Silence. Deafening silence. The sudden shot from the dark stunned them. Gore erupting where a comrade once stood yet they remain paralyzed, transfixed on the gargantuan silhouette. They all knew what it was, but someone had to say it.

“CHAOS MARINE!”

Birthed from the night he came striding through their panic fire like a god, his bolter off hand - exacting bloody tribute. The men broke; no level of discipline could sustain them through such an assault.

The words of her mentor rang in her mind.

Despite what your other teachers tell you, to run is not always a sin. If a battle is lost, flee and serve the Emperor another day. Having said that; never run from a Traitor Marine. You will only die tired.

The cacophony of panic and terror was overwhelming, lessening only with sudden bolter cracks claiming another. In defiance of her sweat drenched hands, she clenches her weapons tighter bellowing two simple words to scythe the madness.

“FOLLOW ME!”

A leader who leads from the front will live a short life, but he will always have his men’s respect. Deep down despite the chaos, the men believe that if their leader is willing to risk his neck, then maybe they will make it out alive.

Her pistol barks a shot into the twisted marine’s visor, then another and another, confidence swelling with each one. The rounds- far too puny to damage his armor- succeed in their true mission, drawing his attention to her mocking string of Old Gothic curses. The mountain of flesh and steel growled, pivoting toward her as his self-assurance boiling into indignant anger. Old Gothic had more...’juice,’ more sting, then Common tongue and Chaos Marine or not, no male will let those sorts of …. belittling comments go unchallenged. The span between them vanished in a single vault, his desire to impale her as clear as the snarling chain-axe in his claw.

The saying “One Space Marine, One Planet” is an exaggeration, but not by much. They are the undisputed masters of war and they know it. Therein lies your chance, small as it is, of defeating a Space Marine. Space Marines, especially Traitor Marines; are arrogant, prideful, self-assured in their victory over mere mortals. If you can anger them, challenge their preconceptions, you can manipulate them.

His inhuman speed was terrifying. Only by being prepared allowed her to intercept the blow, but only just. Showering sparks illuminate the clash, his gene-engineered muscles easily overwhelming her. Raw brute fury crumpled her defense and she flowed with it. Every second of training came into play, yielding, flexing, guiding the assault, letting momentum carry him past her. Incensed he whips around to renew his assault, completely oblivious to the shift in their positions and the reformed platoon behind him.

“FIRE!”

Las-guns crack in unison against his exposed back, her rallied guardsmen accomplishing what could have never been done alone, punching through the marine’s carapace. It was not nearly enough, his cry more in anger and surprise than pain. Rage locks his gaze on the mortals foolish enough to assault him. Rage blinds him to the snarling chain-sword cleaving his hand and bolter.

A torrent of bloody ichor pulses across the field, quickly clotting to an ebb as he revolves to face her. This puny bitch, who stands uncowed, unafraid, challenging him with a chain-sword stained with his blood. Like bile, an earth shaking roar vomits from his throat.

She smiles answering with a word.

“FIRE.”

Lances of fire hew through his flagging armor, piling on wounds that would have fatal to mere mortals. Yet he remains firm, thick vitae pooling on the earth below. He vaults, chainaxe screaming. Slow though, noticeably slow, even his inhuman endurance could not function without a price. Sliding under one stroke, then another, she waits for an opening, exacting her own tribute. That terrible axe and the hand wielding it spin off into the distance.

“FIRE!”

In future re-tellings they would say that this warrior of chaos fell to his knees in supplication before her. A gross lie. His hate radiated; an unceasing malicious will demanding blood even as the flesh failed. Wretched beast, she thinks, burying her sword through its helmet ventilator into the brain. When the twitching ceases, she kicks the carcass clear of her blade to be greeted with thunderous silence.

It's dead! She killed it!, came the amazed gasps. A storm of chants grew; Commissar! , Commissar! filling the night.

“No. NO!” she growls silencing them. “We did this!” she calls flourishing her bloody sword high. “First Plutarch! Who are you?”

Came the cry “One!”

“Who are you!?!”

Came the shout “One”

“WHO ARE YOU!?!”

Came the thunderous roar


ONE
A Short Story of the Big Black One.