Agatha's Art Blog

A Dead Hungry Thing

When a body dies, many of its various processes do not simply stop. The brain shuts down, yes, the vast network of nerves go dark, the cells stop dividing as they run dry of nutrients, and the body stills- never again to move under its own power, never again to be aware or respond. And yet, things continue to happen.

The body's last meal will continue to be eaten away, as the acids in the stomach take time to denature, and the bacteria in the gut feast, unaware that their entire world has died around them. Before long, the lack of new immune cells mean these feasting microfauna and microflora can spread freely, colonizing stilled blood vessels and journeying to the neighboring organs.

In this sense, the last thing your body will ever begin to digest is itself.

The Carcass is a dead ship, but it is still digesting.

A dead thing creates opportunities within itself. A corpse first cools, but then grows warm once more as it moulders. Decay is a hot, wet, living process, even before new opportunists find the body. The yeast on the skin is first in line, a lifelong companion, now turning inwards, joined by the ever-present army of microbes in every breath of air, once held at bay and now surging forth.

Then the flies come.

If not larger, equally hungry things.

A dead body is not unlike a celestial body. Drawing in the scavengers around it, a force as persistent as gravity and only slightly less ancient. This carcass, THE Carcass, hosts its own thriving ecosystem in its decaying veins of hallways. An ecosystem that is decaying in and of itself, autocannibalizing as the crew shrinks and the bays are left empty.

The difference between the Carcass and a carcass is that a truly dead thing lets its scavengers leave.

A truly dead body does not hunger.

This carcass hungers still. Not just for the biota inside it, the decay that gnaws away within its very walls as they shift and slip through reality, being digested on some cosmic level, but the way a living thing does. It yearns and grasps and holds fast to its would-be scavengers, to the things that should fill it with life, and yet it remains dead and empty.

Get Back Up

They get thirty seconds into sparring before Bethael “gently” deflects a blow for the first time, sending the chainsword flying as Yvgeny is knocked fully off his feet and halfway across the cage. When he hits the ground rolling it’s pure instinct that keeps his arms up over his head and lets momentum carry him another few meters before he comes to a stop, going still and catching his breath and biting back a whimper because he’s not sure if he’s popped a stitch or if it just hurts that much to have the wind knocked out of you after having your chest reconstructed into a mess of scar tissue.

Ow.

Either way, he doesn’t want to go back to the medic just yet. Not when he’s only just been cleared to be out, about, and active.

“Hm. Oops.” The Astartes snorts, unable to stop from smiling a little. “I suppose I must, ah. Calibrate for training with a mortal properly.”

“I would. Hh. Appreciate that, sir.” Yvgeny forces himself to take a breath that feels a bit like being punched in the chest from the inside out and braces a fist against the floor to lever himself up. Bethael watches with unerring intensity as he takes a few steps, wobbles, and then grits his teeth and goes to pick up the unactivated chainsword, moving to take position again. Mortals are fragile- the menials are like brittle twigs to any given Chaos Marine, and he usually doesn’t have to be careful of what limb he snaps or whose neck gets broken, but him…

“If you need time to recover-” Bethael starts, but Yvgeny give him a look filled with defiance in the face of embarrassment, and Bethael looks past the man- to the deep scores carved into the wall by his own training with Helbros. Getting knocked down again and again, the cutting pain of pity amidst the beating humiliation, it might be a stretch to call it empathy, but he understands. Understands, and feels a warm satisfaction that Yvgeny refuses to be afraid. “Ahh. Good.” Now he really grins, brass-plated shark-teeth gleaming as he crouches down to Yvgeny’s level. “Come now, strike me, little man! Like you mean it, this time!”

Yvgeny drops into a low stance, chainsword held before him, and breathes through his nose before charging forwards. He’ll get knocked down again. And again. And again. That’s all he does, isn’t it?

But fuck it. He gets back up.

---

Almost A Parade

Keeping up with Sefis is not so difficult- even with his long strides, he walks in a way Yvgeny would describe as ponderous, maybe. Or just steady. Probably for the better, as his slow but unyielding pace makes it easier to find he and Lucetrix, and keeps the walk alongside them downright comfortable compared to decades of forced marches. He only throws up the once, too, when he gets too close to the plumes of oily, befouled smoke from the censere, but neither Nurglite is at all put off.

If anything Lucetrix is a little too happy to pat his back, offering her (already stained) sleeve to wipe off his beard if need be.

"Lucetrix. Be gentle with the young one." Sefice does not pause in his walking, in his practiced motions, and the tone of his voice scarcely changes from the prayers. "You know the uninitiated are…sensitive, to their bodily functions."

"It's a lovely offer, though." Yvgeny reassures her in turn. "But I'm…good, for now. I'll just make sure to walk in front of this, ah, procession." It's small, a handful of menials and cultists meandering behind Sefice, the most devout of them positively basking in the smog.

Despite it all, the strangest part is knowing that it's for him. It would have felt rude to not at least make an appearance, to thank Sefice for his prayers (though Yvgeny still isn't sure how comfortable he is with his own name being uttered in such close proximity to Nurgle's) and now that he's here he's not sure what he's supposed to be feeling.

There was a joke, what felt like a lifetime ago amongst his peers in the guard, about joining up because you wanted a parade when you returned.

Knowing full well that you didn't come back. Nobody came back, nobody but generals and inquisitors and astartes. There was never a parade, nobody would speak your name or laude your accomplishments, no matter how long you held onto survival by your fingertips. There would never be enough time to recite all the names of the trillionfold dead alongside the living, anyways.

But this was a procession for him. Someone, for what feels like the first time, is thankful for his survival. He doesn't even mind that he can feel the ulterior motives everyone has draped over him.

It's almost as good as a parade.

---

Voices

He doesn't ask why Lyphos has two voices, and to be honest it's one of the less strange things about the sorcerer. There's the grandstanding figure, all cobalt armor and gold trim who crackles with completely unnecessary lightening (it was very impressive at first, but Yvgeny has quickly learned that the swirling gusts of wind, the sparks, the pomp and circumstance, it's just that. It's flash for the sake of flash) and then there's the voice in his head.

It's not that Lyphos has any less ego when he speaks to Yvgeny's mind, but maybe he simply has less need to show off. His fellow astartes are so far beyond human, Yvgeny reckons, that to someone like him…well, just being able to project one's thoughts so casually is impressive enough.

He never thought he'd be almost comfortable in the presence of witchcraft.

Almost.

Besides indulging his own curiosity, he feels this also gives the Demagogue something of a break. She seems…tense. He isn't sure he wants to know what she's struggling with, on top of Lyphos' attentions.

"When the gods see fit to intervene on your behalf, it is best not to doubt. Tzeench clearly has plans for you, should you survive long enough to see them to fruition!" The sorcerer turns where he stands, grandly, the cape pulled through the air almost catching Yvgeny- though he manages to step back just in time. The damn thing is heavy as a stage curtain and he's been caught by it once already and was sent staggering- before a telekinetic force stabilized him, leaving his skin prickling all along his back.

"So, you think that's what is wrapped around my, er, my soul?"

"Perhaps, perhaps! You may be fated for greater things, far more grand than your typical lesser stock-" when he gestures to a nearby technician who rolls their eyes, he doesn't seem to notice the disdain. Probably for the better. "-and who better to teach you, to guide you to such grand heights, than I? In the vastness of the galaxy, there is no room for coincidence, no simple random chance- not truly, no. All things that come about to bring change are part of the grand game, the eternal war!"

Maybe that's what makes it almost comforting. Yvgeny finds a seat and can stop, for once, thinking about what comes next, stop formulating disasters. He can listen. He's even learning a bit, between the grandstanding and the distractions whenever Lyphos suddenly needs to recall an epic battle long past or his time teaching, spinning into grand epics. Gives him plenty of time to light a low stick and get swept up in the growling, thunderous voice.

After a week, he doesn't even flinch when Lyphos, somehow, manages to speak to him while speaking to him after a particularly long day. The smoother, softer voice in the back of his head- he fancies it sounds organic, as strange as that is to consider. 

Sit down, you fool. You're swaying on your feet and I won't have you passing out while I'm speaking to you.

He doesn't answer, just continues listening- and taking a seat in turn. He could swear, somehow, in the tilt of the elaborately decorated skull, there is something like pleasure.

---

Drink Deep

Yvgeny is already a bit drunk when he runs into Byzanti, who has emerged from the hangar where, frankly, all kinds of "fucked shit" (according to Bethael) is occuring and he surprises himself by how comradely he feels. Maybe because he hasn't seen Byzanti for several days. Maybe it's having seen Byzanti at his weakest, stripped of armor and filled with medical tubing, terrified of a future deprived of sensation or freedom, that makes him feel like he can understand something they share. Maybe it's that he found out some of the menials make a potent vodka out of mushrooms and tubers they farm somewhere on the Carcass.

And all it cost was a few low sticks.

"Do you even…I mean, sir, with the. The mouth." Yvgeny gestures to his own face. Even with Byzanti sitting down and himself perched up on a counter, he's still not even matching height. "How would you even drink?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Doesn't it make for an intriguing mystery?" Byzanti is watching him too closely, giggling with delight, as if trying to enjoy some kind of secondhand buzz.

"...Do you just pour it through the vox?"

"May~be! I have many secrets." And he cackles. Yvgeny doesn't even feel annoyed. He waits for the peals of laughter to die down, takes a long swig (it doesn't taste good, it burns so bad his teeth itch, but his fingertips are already tingling so it must be good) and then holds the bottle out to Byzanti. He doesn't need to ask to get an answer, and it makes him feel smug. "...For me?"

"Don't finish it off. I only have the one, and I need it to last tonight. At least tonight." At least tonight, just until his chest stops itching and the thoughts stop feeling like stepping on broken glass.

Byzanti practically purrs as he takes the bottle in one huge, gloved hand, holding it with shockingly delicate care, and. True enough. Tips it back. The speaker embedded in his head sputters static, but the liquor goes somewhere and Yvgeny can hear him swallowing- and anyone anywhere nearby can hear the long, low, satisfied sigh that follows. "Oh. That is foul. I like it, ahahaha."

"Mm. I'll have to get another bottle for you, sir." Now that his hands are free, he pulls his dwindling pack of low sticks from a pocket and fumbles for a moment before he can get the lighter to spark. Between the smell of smoke and burn of alcohol, he might not be here, in this moment. Not really. His mind takes him to another time (another lifetime ago) and having a drink with comrades before getting shipped out. Some guardsman bar just like a million others, where everyone commiserated their imminent deployments and deaths together, swapping stories and smokes.

"You should get several. Then we can share properly! None of this rationing bullshit I'm sure the imperium forced on you!"

"Mm...that does sound nice." Yvgency exhales smoke lazily, and blinks his eyes open when cool glass touches his lip- finding that Byzanti is holding the bottle to his lips expectantly. He lets himself drink what's offered, and sinks back against the wall as Byzanti chatters at him. Almost comradely. Almost familiar.

Beguiling

Getting ambushed with inappropriate out-of-pocket questions had become worryingly normal, to Yvgeny. Heretic Astartes, it seems, are not subtle creatures by any metric- even Byzanti, who has many secrets (and cannot resist making that known, no matter how his companions curse and moan about it) tends to speak his mind thoughtlessly. Maybe that’s just what happens when you’re a god amongst mortals- no fear of retaliation, no need to every second-guess what you say or who hears, because what consequences could possibly exist for something as dangerous and unkillable as a chaos marine? Gods didn’t care about the opinions of mere men.

At the very least, they certainly didn’t seem to care about social consequences. Otherwise Yvgeny wouldn’t be staring up at Byzanti not in fear but just…straight up confusion. Surely, surely he was not hearing this bullshit correctly. Maybe he was still half-asleep, having taken all of a single step from his bunk before being stopped by a veritable wall of pink-edged armor.

“Begging your pardon, sir? What did you just say?” Overcorrecting to polite deference was an easy defense to fall into. Nobody could say he was pushing boundaries if he minded his “please”es and “sir”s.

“I asked you, my dear guardsman, and I'll make this as clear as possible, so you understand exactly what I'm saying-” Never using one word when twenty would do, this one. “-when was the last time you had an orgasm?"

“Uhm.” Yvgeny’s thoughts, for what must have been at least the fifth or sixth time that week, turned to the notion that just pulling the pin on the crack grenade and holding onto it tight would make everything much simpler to deal with. In fact, he wouldn’t be dealing with anything, anymore. Wonderful. But instead he just keeps staring up at the hulking mass of armor before him, holding the universe’s most uncomfortable eye…contact? with the beady, glassy lenses that served as the Slaaneshi champion’s eyes. Sometimes he wished Byzanti would blink. Well. No. That would be worse, actually. “I. I don’t, uhm. What?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know! How sa-a-ad.” The speaker set in stretched flesh that sat where Byzanti’s mouth should have been crackled as the word was drawn out. “Think about it for me, will you? When was the last time you had a little fun? Indulged the inner animal of the flesh?”

Yvgeny breathed in deep through his nose and braced himself for an answer he was sure he wouldn’t want, if he got it. “If I may. Sir. Why are you asking?”

Honestly, he didn’t want to think about it. Both for the obvious (the last thing he needed was to be thinking about, eugh, pleasure, at the behest of Slaanesh) and because…well, he wasn’t really certain, and he suspected actually thinking about it would just be depressing. It had been a while. Long enough there wasn’t an easy answer that came to mind- probably some rare moment of privacy, a few minutes with a wash station to himself or trying to be quiet in a bunk. Stress relief, fast and automatic. Somewhere hidden in all the action and chaos there were fundamentally unsatisfying and distant memories. He couldn’t keep his eyes up on Byzanti and instead glanced down the vast halls one way and the other- uncertain if he was hoping someone was about to interrupt or praying that nobody was overhearing this.

“I’m bored.”

Yvgeny felt a surge of panic in his gut. Boredom and chaos did not mix, in his experience. “So you’ve come to question me over my, er, sexual history? Surely, you must have something better to-”

“I don’t have anything better to do, actually! So enlighten me. After all, who else am I going to ask? Sefis?” He went into a long laugh that made his whole body shake. Yvgeny wondered if astartes were aware of how damn loud they all were. Was it their sheer size? “I already know the answer to that, unfortunately, no…but you! I know so little about you, Yvgeny! You’ve mysterious depths I’ve yet to so much as begun to plumb!” Somehow the stretched flesh of pierced skin had just enough expression that he could leer, which made the panic already brewing in Yvgeny’s gut lurch up to his chest. “Speaking of plumbing depths-”

“ew.”

“-are you going to answer my question? I have been nothing but patient through all this hemming and hawing! What, are you embarrassed?” He was clearly delighted by the prospect, leaning over the human more as Yvgeny squirmed under his gaze and tried desperately to shrink down into nothing. “Come now, don’t be shy. I won’t judge. Lets try something easier, hmm? What was your last partner like? Mm?” He was leaning down further, getting far, far too close. Close enough that Yvgeny was uncomfortably aware of the sheer amount of heat Astartes gave off. Like living ovens, with metabolisms that ran like proper engines. It made the thick, perpetually-slightly-organic smelling air of the ship feel downright humid. “A woman, maybe? I know Imperials are all about that breeding propaganda, more drones for their hives and all that, but you don’t seem picky.”

“What? What do you mean by tha- erm. It doesn’t matter. Does it matter?” Yvgeny had backed up to the closed door of his bunk by this point and was idly wondering if he could move fast enough to open it, throw himself backwards into privacy, and have it slammed and locked before Byzanti could react. Maybe. But then, what was a single flimsy door to something like that? Best not to think about how little privacy was actually guaranteed.

“Only so far as I’d like to know what I should be, ahaha, picturing.”

Yvgeny cringed and bit the inside of his cheek to ground himself. He tried to subtly grope behind his own body for the latch of his door. It was less subtle than he would have liked. “I would rather you didn’t?”

“Too late!” Byzanti crowed, slamming a heavy hand against the doorframe. Was it possible for something without a mouth to grin? Yvgeny was pretty sure Byzanti had somehow mastered this particular art. He could feel the toothy smile even if he couldn’t see it. “I’m starting to worry you actually don’t have an answer- has it simply been that long? Or, gods forbid, are you a virgin? Wouldn’t that be fun!”

Yvgency’s face went red, and it was agonizing to be aware of. Blushing at the accusation of virginity of all things like…like what? A young man, like some fresh-faced recruit being hazed in basic training? He blustered, and his fingertips caught the door latch finally- “I am not.” He stepped back through the opening door, ready to slam it shut again- “And this conversation is-” except Byzanti (faster than he looked- he knew they were fast but then they’d move like this sometimes, too fast for their bulk) was suddenly a step forwards and the door couldn’t close “-over?”

“Mmmhmm. I don’t think so!” Byzanti’s voice pitched into a manic sing-song as he took another step forwards, and another- it was a small room already, and Yvgeny was crowded up against the far wall with a mere two steps. More trapped than before. “You’ve yet to answer my first question, after all!”

“Sir-”

“Unless you really have forgotten,” The door was sliding shut behind Byzanti and Yvgeny considered praying to the chaos gods in rapid succession if at least one of them, any of them, would open the door and not leave him trapped in here between a wall and an astartes putting off heat like a furnace, asking him “It’s a simple question, dearie! When was your last orgasm, Yvgeny?”

“-don’t-” Like a cornered animal, he grit his teeth as if to bare them- but when Byzanti’s hand came to rest atop his head he didn’t duck away. Where would he even go? Eyes darting side to side, nothing in this cramped little closet of a room but a storage locker (he’d had enough of being stuffed in lockers for now) and the bed (absolutely fucking not.)

“Re-lax, my dear.” Just one armored hand is bigger than his entire head, the curve of his skull fitting easily into Byzanti’s palm. He’s seen what happens to a human skull in an astartes hand, certain that this hand has crushed countless skulls just like his without a thought. He’s thought about how easy that would be a lot, recently, between the four of them - how long did he really have before one of them just casually popped him like a bug between their fingers? “I promise I won’t judge!” They wouldn’t even have to mean it, they could do it by accident. The thought saps the will to struggle out of him.

He stays stiffly still as Byzanti plucks his hat off and tosses it onto his bunk. “If I tell you I honestly don’t remember, will you let it be?” Maybe he could escape if he ducks down, dashes between Byzanti’s legs, and hits the hallway running?

“Hm. Now, that is sad.” There’s a note that’s almost genuine pity to Byzanti’s voice, which actually hurts a little to hear, huh. Especially when the hand comes back to his head and ruffles his hair a little. “For-tu-nate-ly~” Oh god, the sing-song crooning again, which maybe sounded lovely to some manner of chaos worshippers but to Yvgeny rather sounded like a pained yowling. Or maybe metal shearing, if metal shearing had a voice. “-I can help with that.”

“What?”

The hand on his head gripped- just tight enough Yvgeny really couldn’t move if he wanted to now, pressure all the way from his temples to the occiput. Helpless as a toy being posed, he bit down a fearful whimper as Byzanti tilted his head up to meet his eyes…then down to the gem set into his armor, dark and swirling and right at face height with him and oh, oh no, oh no no no- 

“Sir?!” He squeezed his eyes shut but something was - he saw something move in its dark, swirling depths- an angular spiral that, only glimpsed for a second, left a negative afterimage in the darkness behind his eyelids like the green sparks from accidentally glimpsing laserfire - and he could still see it. “Sir, I don’t-!” His arms, which had been feeling heavy and numb at his sides, finally sprang into motion as he reached up and ineffectually tried to push away from the chestplate. He may as well have been trying to move a planet.

“Open your eyes, Yvgeny.” Byzanti purred, the vox-like crackle of his voice dipping low into such a bass rumble that Yvgeny could feel it radiate through the hand holding him. “Trust me. I’m helping you relax…and I’m certain you won’t regret it.” And he broke into peals of laughter as his other hand grabbed Yvgeny’s wrists- broad enough to wrap around both arms simultaneously and hold them down, squeezing with just enough force Yvgeny knew he might bruise through the light armor of his gloves, if the position didn’t sprain an elbow. But then, more pressing, was the fact that the pain opened his eyes in reflex-

And-

-and-

twisting fractal spiral that moved endlessly inwards and outwards growing forever reaching forever his girlfriend’s face forty years ago barely old enough to fumble about like idiots and she climbs into his lap and laughs in a way that makes him stupid and her thighs are warm against his hips and pink pink flesh the inside of a wet mouth the pearl glimmer of teeth spiraling inwards and reaching outwards and the hot-slick red blood of the first time he’s wounded in battle his brain floods his body with endorphins to fight off shock until the medicae can reach him but until then he has a hand to his stomach and there’s so much blood it’s slippery and pain endorphins pain endorphins the line between all sensation is so thin and tenuous he can’t stop shaking after a battle and the gentle touch of a comrade makes him scream and flinch but then his hair is being pulled until it hurts and he’s laughing as his bunkmate bites his shoulder and strokes their cocks together with a spit-slicked hand which isn’t quite enough lubrication but the burn just makes it all the more desperate desperate desperate desperate coiling desperation never satisfied desperation that constricts and squeezes him so much desperation and so little pleasure so little relief even fighting to stay alive no longer tastes like red hot blood victory survival in his teeth fucking into his own fist as he bites the pillow imagines he's biting a lover's neck because he just needs something anything to feel good anything to feel good anything to feel good in this dark miserable place where it hurts all the time and he thinks about lovers and wet mouths and sweet kisses and a hand gripping his ass hard and anything to

anything to feel good

anything to feel

anything just to feel anything

It feels like hours. It also feels instantaneous. Really, it only takes thirty seconds before he starts to thrash in Byzanti’s grip with a throaty moan that feels like something alien crawling up from his chest and out of his lungs. How long has it been since he’s moaned in pleasure?

Long enough he’d somehow forgotten what it feels like.

Byzanti releases him, still laughing as he pulls his hands away and Yvgeny almost collapses, stumbling and wavering as he comes back to his senses and reality lurches around him. He gropes blindly, vision swimming with the afterimages of angular, endlessly recursive spirals and dreamy memories of skin and mouths and- and- trying to find something to steady himself but of course the only truly solid thing in reach is Byzanti. So he clings, for a long moment, to the edge of the ceramite breastplate but ultimately his knees refuse to stay locked and rather than hit the floor- he pushes himself towards his bunk. The mattress will hurt less than the floor, at least.  Sitting there and panting, it’s like his brain is electrified and every sensation is ramped up to unbearable levels. His breath is coming in heavy and shuddering gasps, his whole body feels feverish, and when he reaches up with a trembling hand to his lips he finds his beard is damp with drool.

It’s mortifying.

Yet not half as mortifying as the fact that he’s hard as a tungsten rod, his slacks proudly tented up for Byzanti and all the gods of chaos to see.

---

He's keenly aware of how small and fragile he is in their hands, how easy it would be for any one of them to kill him without a thought, how struggling against any one of them is as futile as throwing himself against a ship bulkhead- but when Byzanti grabs hold of his hips before he can squirm away and flips him onto his back, spreading his legs, a new fear takes him.

It coils deep in the pit of his stomach, and he lets out a panicked yelp- “S-sir!” -as the chaos marine looks down at him from between his own legs- each ankle held fast in a hand wider than his torso.

There’s no sense denying how vulnerable it feels, how little control he has over the situation, how intense the gleam of Byzanti’s beady eyes feels as the hulking marine looks him over.

It’s terrifying.

Yvgeny laughs, the kind of manic, hysterical, utterly joyless laughter he keeps finding overtakes him.

Everything is cracked and broken and so is he, and so is his response to all of this. He should yell, snarl, scream, start kicking- he knows what would make sense to do, but instead…he laughs.

It’s terrifying. It’s pathetic. It…it’s ridiculous.

He saw a salacious pinup like this, what feels like lifetimes ago. It was so generic as to be a kind of background noise, at the time, a woman with a coy smile posed like this- back arched off the little cot she was staged on as a grinning guardsman held her up by the spread ankles. Tastefully positioned just so you couldn’t actually see anything juicy, of course. Your typical Imperium-Approved softcore pornography, meant to inspire the people to breed fruitfully (more meat for the grinder, he’d thought, even back then) though, frankly, he doubted anyone with so much as a sliver of sanity actually got off on imperium smut. That last sliver of his own sanity was certainly working overtime to hold it together right now.