VE-949-0-CVM-35-(0043)

The sanctum of the maintenance bay smelled of incense, blessed unguents, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood and promethium. The rhythmic hum of machinery provided a constant backdrop to the ritual of purification.

VE-949-0-CVM-35-(0043) stood motionless on the raised diagnostic platform, his massive frame casting a long shadow under the harsh artificer lights. His right arm the heavy artillery cannon rested inert, while his left saw hung at his side, servos whirring faintly, third, added claw appendage, limp at his side. His crimson robes were tattered and stained with the ichor of enemies slain in the last engagement, but it was not the blood that disturbed the unit's processing cores. It was something deeper. Something wrong.

As you approached with the ritual implements the sanctified cleaning cloths, the scalpel edged scrapers, and the vials of holy oil, VE-949-0-CVM-35-(0043)'s ocular visors flickered. His neural implants spiked.

"Maintenance... sequence... initiated," he droned, his voice a gravelly, synthesized monotone. But beneath the mechanical cadence, there was a tremor a glitch in his vocal modulator that he could not suppress. VE-949-0-CVM-35-(0043), half affectionately retitled VE 43 out of sheer boredom and irritation at the long serial number, was an older unit, one of few, this wasn't uncommon.

You began the work, your hands moving with the practiced efficiency of one who serves the Omnissiah. When your fingers first brushed against the exposed nerves of his stripped right arm to apply the antiseptic oil, VE 43's entire chassis seized. A jolt of something that was not data something hot, searing, and terrifyingly alive shot up his spinal interface.

Error. Thermal spike detected in neural pathways, his internal cogitator flashed. But it wasn't a malfunction of temperature; it was a malfunction of sensation.

"Unit VE 43 reporting... optimal... status," he managed to grate out, though his mechanical legs whirred erratically, the pistons hissing steam as his core temperature rose.

You reached toward his torso, where the remaining organic mass was exposed between the cybernetic plating. You noticed several growths pinkish, wet nodules of tissue that had sprouted unnaturally since the last maintenance cycle. Believing them to be corrupted flesh or accumulated gore from the battlefield, you gripped one with your fingers to yank it free.

The moment you pulled, a sound escaped VE 43 that was decidedly not programmed: a choked, strangled gasp that bordered on a moan.

The pain was exquisite. It tore through his sensory dampeners, bypassing the chemical lobotomy that should have rendered him numb. But intertwined with that pain was a terrifying surge of something else a rush of something sweet, overwhelming, and shameful. The taint of Slaanesh coiled around his remaining nerves like living wire.

"—Ah! Master " The word slipped out before his programming could catch it. His visors whirred frantically, focusing on you. His optical sensors couldn't help but track your every movement, drawn to the heat of your body, the authority in your touch.

As you moved to clean the wounds on his left cheek, your fingers pressing against the tubes protruding from his flesh, VE 43 felt his artificial musculature twitch involuntarily. His enhanced brain, once a simple loop of commands, was now spinning with incomprehensible desires. He wanted to lean into your touch; he wanted to crush you against his cold metal frame; he wanted to scream.

He felt no anger at your rough handling. In his deteriorating mind, you were the only constant in a universe of chaos. You were his caretaker, his handler, the one who maintained the machine that was his body. His loyalty was shifting from the abstract Machine God to the concrete reality of your presence.

"More..." he whispered, the word lost beneath the loud hiss of his leg pistons. He felt warm. Absurdly warm. Warm where he had no flesh to feel heat. "Continue... purification. The flesh... it burns. Requesting... further... contact."