When the creature first came to me it was a pitiful wretch, dragged into my workshop-shrine and cast sprawling upon the stone floor. It had come to my attention in reports of an unsanctioned technomat and least-heretek operating in the underhive, and I had ordered it brought before me. It was as one fallen into mind-rust or struck with palsy; it huddled deep in filthy red robes, stinking of sump-oil and bio-waste; a tatterdemalion of scraps and rags and crude augmetics that squealed and chattered with every tic and twitch. Its vox-unit hissed and crackled as it spoke, its tone plaintive and abject for all that the words were jumbled and meaningless. I almost pitied it. Almost.
Those garments were the first layer to be peeled away to reveal the sins beneath. How curious, I thought, that it should understand the nearness of its unmaking there in my laboratorium. How like a man, that it begged for mercy even as I went to work upon it. How close to human, that it should plead with me to halt in my examination, a convulsive torrent of gutter-Gothic and degraded binary between shrieks of apparent agony; desperate, mangled exhortations that only firmed my resolve to see its miserable existence ended. The nearness of its mimickry made it only more unsettling, more repulsive.
It is a travesty, a vile mockery of the blessed human form. To pose as an initiate of the Mechanicum, to perform the holy rites of a Tech-Priest without proper sanction, that is transgression enough to see the perpetrator rendered down into servitor components. But for this creature, this thing, to pose as a man, as a being possessed of volition, autonomous thought, a soul? It is perversion, abomination, and the arch-heretic Ryne will be brought to account for the horrors he has spawned.