A part of Tymors mind knew that he dreamed. Or was suffering from dehydration and heat stroke. At this point it didn't really matter. Images flickered past his minds eye in a confused jumble.<br/><br/><em>Dark streets in a dark world, his earliest memories of Nostromo. Legion training. Pain. Hardship. Torment. Fear. Always fear. Learning of it. Embracing it. Mastering it. Honing it. His Fathers words, on the nature of fear. How to cultivate it. Breed it. Turn it loose on the prey.<br/><br/>Solomon. The fear in the air as the walls froze. The main door locks already destroyed. Fear. Cold. Dark.<br/><br/>His first kill. A greenskin. Unworthy. Too stupid to know fear. <br/><br/>Red Jack. Blood. Dark. Pain. Fear. Death. Screaming.<br/><br/>His first real kill. A non compliant world. His claw set behind enemy lines. Ambushing patrols. Supply convoys. Taking the night, making it theirs. Cries in the night. Panic. Tracer fire. One by one, guns falling silent.  Last screams. Always one left, to tell the tale, to breed the fear.<br/><br/>Harakk. Fool. Weak. Traitor to our Fathers way. <br/><br/>World after world taught fear. Fear given wings, sent ahead of them. Worlds that yielded for fear they would be next.<br/><br/>You should have killed me when you had the chance.</em>