THEMYSCIRA
The sun hung high, flooding the island with a brilliance that set the waters aglow. By a quiet lake, far from the Amazonian kingdom, Atrius sat alone.
This armor—cruder than the panoply of the Custodes—demanded constant care. Unlike the Emperor's gift, this one had to be removed, cleaned, and maintained. A week had passed since his departure, and in that time, he had circled the island thrice to ensure no Amazon tracked him.
Now, cleansed of filth, he sat by the pond, his reflection broken in the rippling waters. The thought of leaving Themyscira haunted him more often with each passing day. Yet the continents beyond held teeming multitudes of mortals—more than here. For their sake, it was better he remain hidden, in seclusion.
His thoughts shifted toward the place where the daemon had manifested, that strange reality where the immaterium had bled through. Time and again he had tried to breach it, to enter, but something resisted him each attempt. He could feel it—an unseen barrier denying his will. Still, he was not troubled. Nothing resisted him forever.
If any soul knew the truth of his nature, beyond the Emperor and Malcador, it was Atrius himself. Adaptation. Mimicry. The rest was a blur, stripped from him. These two remained, defining him, setting him apart from all Custodians. The more he practiced a thing, the more swiftly he mastered it. This was no mere genius, nor the keen deduction of a powerful mind—too mystic, too unnatural.
It made him a survivor. In battle, it gave him endless possibilities. Yet it also birthed his greatest fear: mutation. The Emperor abhorred mutants, for most were twisted mockeries of humanity. This was why Atrius was kept apart, isolated from the wider Imperium. Prolonged exposure to strange environments threatened him; his body might adapt too readily, take on alien traits.
His armor had been crafted for such dangers, designed to shield him. But it only delayed the inevitable.
Mimicry itself was another riddle. It was no mere body-morphing—he loathed becoming something other than himself. Perfection was his nature, a truth he refused to tarnish. He could not easily change his mass, nor fully assume the forms of others. What made it dreadful was its deeper reach: it did not stop at flesh. It took on essence. The strengths of human, xenos, even daemon—skills, reflexes, instincts—he could mirror them all. Slowly, yes, but inevitably.
This power came at a cost. Memories had to be purged. In the Imperium, at appointed times, he had been brought before the Golden Throne. In the Emperor's presence, all was made clean. His memories were stripped away—not out of paranoia, but necessity. To forget was to be severed. To remember a daemon's gift was to remain connected to its dark master.
This ritual had repeated countless times, more than the wars he remembered.
Now, stranded, he knew he must attempt entry into the immaterium. Perhaps it was the only path back to the Imperium. At least he was fortunate to be among humans; here, mutation's risk was minimal, restrained to what was within human bounds.
The lake lay calm before him. Then it rippled—unnaturally wide, too broad for fish.
Atrius rose, armorless, his steps heavy upon the earth.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He reached the bank, bent low, and peered deep into the water. His gaze pierced the gloom of its depths, peeling away shadows with sight honed beyond mortal ken. But nothing stirred.
"What… you… looking… at?"
The voice startled him—not in sound, but in its strangeness. It was thick with the local tongue, yet broken, strained, as though forced through unfamiliar lips.
He turned sharply.
A woman sat upon a rock at the water's edge.
Atrius frowned. It was eerie—how she sat there without him sensing her approach. His ever-vigilant psychic field had felt nothing. Not a whisper of presence. That alone put him on edge.
She was young. Black hair clung wet to her shoulders, droplets running down pale skin. Beautiful—perhaps more so than the Amazons he had left behind. Yet beauty meant nothing to him. His caution held.
"Who are you?" His deep voice rolled across the lake, making the waters shiver with faint ripples.
The woman did not answer. She lay back upon the rock, naked, her hair covering her breasts. She gazed at him with quiet curiosity, but no hostility.
Atrius studied her, patience taut,
then turned away.
He walked back toward the trees, where his armor lay in perfect order, piece by piece. Kneeling, he began to don it. The presence of a woman here meant the Amazons wandered too near. He could not remain.
The woman shifted, resting lazily in the sunlight, but her eyes followed him.
"You… leave?"
Her words were halting, broken.
"Yes," Atrius replied, fastening a clasp upon his breastplate.
Click. Click. Joints aligned, seals locked.
Thrush.
Something fell softly onto the sand.
He turned.
The woman had collapsed onto the ground, crawling toward him through the dirt.
His brow furrowed. "What are you doing?"
She clawed forward, dragging herself, her face set with strange determination.
"Come with you… food."
Atrius stared, blank. Emotionless, but faintly confused. "Why are you not walking?" he asked, tone patient.
She paused, tilting her head in confusion, then continued her crawl.
Is she impaired? Atrius wondered.
Thud. Thud. His armored feet carried him forward. Unable to watch her struggle further, he bent and lifted her in one great hand.
She hissed, thrashing in his grip, her beauty twisting into sudden defiance.
Atrius ignored her. Carrying her beneath the shade of the trees, he set her down gently. Reaching upward, he plucked a low branch heavy with ripe fruit. He placed it before her without ceremony.
Her eyes lit up. With childlike eagerness, she seized the fruit and devoured it, juice spilling across her lips. To her, it was a banquet.
Atrius regarded her silently, though a glimmer of pity stirred deep within his crimson eyes.
Savages… he thought grimly. Even here, they abandon their broken.
But before the thought could settle, the air shifted.
A sound—melodic, hauntingly beautiful—spilled from the woman's lips.
Her song poured like honey into the world. The sun seemed brighter, the breeze gentler, the trees more vivid. Every color sharpened, every scent deepened. The world itself bent toward her voice.
Atrius froze.
The giant stood motionless, stunned, his eyes glazing as the melody wrapped around his soul.