Editor's Note: Inspired by the CS1 sourcebook. Sketch of The Prophet originally posted at DeviantArt by NecrosisBob.

Witchmaw

Dr. Dawnfern looked over the subject of inquiry which had brought him to the station, finding that concentrating on the captured armor chassis took his mind off the glowering Brain Waster looming behind him.  Hoping to dispel some of the tension clouding the room, he began to discuss his clinical analysis.

“Very well, Operative Spear, the armor appears of unknown manufacture, though the underlying chassis closely resembles PP9 Exo for Stormers.  There are some differences though; the heavy modification and repairs done to it make proper identification difficult if not impossible.”

“So it's some patchwork piece of shit?”

“On the contrary it is a remarkable specimen.   The repairs are quite well done with the materials found in the Cannibal sector.  Truly the shoulder pauldron is the crudest job with additional plating bolted on.  The others are much more intricate.  I mean, the basic ballistic robe that covered the armor was designed to snap into specific hardpoints on the suit.  This would allow it to cover and camouflage without hampering movement.”

“So it had a coat.  Not impressed egghead.”

“That's just barely scratching the surface.  For example you see the odd interlocking plating of this arm and how it doesn't match the other?”

“Yeah, doesn't look right unless the guy had a tentacle for an arm.”

“Exactly.  It's actually salvaged from the tail section of Shaktar armor.  It's been cut off and fitted to the main armor as a complete replacement.”

“Wouldn't that work like crap, seeing how an arm doesn't move like a tail?”

“Normally it would, and it led me to looking more deeply into the guts of the suit and I have to say I was astonished by my find.  It was a cannibalized computer system from a MAL Modular armor.  When I saw that, I began finding other pieces from the system distributed throughout.  Still, the vast majority of it remained from what I assume is original manufacture.  This armor reads like a road map of past victories.  For example the micro-engines of the joints.  I'm fairly certain they're from a manchine.”

“So this guy took out a manchine and then kitbashed in some of its microjeans into its rusty can.”

Dawnfern sighed, realizing there was no winning over the Ebb-user.  The Ebb races used Science Friction technology, which was far removed from the fascinating design put together in this armor.

“So any chance that a Carrien could make this?”

“A Carrien?  Well most obviously lack the mental faculties, then there's the lack of proper facilities to refurbish the parts.  It seems highly unlikely.  A Scav has a better chance of making something like this.”

“The Carrien where the suit came from says he's the one that did the repairs.”

“Interesting...wait, you have the Carrien as well?!”

“Indeed.  Damn thing surrendered.”

*+*

The room was sterile with humming bars of light that stung the eyes, their faint flickering hitting upon a subconscious level that lead to agitation and an unwell feeling.  The sharp tang of cleaning chemicals used to scrub down the room hung sharply in the air, and yet there were always those faint stains that remained.

Victoria looked at the report and then at the prisoner.  The Carrien couldn't be called typical of his breed.  For one, he was here.  He appeared better off than most, not quite emaciated and skeletal, which suggested a decent diet.  The station had hosed him down to get rid of any nasty pathogens from beyond the wall, though like the room, the Carrien could not be scoured free of filth.  The rotting stench of the Cannibal Sector still clung to him even as he squatted there in chains, but it was more than that.  A miasma seemed to coil around him, the horrors of his homeland girding his form in a repugnant aura.

She tucked back an errant lock of auburn hair as she stepped closer to the single chair facing the Carrien. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she moved into that aura, her subconscious screaming to get away.  Victoria took a seat and continued pretending to scan the file, though she'd already read it quite thoroughly.  The Carrien continued to sit there in silence, staring and grinning.  Even though the bony dermal plating of his species meant the only expression they had was a rictus grin, Victoria just had the impression that he really was grinning.

This was probably what was unnerving her about the situation.  Despite how he was chained and how vulnerable he was, the Carrien was calm and confident.  He wasn't jittery or twitchy; he was motionless save for those eyes.  They were watching her every movement, judging and measuring the distance.  She decided to begin the interview/interrogation, since leaving him in silence wasn't doing a thing to set him on edge.  It was, however, starting to unnerve her.

“Name?”

“Witchmaw,” the Carrien rumbled from deep back in his throat.

Victoria didn't know what to make of the name.  Carrien culture was so primitive that most of them didn't have names.  Those that did tended to pick ones that invoked fear and power, like Holocaust, Bloodhorn, or Gorne.  Combining witch and maw... that was just kind of odd.

“Age?”

“I don't know. Time is measured in the breaths you draw in the Cannibal sector. So I've lost count.”

Okay that was poetic.

“Sex?”

“Check a third box if you have one.”

Victoria blanched that it indicated a lack of gender or perhaps inferred it had a dual gender...  She brushed that disturbing thought aside and moved onto the next question. Though the Carrien had been completely stripped, she wasn't familiar enough in the species’ anatomy to make a diagnosis for herself, nor did she want to.

“Location of birth?”

“Cannibal Sector One.  Could show on map maybe.”

"Can you count?" Victoria asked as she held up two fingers on one hand and one on the other.

“Three.  Two on your left and one on your right.”

"Then how many in your pack?"

“One.  I don't run with a pack.”

Victoria raised a brow at that.  Carrien studies showed they were heavily pack-oriented.  Then again, most Advanced Carriens tended to get killed by their 'Greater' kin, or found the base behavior of their 'Lesser' kin not to their taste.

"How do you live?"

“I scavenge and I kill.”  A curt and succinct response.

"How did you come by the equipment in which you were taken into custody?"

“Here and there.  Scavenge mostly, repaired and hammered out when I could find the parts.”

“Are you claiming to have done the repairs and modifications?”

“That would be correct.”

Victoria did her best to keep her brow from creasing. The idea that this Carrien had such capabilities was horrifying, especially if it might indicate a trend in Carrien evolution as whole.  The so-called 'Advanced' Carriens weren't a new development, but none to her knowledge showed this level of higher thinking and learning.

“Where did you come by this knowledge?”

“I simply understand such things.  Wires, mechanics, they make sense to me. ”

*+*

“So what else you got for me, Specs?”

Dr. Dawnfern sighed.  The Waster seemed to enjoy finding new names to call him.  That, and his need to break down his analysis into the most illogical and simplistic terms had defined the last hour of his life.  Now that they were moving on to the other weaponry, he wondered if the violent undertones of the tech would change the ‘Waster's attitude?   He highly doubted it as he motioned to the first table with its gun and stacks of ammunition.

“The first item seems to be built out of various pieces of a FEN Power Reaper, likely stolen or scavenged, as well as pieces of unknown manufacture.  It uses 200-round, scratch-built drum magazines and fires a variety of 10mm ammunition.  It features a gas-powered, under-slung bolt thrower, presumably salvaged from a GAG60 Driller machinegun.  Funny how the original test model of the Driller was built to use 10mm rounds as they were the most common and plentiful type found in the Cannibal Sector.”

“Huh, interesting.  The Driller discarded the 10mm to get something with a li’l more punch and stop giving enemies more ammo they could use.”

Dawnfern flinched in surprise at the ‘Waster's actual insight into the weapon design as he moved on to the next table.

“Er.. yes.  Next we have a pair of blades.  One is obviously a DN-B Carthage short sword.  The other is a blade salvaged from a manchine.  You can see the rather crude wrappings of the hilt built on the joint and the wiring leading to the improvised battery.”

“That actually work?”

“Indeed it outlasts the operative window of the Carthage, we've estimated, by about 3000 hours.  Mind you, the inferior materials used in the connections to the power source doesn't eliminate potential failure, rendering its powered state inoperable.”

 “Well, I'll be.  Next time I see a manchine, I'll have to take one and use it to slice my bread,” Spear snickering like the bullies of Dawnfern's youth.

The man cleared his throat.  “Now, the next weapon is a compressed, gas-powered grenade launcher with a variety of munitions, some of which were identified using the footage gathered from Operatives' cameras.  The first is some sort of solvent bomb.  The lab is still analyzing the mixture, but best estimates its likely 'black water' gather from the 'River'.  It eats through ceramics and armor weaves so I don't need to tell you what it does to flesh.  These others match more common varieties of grenades, save with improvised impact fuse detonators.”

“Damn.  Could have one hell of mess with all those. “

“Quite.  The next table contains the other equipment he was carrying.”

“Sorry, doc, but just to make sure…this guy still had plenty of ammo left, right?”

“Yes.  From what you've told me, by my current estimates he had sufficient munitions to have completely obliterate the squad.  Likely twice over.”

*+*

“What were you doing in the area?”  It was a standard question for which Victoria anticipated a gruff response of 'scavenging'.

“I was following the squad,” was the response.  Yet another odd turn.

“Why were you following the squad?”

“They were heading into an ambush.”

“You knew about the attack?”

“Yes.”

Victoria couldn't help but feel she was missing something. It annoyed her more than it should have.

“So you were following the squad into an ambush? Why?”

There was that uncanny feeling it was grinning again, that smug sense that it was playing with her. “Yes. They'd be dead otherwise.”

Victoria growled, rubbing the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“Alright, why did you surrender?”

“To survive.”

“Don't give me that,” she snapped. “You had armor and enough weaponry to take out both the Operatives and the Scavs. You followed them, pulled their asses out of a fire, and then just gave it all up so you could be disarmed and caged.  All in order to survive?!”

“I wish to join Slayer's pack.  I could not simply walk into your territory.  I do not see another way save to prove myself and then be allowed to be taken in.”

“Why do you want to join Slayer? You seem to be strong and smart enough to lead your own pack out there.”

“True, but my brother would slaughter my pack and either kill or break me, should I lead one.”

“Brother... who the hell is your brother?”

“Prophet.”

*+*

“The rest of the equipment is pretty standard for survival in the Cannibal sector if you're smart,” the doctor motioned over the table of supplies.

After the various weaponry of ingenuity, these rather mundane devices were a bit of a letdown.  Spear felt his attention wandering as he wondered how much more fun he'd be having if he were interrogating the Carrien with Vic.

“Yeah, yeah, egghead. So that it?”

“Well, no, there was an oddity that's more in your kind's realm of expertise,” the researcher motioned to a small ceramic black box set apart from everything.  “It was originally bolted to the chest piece of the armor.  Hermetically sealed and actually booby trapped.  We had a devil of a time opening it without damaging the contents.”

Spear perked up immediately; he could feel it now, the flow of the Ebb shifting around the box.  The singular content was a book, well preserved for who knows how long.  The Waster reached in and picked it up without hesitation.  His Deathsuit was tingling and coming more alive as he held it in his hand.  The pages revealed a maddening scrawl of barely comprehensible words, but the drawings were what drew his attention.  The strange symbols so familiar, but just not right.  Glyphs... they weren't Glyphs, but that was certainly the intent behind them.  The writer seemed to have some strange insight to Formula and the Ebb.

Spear stared at the words trying to follow the strange rant that littered the book.  He could taste the writer, the pages inked with his soul.  The book tasted of toxins and death.  Misery and hate dripping on each page.  Bitter ashes in his mouth and the Waster couldn't stop himself from reading.

Vaguely he was aware the doctor was saying something, but it didn't matter.  The words and symbols called to him, each page offering some strange new glimpse of power and darkness.  The writer referred to itself only as the Prophet.

*+*

Victoria stared at that smiling face.  “Who is this Prophet?”

“A Carrien that speaks the Words and knows the Dream.”

The sense of something being decidedly wrong was just growing and she felt her stomach lurch and cramp up from anxiety.

“The Words?” Victoria asked, confused by the almost reverent tone of the Carrien.

“Yes.  Few of us exist that can speak them.  It is why Prophet will not stand me to live.  He fears that I will seek to become Leader.”

“Of his pack?”

“Of all packs.  He is Prophet he will take no less than all.”

The idea of an alpha Carrien getting that idea was certainly the stuff of nightmares here on the Wall.

“So what are these words? Like a religion?”  The idea of a bunch of church-going Carriens was both disturbing and humorous... clustered in the pews and reading books, putting scraps of refuse in the donation platter.

“Do the Skinned Ones call it that?”

Victoria really didn't like where this was going...

*+*

Spear had lost himself in the pages of the book, the world folding away as his mind soared from the possibility of the words.  He was getting close.  Suddenly he was walking through the cruelest of nightmares.  The sick visions danced around him, sent shards of fear into his core, shattering him into fragments of terror and pain.  Some of them weren't even some deranged contrivance; somehow they felt like memories he'd hidden deep away.  Then again some of them were memories, twisted and wrenched to the side, a view on the events colored by the most hateful and jaded of personas.  The universe hated and rejected him.  It was not content for him to just die.  It wanted him to suffer.

Spear came to on his knees and bent forward.  His guts knotted and burning as he retched.  It wasn't just his breakfast painting the floor but a thick black tar.  Spear shakily crawled back from the mess, fearful to the core of further contact.

“Operative Spear!  Are you alright?!”

Dimly Spear realized the egghead had been asking that since his little journey with the book... the book!  The ‘Waster looked at his shaking hands and found them empty.  His eyes were drawn back to the steamy pile he'd left.  The tar was slowly drawing itself into the book.  Without pause his hand snapped out his flintlock.  The scientist gave a cry and threw himself to the nearest cover as Spear marshaled as much Flux as he could and blasted the Book from existence.  His hastily formulated Blast created a shockwave of pressure that knocked him back against the wall.  The lights had shattered and in the darkness he heard sobbing.  Spear wasn't certain it was him.  The presence of the Book at least had vanished.

*+*

“Are you talking about Ebb...”

Her question cut short as the outpost trembled as though a bomb had just gone off.  It was too sudden and gone to be one of the earthquakes that happened on occasion.

Witchmaw was gazing in the direction from where it had come. “It seems the seals were not enough to keep some from looking.”

Victoria felt anger rise, focused on the captive.  “What the hell do you mean? The techs had already scanned your gear and removed anything dangerous so what the hell was that?”

Witchmaw looked at her.  “The Words of Prophet are a danger to any.  They are a cancer and corruption.  Still I knew that my story alone may not be trusted so I stole his book.  I sealed it so that it would not be destroyed until I could give warning.  I miscalculated.  Your Skinned Men, the speakers of the Words.  One of them must have read it not realizing the danger.”

“Wait, you're saying the words involves Ebb use? That's...” Victoria stopped herself.  Impossibilities didn't mean shit in the Carrion Sector.  There were plenty of horror stories that only proved every time someone thought they understood some part of the Sectors that there was something new crawling out to eat you.

There was also the standing bounty put out by Dark Lament.

“Do you happen to have any strange markings?”

“The Words have marked me.  Part the reason for my name.”

“Where?”

The Carrien opened its mouth, which wasn't the most pleasant sight or smell.  It also brought to the forefront of her mind that she was sitting across something that probably had eaten people.  Still she could see it, those strange symbols that Ebb-users learned from.  The strange, almost glowing markings lining the inside of his maw were Glyphs.  She was staring a thousand credits literally in the mouth and a metric ton of trouble looming somewhere in the CS.

*+*

Victoria leaned back sighing as she tossed aside the stack of reports.  She cast a glance over at Spear.  He'd changed since that day.  He'd always been an asshole, hell, most ‘Wasters were.  Still, despite his violent exterior, Victoria had seen a change since that incident.  He still hadn't confided in her what happened.  Whatever Witchmaw had brought in sealed had done a number on him.  She could see something in his eyes now she'd never noticed before.

Fear.  Spear now was haunted by what he'd experienced, making him a frightened neurotic.  He'd also started taking drugs, or at least he was more obvious about it now.  He said he needed it now to keep the 'dream demons' away.  Some Dark Lament product 'White Noise' helped him out.

Her thoughts drew back to Witchmaw; he was a puzzle and where he was, only Slayer knew.  Someone upstairs had pulled strings.  She still wasn't sure where that APC taken him, but she hadn't gotten the bounty from Dark Lament and there was a big hush order on the entire case.  Everything was gone, the damage in the one exam room the only physical evidence that something had happened at all.  Victoria shook her head.  Thinking about this only brought up the same old questions and she was no closer to getting the answers.

*+*

Prophet raised his clawed hand as black slime slowly formed solid lines in his palm, his book slowly appearing with a crackle and snap of air.  To think his disciple had thought to steal it and then destroy it, such a foolish and rebellious gesture.  Witchmaw was beyond his reach for now, but the loss of such a prime breeder and disciple was of no matter.

Prophet chuckled as he walked through the nest, his tangled mass of twisting horns scrapping against the ceiling as the pack began to rise and follow him.  They knew him to be a god-made-flesh amongst them, for he spoke the Words and had entered and returned transformed from the Dream to lead and conquer.  The dark stars that burned in place of his eyes gazed across the blasted waste of his domain.  The wind picked up, snatching at the edges of his tattered robes and offering but the barest glimpse of his scarred hide.  The thick whorls and lines of the Words covering him were punctuated by throbbing black cysts that rippled with untapped power.

It was time to further his plans.

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