[hider=Lucius, the Fallen Angel]
I do not remember the final battle of the Ist Legion. The combat which pitted Angel against Angel, brother against brother. I was a part of it, fighting to support the cause of Luther over the Lion, but a darkness of the mind covers all but its final moments in my memory. The moments when, fortress-monastery shattered about them, our Primarch Lion El'Jonson failed to slay his second, Luther. The moment Luther shot back with some psionic blast, seemingly slaying the Lion, or at least harshly wounding the man.

The moment Luther's resolve failed, and he fell to his knees, broken in mind if not in body.

At the time, and with the luck to be near the final confrontation throughout the course of my own battles, I had wondered what he was playing at. Was it not the Lion who was at fault, who deserved this judgement? I called out to my leader, to try and rally his resolve and finish the Primarch off. I was soundly ignored.

It was not long after that that the Warp Storm surrounding the planet finally engulfed Caliban, and I was flung into the Empyrean as the ground beneath me broke off from the planet and flew through the barrier between dimensions. My power armour, plates of forged plasteel and adamantium, collapsed and disintegrated as though it were sand against the energies put against it, my helmet seeming to vanish from my head outright. In turn, my own body experienced pain unlike anything I had ever felt before, its enhanced physiology only serving to allow ever-greater intensification of the tortures set against it, wound upon wound upon wound, and the same in my very mind, until it seemed that every atom of my body and every inch of my soul burned with some unholy fire. Only when the pain couldn't get worse would I be healed, granted a half-second or so of relief, before the whole process started over again, and the torture was all the worse for it.

The passage of time in that fell place was forcibly seared into my very brain. This is the only method that I can think of that allowed the forces of Chaos to make me keep track of time through the agony. It would explain how I know that I began to beg for death after three years or so, and how I remained under torment for another seven after that. I am still angry and ashamed with myself for allowing my resolve to falter so soon.

Yet, ultimately, the torture did end. The pain, however, did not: in the final moments of my ordeal, a clawed hand descended upon me. It tore through my body like a wraith, agonising me to the point that anything which had come before would seem to have been a blessing by comparison. When it finally removed itself from me, it had taken that most valuable of assets from me: my memories of combat. This is why my part in the final battle has been lost to me, and why the same applies to all prior battles I engaged in. In the moment, it occurred to me that I was as a new Marine, newly interred as a Scout rather than a mere Neophyte, ready to be molded into whatever was needed of me. The thought vanished as space itself seemed to bend in my eyes, forming an indescribable yet monstrous face, which spoke to me thus in a voice that seemed to stretch to infinity:

[i]As of now, you are ours, a thrall of Chaos. Do as we demand, and your memories of combat shall be returned to you as reward; deny us, and your suffering shall be eternal.[/i]

The face reforged itself into a titanic mouth, opening into intense and bright light, and widening ever-further until it seemed to encompass my entire range of vision, all but swallowing me whole.

And just like that, I was returned to Realspace, landing hard on the surface of a hive world I would later learn was known as Ephron V, in a patch of land that was still somewhat rural, a rarity for a planet like this. I was nude, without clothing or armour; seemingly to spite me, the helmet that had appeared to vanish ten years ago was ejected into the ground in front of me, recognisable but already crumbling to dust, utterly irrepairable. After this, I lay there for many minutes, drained by my ordeal and glad to be past it, but with the dread sensation of knowing I was snared, set to face yet worse even if I complied with the force known as Chaos. I considered my options, and might have allowed myself to simply starve to death where I had landed, if it had not been the case that an old woman, likely a low-level hive dweller in hiding to allow herself a decent retirement after her peak working age had passed, had shuffled over to my prone form, asking if I had fallen from the stars that night. A sinking feeling in my gut told me that she could not be allowed to know of my existence beyond a certain point in time; thus, I told her I had, and asked if she might be so kind as to let me live with her for a while. She agreed, and over the next few days set to sewing a new set of clothes for me, feeding me all the while, "to help you regain your strength" as she put it. My new garments were fitted to my body, and my strength was duly returned.

The very night of my final recovery, I shattered the poor lady's neck in her sleep, and set out to the nearest edge of the surrounding hive. I promised myself that, once the final lead of twine that was my memories had been restored to me, I would rid myself of the taint of Chaos and have no more to do with them. I knew in my hearts that by the time my memories were restored, it'd be far too late for such promises to be kept, but it was the final hope I had.

Success would be an Emperor-sent miracle; failure would mean I was beyond caring anyway.

[hr]

Another ten years pass. Somewhere in the dreary lower levels of the hive, I skulk in an alleyway, considering my past and future, clothed in the same items sewn for me by the old lady so long ago, more hardy than the standard gear given to those in this level of the hive, yet still patched beyond recognition for the sake of changing my image. My sheer size is unmistakeable among those who know of me, as are my dark hair and grey-green eyes, but the reworking of clothing suffices to throw off less personal contacts as and when needed. I am no closer to regaining my memories than I had been after I was first spewed back on to this planet's surface, and I have not dared to try and gain more power than even the homeless unfortunates inhabiting the dregs of this place. All that'd draw to me is more attention from the Imperium, specifically whatever the Legions have evolved into in this day and age. On the other hand, the skills I have acquired have been quite useful for performing my tasks without too much hassle - manipulation, the art of remaining unseen and unheard, and- in the rare circumstances that anybody dares to try and fight me, as well as the more common instances where I must act in cold blood- how to kill quickly and cleanly. I've learned that quickly twisting a human's head in a certain way severs the nerves in their neck without breaking the spinal cord, instantly rendering them unconscious and stopping their breathing, and this is the method I prefer. It is rare that any mortal performs long enough against me that such a technique is inviable. I relish the moments when I am actually challenged.

A child passes the alleyway. A street rat, most likely orphaned, and probably pickpockets for a living. Perfect for my needs.

'Boy. Come here.'

His attention is drawn, his interest piqued by a slight jerk of my head, and he comes to me freely.

'Er, can I 'elp you, sir?' he asks.

'There's going to be a rich gentleman passing through this floor in a few minutes, through 17th and 5th,' I explain. 'He will be disguised as one of us, most likely in a black, worn-looking leather longcoat, and a brown wool cap. Steal his wallet, bring it to me, and I shall reward you with half its contents by value.'

The boy's eyes widen in anticipation, clearly interested in the deal. After a second, he agrees to it, shakes my hand, then runs off, having snuck his hand into my pocket and snatched my wallet whilst I was... "distracted". I know his type, the kind of person who'll take any opportunity they can get to improve their standing. My wallet is filled with thin rocks, weighted to imply a stack of paper bills. By contrast...

But before I discuss the man's possessions, I must discuss the man. He is Jeremiah Albrecht, a company owner usually living in the slightly higher areas of the hive. He commands several thousand workers, is exceptionally rich for his relatively small business, and dabbles in Chaos. Not deeply, not as a true convert... yet... but altogether too much, generally speaking. He does not interest me, save for his habits, learned by process of examination of the man himself and by talking to the few workers who have anything resembling a personal relationship with him, ranging from moderate acquaintances to "he once told me off personally" to having only ever heard a single sentence directed at them by him. As it happens, the low-level workers of Ephron V tend not to ask what a man my size is doing anywhere, and are more than willing to talk about a wide variety of subjects when cornered and/or sweet-talked appropriately.

He does not interest me, yet where he travels does. He keeps small trinkets indicating his dabbling on him, trinkets which allow him access to certain areas that the general public is best kept unaware of. I intend to relieve his burden from him, and use it to my own ends.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, I set out from the alley I'm in, heading through the crowded, grey environment of this place, from 15th and 8th, heading down to 17th and 5th as described, reaching the location just in time to see Mr. Jeremiah himself pass me by. Through all of this, I remain hunched, looking halfway toward the ground the same as every other downtrodden character, and so remaining unseen whilst myself taking in as much as I can. It does not takes me long to find the orphan from before, hidden on a wooden deck over a fair chasm that connects 17th and 5th indirectly to one of the other streets, rifling through a wallet belonging to somebody else and muttering to himself about how a rich bastard like that should have way more money on him than that. As I sneak up to him, moving at just below normal speed in a manner that minimises my footsteps, he pulls from Jeremiah's wallet a rectangle of card, advertising the man's business. Sneering at how useless it is, the card is flung toward the chasm, and it is only my own superhuman reflexes that allow me to snatch it before it is lost forever, tucking it into my front pocket even before the child fully processes than I am there.

'Aaah... uhhhh... 'e-ey there, sir... nice day fer sightseein' innit-'

'Give me the wallets. Both of them.'

'Ah, r-right,' he starts, scrambling to recover both wallets and holding them out to me. 'I, er, I wuz just lookin' 'em over, to see if they wuz fully capable of bein' valuable to us, an' that they are, aheheh...'

I take my wallet first, checking to see that all the rocks are intact. Not quite, but rocks like that are easily found in this place. I restore it to its home pocket. Then I take Jeremiah's wallet, rifling through to see several thousand credit's worth of money in play, and a couple of other cards describing his business and a few hobby clubs he is a part of, including one so-called Gentlemen's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques. Gotcha. I place this in my other pocket.

'Thank you, child.'

'Erm... right then, I'll be off no-'

I grasp his forehead and jaw in my hands, silencing him outright, then yank it to the side and up at once, performing the previously-mentioned nerve severing move. His chest ceases to move, and his eyelids droop, then shut permanently. He will not die instantly, but he may as well be considered dead. Nobody will mourn for him, and he will be forgotten by time. It's more than his sort deserves. His body, therefore, does not struggle as I rifle through his pockets, finding several thousand more credits (placed in Jeremiah's wallet), three or four of the rocks from my wallet (swiftly returned), and a single tiny stone, opalescent in colouration, shifting through a spectrum of red, green, blue, and purple as the light reflecting from it changes. This, too, is returned to Jeremiah's wallet, and after some consideration, so too is the business card in my pocket, which seems to give off the slightest glow of a hidden symbol as it comes near the stone.

I lift the child's body, observe the nearest doorway to see whether he could be placed against it to look as though he was sleeping, then decide against this and fling the corpse off the deck, into the chasm. This deck will unfortunately collapse shortly after I step off of it, and I'll be long gone by the time either body or deck lands in the streets below.

I have a gentlemen's club to attend.
[/hider]