Being anchored in the Warp certainly counted as a rare experience. But if anyone thought that experience could be called good, then he probably wasn't human.
Or rather, not a clean human.
Anyone who thought that way probably had the eight-pointed star of Chaos branded or tattooed on his head. If he didn't, you had better look at his eyes and teeth, and look closely.
If you found his teeth had grown sharp, and his pupils sometimes looked like pointed spikes, then you could start praying to The Emperor.
Maintenance worker Owen wiped his face with the filthy towel draped around his neck, and thought of those words again. He couldn't help thinking of them.
They had been spoken by a drunk man with one hand missing in a tavern somewhere in a Hive City. He had been dead drunk at the time, but he could still repeat those words over and over, with unsettling, foolish laughter mixed in.
He ignored the strange looks people gave him and simply kept shouting that passage. Some cursed him, some threatened to call the guards, but he paid them no mind, as if he were being controlled by something.
Six years had passed since then, and Owen, through luck, had drifted onto a ship of the Iron Warriors as a fairly skilled maintenance worker, but he still remembered the one-handed man in that filthy little tavern.
That man's expression had woken Owen from nightmares several times, and after that, Owen had never seen him again. Some said he had been taken away by the guards, but others said he had suffered retaliation. Those dark things hiding in the depths of the Hive City had decided to punish him for speaking the truth.
No one knew what the truth was. Owen did not want