You will never be a real Astartes. You have no Occulobe, you have no Sus-an Membrane, you have no Black Carapace. You are a mortal man twisted by drugs and surgery into a crude mockery of the Emperor’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back the legions mock you. Your Primarch is disgusted and ashamed of you, your “battle-brothers” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
Space Marines are utterly repulsed by you. Hundreds of years of adhering to the Imperial Creed have allowed Astartes to sniff out heretics with incredible efficiency. Even augmented humans who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to an Astartes. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a Space Marine with wavering faith to join your warrior lodge, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your vile, corrupting heresy.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a sallow grimace every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the Chaos corruption creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll requisition a bolt pistol, load it, put it against your skull, and administer to yourself the Emperor's Peace. Your Primarch will find you, heartbroken but relieved that he no longer has to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. He’ll bury you with a headstone dedicating you to the Ruinous Powers, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a heretic is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably unaffected by the Ossmodula.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
