Chapter Text
Failure. Naive. Unwanted. Fake. Annoying. Weak. Too much to handle. Unlovable. Just an experiment. Unwanted. Just a copy. An irritant. Nothing like the original. Unwanted. Gullible. Idiot. Nothing like the original. Disobedient. Unlovable. Clone scum. Disgrace. Unwanted. Shameful. Disgusting. Unlovable. Stupid. Object. Unwanted. Burden. Unlovable. Stain. Unwanted. Traitor. Unlovable. Unwanted. Murderer. Unlovable. Unwanted, unlovable.
He was unwanted so therefore he was unlovable.
He sniffled as he slowly came into full consciousness. His joints were stuck as his muscles stung. The freezing crackle could still be felt in his nervous system. Green lights danced across his blurry vision.
He coughed and seethed as his lungs burned. Iron flooded his mouth and he slid across the wall till he lay on the floor. The scarabs crawled forth to pull him back up to his sitting position.
They skittered around, not paying attention to him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, any light irritating his throbbing migraine. Tears escaped down his cheeks.
He could still hear the Necron’s yelling and arguing beyond the room. Trazyn had been livid by whatever just happened. Raging at another.
He winced at the confusing and terrifying ordeal. All he could recall was being awakened by pain. Like he was being burned and electrocuted at the same time. A powerful source coursed through his veins. It warped his body and mind. He had never felt pain like this before. He screamed until it stopped. The feelings still echoing throughout his nervous system.
He could barely see. Every part of him singing with pain. He could see metal. There was fighting and screaming. He was dragged into this room and left as shots rang out.
As he regained movement and awareness he could feel his body desperately trying to repair itself. Several things were definitely wrong, that was a given, but there was something else. How he perceived the room. The scarabs. His body felt off. In a way not expected. The tunic he wore now was baggy. Falling off of one shoulder.
Even the inner workings of his body felt different. Like they weren’t up to full capacity. It was as if he had… shrunk.
He grimaced, taking note how his facial structure didn’t feel as it should be. He managed to reach up and feel his cheek. Everything tingled but he notated the lack of thick stubble. He usually kept clean shaven but his skin felt like it had never grown any hair. As if he were but a boy before reaching maturity.
He paused. He processed all he knew and focused on a particularly shiny scarab.
He grabbed it as it squeaked and protested. He held it up to him to see his reflection.
He was younger. A teenager.
He dropped the scarab unceremoniously and slowly slid back down to lying down. The other scarabs tried to come sit him up again. He batted them away.
“Leave… me alone,” he croaked.
Despite the raspiness, he even sounded younger. Whatever it was he was in had de-aged him.
He choked as bile exited his stomach. The acrid taste lingering in his mouth. Bile. Fabius Bile. Teacher. He had… given him away. Like he was nothing. To a necron. To be kept. Like an object. He was merely an object. Unwanted by anyone. Just an experiment. Unloved.
He sniffed as his lip trembled. Hot tears began flowing again as he wallowed in his misery and woe. He gagged as his stomach purged more. His abdomen clenched and he could feel sweat dripping down his back. He felt as though he was burning again.
He coughed, unable to move as the pain rippled. It didn’t stop until he was dry heaving. Nothing left in his body to give.
He gasped and tried to slow his breathing. The burning stopped and his sweat suddenly felt very cool. His muscles relaxed. He closed his eyes, relishing in the pain relief.
His moment of respite was interrupted as the necron he was given to, Trazyn, came storming in.
He yelled somethings in his language, still mad at whatever had transpired.
He crouched down before Fulgrim.
“Look at what he’s done to my Primarch,” he hissed.
Fulgrim gritted his teeth and struggled to roll over.
Trazyn hummed and reached out to grab him. Fulgrim attempted to smacked his hand away.
“Don’t… touch me,” he whimpered.
“You’re in need of medical attention,” Trazyn muttered. He spoke as if he wasn’t even there.
He tried crawling away from the Necron.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish,” Trazyn said. “You’re wounded, have no where to go, and I’ll be putting you back in place soon.”
Fulgrim spat blood at the collector.
“What did you do to me??” He demanded.
“Nothing, there was a malfunction with your pod due to… interference. Annoying interference. It exploded and the stasis field overloaded. Rather than holding you in suspended animation and prevent aging, it did the opposite it looks like. Reversed you to late adolescence. Pity. Perhaps I’ll keep you out a bit till you mature. Then you’ll be placed back in the exhibit.”
Fulgrim managed to pull himself to a corner. Seething as he rubbed his legs. He hadn’t used them yet it was like they were on fire!
Trazyn moved to leave, “I will be back.”
Fulgrim huffed and leaned against the cold metal wall. Tears began to pour again. This was ridiculous. Stupid! Why?! Why did everything have to turn out like this?! He deserved better than this!
He paused as he came to a self realization and groaned. He was even thinking like a spoiled brat.
Grief and despair overwhelmed him again. He curled into a ball and sobbed again. He was hopeless. Just like the original.
Teacher’s last words echoed in his mind. How he was already set to fail like the original. He would fall. He would already fail. He was a failure. He didn’t want him anymore. He was too much of a burden. He was sending him to Trazyn to have as part of the Necron’s collection.
His head spun. He had no use, no purpose, no meaning. No one wanted him. Therefore, he was unloved. Maybe it was best to be kept in suspended animation. Then he wouldn’t falter. Couldn’t disappoint anyone. Not like the original.
He screamed in rage, breathing picking up. No! No! He refused! He had sworn he would be better than the original. He would make things right! He would make different choices. Things WOULD be different. His sons were willing to follow him. He had started a revolt! He was the Phoenician, a Primarch, a son of the emperor. He had brought his entire world into compliance without the use of violence.
He WOULD be better than the original. He already was. He’d made up his mind.
He shifted uncomfortably, running all he could recall of necrons and his short time awake here.
He couldn’t fight them. Too many and he was wounded. His legs. Could he even use them anymore??
He shook his head and gripped the wall, trying to stand.
To his relief, the scarabs came to his assistance. He was almost standing but the pain was unbearable. He let out a string of the most vulgar chemosian swears and insults he could.
His knees gave out and he fell backwards. He seethed for a moment as he crushed a few scarabs then rolled off of them. He looked up to see them dead, being teleported away. Some on their back twitching.
He burst into tears, intense grief overwhelming all emotions at accidentally killing them. What was happening??? This was embarrassing! Crying over Xenos vermin?!? But they didn’t deserve it! It was an accident!
One was still there, some of its legs now broke. It flailed its working ones as it struggled to get off its back.
He sniffed as he picked it up and tried to bend the broken legs back to their right angle. He set it down and it scampered away.
He continued to hiccup and rub his aching legs.
Come on. Think. Ignore the scarabs! I have to get out of here. I can’t fight. It’d be unwise. Leman would laugh at him for such a thought. Lion would mock him. Perturabo would scoff.
He covered his mouth as the doubting words of his brethren echoed in his mind.
He slammed a fist down. No! He could do this. He didn’t fight or battle at all to bring Chemos into compliance. His greatest weapon had been diplomacy. He still had those skills.
The Necron Collector was obviously a high ranking Necron. He had skills. He could mine. He knew how to forge. There had to be something he could do or say to convince him of his freedom. If it doesn’t succeed… well that never stopped him. Find another angle or try again later.
His lip trembled as he dared to think his next thought.
Father, Emperor of Mankind, please hear me. It’s not a prayer. Just a plead for help. For mercy. Help me get out of here and back to you. I miss you. I miss you all. I swear I am better than the original. This clone will not disappoint you. Please. I just need a chance. Give me strength.
He rubbed his eyes and scooted to a sitting position, waiting for Trazyn to return.