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First Night
Feb. 11th, 2017 11:01 pmIt was painfully obvious that no man, woman, xenos or other vaguely sentient creature from his universe had ever set foot in this place, this "Bar at the End of The Universe". The looks they had given his armour and weapons smacked more of surprise and curiosity than the terror and abasement he was used to. He was glad they hadn't been able to see under his helm, his shock at the sheer variety of beings in this place had left his mouth hanging open like the flaps of skin around a chainsword wound. Nothing like it was possible, not where he was from, not in the thirty-second millennium or the forty-first.
Their technology was inconceivable, like nothing he'd ever seen. No civilisation could fix such damage as he had sustained on Equixus, but the proof was there in front of his eyes. His arm, the one made useless by the foul eldar, was as good as new, the nerves and muscles working just as they should. He didn't know what to make of it. He had a sneaking suspicion that they didn't know what to do with him, either.
They'd given him a room, 819 according to the small plaque on the door, and told him to settle in. He'd had worse accommodations. A massive bed took up most of the space, the mattress and duvet comfier than anything he'd experienced outside of the suites of uphive nobles. The door in the opposite wall led to a small bathroom, with a shower just large enough to accommodate his unarmoured form and stocked with a wide variety of scented soaps and lotions, a ceramic sink with pure hot and cold running water and a toilet he was fairly sure would hold his weight. His new room also held a small writing desk with a supply of good paper and ink, and a large wooden cabinet in which he had stored his warplate in. There had also been a bright glow-globe mounted on the ceiling, but his fist had taken care of it.
The most interesting thing, however, was the decent-sized pict-screen mounted on the wall directly opposite the headboard of the bed. It was thinner than any he'd ever seen, and was devoid of any Mechanicum icons or even the vague whiff of incense. A small glass shelf below held a device connected to the screen by thick black wires which proclaimed itself to be a "Blu-Ray Player", whatever that was. Next to it was a stack of thin blue plastic boxes, each wrapped in brightly coloured paper and holding a shiny disc with more writing and pictures on it. These had strange nonsensical names like "Lost In Translation", "The Usual Suspects" and "Inglorious Basterds". For a moment, he wondered how he had got to this point in his life, standing in the dark in a loose tunic and trousers, bare feet digging into the carpeted floor and staring at technology that shouldn't exist. It was only for a moment, though, and then his nature as a hunter and survivor reasserted itself.
The large olive-green munitions crate filled with bolter magazines and frag grenades was pushed into the space under the bed. His master-crafted bolter, though he held nothing but disdain for such weapons, he tucked beside the cabinet with his armour in, in case of emergency. The most care was given to the velvet-wrapped relic he kept in his eyesight at all times, which he placed in the air vent next to the bathroom door, the cover left slightly ajar. After a minute of deliberation, he decided that those who ran this place probably did not know of the sleep patterns of Astartes. He stripped off his new clothing, and climbed into the insanely soft bed, sliding his bulk between the sheets like a mortal would. Above all, he made sure that the way he positioned his body would hide any trace of the combat knife he kept tight in his fist.
Zso Sahaal would not make it easy for anyone or anything to take him alive.
Their technology was inconceivable, like nothing he'd ever seen. No civilisation could fix such damage as he had sustained on Equixus, but the proof was there in front of his eyes. His arm, the one made useless by the foul eldar, was as good as new, the nerves and muscles working just as they should. He didn't know what to make of it. He had a sneaking suspicion that they didn't know what to do with him, either.
They'd given him a room, 819 according to the small plaque on the door, and told him to settle in. He'd had worse accommodations. A massive bed took up most of the space, the mattress and duvet comfier than anything he'd experienced outside of the suites of uphive nobles. The door in the opposite wall led to a small bathroom, with a shower just large enough to accommodate his unarmoured form and stocked with a wide variety of scented soaps and lotions, a ceramic sink with pure hot and cold running water and a toilet he was fairly sure would hold his weight. His new room also held a small writing desk with a supply of good paper and ink, and a large wooden cabinet in which he had stored his warplate in. There had also been a bright glow-globe mounted on the ceiling, but his fist had taken care of it.
The most interesting thing, however, was the decent-sized pict-screen mounted on the wall directly opposite the headboard of the bed. It was thinner than any he'd ever seen, and was devoid of any Mechanicum icons or even the vague whiff of incense. A small glass shelf below held a device connected to the screen by thick black wires which proclaimed itself to be a "Blu-Ray Player", whatever that was. Next to it was a stack of thin blue plastic boxes, each wrapped in brightly coloured paper and holding a shiny disc with more writing and pictures on it. These had strange nonsensical names like "Lost In Translation", "The Usual Suspects" and "Inglorious Basterds". For a moment, he wondered how he had got to this point in his life, standing in the dark in a loose tunic and trousers, bare feet digging into the carpeted floor and staring at technology that shouldn't exist. It was only for a moment, though, and then his nature as a hunter and survivor reasserted itself.
The large olive-green munitions crate filled with bolter magazines and frag grenades was pushed into the space under the bed. His master-crafted bolter, though he held nothing but disdain for such weapons, he tucked beside the cabinet with his armour in, in case of emergency. The most care was given to the velvet-wrapped relic he kept in his eyesight at all times, which he placed in the air vent next to the bathroom door, the cover left slightly ajar. After a minute of deliberation, he decided that those who ran this place probably did not know of the sleep patterns of Astartes. He stripped off his new clothing, and climbed into the insanely soft bed, sliding his bulk between the sheets like a mortal would. Above all, he made sure that the way he positioned his body would hide any trace of the combat knife he kept tight in his fist.
Zso Sahaal would not make it easy for anyone or anything to take him alive.
