A Cultist in a Foxhole

The air in prisoner transport PT-0881 was stale and about 15 degrees too hot from the outset. As they moved along the uneven road, things only got worse. The prisoners, captured in the process of putting down a five-thirteen in an out-of-the way habblock, were sitting mostly in silence. The main sounds were the buzzing of flies and the noise of the transport vehicle. Occasionally there was unpleasant moaning when the transport hit a pothole or took a corner too quickly and one or the other Slaaneshi cultist was slammed forcefully into the wall or one of their fellow captives.

Urzevalek was observing it all with a strange sense of detachedness. He was surprised, but not all together pleased, to still be alive. If he’d interpreted the half-heard conversation of his captors correctly, they were to be part of an experiment aimed at maximizing the rage revenue by adding captured cultists to the slave pools sent to the arenas. He supposed this made sense -- the cultists were generally stronger than normal slaves, which would make for longer fights, and their eventual defeat would also anger the deity they worshipped -- given Khorne and Slaanesh’s historical rivalry, a clear benefit in itself. It wouldn’t make a big difference for him, though. He was hardly Slaanesh’s greatest champion. Truth be told, his heart had never really been in the worship of the Dark Prince, just as it had never really been in the cult of Khorne before that, or the Enchained Emperor before that.

Urzevalek was, he supposed, just not really a religious man.

Of course, when the Pact had first taken over his hive ages ago, it had been a fun diversion from the drudgery of his everyday life. He’d quite enjoyed running around and attacking resisters, at least for a little while. But then the same sense of boredom had overtaken him. The initial excitement had waned. The bright reds and whites of the first few weeks had faded to a dull rust brown, things had gone mostly back to normal and Urzevalek had gotten stuck in the same old rut as he’d always been stuck in. It was the fate of a lowly worker, he supposed, to be bored regardless of who was in charge. Whether he was manufacturing cogitator parts or knives, it was the same kind of dull repetitive work.

So when his colleague Lilatu had invited him to a secret after-work gathering, he’d been excited to join. By then, he’d been moved to an experimental breeding program (absolutely not as fun as it might have at first appeared), and time off -- between the weird fertility rituals and the physical training -- was even rarer. It had been nice to get to know some of his colleagues better, and he had certainly appreciated the rare herbs that he got to smoke at these meetings.

Though again, he had noticed straight away that the others seemed to be enjoying themselves a lot more. Lilatu had basically passed out from ecstasy that first meeting he’d attended, whereas he’d just felt pleasantly relaxed - like he’d be able to have a good nap if he’d had the time for it.

And, honestly, he’d found much about these meetings quite obnoxious. The strong scent of musk and lavender that filled the air got into his hair and clothes and it would make him sneeze even hours after he’d left. The people were really intense, even before they devolved into open Slaanesh worship. A lot of them had wanted to talk to him about their plans for enterprises that would help them import and sell clothes, medicinal herbs, and/or interesting xenos trinkets.

A loud clunk and braking sound shook Urzevalek out of his reverie. The transport vehicle had come to a sudden halt. There was talking outside, but it was difficult to make out what was going on. If he were to guess, he’d say that one of the tyres had burst. Angry noises suggested that it would probably take a while for the guards to get their shit together enough to fix it. Urzevalek sighed - at this rate, they might well be dead before they reached the arena, because with all through-draught now gone, the temperature in their compartment was rising rapidly.

One of his fellow captives had already slid off their bench and was thrashing on the floor in an apparent fit, though with that one you never knew - Urzevalek remembered seeing them at several meetings, and they had taken to the worship of the Dark Prince with exuberant enthusiasm. It had come as absolutely no surprise to anyone that their left hand now resembled a crustacean’s pincer more than a normal human hand.

More clanging outside indicated that someone had started working on whatever the problem was, but it didn’t sound like they’d be quick. A lot of the noises seemed to be various guards shouting at each other. At one point, Urzevalek made out the tell-tale sound of a skull being shattered against the wall of the transport vehicle as one guard had clearly let their rage flow a little too freely.

The prisoner on the floor had spent whatever energy they were overcome by and quietly returned to their seat. Relative silence returned to the compartment. As the temperature continued to increase, the buzzing of the flies was getting more intense. One landed on Urzevalek's hand and he swatted it away. It seemed to buzz at him angrily as it hopped away.

There were quite a few of these fat flies and to pass the time, Urzevalek tried counting them.

Four, five, six, seven, …eight? No, he’d already counted that one. He started again, going clockwise around the space.

The low light made it difficult to see, and the high temperature and now almost unbearable stench of sweat and stagnant air made it difficult to concentrate. Urzevalek felt vaguely dizzy, but the act of counting the flies helped him feel a little clearer. He went clockwise a few times, and then he decided to mix it up by going counterclockwise. It reminded him of the meditations he was taught as a child, only then it had mostly been about repeating famous sayings attributed to the Emperor or various imperial saints.

Given his current situation, it seemed oddly appropriate to be meditating on a bunch of fat flies. He felt a giggle well up in his throat, as he reflected on the absurdity of the situation: a former manufactorum worker, turned half-hearted Khornite cultist, turned unambitious Slaaneshi worshipper, soon to be turned into fertiliser.

With a few more clanking noises and some more shouting, the vehicle slowly started moving again. As they were crawling ever closer to their inevitable deaths, one of the flies landed on his leg, its tongue gingerly exploring the gash on Urzevalek's thigh. A guard had slashed his leg to stop him running away when they were being arrested. It had been quite unnecessary, because Urzevalek had not even considered running away; but he supposed the other guy hadn’t known that, nor had he seemed in the state of mind to really appreciate his surroundings in that moment.

The wound was not healing properly, Urzevalek noticed. If he weren’t about to have his head chopped off by a teenager with too much to prove, he’d worry about the way the skin around the wound was going a faint greyish tone.

Another giggle escaped from his throat, this one turning into a full-blown laugh. Some of the other captives looked at him with a mix of confusion, curiosity, and surprise. Urzevalek didn’t really care what they thought. Their Dark Prince might be looking out for them, but it was clear to Urzevalek that he was triply screwed. If he didn’t die in the hot vehicle, choking on the body odour of a gaggle of wannabe hedonists, he’d die in the arena. And if he didn’t die in the arena, he’d die from whatever infection had seeped into his leg. Death by overdetermination. He wiped tears from his eyes with a grimy hand as he continued chuckling to himself.

If only death could come quickly, he thought. At least it promised to be anything but boring.