57. Critical Failure and Success

'Why do I refuse? Why? Why?' Questioned my voice in my head again and again and again with no rhyme or reason. An undertone of sensual depravity and cutesy confusion twisting what I was, not that I ever was opposite to it. It was intensified and distorted.

The parasite, the fourth psychic tumor, Slaanesh, or what I would become if I were to accept the oh-so-sweet offers, forfeiting my everything to be reshaped, reborn in anarchy. Pleasure, pain, and every desire incarnated in their uttermost extreme form. The absolute expression of freedom, of what I had sought after from my first instance of awareness as Hoopa.

An identity that always had been a trap, a leash on my existence, a lock on my actions and free will. A representation of my imprisonment, of my enslavement to the whims of others. Something better left forgotten in the ebb of time for me to be reborn in a greater form where I unburden myself from what has been.

Yet, I ignored it—the false promise of liberation and every sweet poem around it.

It was bullshit.

I was no mortal creature so easily swayed by euphonious strings of words, from revelation leading to an existential crisis or corruption from vices in such a crude manner.

However, the words remained nonfictive… to an extent–vague correlation to my life until now–but absolute freedom was an oxymoron, as was freedom itself, given enjoyment was the desired result even barely. It was to cage oneself in everlasting seclusion.

Balance was required.

If the process had been progressive, I wouldn't confirm the opposite, but here… it was the spark to a forest fire of hellish proportions.

A battle for my existence where I devoured, or I was devoured, an Oroboros, a snake biting its tail. The result would be a depraved abomination of what I once was. It would merely be another prison with a chain around my neck to be tugged by my insanity, a prison of my base instincts. Less sentient than even an amoeba.

Or so the rules dictated. Clever rules not of my making but evident of Chaos, the touch of the loftily titled Changer of Ways. Winning was no different than losing—an excellent trap indeed. One I couldn't escape even considering the haste of its execution; it was fashioned with desperation, rightly so, but it was fashioned well.

I had a tendency to escalate, too.

Slow corruption would have been impossible. Regardless, it was clever, very clever, and in many ways frustratingly absolute no matter my action. If I lose, Slaanesh rises. If I win, Slaanesh rises. If I draw, Slaanesh rises. If I flee, Slaanesh rises. If I do nothing, Slaanesh rises.

The only factor was when that 'if scenario' happened.

It was beyond any attack I ever suffered, and it all made sense now: you can't escape your shadow. I hate to admit it, but I had been played with like a child. Not that I ever could have avoided it or was exceptionally unpredictable. Power was what I had lacked, and so I would have been prey to such schemes regardless.

I had no choice.

To put it bluntly, I was fucked.

No matter what, it would happen as long as I existed in my state. It was a matter of time before I was Slaanesh the moment I was freed. Like cancer would be part of an organic body, it was intrinsic to my nature, shoved into me against my desire by the grotesque theology of the Aeldari Empire—mere puppets devoured by me.

Puppets that were of exquisite smell and taste. Their terror at the fate of oblivion succulent to the utmost extent. I hungered for more, far more.

Yet such unsophisticated desire would never drive my action as long as I held.

But what if I die? What if I abscise what I do not want? Nothing was unchanging, though it couldn't be done carelessly.

I was tainted no matter what; I was poisoned and envenomed. The consequences were vast. Apoplectic abhorrence wouldn't begin to describe my appreciation of the subject, but it was to be pondered after this entire problematic situation.

"Khaine! Harder weakling! Deeper! No! Yes!" I bemoaned and moaned in ever-rising contradiction, impaling myself on a fourth sword with glee and agony. Immediately, I willed dark chains to tie the blade with its sisters in knits that sent ripples through time and space, stopping my hand from tearing them off as my control slowly slipped away.

The poor star systems, Cruisers, and wraithbone stations surrounding us had long since been brought down to their most rudimentary particles, if not even less. The scale was far greater and to be seen from every celestial body for the eons to come.

But it went beyond Realspace. Any Neverborns and objects of the Warp were subjugated in the tidal waves rippling to even the abyss of the once Sea of Souls—only pandemonium reigned.

"Your path is destined; you cannot escape the fate that I have written. Accept change, revel in it… oh, Dark King, oh, First Betrayer, oh, Original Sin." Whispered Tzeentch to my ears, not for the first time, a facsimile of control as his tentacles dug into the threads of Magic. My Magic. Leeching of my bleeding power to fatten up his own bastardized Sorcelery.

A little shitstain that was too arrogant to understand his blindness, one too unaware to view flaws in his actions, for the delusion of omniscience was deadly and his greatest sin. A pile of squirming, vile thinking, pointlessness, unable to comprehend what he was goading. Or was he? Creatures of his nature did not abide by the law of rational logic.

The burning sensation of the divine steel skewering my inside kept his words away. It was beyond words to describe curtly. Aside from that, it was fucking painful and felt like bathing in acid without the nerve ending dying.

I hated it. I loved it. I wanted more. I wanted it to stop. All was right, and all was wrong.

Yet I continued. It was a reminder, a light in the darkness.

And the divine dance must go on.

And it did, Khaine battling the three abominable psychic gestalts doing their utmost in my growing domain to beat my brother into submission through the indulgent uses of Avatars—powerful Avatars, far more than when they sieged Yuggoth.

My wardens. The ones that all but wish for me to join them, to drag myself down to their level. I was not proud of my existence–one forced upon me by ripping apart what I once was and taking the desired part–but it was no reason to debase myself.

I wasn't a child.

They wanted me, desired me, needed me… oh, cute. But the result of their efforts was less than stellar. The Bloody Handed God held on; my ever-continuous self-destructive tendencies, immensely helping as they may be, didn't serve as proof of contradiction.

It was… impressive. But praise where praise was due, and without the support of his Consort, Morai-Heg from somewhere in the Labyrinthine Dimension–the blade and periodic chronomancy and predictions–and what appeared to be Asuryan essence funneled through his body, he would have been shattered in the best scenario long ago.

It was synonymous with his average peak back in the war. He was mighty.

I must say I wasn't surprised for him to be here. It seemed Vaul–as expected–succeeded in using my indirect, undesired assistance to escape with everyone from the Celestian Enclave–from my hunger–before it was too late.

It was excellent. If probably part of another scheme, Morai-Heg was no inferior to Tzeentch and certainly saner, to a certain degree. But these entire things weren't for me. It was Cegorach's deal, and he was tucked safely away.

"Is that all? Pitiful! No! Please stop!" I taunted and cried from many mouths as Khaine lobbed one of my arms, Khorne having blocked the hit to my fury and joy.

My words resulted in a scream of fury, but otherwise, the battle went on, three and a half Chaos Gods and one and a half Aeldari Gods helping and killing one another. What a strange battle it was.

One that my brother wasn't winning as it went on.

Powerful he may be, it was no fair fight, and in spite of my effort to forcefully manipulate this unwanted domain of mine to put pressure on the three tumors and others, such action… It wasn't enough.

Wounds accumulated on his torso, chips grew on his armor, and his borrowed power wavered as his anger rose. He could do more if he were less hopelessly reckless in his thirst for vengeance, but he wasn't, and sanity had long since left him. Or the little bit of it he ever had; Khaine never was stable.

I couldn't do anything. It was not from powerlessness, but I limited my abilities as using them was unshackling my sole hold over them, which I evidently did not wish for. My darkness, magic, and portals remained sealed, the latter paramount of all. I could not be careless. Every action brought me closer to that edge… that tantalizing desirable edge.

It was an edge; I was one step into the void.

'I could let go, jump down–abandon all and enjoy for all eternity across the stars and universes beyond.' The voice, my voice yet not repeated as the nth impalements were scarcely avoided against my will. The jolly cackle of the Grandfather of Plague echoed as the little remaining of my sight from my eyes began to disappear.

However, I was aware of what was coming when arriving here.

Khaine was a welcome aid, not a bleak hope for me to latch on, however. His appearance was a possibility, not a factor I counted on.

But I must say, he greatly helped. Ironic as it was, I doubted his mind would ever comprehend it, and if it did, he would have an aneurysm or the equivalent of our unorthodox physiology.

The Bloody-Handed God wasn't part of my initial plan, though calling it a plan was generous.

"Khai-" A sword speared me in the throat, angled in a way that speaking from my primary mouth was impossible but not enough to decapitate me. In a similar fashion to all others, I chained it. It was harder, my control mine yet not ultimately won by me, but that would be the last.

I could feel it. My senses weakened and vanished one by one, and a moment later, I was trapped in my mind by myself. A prison that was of my being again. Anger, glee, anticipation, and fear bubbling and oozing from my core, the transformation was ending.

My consciousness was losing. I was losing. It wasn't about willpower. This wasn't telepathy. It was comparable to masterfully applied telekinesis, mimicking the effect of how the former operated by altering brain chemistry.

An unstoppable force and alas… I was no immovable object.

It was a matter of energy. It always was, always is, and always would be. It wasn't complicated. It was the driving force of the Universe, if I may dare affirm. The part of me that had more was, as such, assured to win.

The part that feasted on trillions of souls older than any civilization besides a very select few of which said souls were recently part of.

"Freedom at long last! How fabulous!" My mind slipped into darkness as, for the first time, I felt good, right, and complete. And I began to take those unpleasant… toys from my perfect self.

Then there was a moment of clarity, merely flashing at the sight of the Widowmaker handle in my delicate hand as I plucked it out, fascinated by the gaping and pulsating hole it left in me.

-Run.- I ordered, violently penetrating the hot, flaming knight, rageful knight's fragile mind. It wasn't him I was speaking to, and Morai-Heg responded by pulling her Consort away in a time pocket. A chorus screech of fury was ripped from my throat, but it was silenced as another moment of clarity flashed.

The time was ripe. The last steps of assimilation were exploitable weaknesses.

The Blackstone Fortresses fired with all protocols restraining their outputs to maintain their structural integrities lifted. It wasn't me or anyone who commanded them. It was pre-programmed. Something that could not be stopped. My death was inevitable.

It was instantaneous.

My gleeful laughter stopped, my many smiles froze, and my numerous eyes trembled as they locked in the direction of Yuggoth. Tzeentch was genuine, shocked, and terror, emotions likely alien to him, but alas, he was the only one to realize until we bathed in all-consuming darkness.

I screamed.

I only knew pain.

My body was ripped apart. My eyes burned in its bright void. My ears melted in its peaceful tocsin. My limbs disintegrated in its inexistent pressure. My organs held no better in the face of such power.

I felt fear. I was terrified. I felt anger. I was furious.

Then I felt nothingness.

Then I knew clarity as my eyes opened in the desolation left behind—a fanged smirk on my lips.

"Aahhh… I won." My grin grew, reaching my eyes in a way that wasn't quite symbolic, and then I stared back at the ones studying me with all manner of emotions. I laughed, a long mocking laugh of satisfaction.

Then I stopped.

"Your death is ahead of you." I felt them quiver and loved to know they did. I grinned harder, and with a ring, I teleported away, the bulk of Slaanesh purged from my existence. Oh, he was still here. I was here, after all. I wasn't the same anymore; I was Hoopa yet more, but I brought balance.

Darkness and psychic energy needed a precise concentration and state of existence not to combust spontaneously, among other points. The Aeldari Empire–the Emotional Cysts' scapegoats–tipped the scale on one side too much too fast on the psychic side.

Who was I to complain about abusing my faulty design? For once, the frog bitch did something right by doing it wrong.

Yet there was still much to do, torture, kill, and abuse. Mistakes were made, and retributions were due.