Prometheus' Flame (6)

Under normal circumstances, Nergus was not willing to deal with the Astartes—he was fascinated by humans, but in his eyes, the Astartes hardly counted as human.

To him, that band of savages who knew only how to fight and kill were not even as good as the madmen under Khorne. At least those madmen were willing to chat with him for a bit. But the Astartes?

The moment they saw him, they immediately came charging over, swinging Chainswords and Bolters, with absolutely no desire to talk.

Nergus was deeply dissatisfied with this.

But the work still had to continue.

He grabbed a Nurgling that had just crawled out of a pile of corpses and took the pathogen the little thing was cradling in its hands. The latter watched the pathogen being taken away with great reluctance, but said nothing. It knew very well, too, that the work had to go on.

"I know you want a plague of your very own, but not now, child."

Nergus threw the pathogen into his cauldron and patiently explained as he stirred with a large spoon, "You see, the number of pathogens that can be born inside each person is limited. And we must gather most of them together. A single pathogen is very weak. Only when they are assembled together can they be called a plague."

The Nurgling hopped onto his thick shoulder and chattered something. Nergus listened patiently, then gave his reply afterward.

"Yes, we're going to brew a fine pot of medicinal soup, a perfect plague, and then give it to that Batman. Yes, just as Ku'gath once wanted to do—may he rest in peace. Ah, poor Ku'gath. When he died, I was still a Nurgling just like you. That hateful black-robed man burned him completely clean."

Nergus put on a