Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

The resemblance wasn't approximate—it was exact. Valyra's voice answered, calm and dismissive. "Why do you look so shocked? It's not me—not exactly. She's a clone grown from my genetic material. Flesh without a soul." She waved a hand toward the servitor. "This is the Valyra Type-74. Grown from my DNA, equipped with an artificial neural cortex, and capable of tasks far beyond standard servitors. Repairs, maintenance… you name it. As long as I'm within the Reach system, I can directly interface with her through optic-network relays."

The immense mechanical construct behind her gave a final shudder, its lifeless eyes dimming with a heavy groan. As the machine powered down, the figure in front of Kayvaan stirred. A lock of her hair moved as if caught by a nonexistent breeze. Her eyes snapped open, glowing with unnatural red light. The doll-like stillness vanished as her face shifted—suddenly animated, alive. "Brother!" she called out, her voice light and unnervingly cheerful as she trotted toward him. "Isn't this body something special?"

Kayvaan froze, unease creeping through him. He glanced between the now-dormant construct and the lively figure approaching him. "You… moved from that thing into this body?" His hand instinctively shifted toward his weapon. "What are you doing, Valyra? What is this?"

Valyra—now fully inhabiting the servitor—laughed, waving dismissively. "Oh, don't look so horrified. It's not heretical possession, I promise. It's still me—your brilliant, charming sister!"

Kayvaan's scowl deepened. "Charming, you say? You're a nine-thousand-year-old abomination. Who exactly do you think you're fooling?"

Valyra's playful expression soured, replaced by a chilling calm. "And what about you, brother? Is the Astartes still human? Do they count as men? You feel no desire for women. You fear nothing—not death, not pain. Two hearts beat in your chest. Three lungs feed your body. Your very form relies on constant bio-chemical balance just to function. You're a weapon, Kayvaan, not a man. So tell me—are you still human?"

Kayvaan's jaw tightened. "Watch your words, Valyra. The Astartes are humanity's protectors—the pride of the Emperor Himself. We gave everything to defend mankind."

"And how am I any different?" Valyra countered sharply. "I altered my body, yes, but why? To protect our family. To uncover knowledge. To safeguard secrets that would have destroyed lesser minds. And I regret none of it." Her eyes burned as she continued. "This body is mine. My flesh. My DNA. The artificial cortex is nothing more than a tool. When I log out, it's just a servitor. When I'm here, it's me—fully and completely."

She stepped closer, her gaze unyielding. "So tell me, brother—do you want me to regret it? Do you want me to abandon my progress just to fit into your narrow ideals of humanity?"

Kayvaan stood speechless. Valyra believed she was doing the right thing, and in her view, no one was being harmed—not even herself. Yet to Kayvaan, her actions were undeniably destructive. She used her own genetic material as an experimental canvas, sculpting her humanity into something alien. This wasn't the servitor augmetics the Mechanicus preached as a necessary cost—it was a deliberate rejection of her very nature. Could anyone really reduce themselves to such a state? This wasn't a cogitator, where you simply logged in and out. It was a living vessel, corrupted by purpose. Valyra didn't see it that way, and Kayvaan found himself at a loss for words.

"I don't even know what to say," Kayvaan muttered, rubbing his temples. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Valyra. I just feel like you don't value yourself enough. You don't need to treat your own body like… like—"

"Don't," she snapped, her voice sharp as iron. "Brother, you pity me. You look at me and see something alien. 'Why does she look like this? Can she still feel anything in that steel form? Is she even human?' That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Such a shallow reaction."

"But you said you were tired," Kayvaan pressed, his tone softer this time.

Valyra blinked, realization flashing across her features. "Ah, so that's what this is about. Brother, you've misunderstood. I'm not tired of living. Long life is no burden to me. Every moment I exist is a chance to pursue the truth, to uncover the unknown. What tires me is meaningless repetition. I live for discovery, not secrecy. The thrill of the unknown fuels me. Burying those discoveries? Now that is boring."

She offered a faint smile, cold and distant. "But now that you're back, everything is perfect. I can focus on what I enjoy—exploration. And you, brother, can take care of the rest. The dull tasks. The politics. Act like the lord you were made to be."

Kayvaan hesitated, struggling to find the words. "You shouldn't have to live like this. I want you to be happy. I want you to have a normal life. Wear fine robes, find a partner, maybe—"

Valyra cut him off with a bitter laugh. "And then what? Die like everyone else, leaving a handful of broken hearts behind? Live a life so small, so fleeting it means nothing? That's what you'd wish for me?" Her voice dripped with disgust. "I haven't felt this level of revulsion in a thousand years, Kayvaan. Don't waste time pushing your ideals on me. Nine thousand years ago, we stopped being 'normal.' I chose my path. I earned my happiness. You don't get to dictate it."

Kayvaan sighed, his shoulders sagging. "You're right. I can't."

"Good." Valyra's expression softened, though the warmth never reached her voice. She turned brisk again. "An Inquisitor has entered the system and sent a briefing. Something's happened. Go do what you need to. When you return, I'll have new wargear ready. You'll like it."

Kayvaan nodded. "Alright. I'm leaving. Don't overextend yourself."

Valyra pointed to her servitor shell. "Take No. 74." She closed her eyes, the tuft of hair on her forehead drooping lifelessly as if all power had drained from it. When the servitor's eyes reopened, the red light within them was dim, vacant. Valyra was gone. The construct behind her groaned back to life, a mechanical echo filling the chamber. "Goodbye, brother," came its lifeless, synthesized voice.

The transit ride back was silent and uneventful—except for the figure seated opposite him. Kayvaan couldn't help but glance at the woman. Her robe was familiar, yet something about her unsettled him. "Your name is No. 74?" he finally asked.

"Yes," she replied without inflection.

"Why No. 74? Why not No. 1 or No. 2?"

"Genetic cloning is imperfect," she explained flatly. "Even the Mechanicus fails to produce reliable results on the first attempt. I am the seventy-fourth."

Kayvaan's brow furrowed. "And the others? Your predecessors?"

"They were failures," she answered without pause. "They were purged."

His expression darkened. "Purged? You mean… they were destroyed?"

"No," she clarified, her voice void of any feeling. "Only humans can die. I am not human."

Her words struck like a blow. A tool, discarded when deemed insufficient. What had Valyra done? What had she become? "I'm sorry," Kayvaan murmured.

"There is no need," No. 74 replied dispassionately. "I do not feel sadness."

Kayvaan studied her empty crimson eyes—voids that stared through him without meaning or warmth. "Then what do you feel? Joy? Fear? Guilt? Love?"