The knife was short and thin, but the monomolecular edge cut through meat and bone of the man's face like they were water. Aghast, the many other men and women of the room in their varied states of intoxication and undress made hand motions to demonstrate to the cultist that they had nothing to do with the dead fellow missing half of his head at their feet. Given their state, Nestor found this very, very improbable. But behind his mask he smiled, the change in his face and eyes giving some relief to the people before him. The fools thought they would have mercy. They would of course, but it was a spiritual one, in that they would be free of their sinful bodies to stand and repent before the Emperor. 

He spun on a foot in a beautiful pirouette to end the life of another one of the people before him, but his vision faded before that could be done.

[hr]

The cultist awoke in a pile of wreckage. His head hurt, as did quite a lot of the rest of him; monomolecular knives it were not good items to possess at the moment of being shipwrecked. He didn't lose any appendages but he certainly did have a great many lacerations about his body. He stood up with a groan, smirking as the people he was going to end had died anyway. He rooted around their small drug lab, taking the clothes off of them to create a small impromptu disguise as an ordinary denizen of the vessel. 

After briefly examining himself in the reflection of his blade Nestor nodded and went off to look for other survivors.