Chapter Text
Sister Repentia.
Sequel to Sister Militant.
It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
Chapter 1
Location: Sororitas Invasion Cathedrum “Nihlynn's Verdict.”
Planet: Khymaos VIII.
System: Khymaos.
Segmentum: Ultima.
Dark clouds stained the sky as they so often did. Ugly smears of pollutant and acrid water vapour that would, on occasion, belch forth or consume a heavy bulk lander as they either arrived, or departed the world - bound for the fleet hanging at low anchor.
It was the last few stragglers of the reinforcements being brought down now, as most of the others had already been deployed in the preceding months. All that remained was likely remnant support units, rear line adepts, less urgent supplies, more plentiful ammunition stores, reserve fuel, and even possibly mechanical and industrial prefabrications from the now increased Mechanicus presence. And although, like many, I rather wished for the Martian priesthood to employ the numerous bomber fleets they had in their cruiser's cavernous flight-decks to systematically flatten entire enemy regions, I knew that was unlikely… especially with them being under the direct command of the Mechanicus.
Still, regardless of what the landers held, seeing them at all was soothing and their contents - when combined with the disruption the annihilation of the ritual cardinal point beneath the manufactorum had wrought - had aided in the not inconsiderable advances gained in that time.
“So.” The Inquisitor began, her words - after what felt like nearly an hour of silence - pulling my attention from the distant window that had previously held it. “I apologise for the delay, Sister. Recent advances have brought with them new challenges as I'm sure you understand… new challenges, and new opportunities.”
Liar.
She wasn't sorry about the delay. Nor was the delay anything other than premeditated.
She had summoned me with urgency knowing full well that such would leave me waiting.
Regardless. She was the Inquisitor, and I the penitent.
She could do as her whims compelled.
“Please. Think nothing of it, Inquisitor.” I replied, keeping my eyes off of hers.
“Very well. Now, onto the reason for your summons… I find it beneficial to know what my underlings know. Make sure we are all reading from the same hymn sheet, as it were.
So tell me, Emmeline, what do you know of the enemy? The Scented in particular.”
Emmeline.
I had heard that name from so few places in the previous weeks, and the Inquisitor used it as much as a lash, as she did a balm.
Gracing me with name, while simultaneously shaming me with the knowledge that it was lost.
“Only that which I have been told, or read in the authorised briefings, Inquisitor.” I responded - a subtle shift in Inquisitor Eadaz uq-Śraddhā's expression bidding me to continue; to expand further. “Details are somewhat sparse. The Scented are a chaos aligned warband, made up - in part - by the traitorous Saraccian 231st Infantry regiment. They favour both the heavy application of Las weaponry - such as hellguns and lascannons -, and chemical weapons… such as hallucinogenic and corrosive agents.
Being made up of traitor Imperial assets, their training and equipment is comparable to hardened Imperial forces, and - while they lack true faith in the self-evident divinity of the God-Emperor - they seem beholden to a blasphemous fanaticism to the Ruinous Powers; one that compels them to extreme acts that can take loyal forces by surprise.
Disposition, locally at least, seems limited to Infantry detachments.
How they came to be on Khymaos VIII, or when, is currently unknown.”
She nodded, leaning back and gesturing with her hand. “And what of the non-Scented?”
Her behaviour, and even her entire presence, spoke to a deception that she had crafted masterfully around herself.
She smiled, welcomingly. She wore flattering but understated clothing and opted instead for her soft dark complexion to be readily visible - eschewing many of the intimidating cybernetics that often furnished those of her station.
She kept her hair, dark and curled, out and comparatively massive - a mane that drew attention to her, for all the right reasons, when she stood beside others of Imperial military service.
She had curated her image and her behaviour so as to make her approachable and amenable.
She had curated her image and her behaviour to wonderfully obfuscate who she truly was - an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, and one that the reputation of that Ordo fit like a glove.
“Encountered armoured formations have been… problematic, especially given our limited ability to respond in kind. The present Imperial armour has shown itself to be exceptional, but they would be the first to admit that they are stretched.
Our enemy's capacity to produce scratch armoured companies via repurposed industry was… overlooked, it seems, by the initial planners of this liberation.
Current wisdom within the Order is that the enemy armour, while seconded to other forces in the field, is answerable to whichever fallen Tech-priest is responsible for the manufactoria on this world. The belief in this individual in fact being a former adherent of the cult of the machine is further enforced by the ever increasing number of Daemon-engines in operation.
A worrying variable of growing quantity and variety.
I have personally heard very little in regard to these abominations from official sources - least of all their origin… hence the assumed presence of a heretek.”
“Adept Senioris Maneken.” The Inquisitor interrupted, smiling slightly - as if she had just bestowed me with a gift. “The Mechanicus are famously reluctant to discuss… well, most things. But, being an Inquisitor grants me access to certain operational information.
The Mechanicus present believe that the previous Adept Senioris of this world, a Magos Maneken, is the individual you speak of, though he now prefers the sobriquet of Fabricator.
Oh, I interrupted you. My apologies.” She concluded, waving her hand for me to continue.
“... All other forces have been made up of Khymaos’ PDF turned traitor, or armed citizenry driven to madness. They may lack training when compared to Imperial forces, but they are not lacking in number, commitment or equipment - the manufactoria, forges, and mines of Khymaos have, as stated, been repurposed to fuel their war effort… and fuel it they do.
It is assumed that the PDF and citizenry are answerable to the planet's surviving nobility - them, the heretek, and the commander of the Scented forming a triumvirate at high command level.”
“Logistics?” She asked, seemingly entertained by my briefing - perhaps how lacking it was in detail compared to her own understanding of things.
“The enemy supply train seems robust and bolstered with many redundancies. The planet's own extant infrastructure - one swiftly usurped and secured by the traitors - has been successfully turned to their purposes and is denied us as a target by the stubborn insistence of the Mechanicus.
Their capacity to move troops and equipment with ease and rapidity is often a deciding factor in engagements and, I would assert, is one of the primary reasons for our lack of notable advances.
If, at any point, the enemy fully employs the strategic and tactical flexibility afforded them by the extant infrastructure, it may well condemn local Imperial forces to destruction under the weight of overbearing numbers. Why the Archenemy has not done so already is beyond me.
Do you wish for my understanding of naval operations as well, Inquisitor?”
She raised her hand and shook her head, answering my question much in the way that I had expected.
Such information was either so recent in development so as to undoubtedly be fresh in her mind, or likely so far removed from my up-to-date understanding so as to be embarrassing.
Orbital coverage was considerable and stubbornly intractable - provided by numerous deeply-set and formidable anti-orbital laser batteries… as befitting a previously productive industrial center.
Fleet support was denied us until each accursed battery was silenced by ground operations; each one muzzled, expanding the region available to the fleet.
It was that way, and had been that way since day one.
Six fortress-silo complexes had been disabled so far, and it was only thanks to the initial one, secured by the Astartes, that the fleet was able to function at all - it carving a small, by any measure worth anything in the void, pocket of comparative safety in orbit above the southern reaches of one of Khymaos VIII’s continental landmasses.
In fairness, it was my understanding that the fleet could indeed access other vast tracts of Khymaos’ orbital regions. But, due to the geography within those areas, they were all but useless to us.
“Thank you, Sister. Your understanding is as thorough, albeit artificially blinkered, as I expected. Tell me, would you care to know what I know?” She asked, her expression unflinching.
The question was dangerous.
Prying into things best left unknown was often a fatal mistake. Fortunately, my faith gave me all the information I required to do my duty. Curiosity was not a temptation that I would readily furnish with purchase.
“Only if I am required to, Inquisitor. Curiosity often leads to damnation.” I replied, fighting the urge to acknowledge the spreading ache that bled from my exhausted limbs, not to mention the gifts bestowed me by my Mistress of Repentance; gifts that further enforced my need of discipline. The weapon afforded me now - a weapon that would deliver me redemption - was heavy, ungainly, and required much in the way of discipline.
“You are a member of my retinue now. An extension of the Holy Ordo. Your clearance level has been adjusted and this information is pertinent. Should you ever leave my service, well, your discretion will then be what your entire future is built upon.” She smiled, reaching for a small remote and activating the servo-skull holding station near her - a model I had seen before, one to ensure we were not subject to eavesdropping. “The Scented are not a small group, Emmeline. Nor are they predominantly formed around the 231st.
The first records we have pertaining to the Scented originated during the Noctis Aeterna, after the formation of the Great Rift. Such records are fragmentary, as one would expect.
The 231st Saraccian are but one of many Imperial assets lost to this warcult both during, and after, its formation. The 231st being one of their more recent acquisitions, all things considered.
It is believed that the Scented formed as a direct response - a symptom, if you will - to the opening of the Great Rift and the Noctis Aeterna plunging so many planets into hell-wrought isolation.
Desperation led to a breakdown of faith, and then chaos found purchase soon after.
While intelligence is, as I said, fragmentary at best, it is deemed almost a certainty that the Scented proper formed as a cult of personality around a figure now known only as the Hedon Prince, before swelling into the warcult it is now.
The Hedon Prince's personal history is unknown, as are his origins beyond his nature as a traitor Astartes. He fell, it is believed, sometime prior to the return of Lord Guilliman. But, such information is unconfirmed and contested.
He behaves erratically, possessed of a logic entirely his own - one clearly influenced by his, now cultwide, worship of the decadent chaos entity known as Slaanesh-” She did not pause in her exposition, even as I muttered a muted prayer to the Emperor in response to the name she so flippantly spoke. “He is, by all reports, proactive and known to engage in field operations personally - ranging from key assaults to seemingly unimportant raids.
This unique and individual logic lends him an inherent, and infuriating, unpredictability which - when combined with his post-human biology and ability - make him a considerable threat.”
“A brutish addict.” I muttered, the notion of fallen Astartes - especially those fallen to the lecherous Dark Prince - being personally offensive to any true member of the faithful.
“Oh no, Emmeline. No. Do not let the Ministorum's and the Militarum's propaganda blind you to the reality of this Hedon Prince. He may be brutish at times, and he most certainly is an addict to his Warp-borne vices… But he is still an Astartes.
His mind may be filled with blasphemies and corruption, but it still maintains the transhuman genius of the Astartes. He may be driven, at times, by addiction and obsession beyond the understanding of… well, many,” She said, her eyes growing sharp and edged as she looked at me and spoke of obsession, “but he still maintains the tactical knowledge, strategic acumen, and the military experience and logic of an Astartes… one that could, indeed, stretch back to the Era of Heresy and beyond.
Do not fall into the trap of so many before you, Emmeline. Do not believe traitor Astartes - even those sworn to a being as baseless and corrupting as Slaanesh - to be as lost to their madness as a mortal would be.”
Again.
Brazenly saying its name, a name I had seldom heard before as it was known by so few within the Imperium. It was the name of a chaos god, a Daemon - a warp entity - of power second, in practice, only to the God-Emperor, and comparable with its own accursed kin.
The name itself was knowledge forbidden, entrusted to comparatively few within the Imperium.
I, and my former fellow Sisters, were some of that few. We were extensions of the Ecclesiarchy, and the Chamber Militant of the Ordo Hereticus. Such knowledge was deemed operational for us.
Regardless of having heard the word before, and knowing what it was, the syllables still caused my skin to crawl and ice to prick in my arms. The syllables were still ones that I would actively avoid - referring to the blasphemous entity by one of its many colloquialisms: The Lord of Excess, The Prince of Pleasure, The Dark Prince, The Perfect Princess. All twisted phrases to describe the same abomination.
“Of course, Inquisitor.” I relented, inclining my head in response.
“What we know, or at least strongly suspect, is that he and his ilk operate out of the Claustra Mortis, a cluster of warp-veiled worlds lost during the Noctis Aeterna.
That region, named the Claustra Mortis after the warp storm that dominates and veils it, has proven to be a persistent thorn since its birthing… something that occured, by all extant records, upon the advent of the Cicatrix Maledictum. While relatively small in the grand scheme, it has still veiled a number of previously Imperial systems within it.
It is this that seems to serve as the fortress of the Scented. One we have yet to crack.”
I tightened my jaw.
It was not my place to decide what information was shared, and what was not, and I was not so naive as to believe that understanding brought protection as that was just objectively untrue. To understand the heretic only placed you closer to heresy yourself.
Still, that being said, such information as what she had just imparted was - to my mind - operationally pertinent to those fighting against them… especially to the Order.
I blinked the thought away and suppressed my annoyance, twisting it inwards - where it deserved to go.
I had personally shown far more questionable judgement than I could ever accuse the Inquisitor of and, as such, listened intently as she continued.
“Lord Guilliman, in his wisdom, assigned the Heirs of Abhorsen chapter of the Adeptus Astartes to act as wardens… but the truth is, even they cannot be everywhere at once.
Through methods you should not ruminate upon, the traitors seem able to utilise the fury of the Claustra Mortis to send their ships and forces far and wide - as well as sail back into the storm with comparatively few issues.
The Heirs of Abhorsen have quelled and purged more heretic warbands - both aligned and unaligned to the Hedon Prince and his Scented - than I can count, in numerous clashes around the region. But their numbers are limited, as is their reach. As I said, they cannot be everywhere and their strength is not infinite.
The true scale of the Scented is difficult to quantify, but is deemed considerable enough to warrant local concern. In addition, most information regarding the scale of the Scented is doctored before dissemination, or wholly classified.
It is a belief held by many that until the scale of this threat is better understood, it is better suppressed… rather ignorance than multi-sector panic.
As for your musings as to why the Archenemy have not simply crushed our beach head under their weight of numbers? There are a number of theories, but only one of which I care to share at present.
Strategic cognisance.
They know, as surely as we do, that the infrastructure of this planet holds meaning to the Mechanicus. They know that, due to this, we are loathed to destroy it. If they utilise it offensively however, it will force our hand.
Mechanicus displeasure or not, the infrastructure would be reduced to molten ruin if it actively threatened the Imperial presence on this world.
Limited benefit is preferable to no benefit at all.
…
Brinkmanship.
They will pursue their use of it as far as they dare - as far as our willingness to placate the Mechanicus allows.
…
That's a theory, anyway.”
“Is- is that what you believe, Inquisitor?” I asked, still absorbing the majority of the information she had so rapidly subjected me to.
“I said it was a theory, Emmeline. I did not say it was mine.”
Location: Dauntless-class cruiser "Ferrous Fidelitas".
Position: High Anchor.
Planet: Khymaos VIII.
System: Khymaos.
Segmentum: Ultima.
“Don't you dare leave. I have not excused you yet, First-Lieutenant.” Captain Verandain barked from behind his desk.
First-Lieutenant Vetten van Dahl sighed, audibly, and then turned back to the old man.
He had aged, noticeably though not terribly, in the past few weeks since he regained consciousness.
He was thinner, too. He had always been a veritable mountain of a man. Thick and heavy set, but strong and healthy. Now he looked weak. Better than he had been, certainly, and on the mend - getting stronger by the day -, but he was not how Vetten remembered him.
“I appreciate that, Sir. But Amee inspires more fear in me than any court martial ever could.”
The smile that spread over the Captain's face was bright and full of humour, but also petulant dismay. “Vetten. Help me. She won't let me have any fun.”
“I have no qualms you have fun, Da’, but you and Vetten here aren't talking fun. You're working… again. The Chirurgeon was clear. You are to rest.” Amee clipped, her tone light and friendly, but Vetten knew that she was entirely serious.
The two had developed, much to the Captain's delight, a familial connection over the years she had been in service to him… much like her brother, Paul. Vetten knew that, officially, they were both listed as the Captain's concubines - one of the benefits of holding a position of rank in the Imperial navy. But Vetten also knew that the Captain held no such designs or desires. Not for them, nor for anyone else. So, instead of having them service the usual role of the concubine, Kanisur Verandain had instead all-but adopted them. Amee had practically immediately fallen into the role of Paul's mother - despite being his sister, and his elder by only a single year -, but she had also fallen into the unusual dual-role of the Captain's daughter and defacto caretaker… mothering him much like she did Paul, and ensuring the old man got ample rest.
It was endearing, truly, seeing the Captain - master of the Ferrous Fidelitas and all within her - all-but bullied into obedience by his daughter. But she truly did care for the man. That much was plain to see.
“Vetten can stay… but for a social call only. Do not make me call the Doctor.”
“Okay, okay. You win. Can I at least ask about repairs? She was damaged terribly.” The Captain smiled, all present knowing that he would ask regardless, and Amee nodding and rolling her eyes in response. “Wonderful. Vetten?”
Vetten sighed and sat down, shifting back into the comforting support of the chair. “Repairs are proceeding apace. The Mechanicus can work wonders but… the damage is extensive. The voids can be lit again and have almost full capacity. Seventy percent of the defense turrets are operational again, but we have a big hole in bow coverage. They've managed to nurse all the port-side macro batteries into operation, and all-but-one to starboard… But that's it for capital weaponry. The prow lance is… gone, Sir.” Vetten explained. They were not prone to bouts of over-exaggeration, and they had not taken to doing so now. The prow lance was, in actual fact, gone. Shorn from its mounting and cast adrift. “It is likely we will need months in drydock before we're at full strength again. She fought hard, Sir. But the wounds are deep… too deep to be remedied while still in active service.”
He nodded solemnly. “Scars show that she fought. None would question that. If drydock is what it takes, then drydock is what she gets.
Anyway. Onto lighter things, and to save me from Amee’s ire. How is that man of yours?” The Captain asked, settling back into his chair and fixing Vetten with a smile.
“Io is well, last I heard. He has yet to return from the Codificus Anima.” Vetten replied.
“Still working on him, eh?”
“Yessir. Or they are simply too busy to arrange return transport for him. The damage to the fleet is, I would wager, putting fair strain on their work crews and transit shuttles.”
Vetten did miss Io. It had been several days now since he had, upon the instruction of F-R J9S/Q9A, reported to the Codificus Anima - the previously arrived Dictator-class cruiser of the Adeptus Mechanicus - for the installation of new augmetics.
An upgrade, or so he had said.
The notion sat oddly within Vetten, but then they were not of the Mechanicus.
When they had asked Io of the purpose of the upgrade, he had replied cryptically - or, cryptically to Vetten at least.
He had said that he was being made plugless. When pressed, he had explained that it would permit him access to the noosphere to a greater extent than that which he was currently capable of. He had said that it would permit him access to the noosphere - or, at least parts of it - at all times, without the need for direct, manual interface.
His explanation had only helped partially, as Vetten had but a layman's understanding of the noosphere, but his excitement had given Vetten all the reassurance that they had needed.
To Vetten, Io having not already received such an augmetic seemed prohibitively limiting and likely to negatively impact his efficiency. But then, Vetten was mostly ignorant of the Martian priesthood and their customs. There must have been some reason - some logical, or more than likely traditional , reason - to deny Io these augmetics until now.
“And the crew. They are well, under Commissar Haveloch's oh-so-gentle ministrations?”
Vetten smiled and exhaled amusedly. “They are, Sir. The Commissar is keeping everything running smoothly during your convalescence. Still, you need not worry. You will have ample crew left upon your return.”
“And…” The Captain, began lowering his voice - a not so subtle indication that Vetten should do the same. “How is Paul?”
Vetten nodded. “The Master of Ordnance has informed me that he is adjusting well enough, and swiftly.
His sudden inclusion, while jarring for him, has done little beyond motivate him it seems.
I can request the Master of Ordnance prepare a full briefing for you, if you wish.”
“Oh, no. No. I- I don't want him to think I'm checking up on him.
I have confidence in the lad, and I don't want him to think that my concern for him is motivated by a lack of it.
Let's… Let's just keep this between us, aye.”
“Very well, Sir. But… for the record, well, I don't believe he would mistake your motivations.”
“I would hope not. But, rather be safe. I feel he was rather surprised when his volunteering for duty with the Master of Ordnance was accepted.” Verandain smiled.
“I imagine so, too, Sir. But, well… we were rather well mauled. Especially among the gun-crews and munitions adepts.”
“Quite. Yet, we stand still. Which is more than can be said for those who sought to best us.”
Planet: Khymaos VIII.
System: Khymaos.
Segmentum: Ultima.
Bang.
The stock of the long-las thumped back into his shoulder as it discharged its murderous lance of light.
The thump made him wince.
Not due to the impact onto his bruised shoulder - a sensation Ephraan had long grown accustomed to -, but because he knew the shot would miss.
Oh, the target would be dead - sure enough. And, as he watched he saw the sergeant's squad scramble for cover, leaving him sprawled out on the acid soaked rockcrete ground - his chest bored out and charred by the intense blast of energy.
But the death brought Ephraan no joy.
No sense of fulfillment.
His brand - his seared mark of the Dark Prince… the Mistress of Excess - not even twitching in response to his shot.
He had sought to hit his heart.
He had wanted to core the worshipper of the corpse-god. But the bastard had moved, shifting his weight slightly further than Ephraan had expected, and the shot had instead hit an inch to the sergeant's right.
He tensed his jaw and grit his teeth.
Blaming the target.
Blaming the target.
He bit down on his lip, tasting his own blood - his brand only then responding, warming as it twitched… just the once.
He had failed to predict the movement.
He had missed.
It was his own fault.
Do better.
Do better.
Do better.
The words echoed in his head, reverberating within his skull to the point where he barely noticed the hammering of las-blasts that cut the rest of the Imperial squad down. Concealed troops of the Hedon Prince emerging from acid-rain drenched culverts, debris choked alleys, shattered windows, or the charred remains of haulers, cargo-six trucks, or hulled IFVs to fall on the Imperials in a slaughter so picturesque it could reduce a man to tears… well, a man other than Ephraan.
His shot had been the first. Entrusted by his Obsessor to initiate the strike. But he was not the only sniper present.
No. There was five of them. One for each sergeant present in this, a thoroughly expected and planned for, sweep.
Choking down his disgust, he slipped away from the wall and made for the corridor - ignoring the broken picts and worthless detritus that, had he paused for a moment to inspect, would have told him of the family that used to live in this barren residential cell.
Others had seen.
He knew that.
Vol especially.
He was close. Too close. And his target had been near Ephraan's.
Near enough to see.
His brand squirmed, his stomach churning in sympathetic disgust.
Not only had his aim been an inch from true, but someone else had seen in.
He moved with a purpose down the featureless and dilapidated hallway, any musing he may have one had about how recent - or likely ancient - the disrepair was, now gone… replaced by only it.
Only the shot.
In bounds of three at a time, he descended the staircase and turned onto Vol’s floor.
No witnesses.
No witnesses.
There could be no witnesses.
No one to tell of his failure.
He gripped the stock of his long-las before a thought surfaced and he instead slung the rifle before drawing - and reversing his grip on - his knife; pressing the flat of the blade up behind his wrist, concealing it.
Turning into a similarly decorated residential cell, he came face to face with the grim-faced Vol - the older man with his rifle raised at Ephraan’s chest, lowering it almost immediately.
“Eph? What are you doing here-”
The blade hammered into his chest before he had even registered Ephraan's advance. And he crumpled to the floor before any further sound could escape him.
He wouldn't be found… and he wouldn't be missed.
Not by other Scented.
No. It would be another Imperial sweep that followed the blood to the small cubby that Ephraan unceremoniously stuffed him into.
It would be the Imperials that would see what Ephraan had left of him.
The Imperials that would see the eyeless rictus smile of Vol, his skin a lattice of cuts - the flesh still clinging to his skull purely, it seemed, to spite those that would look upon him.
The rest of the Scented would never know what happened. Nor would they, or anyone else, know of the inch of discrepancy that had caused his vanishing… or precisely what Ephraan did with Vol's eyes.