Metropolemos

Abenēmīr felt himself a fearless man, but he had his own little trepidations that, perhaps, he never knew to be such. The idea that Atrahasis himself would never return, verboten as conversation among decent and righteous souls, and derided as the fear of the foolish, lurked at times in Abenēmīr’s mind. In that way, he felt like the most lowly, putrid little wardum. If those who knew him best could pluck the worst thoughts from his mind, they would clamp him in bronze chains and he would be sent where he belonged. He loathed such a train of thought, hypocrites that those around him were. If all were judged by their darkest days, then let the one true soul come and point the finger. He would fight them on sheer principle, and this ephemeral true soul would most likely crack his head open and let the water in his brain mix with fresh blood on the ferrocrete.

In truth, that kind of intrusive thought was a far distant concern; one that oft sprouted up as a symptom of more pressing affairs. He had been at the forefront of glorious labours, once. By Atrahasis, he had fought beside the Qarnu Anšar once upon a time. He had even seen one look at him! Afford a small glance in the midst of combat that reshaped his entire purview. Abenēmīr had been wrist-deep in some Valhallan at the time, with a bayonet doing the lion's share of the exploring. He had been guilty of an indulgence, he knew. As he leaned back on the metal seating of the tram, his twisted, anguished expression was hidden by his warhelm. At best a soul gifted with keen perception might catch the glint of conflict in the light of his eyes, but otherwise he was perfectly, comfortably anonymous among his people.

Oh, how that astartes had watched him. What a nightmare it had been to be so close to someone so Mighty. Someone who exuded such raw danger and a ruthless efficiency. Clad in power armour and projecting a gnomon of lethality under the evening sun. He had gone to battle wielding a bolt pistol the size of the briefcase Abenēmīr had now pinned between his elbows and knees to insulate it from the jostling of the tram. In the other hand, he had carried a thick, large knife that humiliated the bayonet still kissing the internals of that clumsy Valhallan. It damn near humiliated Abenēmīr himself while it was at it. If that thing had been put upright on the mud of the battlefield, it would have certainly matched him when he was at the interim between childhood and being the man he was today.

That Qarnu Anšar had been far more graceful than expected. Even after having been told in advance of what he could expect to see in the field, that behemoth had proved exactly what made his ilk unchallengeable. He dodged blows that he would never have had to fear in an almost preternatural trance, and his counterattacks did in one second what Abenēmīr would have needed twelve.

Of all to have witnessed him lose control, to selfishly forsake the Murder-Per-Moment-ratio -- it simply had to have been his utter, unequivocable better in the art of the duel. That glance had withered him in body and soul, and the only thing that stopped that astartes from telling him exactly how much he disapproved was, ultimately, that it would impact his own ratio. That was commitment. That was the kind of integrity that Abenēmīr had failed to demonstrate at a critical point.

They had won the field that day, but something inside of Abenēmīr had died with the Valhallans. Or that was what he had felt at the time. He had spoken to his officers and fellow Pactsmen, and he had told them how he had come to feel. In possession of a strong body and a fast mind, he was more than apt to contribute from up close or from the necessary crunching of numerals. While it was his pleasure to kill, that singular glance from a thoughtless, emotionless helmet had rendered his urge to kill prenatal, and neutered the killer instinct. The passion had been sapped away from the flow of war.

He had to atone. He simply had to atone. This had been his mantra for more than a few lunar cycles now, and he was in hell. To fight with the Pactsmen was as easy as breathing, as simple as swimming. Since youth's First Murder he had been there, tallying his skulls with an adorant passion. Offering them up first with the tiny, tender hands of a boy, then the gnarled, bearish paws of a man. It was all he had ever truly known with any real intimacy. Even his friendships were almost accessories to continuant rampages and more organised slaughterhoods.

Abenēmīr glanced to one side, and he saw Mortemos sat there, flicking through some pulp, low-grade narrative on his data-slate. In most ways, Abenēmīr disapproved of such a habit. Whatever grand escapism could be garnished from tales of prodigal Atrahasis or other figures of legendary import, could just as easily be sought out the direct way. That was what Abenēmīr had taken into account on his new path in life. It was an ointment upon his soul when he finally paid the toll and obtained Crushr. He reached into his uniform and fished out a data-slate of his own. No changes. It was still searching for what he craved. What he needed above all else. Even above the air in his lungs or the food in his gullet. With a discontented sigh, he let the slate rest on his briefcase.

It had felt like severing an arm; an act of incredible willpower to start, and fortitude everlasting to maintain. He had asked to depart the fields of battle and enter the logistical corp on Uruk. He was more than capable of the intellectual work. And though his Katogaur had been initially recalcitrant to honour his wishes he'd eventually granted the transfer; and Abenēmīr had proven correct. Prior to the transfer his MPM had plunged, and something had to be done. Death was a waste for such a deft mind, the battlefield was not the optimal use of his capacities. But even if his talents were better here deployed than they were in the field - instead, spiritually, he had been given something far worse. A full-time shift counting skulls and perfecting murder-theorems. From dawn til early dusk. To call it a jarring transition was an understatement.

Packed like cadavers in a tram to and from the administrative building he had been assigned, he had always found a seat next to Mortemos, who was always browsing his trite little tales on his slate. Being so long away from consistent killing, whose delights had once been delivered to him so generously and with such ease -- well, it had left Abenēmīr touch-starved for murder. Even the mediocre escapism of Mortemos little fictions were starting to catch his eye now. It was irreconcilable with his values, but even rotting grain looks fresh baked to a starving man.

All around him were people making the transit to the administrative districts within Uruk, and not a one of them had detached themselves from their data-slates, their parchments of happenings and goings on. Nothing broke their concentration, not even the jostling of the tram that induced a nostalgia for the troop transports of the halcyon era where killing someone was as simple as walking forwards with your arm outstretched and a mean look in your eye. Damn whoever had the ceramite in their undercarriage accoutrements to keep in the way.

Suddenly, a great scream came from the tram, the heavy train leading the series of carriages slowly grinding to a painstaking halt down the line. The force knocked Abenēmīr into the shoulder of the rather dehydrated looking woman to one side of him, and sent Mortemos’ skull nearly into his own, prevented only by the previously enthralled reader seizing an overhead handrest with speed that Abenēmīr would never praise openly, but appreciated in the moment.

Complaints and protests came in murmurs and grumbles among the seated passengers, the entire sequence of events stopping their distractions for only a moment. What lit the fire in them, however, was the garbled voice that came over the conductor’s vox.

“There has been a delay, unfortunately. I have been told that there is a uhhhhm, collapsed bronze pillar on the tracks two miles ahead. We will be late today.”

Abenēmīr felt the blood rush to his brain, warm his cheeks, and damn near boil his ears. On the battlefield his problems were his own to rectify. Now the actions of others could sabotage his own performance and the blame would be his to shoulder. A veiny hand gripped his data-slate and checked Crushr once more. Their motto had always been; ‘Fight Fellow Men’, and he was always interested in fighting his fellow man. He had a match, and he praised the blood god for this little morsel.

Crushr was his oasis now. A scrapcode program that allowed users to broadcast a signal to a cogitator somewhere in Uruk’s districts. It would relay this signal to other users for one simple purpose. To find someone to fight. Just as one mouthful of food might not save a starving man, Crushr had given Abenēmīr the strength to keep going, and it had just provided salvation anew. His latest match was… In this very train car.

His eyes shot up, looking across the rows of disinterested, now quite agitated passengers. He settled on someone the moment they locked their own vision on him. Male. About Abenēmīr’s age, perhaps a little bit younger. He had a data-slate of his own resting on his lap. Abenēmīr snarled, and for a brief moment, that snarl mutated into a toothy, filthy rictus grin.

The two passengers stood as one, and for a brief blissful moment, Abenēmīr felt everything he had missed come rushing into his soul. He drank freely from the fountain of vigour that this promised soul had offered. He could never refuse, never deny this saviour a rescue of his own.

Then his fist met this young man’s nose, and he felt a boot go straight between his legs. Now he was comfortable in his understanding that there would be no holds barred. Praise the Blood God, he would want nothing less.