Spur of the moment writing, have at...
“You're weak, Ciera K'Tul.” He slammed a fist into her jaw. A voice in her head echoed, Weak, K'tul, because you can't strut like I can! Look at me prancing on Vect's strings, ooooo.
Gritting her teeth, Ciera whipped her head back up, spitting blood defiantly at Kato's boot, “Weaker than Vect's blunt tool, that's rich.” A bundle of rags spitting at an Incubi, bedecked in warsuit, bereft of wits... now that's rich! Ciera struggled to ignore the voice's cacophonous descent.
Kato shook his head, “Weak, Ciera. Weak for putting your own needs over that of the people's. Without prisoners, we will all succumb to Slannesh.” He struck again, a rib succumbing to the bombardment. Some quicker than others, Kato.
“But a child, Kato? Wouldn't a hardened warrior last longer as a prisoner?” Longer than you, that's for sure. Is this all I get? All my troubles afford me?
Kato's lips twisted into a smile as he spoke between hits , “Perhaps. Is that what this is about? Pretty little Trueborn whelp... better than the rest of us... wants to crank out another whelp... but can't stomach what's necessary?!” Necessary? That's a biiiiig word, my boy. Did they teach you that in your tuuuube?
Ciera lunged forward to the chain's limit, “I don't care whether you were born from a belly or a test tube, Kato...” Hatred hardened his stare and he was on her instantly, fists buried repeatedly into her stomach. She croaked a gasp and crumbled to the floor.
He growled as he pummeled, “Won't be so pretty once I'm through. If that doesn't do, I'm sure we could find someone in search of a fine specimen.” He almost whispered the last hiss. Specimen. Only one thing that could mean, a trip for 'improvement.' Never understood those haemonculus. What good is it if you spell out the punchline?
Between hacking and more blood she winced out, “You're better cause you're strong, without the tricks or deceit.” No, just boring as an Ork love song.
Kato paused for a moment, before bursting with laughter. He shot a smile over his shoulder before giving an armored backhand. “You think I've lived this long without my share of back stabs, feigns and ambushes? You are weak Ciera, but maybe not lost.” He spun to speak to the observing commander, his Klaivex.
Ciera blinked and shook her head to clear up, but the voice wouldn't relent. Poor little Ciera. What good are you? She tried to deafen the sound with closed eyes, tried to think back at it, “Who are you, some Daemon?” Hahaha, maybe daemon to the senseless. Ciera popped her eyes open, forgetting where she was for a moment.
“...Worse case, we get a good show, and she dies. Best case, the dogs will beat every drop of weakness out of her.”
The Klaivex turned to appraise her, bright green eyes searing into her. That one only thinks of the kill stroke, like some Wych looking for a fix. Be a dear and don't spit on this one, he wants you to. Ciera believed this as she felt his eyes map out. After a long pause, his voice came out as a dagger dragged on stone, “Rise, prisoner.” She rose without an inch of hesitation. The Klaivex approached and tested her arm, and a thigh. “Very well, Kato. I shall indulge your wish.”
Kato saluted with fist to chest, yet never lowering his eyes. He barked, “Take off your boots, prisoner.” She did so immediately with a perplexed face. Softer, “They'll get stolen, anyways.”
“What's my sentence?” Hahahahahahaha. Seems the joke's on me, this is what I fought for?
Kato cocked a brow before laughing, “Weak and soft, if I knocked out your hearing. The races, Ciera. You belong to the reavers.” Not til I'm through with you, daughter.
Thanks in advance for thoughts, Your love is like a choppa, beserker.