"The phase crystals have been calibrated!
Hit them hard!
None of the Prism Cannons are allowed to stop!
Do not let a single Cyclonic Torpedo break through the air-defense fire net and reach the ground!
If anyone lets even one through, I swear they'll be sent to the Haemonculi!"
As the "trueborn" Dark Eldar officer roared, every operator in the anti-aircraft battery sharpened their focus to the utmost.
Even in Commorragh, the dark city, the Haemonculi were synonymous with terror and cruelty.
Falling into their hands was worse than suicide. At least death would spare one the torment of being tortured until one wished for death.
This was not an exaggeration, but the most fitting description possible.
Not a single Haemonculus could be called mentally sound. Their minds and behavior had become utterly twisted and diseased through endless study and experimentation.
Compared to them, even the oil-slickers of the Adeptus Mechanicus, with their "wetware" and "servitors," seemed sunny, cheerful, and full of humanitarian concern for their subordinates.
At the very least, during bodily modification, they administered anesthetics or directly severed the central nervous system to spare the subject unnecessary pain and suffering.
The Haemonculi, however, delighted in the process of torment.
The more their victims wailed in agony, the greater their excitement, pleasure, and even intense ecstasy. Deep down, they firmly believed they were creating some form of more elegant, more exquisite art.
And with their formidable technology, the Haemonculi could torment not only the body, but also the soul.
Of course, those who chose suicide were certainly not Dark Eldar, but other alien creatures hired or enslaved by them.
After all, those beings lacked the soul-protection techniques of the Craftworld Eldar and Exodites, and no god sheltered them. Every moment, Slaanesh was draining their souls.
If they truly died,