Chapter Text
As far as Perturabo knew, he had fallen from the cliff and ended up in the afterlife. He’d never thought of such a thing before; language was a new concept to him, having neither heard the speech of man nor the calls of beasts. Yet the sound of his thoughts took the shape of words and somehow, he knew what they meant. He knew that he was alive, and that to fall from a great height would pulp the organic mass of his body into a non-functional state. That he had been thousands of kilometers in the air moments ago, and as he’d just slipped from a handhold on the mountain, he was probably dead.
Yet he is conscious. Ergo, afterlife.
He hauls himself up from the lush thicket of grass he’d fallen into, spitting dirt from his mouth and peering around. The deep cuts in his bleeding hands are fading from a sharp sting to a throbbing ache, and he hasn’t broken any bones. Warmth surges through his body, the midday sun beaming down upon him from a clear blue sky. The immediate sight of forests draws his attention, somewhere to hide, perhaps hunt, a flood of concepts pouring into his mind and making his vision swim.
He tries to chase them away, but the more he looks around, the harder his synapses scream with information bordering on static. Desaturated mountain peaks loom in the far distance, a particularly tall one capped with snow. Their colours, accounting for the fog and daylight, suggest iron-rich stone. Iron could be worked into-
Perturabo curls into a ball, quivering in the grass. It feels as if his head is about to split open and the memory of the cliffs is already fading, pushed from his skull by the surging knowledge. He understands so much, too much, and it hurts, it won’t stop, his closed eyes tell him far too much about the passage of light to his retinas-
“Oh, shit.”
A voice accompanied by footsteps snaps him out of his head and into survival instinct. He rolls, planting a knee in the grass and rising to a low combat stance. It’s a bestial thing, hands balled into fists, teeth bared and eyes wide, but he’s more than ready to fight.
The figure backs away, longer of limb than he, tall enough to register in the primal part of his brain as threat. They raise two hands in surrender. “Easy, kid. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Dark hair, dark eyes, a similar shade of skin to Perturabo. Male, his brain tells him. After all, Perturabo knew he was male, and this stranger who resembled him surely had to be the same. Loosely clothed in an untucked lilac shirt and rough black pants, with leather boots and two little panes of glass on his face that glinted bright when the sun caught their edges.
“Geez, where’d you come from? Bit small to be an Astartes, and I don’t see any ports…” The man tilts his head this way and that, long hair curling over his shoulders until he sweeps it back, tying it with a band from his wrist. He thinks aloud, broadening Perturabo’s understanding of language with every syllable from his lips. Perturabo watches him intently, his skull still feeling like it’s being crushed by a vice. The pain does not show on his face. Only determination.
“Well, I'm not going to leave you here. What’s your name?”
Perturabo tilts his chin up, ice blue eyes shining. “I am Perturabo.”
The man blinks. “Huh. Well, you do kinda look like him.”
“Of course I do.” says Perturabo. “That is who I am.”
“Right. Where are your parents?”
Perturabo glances around for anything that might tell him, and sees only open fields with a distant house and some blocky shapes beside it. “I have none.”
“Man. Alright, you’re probably some flavour of warp baby. Are you hurt? Do you want me to like, carry you or something?” The man offers a hand, but Perturabo just stares at it curiously. After a few moments, the boy shakes his head.
“I require no help.”
“Fair enough. You might require a sandwich, though.” The man pulls out a morsel from his pocket and hands it over – it’s gone in seconds. He smiles softly. “Thought so. Come on, I live over there. We’ll find you a place in the world.”
As they walk, Perturabo easily keeps up with the man’s middling stride. He bears a straight, firm posture the boy unconsciously mirrors, for a deeply wired part of him loathes the idea of being different, lacking, othered. He’s forming an accent to his words based on each one he hears, though it’s an odd, stilted thing in his mouth.
“What is this world?” he asks.
“Earth,” says the man with a chuckle. “Ah, introductions, right. I'm Lucas, some random guy who lives in that big-ass house over there,” he points, “And this is indeed the planet Earth, featuring the continent and country of Australia, God’s own dumping ground.” His arms spread wide, indicating the landscape. A distant city is the only other sign of civilization on the cloud dusted horizon.
Perturabo knows the clustered grey towers are where people gather and make their lives, but he has no idea what a God is. He quietly thinks to himself that it sounds rather cringe. The stark isolation of their surroundings strikes him, then. “Why do you live by yourself?”
Lucas scoffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “You’ll figure it out. Smart kid, aren’t you?”
A hot feeling comes to Perturabo’s chest at the praise, if that is indeed what it is, and flushes all the way up his neck. He walks a little faster and almost trips. It’s half an hour to the huge, lofty house with its barn-like roof letting sunlight play across the interior. The closer they get, the more furniture and trinkets become known to Perturabo, though there are some things he can’t discern the purpose of at first glance. He wants to look at them closer. More than that, though, he wants to know what he was denied. He asks again.
“Do people usually live on their own?”
He sees Lucas’s stride stiffen, tension coming into his shoulders and neck. The answer that comes is spoken too evenly to be unforced. “People do what they like,” he says, and hastily changes the subject. “Tell me about you. What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I was climbing a mountain,” Perturabo says, annoyed. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
‘Fuck me sideways, this is exactly why I didn’t want kids.’ Lucas thinks to himself, drawing upon his willpower to remain as gentle as possible. ‘I'm not gonna cover his rose-tinted glasses in shit so soon after planetfall. The second he gets talking with people at the local base, he’ll figure it out. Astartes, baseliner or Primarch flavoured warp lad, this world isn’t worth living in.’
“Give it some thought,” Lucas says politely. “How will you learn if I answer all your questions?”
Perturabo looks up at him like he’s the dumbest motherfucker alive. “Because you’ll… tell me… things?”
“And what, you’ll believe me? Just like that?” He turns, glancing down at the boy and coming to a stop. Perturabo takes a slight step back, feeling like he’s done something wrong. Uncertainty creases his little face.
Lucas sighs. “Hey. Rule number one of this world, according to me. Ground yourself in facts, not words. You’ve gotta see some things for yourself.”
“Those are a lot of words to get around telling me why you’re out here alone.”
“I like the scenery.” Lucas mutters. “And it’s quiet. Good enough for you?”
Perturabo gets the feeling that isn’t the whole truth, but doesn’t press any further. “It’s enough.”
Lucas chuckles, and they’re walking up the smooth asphalt leading to his house a moment later. “Well, this is where I live. Had some of the Fists build it a few years back. You want the tour, or do you want me to drive you to the base?”
Perturabo shakes his head immediately. “Take me inside.”
His eyes are glued to every corner, crevice and beam as the wondrous world of architecture opens up before him. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the house in sunlight, casting a soft glow across brushed matte surfaces and polished walnut floorboards. Ornate sconces hang from vaulted ceiling struts, dark iron filigree curling around their bulbs. His bare feet sink into fluffy crimson carpet as he walks through the open plan lounge, where a crystalline chandelier glitters high above in scintillating hues. Lush antique furniture has been painstakingly matched from various sources, restoration marks catching his eye in the slightly different golds of sculpted trims.
He sits cross-legged on the carpet, stunned. Lucas perches on the armrest of the chaise next to him.
“You alright?”
Perturabo closes his eyes. He wants to say something about what he’s seeing, to externalize the ceaseless torrent of information pounding at his skull. All that comes out is a small voice that says, “My head hurts.”
“You want some panadol?” When Perturabo doesn’t respond, Lucas goes to kneel beside him and examine him closely. He can’t see any injuries, just a bit of dirt – there’s something he can do, he can clean that off, maybe distract Perturabo from the pain. “Hey, we have medicines that make things hurt less. If you want some, I got some.”
Perturabo feels something soft touch the side of his face, and jerks away. “D-don’t touch me.”
“Alright, but you’ve got dirt on your face.” Lucas gives him the tissue and leans back, legs crossed. He holds up a small rectangle that shows Perturabo’s reflection back at him, his pupils dilating at the strange mirror. Perturabo doesn’t much care to clean his face, reaching for the device. Lucas holds it close to his chest. “Ah, no. That’s not food.”
“I'm not going to eat it…” Perturabo wants it even more now, pushing the pain in his head aside as he crawls forward and tugs at Lucas’s hand. The man barely resists him, wincing at the unnatural force of Perturabo’s grip. Perturabo scurries back with his prize, tilting it this way and that. His keen eyesight delves into the circle at the top edge, unpicking the workings of the lens and discerning it as the device’s vision. His reflection changes depending on the way he holds it; obscuring it with a finger shows a pink blur. “What is this…?”
“An iPhone,” Lucas says, a hint of panic in his otherwise level voice. “It’s fragile.”
Perturabo presses the screen and the image of his face sharpens. Pressing somewhere else makes it flash, and a tiny picture of him appears in the bottom left corner. He learns swiftly over the next few minutes how it works, fiddling around and deciphering written language in its various menus.
Lucas hasn’t backed up his data in months. His whole career is caught in a kid’s fingers and he can just envision it falling apart if Perturabo squeezes a little too hard. Eventually, his anxiety gets the better of him and he beckons. “Pass that here, I need to call someone.”
Perturabo holds the phone as far back as he can, eyes narrow. “Who? I thought you didn’t like people.” His mind starts churning over the possibilities. People were probably something to be avoided, noisy if Lucas liked the quiet, and ugly too if such lovely scenery required distance from them. He doesn’t have enough facts to shape a solid opinion but anything’s better than uncertainty, and so his first concrete belief is formed.
Lucas stares at him, his deep brown eyes hardening. “Look. You’re new to this world, right?” Perturabo nods warily. “And I'm just some guy who happened to find you in a field, right?” The boy nods again. “Think for a minute about where we go from here. You can’t just live with a stranger you just met.”
A cold feeling settles like a blanket over Perturabo’s shoulders, sticking to the back of his neck. “Why not? It is preferable to the woods.” They’d probably be cold and full of beasts at night. Not ideal.
‘Don’t threaten him. Don’t threaten him. Don’t…’ Lucas sucks in a sharp breath. “Because…” he says slowly, “That is not the way of this world. You are a child, and children need parents. I'm… not a parent. I'm just some guy.” He gestures to the phone. “I can call some people who’ll look after you, treat you nicely and so on. They’ll even give you a phone of your own. For free!”
Perturabo’s grip tightens on the phone, its rubber casing bowing around his fingers. He does not like this. As far as he knows, other people were something offensive, and Lucas had put many resources into ensuring he lived as far away from them as possible. And now he wanted to send Perturabo away to live with them? No, that was sus as hell. Dangerous. Perturabo shakes his head. “I'm not going anywhere.”
“And what if I picked you up and moved you somewhere else?” Lucas rolls his shoulders back, making grabby hands at Perturabo but not quite touching him. “Eh? Eh? What if I did that?”
“I would bite you.” says Perturabo. “And you’d be sorry.”
The way his steel-blue gaze bores through Lucas says he’s not joking, either. Lucas facepalms, the momentary mischief bleeding out of him. Through the cracks in his fingers, he stares at a tuft of the carpet and thinks.
‘Why did I expect him to be civilized… Okay, wait a minute. Suppose he –is- Perturabo, through yet more warp fuckery I can’t explain. If there’s fuckery afoot, that’s probably why I didn’t just call the emergency line as soon as I found him. Bond stuff. But he looks like an ordinary kid, not a Primarch. I… oh god, I can’t be dealing with a Primarch. He’s gonna peel me in my sleep.’
“Perturabo.” Lucas holds out his hand. “Would you please return my phone to me? I won’t call anyone right this minute.”
Perturabo’s eyes brighten not with trust, but with challenge. “And how do I know that? What will I gain in return?”
“A sandwich.” Lucas says, and goes to make one in the kitchen whilst desperately running gambits through his mind. Perturabo doesn’t follow him, going through the phone and reading as many documents as he can before the man comes back. He discovers architectural blueprints, sketches of people, schematics for various machines… and finds all of them utterly fascinating, accidentally learning how to pinch and zoom in to see all the details.
A plate with meat and cheese between two slices of bread hovers before his face. “See this?”
Perturabo doesn’t look at it. “Did you design these?” He shows Lucas the phone.
“It’s my job. Do you want to stop rawdogging my privacy for a minute and eat something?” Perturabo shakes his head, too excited about the things he’d seen. Lucas finds his patience thinning by the second and tells him nothing. He puts the plate down. “Alright, you know what? You have fun with that. I’ll be right back.” He turns on his heel, striding off towards the spiral staircase at the back of the house.
Perturabo watches him go, smile fading as a strange unease prickles through his body. Did he not want to talk about his work? Was work a bad thing to discuss, even if it was his purpose for creating such beautiful designs? Barely anything in this world made sense to Perturabo, but it mattered little when he remembered he’d only scrolled through three thousand emails and still had thirty-four thousand to go. He loses himself once more in the magical iPhone and the world of wonders within…
…until it goes black.
Perturabo prods at it, frantically going through all the gestures he’d learned to try and get it working again. Clicks the side buttons several times, to no avail. “What…”
Lucas reappears and just about collapses laughing at the accusing glare leveled at him from such a cute little face. Perturabo’s trying his best to scowl, but it just makes him look like he’d eaten a raw lemon. “What’s wrong?”
“What did you do?”
“What does it matter?”
Perturabo rises, pointing a finger. “Make it work again.”
“It doesn’t like being held by people who aren’t me. Same way you don’t like people touching you.” Lucas folds his arms. “Perturabo, if you want to live here, you can’t go taking my stuff.”
“Why?” Anger rises in his chest and forces his squeaky voice out louder. “I'm stronger than you. I can do as I like.”
“Which is a terribly animal way of thinking, I’ll forgive you for that one. You haven’t learned how to be among people yet. In case you weren’t aware, I'm a people, and you’re a people.” Lucas points right back at him, moving to sit on the chaise. “Dogs bite. People talk.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Let’s talk.”