Chapter O: Interlude: Nightmarish Convulsions
Crack
A nauseating buzzing sound crept closer and closer. A sour stench that stung the nose and brought tears to the eyes lingered in the air. His muscles rotted away, rendering him immobile.
The corridor of the Endurance was bathed in a warm yet eerily dim orange light—like the last dying ray of a sunset at dusk.
Spores and insects danced in the teasing glow.
He lay silently on a pile of soft, damp flesh. The warm, springy biological mass had grown spontaneously out of the deck of the Endurance.
Had he fallen? Or had he ever truly stood? Everything on the ship had become fertile—not cold and metallic anymore, but exuding a grotesque sense of life.
His thoughts were muddled, but his senses were heightened to an unbearable extreme. He could see them—those countless writhing little insects on the wall next to a heap of kitchen waste.
He could hear the breathing of the fleshy mass beneath him, the rustling sounds of its growth. The flesh crept up through the gaps in his power armor, seeping acidic, putrid slime.
His armor was rotting, rusting. Rivets creaked and popped under impossible pressure.
The unbearable sound was drawing closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a swarm of flies—an enormous black cloud—crashing into his power armor with crackling pops.
They had entered through the respirator tubes, the buzzing echoing within the helmet. The flies swarmed his face, crawling chaotically, squirming into his mouth and nose.
Agonizing stings spread through his mouth and throat. Flies with black eyes infested his stomach, their wings scraping his inner linings. The barbed tips of their antennae pricked at his flesh.
No… no…
His thoughts filled with weary, helpless resistance. His mind grew heavy. He couldn't even muster anger anymore. He tried to struggle, but his body only convulsed in vain—
His muscles had wasted away, turned into some kind of slimy fluid, loosely held together by skin rather than seeping out.
No… endure… hang on…
Give me a command—don't let me just exist like this. Give me an enemy… or erase me.
Darkness.
His vision dimmed. He felt a black liquid rising.
The once warm corridor began to darken. A light abruptly went out, flickered back on—but even lit, it was as if it had remained extinguished.
Whispers of darkness slithered along the corridor, creeping at the very edge of his sight, spreading like rapidly growing veins—throbbing—
But it brought no sense of life. Though it crawled faster than anything alive, the darkness was not a creature.
In an instant, it reached his eyes. His pupils contracted. A primal terror clutched his soul. A deeper sense of helplessness overwhelmed him.
But he also realized—others feared the darkness too. Those entities inside his stomach, on his skin, between his very cells—he could hear their tiny, terrified screams.
If they perished together—he could accept that.
So he drew in a deep breath (though it was only flies he inhaled), closed his eyes, and peacefully let himself sink into the void of darkness…
The waters of the Styx wrapped around him—he sank… and sank… to where even bubbles could not rise, where the thick, heavy dark awaited him.
Darkness… but with light.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling of the Endurance stared quietly back at him.
Clean, smooth—no rust, no sticky overgrowth.
He was lying in his own bed. The world tilted slightly, a dizzying sense of vertigo washing over him.
He shifted his gaze forward.
Someone was sitting by his bedside, holding a command slate in one hand, scribbling on it with the other—seemingly unaware that he had awakened.
Through his prior training and faint memories, he recognized the man—it was the commander of the Death Guard.
In the dim and dry room, the soft blue glow from the command slate reflected on the commander's pale hair and skin, casting a contemplative expression on his face—
Only now did he realize that the Death Guard's commander was actually quite young and handsome.
Someone that young was the commander? He had always assumed the commander would be older, more lifeless and rigid.
Yet, regardless of the strangeness, the presence of the commander—unexpected as it was—still brought him a sense of stability. It was a signal of safety.
He blinked. His rusted mind finally began to grind into motion. He struggled to sit up, startling the commander seated beside his bed—
"Yo, you're awake. Feeling alright?"
The commander casually set the slate aside and turned his head, smiling as he asked. At the same time, he reached out a hand to help him up.
There was an ease and natural confidence in his tone—not flippant, but assured, like someone who had everything under control.
That was rare—especially among the Death Guard. The commander was the first person to ever speak to him like that.
He… he was a standard Death Guard, so he responded to the commander in the only way a Death Guard would—by staying silent.
If he were an Ultramarine, he might have said he was fine, and then asked about the dream.
If he were an Imperial Fists, he would have given a full report of what he saw.
If he were a Space Wolf, he'd have snarled a curse through growls and gritted teeth.
But he was none of those.
He was a Death Guard.
So, he remained silent.
He couldn't say he was fine. The truth was, he felt horrible. But he also couldn't say he wasn't, because... the very nature of a Death Guard forbade such weakness.
That would be a display of vulnerability.
So he stared silently at the commander, unsure of what to say.
Only when the commander turned his head did he notice the other side of his face was a cybernetic brain—a deep scar ran down the left side of his face, and a mechanical eye gleamed ominously red.
As if expecting the silence, the commander simply shrugged. A mechanical limb behind him extended forward, holding a cup.
"Good. You're awake. Want some water?"
He nodded sluggishly and swallowed instinctively. Only then did he realize how dry and raw his throat felt—as if flies really had crawled through it.
The sensation of water on his lips stirred his mind further. Was he still dreaming?
Everything still felt surreal—waking up from a nightmare to find the commander at his bedside… even offering him water.
Seeing him recover from the nightmare, the commander scratched his head and spoke again.
"Ah, forget it. Can't expect you lot to start talking first. Got any questions?"
You lot?
He picked up on the subtle implication in the commander's words.
But he chose not to ask about that.
"Commander, sir… why are you here?"
The commander blinked in surprise, then waved his hand with a grin.
"Don't call me that. Just call me Hades."
"Hm… looks like you haven't fully realized what you just went through."
Hades looked at him seriously.
"In your dream, what did you see? Don't hold back—just say it."
"The rotting Endurance. Flies. A lot of moss…"
He tried hard to recall the fragments of the painful nightmare. Hades listened quietly, nodding occasionally, as if he already knew what the answer would be.
"At the end, it was the darkness. A deep sense of helplessness… It felt worse than the flies or the slime. I hated it. But I think… it was what woke me up."
Hades paused, then gave a slightly awkward smile.
"Ah. That was my anti-psyker field."
He stared at Hades, stunned, finally realizing what he had just said in front of him.
"You… you saved me? That was you?"
Hades nodded.
"What you just went through wasn't an ordinary nightmare. It's something… most Death Guard have to endure."
"A trial."
In truth, within the 49 days following the successful completion of Astartes transformation surgery—before full training began—a portion of new Death Guard recruits would experience nightmares.
—Or more accurately, relive the hallucinations of what they had once experienced.
Some of them could wake up on their own. Others, however, would fall into deeper, more vivid nightmares—real enough that they couldn't awaken without help.
At the same time, some warriors, even after waking, would be left disoriented and confused. In moments like these, they needed a guide—someone to anchor them mentally.
What the new recruits didn't know was that once they fell asleep, that was when the rest of the Death Guard truly got busy.
Outside the resting chamber's hallway, the Blanks of Zero Company stood guard. The Grave Wardens and Apothecaries were all on high alert. The Primarch and Hades himself constantly patrolled, staying vigilant for any emergencies.
Thanks to Hades' training, the shallow nightmares of most recruits could be safely handled by the Grave Wardens alone. The deeper ones could be dealt with by a tandem team of Blanks and Grave Warden.
But since they were all still "relatively" free, both Hades and Mortarion weren't exactly idle. They pitched in to relieve some pressure off the Grave Wardens—and, not incidentally, to keep tabs on this batch of recruits.
Although, Hades strongly suspected that Mortarion was just in it to mess with the newbies. Comforting and mentoring scared recruits was probably far more entertaining than staring at increasingly resentful administrative clerks in his pitch-dark office.
Of course, Hades himself was a Blank—an untouchable—so his presence in these cases was technically justified. Compared to Mortarion, his appearance made far more sense.
"So… what was that, exactly?"
"If it wasn't a nightmare, Lord Hades?"
Hades waved a hand dismissively.
"Don't call me Lord. Just Hades is fine."
"Then—"
"What do you think it was?"
The unexpected counter-question caught him off guard. He could feel Hades patiently waiting for his answer—
But… what was it?
Those grotesque images… that suffocating, hopeless sensation…
What was it?
He was at a loss for words.
But as he looked at Hades, he slowly began to understand—that everything he had just gone through hadn't truly happened. It wasn't real. It had only existed in a fleeting moment of thought.
He was still here, aboard the Endurance, with a commander who genuinely seemed to care about him.
His muscles were strong. His voice was clear. There was no rot, no stench.
He still had the strength to resist, to fight.
"…Maybe… maybe it was just a nightmare. For me, at least."
He saw Hades raise his eyebrows in surprise.
"Just a nightmare… Not bad. That's a good answer."
Up to this point, Hades had heard recruits describe it as a "vision," "fate," or even "the future."
But "just a nightmare"?
Hades chuckled brightly.
"Yeah. Just a nightmare. Nothing more than a dream."
A beautiful answer. Yes—a dream. No matter how deeply laced with suggestion or meaning, at this point in time, it remained a dream that hadn't happened.
Hades patted him on the shoulder, giving him a knowing smile.
"That might be the freshest answer I've ever heard. If you can say something like that… then I guess there's not much else I need to tell you, huh?"
He froze for a second, then, without even thinking—
"No. I still need you to."
That sentence yanked Hades—who had just been about to leave—right back.
"…Huh?"
This was the first time Hades had ever heard someone ask to be given a pep talk.
"No! Wait—I didn't mean it like that. Lord—I mean—Hades. I mean, I still don't feel quite right."
…?
"Even though I've woken up, something still feels off. Like… my room. It feels kind of tilted?"
"…Ah. That."
Hades quietly looked away.
He had actually been planning to sneak out just now—but it seemed he'd been caught.
Yes. That's right. He had broken the soldier's bed.
Even though Astartes bunks were solid alloy blocks, Hades now stared in shame at the foot of the bed where he had just been sitting. A very visible crack ran through the metal.
This was… embarrassing. His original plan had been to just quietly blame it on the recruit later.
"…Ahem. Okay, listen."
Hades straightened up and began speaking very seriously.
"Astartes beds can't handle the weight of two people. Yours cracked. Just report it to one of the mortal workers tomorrow and have it replaced."
He stayed silent, slowly bending down to look at his bed.
A semi-solid alloy bed—one corner of the rectangular block had a visible crack. It looked like a serious fracture caused by too much weight.
Hades stood in silence. So did he.
Hades felt like all his metaphorical fur was about to stand on end. His proud reputation, built over this whole lifetime—
It was teetering on the edge.
Sensing Hades' silent despair and his fierce determination to protect his utterly nonexistent dignity, the recruit finally spoke up, slowly and sincerely:
"Alright… sir."
"Don't worry. I won't say it was you."
Having received that firm promise, Hades immediately bolted—escaping from the scene of his shame without a second's hesitation.
Watching the commander's rapidly retreating figure, he realized—
So this is what the commander of the Death Guard is really like?
Someone who naturally commands respect, yet doesn't make you feel suffocated or weighed down by it.
But it was a pity. The commander didn't usually get involved in the everyday lives of ordinary soldiers.
What Hades didn't know was that one day, if someone were to make a statistical chart of the Death Guard's leadership, they'd find an interesting pattern:
Almost every recruit personally visited by Hades during their trials… ended up joining the command staff.
. . . . . . . . . .
"Tonight, from a total of 59 recruits. Three went into deep convulsions."
In a dim, endless hallway, Mortarion silently listened to Garro's report. After a moment, the Primarch gave a nod, signaling the end of tonight's work.
In half a standard Terran hour, this batch of new recruits would be due to wake up.
Those who passed the night dreamlessly would never know what had unfolded while they slept.
Mortarion watched as the Blanks and Apothecaries quickly and efficiently withdrew, leaving the Grave Wardens to oversee the daily training of the recruits.
In his comms channel, urgent document alerts had already started ringing. The Primarch had no choice but to stride off down the hallway toward his office.
Mortarion was in a good mood. Guiding confused young recruits, pointing them toward their future within the Legion—it was indeed a meaningful and worthwhile thing to do.
To ignite purpose in the heart of a child of the Legion—what could be more—
"Hey, Mortarion, I'm talking to you. Hey!"
Mortarion reluctantly pulled himself out of his reflective mood and turned his head to look at Hades.
"?"
"How much do you weigh? You're heavier than me, right?"
Mortarion turned his head back silently and continued reminiscing about his conversations with the startled recruits.
"…No, seriously, Mortarion. How do you talk to them? Do you stand or sit?"
"You're asking a foolish question, Hades. The standard Astartes rooms don't allow me to stand upright—and standing isn't a comfortable posture for proper conversation."
Mortarion was used to it. In fact, all of the Death Guard's leadership had long grown accustomed to Hades frequently asking utterly pointless questions or starting completely meaningless conversations.
"Right, then where do you sit?"
"The floor. Sometimes… the bed."
Given the Primarch's massive size, sitting on a bed was a cramped, awkward thing—but there were times Mortarion simply didn't want to sit on the floor.
Even though he prized simplicity, Mortarion also didn't want to trouble the servitors by dragging a chair into every recruit's room. Too much hassle, and utterly unnecessary.
Hades suddenly exclaimed, deeply pained, "I remember the Death Guard's standard-issue bed isn't rated to hold a Primarch's weight!"
Mortarion's stride paused for a split second. Then, with a voice full of dark amusement, he said:
"Let me guess, Hades…"
Mortarion said no more. Instead, the Primarch calmly opened a comms channel.
"Vorx, keep an eye on the requisition reports these next few days. If anyone from the Death Guard requests a bed replacement, inform me immediately."
The confused Vorx operator, having no idea what Mortarion was talking about, still dutifully responded:
"Yes, my lord."
"Hades, I never expected it… which poor kid's bed did you crush?"
"That never happened! I would never commit such an evil act! Mortarion, how dare you smear the spotless honor of the Death Guard's commander! I strongly condemn this unjust, immoral—"
"Help me organize Drune's monthly report, and I'll pretend I didn't hear anything."
"…Deal."
. . . . . . . . . .
That day, the new recruits never figured out why the Primarch—who wasn't originally scheduled to appear—suddenly decided to personally oversee training.
Nor why he seemed to be in such a surprisingly good mood, even going so far as to handle the Hadeshounds' daily drills himself.
What they did hear, however, was the haunting, anguished howls echoing from the main office all day long.
Of course, Hades didn't come out empty-handed. The Primarch, in all his generosity, sent him a gift—a new bed.
Or rather, a bed welded together from two separate heavy alloy chunks: the broken one from earlier and his own long-outdated one.
Naturally, the new bed proudly preserved the original crack—as a permanent reminder.
Thus, every night, Hades went to sleep burning with the righteous fury of wanting to kill a Primarch, maintaining a consistently high morale during combat training.
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