Really felt the need to write something new, here it is. This will be a fairly long one, with probably 3-5 entries. It deals with the themes of Revenge, the nature of loyalty and the nature of betrayal. As secondary themes/challenges i have also tried to get across the idea of a space marine being more a weapon than a man and have zero dialogue.
I havent quite finished the first entry but will be done so soon, just wanted to get some interest first. The unusual headings are inspired by (rip-offed from
)the movie 'Kill List'. Comments and Criticism (constructive or otherwise) are warmly welcomed but taking the time to read it is more than enough.
This story is pretty grim and desolate and don't expect a happy or even satisfying ending. My writing style is also pretty unusual
Loner (Battle Brother Solitary)
A tiny fracture was the first give away; were a microscope to be brought to bear it would clarify it's arcing journey down the icy grieve. Time to wake up.
The sun was rising. Long shadows cast by it's first sliver were the last refuge for the night's frost. Sharp crystals beading into rounded dew. The forms that stalked outside barely registered the event, there were no sunrises over their home, the ice ran off their backs with no ceremony, no acknowledgement.
This first light sliced through a shuttered window, into deep, dark, glass sockets, into the eyes beneath. His eyelids felt heat, showing a backlit, fractal red to his waking vision. Open now, they showed him the dusty grey room, a derelict space in a city of them, his home for the night and 15,000 since. With the crunch of uprooted frost he balled an armoured hand into a fist, opening it to reveal a crenellated haft of ice. He cast it away with a sigh, recalling his combat blade, snapped and sunk into one of their skulls. Floorboards groaned as he arose, their desiccated lengths feeling every pound of his 700, an effort his bones shared. It wouldn't be long before it started again.
Armoured edges dug into the furrows they called home, re-opening hibernation bed sores. He removed his helmet and brought it's eyes under his own. It was an impassive stylised death's head, it's respirator leering through long teeth. Although menacing it was still all imperial function.
A cocktail of Hormones flooded his system, a heady mix supplied by his amended adrenal glands; swollen pumping bulbs seething in a mass of re-organised and re-purposed viscera. The sudden surge through his tissues caused him to cramp. As soon as the ache had registered it left, his body too efficient, his metabolism too merciless to let it linger. The routine continued as a sour-bitter taste filled his mouth, the betchers
de-clogging. He ejected it through his teeth, better to clear the last ancient paint on his gorget. The lumpen mass he spat sizzled angrily in a dusty grave. Within, It brought back memories of the immaterial sizzling some of his opponents dissolved into, a shimmering technicolor broil.
What paint remained on his power armour was dull and chalky, coarse with an untold myriad of scratches. It's colour remained, a regal blue, an emaciated pride flickered as he recalled its parade ground gloss. It spluttered and sagged into nothing, like an air bladder riddled with holes, sinking into the white noise. They had worn the same, the good it did them.
He moved towards his threadbare arsenal, with a well worn efficiency he unwrapped them, his weapons of war. The bolter had remained defiantly his, oiled and brushed it still looked the same as it did hanging from the Thunderhawk racking. Godwyn pattern, heavy and reliable, it was a shame to fill its godly breach with the scavenged ammunition. He cocked the weapon, it slid with a precise action, ejecting one of the wretched shells. They would never purge the unclean but they were certainly capable of murder. His pistol was still on his person, the holster was caked with ice, the clasp was reticent with cold but it soon gave up it's cargo. Holding both weapons akimbo he glanced down the sightings, straight as a shot, ready to deliver death. Helmet now refitted he was every bit their worthy extension.
With the bolter mag-locked he brought his attention to the combat harness, he acknowledged it with a slow blink and a sigh of derision; so undignified, so human. However, the 300 rounds sequestered in its webbing argued the clumsy harness's point well. They would know he had awoken by now.
THE TWINS
A low pitch drone was the first give-away, out on the derelict street now he felt the sound conduct through his boots. Anticipatory detritus and dust started to jump and fall, with each moment rising higher and falling harder, they were close. The drone took on a different skin, rumbling, throaty, a guttural dread, accented with a mechanical whine. The sound took a shape, a dark smudge shadowed by a dust cloud, a great beige cape tapering into a malignant black point. Soon enough their voices cut through, wolfen whoops and undisciplined holler. He placed a hand on his last piece of weaponry, a cruel knife snatched from a ruined fist, he recalled no protest in the gouged eyes of the previous owner, a blade snapped and sunk into his skull.
With a throttle boost it gunned for him, the shift in gear heralded with a sharp backfire from the two snorting exhaust pipes. One of the beasts that roamed the city caught the sharp end of the speeding Motorbike, immediately being sucked beneath it's gigantic front wheel. The mashed carcass managed a solitary rotation and was then ejected from the vehicle, oiley black blood and bone-shards puckering the mudguard. He saw now that a second opponent rode shotgun, leaning off the seat at a flamboyant angle, brandishing a brutal maul. He spun round to run, eyeing the narrow alleyway to his left, the forward pivot of his feet and the reduced contact area rendered each accelerating footfall a sparking clink on the concrete slabs. Beneath his pauldrons his shoulder joints groaned and squealed under the pumping arms, he increased their force and frequency to compliment each stabbing purchase his feet made. Drag whistled over his helmet as he broke the streamline to look behind, they were almost on him. With a surging jerk forward he stabbed his chest towards the pavement, trying to propel his sprint that little bit more. A few metres short of refuge he was side-swiped by a clattering batter, reflex pivoted his hips and shoulders away from the blow and luck did the rest.
The glancing blow did not cancel out all of his well earned momentum and with a forceful introduction to the far wall he entered the alley. The sound of tortured rubber echoed down its course, soon after being replaced by the menacing trundle of a low gear. In a matter of moments it would fill his point of entry, the rider barking the engine with the throttle.
After snatching what little extra distance he could from the hostile bike he turned and fell on one knee. The bolter was primed and within his stance in an instant. Already set to a three-round burst its sighting aligned with his own. The iron sight obscured the biker, though with each second it gave less cover as it started towards him. Almost as an afterthought he catalogued the armour of his opponent, like his own but shorn and beaten to a sharper purpose, sullied with the marks of the ruinous powers. With a chaste pull of the trigger he sent three rounds down range, each speeding aura of light exposing the dark recesses of the alley. The shower of sparks left the rider un-fazed, with the second volley it remained the unyielding mass, batting aside bullets, larger by the second. A sudden fire of adrenaline entered the armoured roadblock, time for one last volley. The last round collided with 30 metres to spare, seemingly achieving nothing but an infinitesimal twitch in the front wheel. As he bowed his head for a blunt trauma, the twitch transformed in a full skid. The rider was powerless in the masterful flip, capitulating with a forceful ejection. The tarmac was an anvil as the rider dashed into it, turning him head over heels as his bike did the same. The lazy period of the two rotating objects coalesced, the two-tonne bike overlapping onto his prone form, shearing steel through ceramite and bone. The crashing racket of the former event overpowered the human scream of the latter.
The victorious speed bump could not enjoy his victory as it was postponed by an almighty assault to the side of his head. Under cover of the previous drama a nearby door had been bashed in, the emerging ex passenger swinging for a mortal blow. For a second he was thrown onto his belly, with only a roll onto his back left as an option. He looked up to see his savage opponent not hoisting a finishing blow but stomping towards his shattered ally.
Staggering to his feet he watched the enemy warrior pick through the wreckage, finding his ruined kin. The low coarse howl he let out was desolate and undignified, swollen with sobs. The murderer felt the anticipation in his gut lurch and shiver into guilt, roiling and overridden as his opponent turn to a charge for him.
[MORE
TO FOLLOW]
