[Scene Two: The Grand Tribunal of the Adeptus Mechanicus on Mars] In a grand but eerie mechanical hall, countless images of Adeptus Mechanicus High Lords and Fabricator-Generals floated around, like cold stars.
In the center of the hall, Cawl, stripped of all his mechanical arms and external devices, with only his core torso remaining, was fixed to a penitence field.
The voice of the Chief Fabricator-General grated like rusted gears: “Belisarius Cawl, you are accused of: the crime of defiling the sacred body of the Emperor’s progeny, the crime of distorting sacred gene sequences, the crime of unauthorized biomantic modification, the crime of wasting precious Imperial resources (specifically, wasting materials used to forge the armor of fate), and…
the crime of severely damaging the relationship between the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Astartes Chapter.” “The evidence is conclusive.
Your ‘gift’ prepared over ten millennia…” A holographic projection displayed the armor of fate, then switched to the Guilliman model, “…is severely inconsistent with the ‘result.’ This is an insult to the Omnissiah, the Omnissiah, and a trampling of science!” “Verdict: All titles, knowledge, and authority stripped.
Your consciousness will be formatted, your body melted down to forge toilets…
no, to forge Servo-skulls.
Your name will be erased from all records.
Immediate execution.” A massive furnace opened beneath his feet, molten iron seething…
[Scene Three: Secret Meeting of the High Lords of Terra] (This scene was even more fantastical) The Inquisitor Lord of the Inquisition advocated sending him to the Ordo Malleus as a test subject, the Ordo Xenos believed it was an Aeldari conspiracy to send him to the Drukhari / Dark Aeldari, the Ecclesiarch proposed tying him to the Monolith of Penitence and letting all of Terra throw stones at him…
Finally, a beam of light from the Emperor’s Golden Throne turned him into a talking flush toilet, permanently installed at the entrance to the Throne Room…
“No—!!!” Cawl’s synthetic voice suddenly erupted in a piercing scream, startling several nearby Servo-skulls into colliding with each other.
His human left eye finally refocused, but it was bloodshot and filled with extreme terror.
He shook his head frantically, his mechanical neck joints creaking: “No!
Don’t dismantle me!
Don’t format me!
Don’t turn me into a toilet!
I can still fix it!
I can redesign the armor!
I can analyze the variable causes!
I’m useful!
I’m really useful!” He struggled, trying to get off the maintenance rig, but the Servitors holding him hadn’t received a command and instead clamped him tighter.
Cawl stopped struggling, panting heavily, though his mechanical lungs didn’t need to, and his gaze fell once again on the armor of fate and the loli model.
Despair, like the coldest machine oil, filled every conduit of his being.
“It’s over…
all over…” he muttered to himself, the red light in his mechanical eyes dimming.
“Ten millennia of preparation…
all for naught…
and I still face the cruelest punishment…
Omnissiah…
why do you test your devout servant so?” From his human eye, a complex tear, a mixture of lubricant and saline, even flowed.
“Perhaps…
self-dismantling…
is a more dignified end?” One of his still-movable mechanical arms trembled as it reached for his core energy switch…
In the lounge, Guilliman naturally had no idea that Cawl had already concocted a complete “Chronicle of the Mechanicus Archmagos’ Suffering” in his mind.
She merely watched Calgar efficiently and over-reactively arrange the bathing matters, feeling both amused and a little warm inside.
These men of steel were, in their clumsy way, doing their best to cater to every need of the “new” Primarch.
“The bathroom is ready, Father,” Calgar reported back, his tone still respectful.
“As per your request, relevant High Lords have also been notified, and an emergency meeting will be held in the strategy room in one hour.” “Very good.” Guilliman nodded, lightly hopping down from the elevated chair, but almost swayed again due to her wings’ balance issue.
She looked at the large mirror that hadn’t been moved yet, and tidied her appearance one last time.
The golden-haired girl in the mirror had eyes that were much firmer than before.
Although her appearance was still soft and cute, what began to flicker deep within was the calmness and decisiveness of a strategist.
“Well then,” Guilliman took a deep breath, and softly said to her reflection in the mirror, and also to the one pretending to sleep deep within her consciousness, “the first step begins with a proper bath.” “Wash away the dust of ten millennia, and also wash away…
the ignorance of having crossed over.” She turned, her golden long hair sweeping in an arc, her halo faintly glowing, her small body held perfectly straight, walking towards the bathroom door that Calgar had opened for her.
Outside the door was a corridor that had been cleared, guarded, and sprayed with freshener by the Ultramarines.
At the end, behind that door, awaited her Macragge’s highest-spec, Primarch-exclusive bathroom, possibly larger than her Shanghai apartment’s living room, and a meeting that was destined not to be peaceful.
And she, under the name of Guilliman, would officially step onto this cesspit-like galactic stage.