[Your hand finds the throttle on the Reaver jetbike. You twist it gently, feeling the anti-grav engine respond with a low, alien purr.]
[You bank hard, changing direction completely. Away from the Dark Eldar. Away from the Dark Angels. Away from everything.]
[Behind you, faint on the wind, you think you hear human screams. The roar of bolter fire. The sounds fade quickly, swallowed by distance and the howling wind.]
[A sudden gust of sandstorm hits you broadside. It tears at your white hood, whips your robes until they snap and crack like gunfire. Grit peppers your helmet with a sound like rain on ceramite.]
[You drive deeper into the wasteland. No plan. No destination. Just movement, distance, escape.]
[You have no supplies. No map. No idea where the nearest Imperial settlement might be, or if you'd even be welcome there now that you're Fallen.]
[You pick a direction based on nothing but instinct and open the throttle.]
[Then you feel it. Something wet and cold trickling down from your nose, pooling at the corner of your mouth. Inside your helmet where you can't see it, can't wipe it away.]
[Your vision wavers slightly at the edges.]
["Shit," you mutter. Your eyes widen as understanding hits. "The Dark Eldar weapons. They're poisoned. How could I forget?"]
[Your sight blurs. Sharpens. Blurs again.]
[You scan the landscape desperately and spot a cluster of boulders forming a natural shelter. You aim the jetbike toward them, fighting to keep it steady as your hands start to shake.]
[You barely make it. The bike settles to the ground in a cloud of dust. You dismount, stumble, catch yourself against a boulder.]
[Your fingers find your helmet's release catches. You wrench it off.]
[The interior is painted with black blood. Streaks and spatters of it, viscous and foul-smelling. Not red. Black. Wrong.]
["Ptuh!"]
[You drop to one knee and vomit a mouthful of corrupted blood onto the dust. It steams slightly in the cooling evening air, hissing as it eats into the ground.]
["No medical equipment," you gasp, your voice raw. "No antitoxins. No plan."]
[You drag yourself to a sheltered spot between two large rocks and slump against the stone. Your body feels like it's burning from the inside, fever spiking, organs struggling.]
["Bad luck," you mutter, closing your eyes. "At least I got a taste of the First Legion's madness. If I survive this... when I get my hands on Brother Lion, I'll have some questions for him about his sons..."]
[Your vision darkens at the edges, narrowing to a tunnel. Your breathing becomes labored, each breath a conscious effort. The Eldar toxins work through your enhanced organs, disrupting, destroying, shutting down systems one by one.]
[Footsteps.]
[Faint. Soft. But definitely there.]
[You try to reach for your power sword. Your ceramite hand doesn't respond. It lies limp in the dust, dead weight.]
["Recruit." A voice, cold and measured. "Why did you choose to betray the Dark Angels Chapter?"]
[Your consciousness is already slipping, defenses down, thoughts scattered. The words spill out without filter.]
["Betray?" You laugh, the sound more like a cough. "I think... the Dark Angels betrayed the Primarch. Betrayed the Emperor. Their actions... no different from heretics and traitors..."]
["Recruit." That cold voice again, relentless. "Do you remain loyal? Or do you intend to betray the Emperor and humanity?"]
[The question seems to come from very far away, from the other end of a long tunnel.]
["Loyal," you whisper. "Loyal to the Emperor. Loyal to myself. But this time... just bad luck..."]
[The darkness swallows you completely.]
[The toxins burn through your system.]
[You are dying...]
[Your eyes snap open.]
[Rough stone ceiling. Shadows cast by flickering light. The smell of rock and recycled air.]
[You sit up abruptly, heart racing, expecting pain, expecting death.]
[Nothing. You feel... fine. Better than fine.]
[Your power armor is gone. You glance around and spot it on a nearby stone platform, neatly arranged, each piece in its proper place.]
[You're lying on a bed carved from solid rock, surprisingly smooth.]
[Movement catches your eye.]
[A figure sits with his back to you, examining something on a workbench. He wears power armor painted iron gray. A white cloak with a red interior drapes from his shoulders, the hood pulled up.]
[Leaning against the bench beside him is a massive sword. The blade is completely wrapped in white bandages, only the ancient hilt visible.]
[Your breath catches.]
["The Lion Sword," you say quietly. "Are you Lord Cypher?"]
["A newly trained Dark Angels recruit wouldn't know that name." The figure doesn't turn around. "Nor would they possess your combat skills and experience. Who are you, really?"]
[You take a deep breath, considering. "Did you save me?"]
["The toxins crafted by Haemonculi can only be cured by their own medicines." Still he doesn't turn. "You've been given a dose of Haemonculus panacea I stole from Commorragh. It not only neutralized the poison but granted you enhanced regenerative capabilities beyond even Astartes standard."]
[You exhale slowly. "Such a precious medicine, wasted on a mere Dark Angels recruit. What do you want from me? To fight the entire Chapter?"]
[A smile touches your lips despite yourself.]
["I am Fallen now. As long as I remain loyal to the Emperor and humanity, I can do whatever I want. No orders. No regulations. No inner circle secrets."]
["I needed to test it," Cypher says simply. "No human has ever taken Haemonculus panacea before. You survived the initial phase. The experiment was successful."]
[He rises from the bench, power armor servos humming softly. He turns to face you.]
[His face is cold, carved from ice and stone. His eyes are black, deep, and infinitely weary. They've seen too much, carried too much, for too long.]
["Even if I was a test subject," you say, meeting those eyes, "I survived. Lord Cypher, I owe you my life. Tell me what you want. Even if it's something that would harm the Imperium, I'll help you this once. That's the debt I owe."]
["I saved you for two reasons." Cypher's voice carries no emotion, just facts. "First, your combat ability and your complete rejection of the Dark Angels' corrupt ideology. Second..."]
[He pauses.]
["I want you to become the next Lord Cypher."]
[You stare at him. For several seconds, you can't process the words.]
["Wait." You stand from the stone bed, looking up at him. "What did you say? The next Lord Cypher?"]
["My life as an Astartes is burning out." Cypher's black eyes never waver. "No rejuvenat treatment, no technology can delay it further. I am too old. Someone must inherit Lord Cypher's burden."]
["And I have chosen you."]
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