction. And out of nowhere, Lucien felt an odd, inexplicable sense of jealousy at the display. It was the tiniest scratching at the back of his mind, like an inflammation.
His mirror had the nerve to smile at him - the same devious, sly smile that he so liked to extend to other people. “And how gracious of you to let me live.”
And then, he suddenly went to grab Lucien’s hand instead - firmly grabbing it by the palm, he held it up. They were the same - his augmetics had always been a perfect replica of what his natural limbs had been. The same proportions, the same form, but where one was flesh and blood, the other was metal covered by black synthetic skin. Perfectly intertwined, his mirror rotated them both slightly, studying them with a faux consideration.
His mirror continued, in the same mockingly sweet tone: “But aren’t you worried I might outperform you? Tervantias has gifted me completeness, and I vividly remember what it’s like to inhabit that frail body of yours -”
“Shut your mouth,” he firmly ripped his hand out of his grasp, careful to keep his voice steady. Instead, he roughly grabbed his mirror by the upper arm - and it was an odd sensation. He could actually feel it - although there was no pressure, and there was something uncanny about sensation without cause. Like a ghostly stimulation of the nerves themselves, although nothing was even there.
He harshly pulled his mirror alongside him, acutely aware of just how easily he allowed himself to be manhandled by his own hands - and the glance they shared told him what he already knew. He told him exactly what his mirror was thinking, for it was the very same thing that was going through his own head. He enjoyed this - an unspoken ritual, an unspoken contention for dominance, known only to the two of them.
Without letting go, he shoved his mirror towards one of the vats housing one of the more gruesome looking versions of them - with enough force that his hand had to catch his stumble, banging against the lid with a pronounced thud.
“Take a good look. That’s what you will look like in a few days from now, I wager, now that the Haemonculus is dead.”
“Lucien…” There was the mildest hint of disapproval in his sister's voice.
Beside him, his mirror simply chuckled in delight. “How lovely.”