"I mean, it's a cute dog, my dear lord," said Staffanic, a sybarite with eyes diluted from his ocular stimulant injections. "Though I certainly cannot imagine casting my civilization apart on its behalf."

He gave a deep yawn, wiping the humidity from his forehead with a sweet-scented orkskin kerchief.

"If this is an intoxicant, it is either specialized for a certain set of targets - or it requires repeated exposure to build up its effect. Can't see the appeal from where I am. And that's for the best, really - there are a lot of screens down there."

To Vael and Hagar, this excuse seems reasonable enough - but Geron has caught this scent before. The sweat, the fatigue, the thickening of the swamp water around the sybarite's ankles - the Ancient Raven has set its mark. Staffanic is clearly unaware of this sickness but a seed of it already germinates inside.

Geron clenches his fist.

Well, at the very least they know the least of his retinue aren't immune. He gestures and Squarehammer pushes Staffanic to his knees in front of Geron, who looks down at him scornfully.

"Pathetic."

He turns to Vael.

"He's infected, I can taste it in his soul. Can you fix him or should we spare him the impending boredom?"

Geron won't partake himself, but it could be worth seeing if the contagion can spread through methods other than watching. Such as ingesting parts of those infected. This spiritual disease was blasphemous, depriving Slaanesh of the sensations that were his due. He would earn the favor of She Who Thirsts by eliminating the contagion and he'd burn this world if he had to. Actually he wanted to, he saw no value for this place beyond kindling.

"Can I fix him?"

Vael taps his chin, thinking.

"Well, I know a bit of medicae lore, but we don't have a proper hospital. I'll take a look at least - either I think of an easy treatment, or a way to protect ourselves."

He peers into the warp as his hands manipulate the combi-tool into a "minimally invasive" configuration. In many of the futures, the man is gutted like a fish. But there is a potential for other outcomes.

There was something wrong with him ? Hagar wouldn't have noticed, from the behavior portrayed. Certainly not that alarming, but admittedly a little different from what the usual. Would there be an invasive thing within ?

"Is it necessary to remove ? It would be shameful to disturb a man's peace like this. I know well of grandfather's gifts, there's no reason to think of them as so bad. Let him be, he seems happy about it. Aren't you ?"

The disease is indeed treatable, especially in an early stage like this. Stimulants, exercise, forced sustained activity and good nutrition will beat it back entirely. A taste of this can be shaken off like a mild depression.

The issue is that this is not simply a disease; it is also a contaminant. The disease would run its course naturally if the subject simply did not return to the depths of the facility. If he goes back in and is exposed further to the displays then it will progress regardless of countermeasures. Extended exposure will render him like unto these Mechancius adepts: unable to summon the will to move even as they are executed by servitors.

One other detail - this particular lethargy is location-bound to this particular facility, to this particular Scribe. All of the Lords of the Garden have concocted a unique desolation, and the plague that laid the Jade Tigers low was not the same as the one that ravaged the Children of the Omnissiah. Futures where you simply leave still involve danger and death, but not this danger and not this death.

*

The challenge before you is thus:

The first of the Scribes is within the depths of a Mechanicus facility. The principle hazard of this facility is the cogitator screens - they are still active, displaying corruptive images, vectors for a lethargic disease. A single glance will not immediately cause debility, but sustained exposure will advance the infection. At issue is that the Mechanicus facility is enormous, with tens of thousands of screens on a vast array of devices.

The second complication is that you are not the first on the scene; Forgeworld Draupnir has deployed a strike team to extract the facility's secrets, and if they terminate the Scribe before you can reach them then a powerful asset for the Warmaster will be lost. Going blindfolded may inure you to the diseased displays, but will render you vulnerable if the slaves of the Omnissiah strike.

Vael his verdict to the team. It's up to Geron as to what to do with the victim.

"Hagar, I'd like your opinion. What Nurgle devilry is this and how can we combat it?"

Sure, there were the old reliables - hazmat gear, masks, wards, sacred incense. But let's hear out the devotee.

"My shadow sees without sight, so I wouldn't expect the cognitohazard to affect it, but that leaves everyone else. I might be able to conjure a machine spirit to censor out the attacking visuals. I'd need access to one of the Mechanicus terminals inside, and it could leave us open to attack. Other opinions?"

Geron considers the situation. But a cure's easy enough to provide for a follower of the Dark Prince.

He gestures to his entourage.

"He (Geron hasn't bothered to remember the victim's name) now has the chance to atone for his weakness and bring glory to Slaanesh."

Geron shoves the points of his gloves into Staffanic's side. They're not proper weapons, but they do hurt.

"Inflict whatever agonies on him that are necessary to keep him active. If he dies then it will be a sacrament of pain offered to the Lord of Excess, not another wasted corpse for the Rot God."

Not that Geron is particularly bothered if the wretch lives or dies. He failed, he should consider himself blessed that his Lord cares enough not to just leave him there to waste away.

As for the question of how to proceed...Geron remembers breaking glass. The colors, the sound, the pain of shards cutting into his skin if he stands too close. Their course is decided.

"We can send a few blindfolded minions to smash the screens as we move, that should lessen the amount of work you'd have to do."

"Why would you want to combat it in the first place ? You followers of the lord of change should learn how to see what's infront of you, sometimes."

Vael and Hagar did tend to have differing... Opinions on domains, such was how it was destined to be when you follow ideologies that hold such a degree of difference. But, Hagar didn't see the ill in this : For the one who follows the code of Nurgle to the letter, a disease is something to accept, not rid yourself of. Even the screens themselves, they had seemed to pique an interest of his. A look might be warranted, despite the oh-so called infection.

"You think about this too hardly. Torture is unnecessary, and precaution would be wasteful. The screens, whatever they may contain, are nothing to be afraid of and, infact, I'm willing to prove it. I'll go first myself, and you'll take heed. How is that ?"

There is a kind of laughter that isn't quite right.

The picts start out innocently enough. Cute animals, people in Guard uniforms performing tricks, Skitarii dancing. Hagar moves through the space of the Factorium, illuminated only by the flickering lights and happy images and the wheezing groans of tech-priests and menials who lie drooling on the floor before them. Turning the screens off is easy enough for Hagar, at which point everyone else is free to follow into the rooms. The process is slow, almost numbing, as room after room, console after console passes by.

A flash of interest shows up in some of the picts. Green and white giants from the Jade Lancers chapter move through the background of some of the screens, weapons armed and raised. The shock of their vivid colours is enough to break the trance and make you realize that cute little puppy you've been watching is dead and rotted, and the friends who keep playing with it are two little lords; daemonic gremlins with single eyes and gap-tooth smiles. A moment later both of them evaporate into a greenish mist as mass-reactives detonate inside them and the feed seamlessly cuts through to another video. The playful stomping horse that you had started to look forwards to seeing is a vast sluglike creature, maw dripping saliva, and it claps its flippers together before body-slamming another Astartes against a wall so hard the ferrocrete cracks. It's not something you laugh at. It's just a little chuckle, a corrupted little lazy twist of your mouth, before the next video plays showing a pair of skitarii doing a sword kata demonstration.

The work is so monotonous that even without the compulsion of the screens you might have missed it when that vast white-armoured warrior lurches out of the darkness. It is a Jade Lancer, helmet cracked, one lens flickering, the other bright with the corrupting patterns of the picts playing across its surface. Its armour is rusted and worn and caked in blood and gore. Its twitching fingers holds an empty pistol. It lurches into the room with a violence not even undeath could dim, pushing past Hagar roughly. It is heading for Vael and Geron, a small crowd of blankly inert magi and guardsmen following in its wake.

Geron claps excitedly as he sees the foes bearing down on them.

Finally something interesting is happening! At this point only the thrill of possible death or a truly unique experience could break Geron from his boredom, not that he'd have turned down lesser amusements though. A pity these wretches seem to have lost the spark of life, Geron would have enjoyed venting his frustration on them.

Geron flicks his hand out.

"Break them. Let's see if they still know how to scream."

It was a... Wondrous little thing, that the screens presented. Yes, the images might seem as corrupted to some, but for him, it presented something else, a feeling he could ill describe. A mixture, a ride of all sorts of emotions. The pure joy he could witness on screen, contrasted with the horror it turned out to be. Despite the guts, the playful little ones bore their smiles genuinely. Despite the rot, everyone seemed to find their content, a form of happiness none could see anywhere else in the vastness of the Imperium. This was what he wanted to stand and fight for, what the picts presented and showed to the world. It would have almost captivated him for even longer... Hadn't it been for the Lancer that approached.

"...Oh. Oh, why don't you hold on for a little ?"

Hagar's mighty hand reaches forward, trying to grasp the lancer by the shoulder, hopeful to hold them in place, atleast long enough to gauge the source of aggression.

"Holler if you need the help."

The two space marines seemed to have the situation in hand, so why waste the energy? Vael studies the picts, pondering how they work and what it is about them that affects the lesser minds. Surely it's not the narrative. Well, maybe that was the level of fiction best suited for the Corpse God's faithful, who knows.

The Jade Lancer sways unsteadily. It takes a step wrong and its ankle snaps and its armour fragments, leaving a white stain across the floor where it scrapes like it was made of chalk. It stumbles forwards and falls face-first into the ground, cracking through like fallen ceramic. It lies still, face-down on the ground. Tiny leaves and branches emerge through the cracks of its armour.

A moment of silence.

And then an eternity of chimes.

The host of walkers that had been following in the wake of the Jade Lancer are carrying windchimes, bells, and other instruments of brass and copper. They shuffle past in single file, the unsteady swaying of their desiccated bodies filling the air with a cacophony of music. It is not the intensity of Slaanesh's music; it is a droning, clattering, dolorous non-sound; a warning, a requiem. One by one they come, stepping across the body of the fallen Lancer, and as they do they leave tribute. Each of them sheds blood or tears or sweat or otherwise as their feet rest on that shattered ceramic, and then on and on they go.

As they go, ravens march alongside them. Some carry batons under their folded wings, marching like grenadiers. Some wear little crowns of tinsel, some wear the makeup of sector judges, some the bangles and rings of exotic dancers. They perch upon the shoulders of the procession and eat the fruits that grow upon them and leave their droppings freely as they cavort. At first it seems no end to this procession, but a vast palanquin begins to loom up in a distant corridor, making its gradual way onwards.

*

Vael!

Most importantly, you have performed the proper mental oblations to protect yourself from a cursory exposure to the picts. That gives you some space to contemplate the specific mechanism at work here.

First and foremost, it is important to remember that you are in the Warp. This is a Daemon World; the Immaterium is present here, and the rules of material reality only hold out of inertia. Search for enlightenment amidst the circuits and patterns and you shall find only your own ignorance waiting with teeth and jaws. The disease, the diseased and the screens that transmit them are all aspects of the same being: A Daemon.

"It is important to remember that there is less of a barrier between your own thoughts and a daemonic entity than you would care to think. Corruption is an Imperial word; more accurate terms may include 'Resonance' or 'Inspiration'..."

(It was almost as though you heard someone talking to you out loud just now)

There are Kingdoms of the Mind. Duchesses and knights, peasants and draft horses, incognito princesses and dragons. You stand on the precipice of entering one such as you descend into this place, and...

It is under siege. From more than one direction. The creature that dwells within these screens is distressed, trampled beneath the feet of the Ravens, hunted by the servants of the Cog. It will not maintain this throne for long.

That would be the first time Hagar comes to be witness of such an odd event. Father Nurgle's poxes and illnesses were many, but which one could cause one of these lancers to become as chalk, white and porous in such composition ? An oddity he would have pondered on longer, hadn't it been for the arrival of that which seems to be his retinue. And behind it, the obvious bearings of what they deem of importance : The Pallanquin. And when one such contraption comes into view, a being sits on top of it. Who is it, then ? Who is the celebration, the master of this slow, yet inexorable parade ? Hagar had to know, for perhaps such event could draw them a little closer to their truths.

"...Stay here, will you ? I'll be returning, soon enough."

The Hulking figure of the Nurglite warrior slid through the droning crowd, marching against their current to draw closer to the central piece of this march. What, or who, was it ?

"Ah. So that's how they did it."

If it's alive, then it can be communicated with. If it's a daemon, then it can be bound. Or at least bargained with, he didn't have to be mean right off the bat.

Vael reaches out telepathically to the demon with Thought Sending. It's a one way method of communication, but it's what he's got.

"Heed me, daemon. I am Vael the sorcerer, and I could help you against the servants of the gods of iron and plague. If you can bear the price."

It sure was nice to be on the offering side for once.

Ugh, this music is so...lacking. Where's the screams of anguish drawn out from instruments of flesh that were formally people? Not that funereal music can't be entertaining (when someone's being buried alive for example), but this is so very dull.

Geron pauses as his companions go for dialogue over fighting. Well, this might end up prove to be more interested than bloodshed, so he'll allow it for now.

He waves off Squarehammer and his minions, having them move back into formation around him. It's a formation based on aesthetic appeal rather than strategic value, but that's an entirely acceptable tradeoff to Geron.

"We're negotiating then?"

Hagar and Geron!

Atop the palanquin at the heart of a procession rests a cat. It looks down upon you with an indifference colder than the stars. Then it looks down with sixteen additional eyes.

Not all on the same cat - nine cats together, some mangy, some proud, some dressed in ribbons and some scar-faced toms. Orange and brown and black and majestic, all of their tails tied together into a nightmarish knot. Where it has naught but disdain for you creatures of soul and flesh, it has active antipathy for itself, hissing and clawing at its own other selves in a constant note of inhuman violence.

One of them made eye contact with Geron, then shoved a glass cup from its shelf onto the floor. It splashed and shattered, and the sound of it ground the procession to a halt. There were so many of them - there must be ten thousand or more people in this crowd, passing through the vast tech-cathedral and out through the doors, with more flowing in all the time. But now their diseased attention was focused.

"Clean it up," said the King of Cats.

Vael!

Your thoughts descend into a world of grey. Flickering, warping cathode rays, corrupted static and babbling, layered voices of static and warped machinery. You hear fast-talking announcers discussing creams for the prevention of oils, war for the extraction of oils, businesses for the prosecution of wars. Two grinning, manic figures resolve, one wearing robes of Mechanicus Standard Grey, the other a suit of Administratum Grey. They are eating sausages with chopsticks and occasionally cackling at the haunting images that flash on the screens around them.

"New programming!" said Mechanicus Grey. "That's right, an exciting new show -"
"An aficionado of classic technology. Classic!"
"A dying art!"
"At risk of being lost by the waves of modernization!"
"Don't you feel like society has gone downhill since things started getting better?"
"They don't make that thing you like any more."
"New generations are growing up every day without even knowing about it!"
"You, though. You're a classic!"

Vael puts on his slimiest "scumbag executive" smile and approaches the men, clapping his hands.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but there is business to be made. An exciting world of entertainment is out there. And you are right! They don't make those things we like anymore. But the silver screen is our proverbial oyster. Why shouldn't we make those things? Again! There's a way to make old things new, bring them to the masses, and earn that cozy little villa on a shrine world you've always dreamed of, you know? Let me introduce you to the art of... The Remake. With me, as your exclusive executive producer of course. The media has gotten a little stale, don't you think? Why, it's practically putting the public out there to sleep. Let's spice it up! Add a dash of color to the frames. With me at the helm, those boring iron bird-brains will have a whale of a time. No offense."

It takes all of Geron's incredibly-limited self-control to avoid calling for an immediate charge to slaughter every single member of the procession for this insult. Or better yet put them to the cruelest torments he can devise.

He doesn't know why he doesn't, they deserve it for this slight. All he'd have to do is snap his fingers and Squarehammer would wade into combat so Geron could find out how many ways there were to skin a cat.

But he stays his hand. And instead scoffs at the command.

"And why should I obey a being too weak to rule alone? Each of you has eight rivals still alive, decide amongst yourselves who's in charge before you go around ordering others around."