A Surgeon's Kill

Gustave calmly walked across the battlefield. Enemy fire rang out, rounds bouncing off the superior power armor of the Imperium. This dismal shower of stub fire was what passed for the enemy's best resistance. The rebels had believed that a quick strike and kidnapping would secure their own independence. They had believed Gustave, alone of his brothers, would be the best prey.

Oh, how wrong they had been.

More painfully, Gustave wished they had been right. He watched as one foolish rebel rushed in between his bodyguards, shotgun loaded.

One of Gustave‘s servo arms lashed out. The snake like appendage wrapped around the rebels neck. With a crack, it killed him instantly. For that was the only mercy Gustave was allowed.

He wish he was as harmless as they had believed. But, no matter how hard he tried to forget, he was a Primarch. He never raised his voice. His analysis of the battle was cold and a flat. Yet, he could not deny the spark of bloodthirst deep in his soul.

He had fought it. He had ignored it. No matter what he did, it was ever present.

His bodyguards were few and could not be blamed as another rebel breached their fire wall. Once again, Gustave reacted far faster than the rebel could have hoped. Gustave paused as the doctor within him analyzed this latest foe.

It was a boy. A young lad, no more than 14 years. Someone had given this poor youth a lascarbine. Caught in the grasp of the servo-arm, the boy froze with fear.

Consequently, Gustave made no move against him.

Perhaps, perhaps he could spare one life today.

Then his medical mind caught the signs. The increase in sweat. The twitching of digits. The boy was giving into his flight and fight instinct. And flight wasn’t an option.

“Please, don’t."

The boy screamed as he lifted his weapon. It raised no more than a centimetre before Gustave broke his neck.

The cold warlord threw the body aside before his mind could think on the incident. It also tried to ignore the soft ember of satisfaction deep within his chest. Another kill, another victory, cried the bloodthirsty beast within him.

He writhed with shame that Gustave also tried to ignore. Deeper within both emotional impulses was the strongest one. Hatred. Hatred for what he was. Hatred that he could not be anything else. Hatred against the Emperor for creating him like this. [[Category:S]]