Though an Astartes, Fabius Bile was a creature that transcended the conventional boundaries of his kind. In his obsessive pursuit of biological perfection, he had engaged in "scholarly exchanges" with the Drukhari and survived being hunted by nearly every major power in the galaxy. If he hadn't once sought sanctuary from his gene-father, Fulgrim, he would have been dead long ago.
Consequently, Bile harbored no moral qualms about collaborating with xenos for the sake of scientific advancement. Faced with the Skaven's unusually "hospitable" invitation, he accepted without a moment's hesitation.
Then, he witnessed a scene that left even this ten-millennium-old "Grand Apothecary" utterly speechless.
Before him, the so-called Master Mutators of Clan Moulder were at work. There were no sterilization protocols, no antiseptic measures, and not a single piece of professional medical equipment in sight. With rusted iron tongs and claws caked in dried gore and filth, they reached into vats of glowing green fluid like scavengers fishing trash out of a sewer, dragging out various biological specimens.
Among them was the body of a Chaos Space Marine from Bile's own warband. By all rights, the warrior should have been dead, yet within the green solution, his flesh pulsed with an eerie, unnatural vitality.
The Skaven dragged the massive, mutated transhuman onto a filthy, slab-like operating table. Shadowless lamps? High-temperature sterilization? None of it was necessary. The lesser rat-men watched with fawning reverence as their morbidly obese, three-armed leader approached.
Throt the Unclean, radiating smug confidence, arrived at the table brandishing a butcher's cleaver, a rusted bone-saw, and a pair of pliers. Without ceremony, he raised the cleaver and lopped off the Chaos Marine's arm in a single, brutal stroke.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Bile was aghast. He lunged forward to intervene. "What are you doing? Where are the monitoring arrays? Where are the hormonal stabilizers?"
Throt looked at him with the disdain one might show a clueless provincial. "Great Horned Rat above... what use-good are those toys? Do you human-things truly know gene-craft? You cut-slice him, pour in the Warpstone draught, and stitch-sew something else on! That is all!"
"Excuse me???"
Bile felt as though he had walked into a fever dream. These xenos are nothing but ignorant savages, he thought. I must find an opportunity to escape.
But then, a miracle occurred. Throt began stitching a pair of Hive Tyrant bone-swords onto the torso. He followed this by grafting the limbs of an Ambull onto the lower body. Finally, he hacked off the original head, replaced it with that of a Stormvermin, and used industrial rivets to weld the Chaos Marine's own power armor directly into the raw flesh.
Against all laws of biology, the chimeric monstrosity shuddered and rose from the table. It spoke through the rat-head, its voice trembling with agonizing ecstasy: "Yes-yes... power... I feel-sense it! The Gift of the Horned One!"
Throt waved a hand dismissively, as if he had just performed a mundane chore. Covered in gore, his bulging eyes fixed on Bile. "How-how is it, human-thing?"
Bile fell silent. No one knew what was firing behind the pale, hairless dome of his skull. After a long pause, he reached out and picked up a vial of the green Warpstone solution. "Let me study this. Whatever you require in exchange, I shall provide it."
Had Lucius been present, he would have summarized Bile's thoughts perfectly: I once was a superstitious devotee of science and technology; today, you have taught me the beauty of primordial simplicity.
The chamber was packed with specimens collected by Clan Moulder. Bile found it inconceivable that these samples remained viable; with his own advanced technology, preserving such "freshness" was an arduous task. Here, in conditions where even a tin of rations would rot, the biological matter thrived. He realized the secret lay entirely within that foul, green liquid.
Throt grunted an affirmative, allowing him to keep the vial. Bile then shifted the topic: "The clone of Omegon, Primarch of the Alpha Legion... yes, I know of him. He is the most enigmatic of the Primarchs, whispered to have been slain by Rogal Dorn during the Battle of Pluto. If you provide me with his flesh and genetic sequence, I am certain I can produce a clone."
"But his physical form was annihilated by the Imperial Fists," Bile continued, his interest as a scientist beginning to override his caution. "How do you intend to acquire his cellular tissue?"
Bile was an expert in cloning Primarchs, and the mystery of the Alpha Legion's twin-soul intrigued him immensely.
Throt, of course, had no answer. He looked confusedly toward a dark corner of the room. In those shadows, Snikch, the ultimate assassin, remained silent.
Suddenly, every hair on the Deathmaster's body stood on end. A primal terror, surging from the depths of the Warp, pinned his soul and body in place.
"Do not worry. I can fetch it for you."
A voice saturated with the terrifying weight of Chaos echoed through the subterranean vault. A white-furred Grey Seer stepped forward. It was clear the rat-man was not the one speaking; he was merely a vessel for a far more ancient and terrible power.
"G-Great... Great Horned Rat above!!"
Every Skaven in the room collapsed into a prostrate heap, faces pressed against the filth, not daring to look up. They knew their god had arrived.
"Who are you?" Fabius Bile felt the crushing atmospheric pressure, but he braced his body, refusing to kneel, and looked the Grey Seer in the eye.
"Heh... I am a God."
"There are no gods in this universe," Bile spat back. "There is only the Imperial Truth."
At his words, the rat-men stirred with murderous intent, not just the Skaven, but the massive, chattering rats in the shadows.
Yet, the Great Horned Rat was not provoked. He merely chuckled. "Ah, the Imperial Truth... a magnificent lie. You believe in it with such fervor. I did not come to debate philosophy, Fabius Bile. Keep your faith; if you abandoned it, you would become dreadfully mundane."
The deity paused. "Come. I shall take you to the blood of the Primarch. You shall craft what I desire, and you shall receive a reward beyond your reckoning."
"Oh? And how do you propose to do that?" Bile asked, his curiosity piqued.
"I shall take you back to the Battle of Pluto. You shall harvest the flesh of the Primarch yourself. But heed me: do not disturb the flow of time, or your little cloning tricks will not save you from the consequences." The Great Horned Rat's tone was almost grandfatherly, yet laced with a sharp warning.
"Back... to the Battle of Pluto? Ten thousand years ago?!"
Bile was stunned. He could hardly fathom such a possibility. But as a master scientist, his mind began to race with the implications. If he could return to the Great Crusade era, he could harvest pure gene-seed and lost technologies at the source.
Perhaps... he could even find a living, uncorrupted warrior of the Emperor's Children. With such an opportunity, his dream of rebuilding his Legion could finally be realized.
He nodded, his voice thick with excitement. "Fine. I accept. How do we begin?"
"Good. But first," the Great Horned Rat said, reaching out a clawed hand, "let me ensure you remain... cooperative."
A bolt of raw, malevolent Chaos energy surged into Bile's chest.