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They stand, the three of them, children of a traitor and a heretic, and Amelia cries, holding her brother's hand, watching her sister's face. Malcolm is grim-faced, heavy-browed, every inch his father's son. Naomi's eyes are bugged wide, ghost eyes.
Something is happening and Amelia does not understand it. Not entirely. The man in gray has informed them that they are to be shown mercy, should they renounce their father. He says that Father is a heretic, rewarded as a Heretic deserves.
Down, down, down. Clanging metal. Hissing steam. Below the sump, even, to deep, hideous places. Amelia clutches her siblings, knuckles white. Naomi is shaking in the same way their dog shook before it had died, spasming and foaming at the mouth, but Naomi does not fall to her side.
Faint murmurs from the men in grey.
"It's one of them-"
"-got to be the boy-"
"-get that rat ready, then-"
And there is music, but the music is so loud, brassy. It clogs Amelia's ears, and the drums pulse away her thoughts.
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She catches a glimpse of the larger girls. The biggest, the strongest, are swathed with strange teal fabrics, topped with waxen seals. Those girls have something possessed about them, and they make holy signs with their hands and cry blessings to Amelia and Naomi. Naomi begins to sob deep from her belly, then.
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Her brother goes first -- and there is no sound, once the door closes behind him, but Amelia sees a man in a chair, strapped in place. Naomi is staring at him, sweat beading along her brow.
Naomi is next, and before the door even closes, the man begins to beg:
"Oh, oh no, no, please, please, I can't-"
It closes, and Amelia hears a noise that she does not know is a scream. No man she has known has ever sounded like that before. Beside her, the man in grey nods--
"Was the girl." He places a hand on Amelia's shoulder. "You may say goodbye to her at the shuttle pad tomorrow, child. Your sister goes to serve a higher cause. Did you know she was so blessed?"
"N-no," Amelia sniffles.
He frowns. "Your father truly told you nothing--" but before he can say anything else, a woman dressed similarly clears her throat, sharp, snarling.
"Ah, I've forgotten." He releases Amelia's shoulder.
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There are other girls like her-- wild-eyed, scared, standing together. Two older girls, swathed in that same blue, hold a banner that Amelia cannot see in the dim light. The blue-clad girls do not blink sweat away from their eyes.
"Here you will find His Mercy."
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Crassia stood half-crouched, blood welling slowly between her toes, having swept into her tattered shoes. Around her, the smell of flesh hung thick, suffocating.
"I must not be weak," she murmured to herself. "I must not."
Wet noises dragged down the hallway while she advanced. Here, putrid masses writhed on walls. Acid spurted from boils which grew from metal. Sucking wound-breaths took over the sound of machinery.
"God-Emperor, forgive me for the sin of my lineage," she whispered.
At the end of the hall, she pushed open a heavy door -,
- and beheld the writhing masses, the tangled limbs, the ecstacy of plague, disease, pleasure. She saw the faces of men who had lurked outside her Schola.
She did not hesitate. Her hands twisted, and the flamer guttered to life in her palms, sweeping holy flame against the rutting, corrupted mass. Crassia stood in their filth, remembering lessons from Sisters before her; the flesh screamed and begged, desperate. She advanced. Something small popped underfoot.
Bile spun up her belly. Her throat. Crassia swallowed it back down, wincing as burning lumps were denied expulsion. Something in the mass hissed and popped and screamed, trying to lurch forward, thick, distended.
Crassia watched its tainted flesh wither. She could not feel her body. She could only smell smoke.
Her mouth welled with hunger. Four days without food.
Four days.
Was this meant to be temptation? To show her the flaws of flesh and blood? She would not fail, as her father had failed.