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This is just something I have been developing on the side. I will add more chapters in the future, but for now here's the first of the book of an experiment I have been doing.

The basis is that a mercenary band are put together for the gain of a private collector, but they turn rogue. I got kind of sick of those 'Planets invaded, military invade and win' scenario, so here! This is a band of cut throats.

I appreciate feedback and hope you enjoy!

Cheers, baxter123




Prologue: Origin at Terminus
He stared across the dank, dark cellar packed with sweaty, half naked bodies that ground up upon each other. They were pressed in like cattle being hounded to the slaughter; very inebriated cattle. To the wall, two people ripped at each other’s clothes and their faces sucked at each other lie they were wolves eating a corpse, their noses bending at particularly unsettling fashions.

He shivered and stood upon his toes to try and assess where his target would be. He was a small man, and had a slim build; but that was his strength. He was a private contractor known only as the Silence, a weapon to be wielded. In truth he was a mercenary, but assassinations were his speciality.
This was the third week into his final contract. The last one, he vowed to himself. This contract would be the last one, and then I would retire to the countryside, take a wife and live the rest of my days out bringing up livestock.

Although in his heart, he knew he would never finish, not truly. He was in his prime, thirty-four and already he had survived longer than most assassins had the right to live. He still looked young though, with a full head of luscious golden hair and few lines etched his face. That is, except for the sniper round back at Ghelsbridge that had presented him with a massive scar that ran from the top of his temple right down to the bottom of his chin on the right side of his face. With apart of his cheek, he was also missing half an ear from a contractor who was a savage, ripping his ear off and chewing it.

His face was still lean and handsome though, with his dark orange eyes scanning the bouncing crowd. The music was unbearable, a cacophony of pointless and unbearable beats that the crowd tried to jump to.

He shoved his way through the tide of flesh and sweat, grunting as they tried to fight his being. Underneath his chain-linked shirt laid pure muscle, scarred from the years of being in this business.

He shoved a big man to the side who cried out in surprise and spotted his target. Leaning within the confines of a flesh laid sofa, a small girl of no more than fifteen laughed elegantly while she flirted with the men she bounced around on. Her face was slightly babyish, with thick cheeks and she had a curvy figure.

In truth, she was a criminal; an illegal fencer who had messed with a very powerful man who was just named Justice, the head of a corporation that fenced the market and delivered goods all over this blasted hive city of Polohive. She had stole from him a shipment of illegal substances and sold them, and killed three of his associates.

Silence had been devoid of his favourite pistol and all of his weapons, except for one.

He slipped out of his pocket a massive syringe, filled with a poison named Ionix, the local rodent that had poison glands. He flicked the syringe, and concealed it as he strolled up to her mischievously, hiding well his intentions.

“Well hello there stranger, what is your name?” She purred, her eyes gleaming with lust. The men and women who fawned all over her flicked their eyes to the intruder, jealousy burning within them.

“You summoned me?” Silence replied. Of course he hadn’t been summoned, but the delivery boy who had his throat slit in the dumpster had been expected. She was addicted to the drug Ionix, which was specially treated into a hallucinogenic.

“Why yes… My friend Barron here will try it first-“

“Hand in the air! This is a seizure!” Roared a Planetary Defence Trooper. Great, three weeks of planning down the drain.

Silence lunged to the wide-eyed girl, who was worrying about a few years in the Planetary Penitentiary for the offence of illegal drug taking. Her eyes practically popped out as he stabbed the syringe into her throat, and pumped down the lever to release the poison.

A PDF trooper tackled Silence to the ground, and he thrashed around violently. His vision suddenly lit up with the gut wrenching burning feel as volts of electricity burst through his body, ripping at his organs. He cried out and was dragged away.

Before he lost consciousness, he glimpsed the convulsing form of his target, which choked on her own froth and blood as both the stab in the throat and the poison took their toll on her form.


******

Three years, Silence had been in this prison for three years and he had never had a visitor, except for today.

“Roll call for visitors today! Everyone in Cell Block E line up for Visitor Roll Call!” Roared the penitent. Silence dragged himself out of his work, discarding his plasma cutter and rolling back his shoulders. They had been built exceptionally since his time here, and he could thank the damned cutter.

“Those whose names are called out, report to the visitors centre for detailing!” The usual names were called, and some faces lit up as they heaved through the crowd and were hoarded slowly towards the de-contamination room.

Silence started to move off when the Imperial Priest roared his name. His brow furrowed as he moved off, being shackled with the wrist guards and being shoved down the line.

He was an orphan, a street urchin from half a sector away. Those he knew were killers and corporations that wanted him dead one way or another. When he thought of that, he ‘accidently’ spilled into the nearest guards back, slipping out of his open cotton pocket a small shiv that had been seized from one of the other prisoners.

He stumbled into the huge misty room, and the door slammed shut. He kept a grip upon the small-sharpened piece of charcoal that another miner made out of the waste of his workings.

He was drowned as constant flesh tearing hoses ripped through the ragged crowd, and people screamed as pieces of their flesh were torn away by the super pressure of the hoses. Silence curled into a ball and placed the shiv up the one place he knew people wouldn’t check.

His buttock flesh was severely lacerated as he limped away, small patches of skin around his arm ripped away. Upon his exit from the killer bathroom that had claimed the life of one person, he was bundled into a bare metal room with a pile of cleaner orange overalls.

He stripped painfully out of his torn clothes that he had been wearing for the last year, and sighed in relief as he slipped into his newer overalls. They were crusted with blood, but were a lot fresher than those overalls.

He got the shiv out of his cheeks and slipped it up his arm, ignoring the pain of the lacerations his choice had caused him. He would rather not be able to sit than be tossed into the charnel pit.

He strolled out of the bare cubicle and let pass the two guards dragging the corpse of an inmate. The inmate’s lower jaw was snapped off and his throat was severely cut through. He must’ve been right next to the hose and copped the full force. Silence had gotten off easier, with only his left arm having slightly torn up flesh.

He waited in line for what seemed like forever, but he could wait; he was after all about to die. He shifted so it looked like his arm was in pain, as he expertly concealed his knife between his chest and his forearm.

“Name?” One of the guards asked, glancing at him with contempt and boredom.

Silence “Harius,” Silence spat sweetly. He despised using his actual name, but he was forced to use it in here. It was actually the name of his orphan brother, who had switched names with him right before he was transferred into the Imperial Guard.

“Down alley four.” The guard spat back. Silence shuffled slowly towards the tight hallway that led to his final resting place. I could turn around, plunge the shiv into his throat and rip out his auto-pistol, he thought admirably, and shoot dead the other guards. He knew he was kidding himself; he was never good with escapes. He would be tackled to the ground and beaten to death.

Silence strolled out of the hall, the stale metal container making him feel sick. He hated being crowded in, and already missed the mildly fresh air of the open-cut mines that he had laboured on for these few years. Actually, what he missed most was the total freedom of his previous life.

But there was no escape, he had slipped and now will pay for it until he died of exhaustion. He knew it all along, and accepted his fate. He acted like an amateur, and now deserved whatever punishment.

He walked into the bare room. Inside, there were thirteen tables bolted to the floor and the chairs were just lumps of cold steel melted to a dull shining floor. The ceiling fans did nothing to cut through the overwhelming heat that suddenly made him break out into sweats, but groaned as they pitifully tried.

Right next to him, a group of children were hugging around a tall blond woman as a greyer version of herself faced her. To the other side sat a small tattooed gang that stared across at a frightened looking man. Another death within these walls, Silence thought grimly.

All of the tables were full with both inmates and outsiders, except for one.

At the back of the room, a man leaned coolly against the wall. He was draped with a red and black swirling robe; a carapace woven armour that was very rare this side of the galaxy. Silence had only seen its likes once, draped upon an Imperial Guard regiment named the Archire Faithful, from Archire from the Eye of Terror. Although they clearly deserved their name, as the Colonel screamed the Emperors name over and over as Silence killed him. Poking through the robes gleefully was black armour that made the darkest night seem like it was a bright sunny day, and yet shined like a cleaned Bolter. It was a fabric unlike anything Silence had ever seen in his lifetime, so graceful and elegant and yet he could tell that it could protect the wearer from even the worst artillery. Spikes protruded through the shoulders of the armour and ended with a devilish gleaming point that could ram through any armour, giving him an air of a king that was sitting upon a throne. Where the robe ended at the ankles (Unlike those of the Archire Faithful regiment) dull grey boots shone, Ceramite armour that Silence had seen on Space Marine scouts. They were his choice for boots as well; comfy, well fitted and muffled his movements with ease.

A cream hood veiled the top half of his face, and his jaw was shining like it was a well-oiled piece of machinery, devoid of any facial hair. His mouth was pulled into a thin line that looked lie he hated every minute that he squandered here. His black-gloved hands hovered over his belt, like he was trying to grope for something that wasn’t there. His weapons must’ve been at customs.

Silence gulped. He had seen some successful men in his time, but this man had to take the cake. This multi-cultural man was not a force he would ever mess with. Silence had killed many in his time but there are three types of targets he tried to avoid; Daemons for they’re warp-spawn and can kill people, Eldar and those deemed too high up on the Imperial echelon. Silence knew these few possessions draped over the man and knew that he had killed to get them, and also knew if this man could kill those being too dangerous for him, he must think a mere human would be easy pickings. At least, Silence thought with an overriding melancholy, I costed a hot penny for my head. If they had sent a formidable tank like this man to kill him, then they must have a high price for his head.

Without so much as glancing up, the warrior of legend growled, “There’s a pretty penny upon your head son.” His voice was a raspy sound, like one of the Bears in the pits that had just tasted victory.

Silence stood his ground, his shiv rolling around his clammy hands. Despite his self-control, he could smell that he reeked of fear. He tried to keep his calm. “What’s the price upon my head?” He had to know how much he was worth, his final pricing upon his death.

“The brothers of that brat are willing to pay in three solid diamond bars from the core for anyone who brings his head, and five for those who bring him alive.” There had already been five attempts on his life that he had known.

“Oh, and that shiv won’t do you any good. You’re a well-learned man, and I can see in your eyes that you know what these pieces are. Do you really think a hasty point will hurt me?” The top of his head kissed the metal wall and his eyes pierced his own gaze. The killer’s left eye was the brightest ocean blue that stared coldly into his own. The right one was an implanted red sniper’s eye, one of the rarest developments of the age. It was derived from the world of Kratx, before the world burned, taking the plans and the secrets of the eye with it. There were few in the galaxy he had met who had these implants, and many snipers had ripped out their own eye for even a small piece of the sacred technology. For him to have an entire polished clean one was unheard of, although his cheek proudly bore the three-pronged ravine of a claw mark that rippled down his cheeks. His skin was tanned to the point of leather, and his eyebrows were missing.

He was speaking in a whisper, but Silence could hear him fine. He glanced across the room, but everyone avoided his gaze. He was doomed, he was going to die and no one would even meet his eyes.

“Just do it, get it over and done with.” He huffed. There was nothing he could do.

The killer moved so fast, Silence didn’t even have time to flinch. He clutched the back of Silence’s head and pulled his mouth to his ear.

“If I was going to kill you, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

“But-“

“I have been watching you for a long time son. You have potential.”

He let Silence go and leaned back against the wall. “I am here because I don’t see you as a complete waste of my time.”

Silence was bewildered. If this killer wasn’t here to kill him, then what was he here for? Silence had learned to deal with the unexpected, and so he decided the best course of action was to keep silent.

“Although, I am sitting with you now, I could kill you for a fair share of diamond. The price is three bars for your head, pretty decent son, a fair achievement for a man of your trade. But you are lucky, for I have no price on skill.”

‘Then what do you want from me?” Silence hissed.

“For my new contract, I need a small infiltration team to hit three targets simultaneously. I only take the best, and you son have been chosen for this elite team.” He waited for a moment, nearly puzzled at the lack of words.

“What’s in it for you, you say? Well, as a measure of good faith of you setting the offer, I have removed the hefty bounty from your head. I have friends that are very persuasive.” He glanced up, and then kept going with his speech, almost like a parrot.

“What’s in it for you? If you say yes, I can guarantee that you will walk free.”

He was just a henchman, but it was the best chance he had.

“When do I start?”



More coming soon

Prologue part 2: Combatting the Killers

The man leading the now free Silence out of the oppression was just a puppet. He was a servitor who in a previous lifetime was called Basld, a cutthroat gang fighter. Basld also owed a dangerous woman money, once.

This woman now used this mindless slave to do her bidding. Through the enhanced sensors of his artificial eye, she could view that he was practically skipping with joy. After three years, he was out.

“Barnitt, we have guests.” Cackled a small high-pitched voice. She glanced across the sprawling tangled jungle of black and silver wires that ended stabbing into her power armour. She was sat upon a throne much like it was depicted in those holy texts with the immortal Emperors seat on Terra.

The small green creature sniffed again and cackled. If it weren’t for his awesome nose and certain skills, she would’ve squashed him when she first met him. His name as far as she was concerned was Lil’ One, one of the last remaining true goblin races that lived in the galaxy. He was an engineer of war, and had proved useful on many occasions as her advisor. His quick wits and natural instinctive knowledge of war had saved her on many occasions from both the enemies’ bullets and their strategies, and he made the perfect infiltration goblin.

But he was insane, and when not in war got bored easily and usually destroyed everything in his path. “Well what’re you waiting for? Show them in, and please for the love of the Emperor, don’t kill them.”


****


Kamazovk Choyle clutched his axe in a white knuckled grip, trying to supress his terror at the sight before him. He was blind in one eye, the blood from the gash in his forehead swelling his blackened eye shut. His left arm was ripped apart at the elbow, and he was sunk on his knees from the horrendous river of blood that flowed around his boots.

He was standing amidst the butchered remains of what was once his platoon. He was a sergeant in charge of the Tusk Takers, one of the finest hunting groups in his regiment; the Tarusk 28th, the so-called Brute regiment. This was their first calling of action since their regular patrols through the broken city of Alkonost, hunting the green-skins that dwelled there.

Their third year of duty within the Guard regiment, they were dumped upon the moon of Zarok. Now, upon the growing necropolis of blood, the Brutes fifth platoon; one of the only surviving platoons left of the 28th, now laid butchered amongst his feet.

Now, he was the only one left to face these faceless killers.

Choyle glanced up with his only good eye and glimpsed hell. Masked horrors draped in gore and ebony roared to the sky, their black hulking skin spattered in blood gracefully hunted before him, skinning his best comrades apart and gnawing at their flesh. Their inhuman gibbering languished as they repeated in their guttural and tribal tongue ‘Agh Mon Cahrl Zhong’. They chanted it over and over, a worship prayer.

Choyle had fought the Orks all of his life, and knew what it meant. They had stumbled into a small nest of Orks, and had paid in blood. Agmon Carlsonkkh was no chanting song nor was it a hymn. It was praise to their leader, Agmon the Defiler; killer of humans and destroyer of nations. These tribal Orks worshipped the daemon that prowled these lands.

His helmet had fallen off. He clutched the helmet with a shaking hand and fastened the grotesque parody of armour onto his head. His helmet was adorned with two ivory tusks; the only remains of an Ork that he killed all those years ago to get the chance to serve in the Imperial Guard. He struggled to his feet, dragging his axe with him.

He bellowed the only thing that came to his bloodied head at that moment. “I am the hunter in the darkness, the axe that guards the cities of men!” The Orks all around him started, confused at this new human voice. They stared upon him and licked their lips in thirst; to them there was nothing like the flesh of a live and screaming human.

If this was going to be my last fight, he thought grimly, I will take as many of these green-skinned bastards as possible.

If he could survive Ghelsbridge, he could survive just about anything.

He launched forwards, roaring the only verse of his oath he could remember.

****

His legs were limp as he groggily woke up, his body feeling like a machine that had just been butchered and then sewn back together again and brought back to life with a jolt of lightening.

His arms were fastened in the iron grip of whirring machinery he still couldn’t see with his blurry vision. Stars danced in front of his eyes as his brain slowly started to wake. He blinked the tears away and suddenly wished he didn’t.

Dragging him in an iron grip, two grotesque hybrids of machine and man guided him through a dimly lit corridor. The lights were shining down as his feet dragged through some weird shaggy floor, small little comforting blades drifting through his bare feet. It felt like heaven.

Was it all a dream, he thought groggily. It felt real enough, although he would never know he guessed.

Only one way to find out. He glanced across edgily, praying that it was all a dream and that his left arm would still be there.

The servitor was holding onto a cold metallic piece of machinery that imitated an arm, driving home into his organic, bruised flesh. He screamed in dismay and torment. No, this couldn’t be. He was no longer clean, he was no longer a pure human, but just another parody that he saw all too often.

He finally found his voice though, and his entire body flooded with power. His legs found an uneasy purchase on this blasted fur floor and he pulled with all of his might backwards. He roared like a feral beast, and felt his mechanical arm wrench free. He thrashed violently with all of the strength left in him and howled in victory as he stumbled to the floor with his hands free.

He sprang up to his feet and kicked one of the servitors with his bare feet. The servitor barely moved, but he flipped back and gave himself some room. With his armoured hand, he reached back to retrieve Slasher, his double-bladed axe that was given to him by his father upon him leaving the planet for the Guard.

His fingers only found bloodied flesh. He roared even worse than before. He didn’t have his helmet, or his ancestral axe. He had been devoid of his lifeline, and now was just a living empty shell.

But he would have his revenge. He threw himself into the two ill-equipped servitors, grabbing ones stitched up fleshy meat and tearing at it with all of his might. The corrupted flesh tore away easily like tender Ork meat.

He tore away the flesh and grabbed the skull with both hands. The hybrid flailed pitifully as Choyle slammed the mechanical parody of a human against the wall.

He twisted around and ducked as a vibrating saw passed around his head and rolled, flipping back up and grabbing the saw arm with his mechanical one. The servitor writhed blindly, but his now upped strength and his desperation and disgust prevailed. Blinding sparks sprouted out eagerly as Choyle guided the saw into the Servitors face. The servitor stopped writhing and went limp in his hands.

He dropped the hybrids corpse and grabbed the next servitor that was violently twitching like it was having an epileptic fit. With his newfound strength, he grabbed the windpipe of the servitor and ripped it away.

He let go of the headless corpse and stumbled to his feet, grimly happy. He was a slave to no man, especially to those who made these horrid hybrids that was an affront of his eyes.

But he was going to find out whom he was being taken to, so he could slay them and find out upon which hellhole he landed. It was obvious to him he was far away from the final stand of the 28th Regiment. He was going to find out where he was, and then butcher them for taking him from his final death.

He found the saw arm, and savagely ripped it off from the arm. Apparently there was an ejector button, but he didn’t care. He wielded it and whirred it a few times to get a feel for it.

He rolled his shoulders and limped down the artificial fur floor, ready to face his death.

Final Prologue Chapter next, let me know what you think

Well, you got my interest! Very nice.

Prologue Part 3: Fox's Friend


Codename ‘White Fox’ stood upon the precipice of his lonely life. Not since Ghelsbridge had he ever been so afraid of the task ahead of him.

He had been contracted by the Resistance upon the planet of Karsh VI in this region to lead a small infiltration team into the hive of Gaskh Prime to assassinate the infamous ‘Butcher King’ who renounced the Emperor and had imprisoned many of those devoted to the Emperor. He was rumoured to be Chaos, but White Fox knew better.

The Butcher King was just another High Class pompous sadist that loved to watch people suffer. Whether he personally worshipped those blasted warp spawn or not was entirely up to him; but he didn’t want to find out.

All he really knew about his mission was that-

“Identify yourself!” Roared a voice to his side. Still perched upon the ruins of the once holy church of Saint Sabbat, his head snapped around to peer at the scratchy voice that had interrupted his thoughts.

He beheld two turn-cloaks; their standard issue snub nosed autopistols held out in shaking grips. The leader had the rank of a Sergeant and the other was just another trooper. White Fox chuckled and shook his head.

“I. Said. Identify yourself!” He roared again, hands tightening upon his autopistol.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He chuckled again, standing up upon the ruined beam. At his full height, he was almost twice as tall as the grizzled sergeant, although he wasn’t as wide. The sergeant was an ugly, squat man, and as wide as White Fox was tall.

“Yeah and why not?” The trooper smirked. He was a reedy thing, and man just imagine his high pitch screams as he was lit on fire…

“The reasons behind you boys.” He smiled. The trooper’s eyes went wide as a sharpened piece of steel stabbed into his throat. The reedy trooper dropped like a grox that had been sniped through the eyes. Blood welled out of his severed artery.

The Sergeant started to yell, that is until was launched backwards by a bolt round to the chest.

“Took you long enough brother.” Chuckled White Fox, “have they fallen for the trap?”

Black Fox stepped over the corpse of the trooper and nodded, his eyes grim. He was a head taller than White Fox and wider than White Fox. But that was to be expected.

He was a fallen angel. He was once the death from above, a soldier that was no longer human. He was a dreaded Space Marine, the Emperors finest soldiers. His skills were unparalleled with a blade and a bolter.

And he was White Fox’s battle brother. White Fox was tasked with a mission to find and retrieve a golden medallion from the depths of a desert when he found the charred remains of Black Fox. Black Fox was alive, although he was critical. White Fox could’ve left him for dead and gone on with the mission, but for some reason he stopped and retrieved the form of the Space Marine and nursed him back to health.

Though, he still to this day only had a hunch that he was a Space Marine; for Black Fox was a hulking figure and yet moved with all the cunning and stealth and had unparalleled knowledge on warfare.

That was three years ago and still was the best choice of White Fox’s life. Black Fox had stuck by his saviour since then, becoming White Fox’s partner. Since then he had never said a word, and yet White Fox made conversation with him and could understand him. White Fox was trained in sign language and they used that to regularly talk to each other, although White Fox knew Black Fox could hear him for Black Fox responded to everything he said.


“Well time to gain two pay-days!” He beamed. He brought his long-las to bear and through the scope sighted his target. He slowed his breathing, focusing upon the small target. There were three hundred troopers there that would react as soon as he fired. He couldn’t afford a second chance.

He pulled the trigger.

The hot streak of laser fire spat and the weapon kicked violently within White Fox’s grip. The troops below snapped out of their daze of attention and milled around confused, despite the yelling of the Commissars.

Serpents of fire and smoke ripped out of all sides and tore away the guts of the building, debris flew everywhere and smashed everywhere around the crowd of turn-cloaks. An ear-pounding boom resounded throughout the valley a minute later as the people ran screaming for their lives.

The building buckled in resistance for a second, and then submitted to the rule of the flame and smoke. The serpents mutated into a growing fireball that roared and crackled as the super heat burned through the cement and flesh alike.

Commissars started shooting the hapless and screaming soldiers as they fled the roaring flames, rallying the troops. White Fox glanced to the Black Fox and nodded. It was time to go.

They were paid by the underground Resistance to infiltrate a unit and protect them until they got the job done. But they were also paid by the turn-cloak sadist leader to execute the Resistance leader, which by chance was apart of the team they had been tasked to infiltrate. They had landed two jobs in one and achieved both.

Now all they had to do was get off this rock.

The two foxes ran into the forest that flanked them, trying to get away from the organized chaos they cooked.

They ran as far as they could non-stop for two hours until they reached the road.

“Halt! In the Name of King Berald the Mighty!” Roared the speakerphone. White Fox froze and cursed. He glanced around in dismayed annoyance. How had he not noticed?

They had stumbled onto a double patrol, consisting of three squadrons of infantry, a Commissar and finally the most annoying of all; an Annihilator. The Annihilator was a new take on the Hellhound variant; using the weapon technology of the previous Tau invasion and applied it to the standard tank design. It was a force to be reckoned with and he had lost fifteen of the thirty-six-man infiltration force to one of those the previous day.

And they had squandered all of their tube charges against the building. White Fox ignored the slow roaring sound of the engines and focused upon the whirring of the Annihilator.

He glanced at Black Fox and nodded. Black Fox broke out of the sentinel stance and racked his Bolter slide, slamming in a new clip. White Fox slung out his long-las and grabbed his Stubber pistol; a small compact shotgun that feeds Stubber rounds.

The roaring of engines became louder, but White Fox blocked them out. “If you do not respond, you are enemies of the Grand Kingdoms!” Roared the speakerphone on the Annihilator.

Bring it.

The ear-piercing chatter of heavy bolter fire screamed from high above, although the sound was nearly lost by the thunderous growl of the jet engines of the metal container above.

The enemy patrol that sought to kill the duo suddenly evaporated into a bloody pulp. They never had time to scream.

The Annihilator raised its cannon, and the pulsing light whined to life. It never got the chance to fire. The tank exploded in a fireball of light that slammed White Fox to the floor and roasted his pale skin. His ears were ringing with the roar of the massacre, and his eyes were blasted with the white fireball that was once the dreaded foe.

After a while, he blinked back the tears that streamed down his face and shakily got to his knees. He glanced around and only could see the ruins, the only indication of the massacre that just happened. Everything was on fire; the severed hand that was roasting beside him, the shard of the tank that licked with flames, the fuel of the splintered canister had been engulfed. Everything.

He held his head, and unsteadily got to his feet. His Stubber pistol was gone. He glanced ahead and saw the metal container landing. It hovered three feet off the ground. The hatchway hissed open to reveal a blinding light.

Inside, a darkened figure appeared. A halo surrounded the figure, an air of piousness, an air of wisdom, and an air of trust. “Come with me.”

He was mesmerized by the figure in the hallway; he barely had time to register himself.

He glanced around at the struggling figure of Black Fox. He was struggling, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t move. Then White Fox saw why. A bolter round had torn straight through his torso, and he was bleeding out fast.

White Fox would not leave his partner behind. Black Fox was a brother, the only friend he had left in the cruel galaxy. He couldn’t begin to imagine a world without his battle-brother watching his back.

“Come on! There is only a small window until we have to leave with or without you!”

He was not leaving him behind. “Then help me with him you bastard!” He growled and dragged the prone body of Black Fox onto the ship.



Chapter 1 coming soon

Chapter 1: First Meeting

The first one to arrive was a wild looking man, with a hastily built in mechanical arm to replace the one that had looked like it had been torn off by some foul mouth. The flesh was still rotting in patches all around the rusting piece of metal, and the rest of the man didn’t look to healthy. He was barely recognisable as a proper human being; purple hues adorning his face and made his left eye and right cheek swell up to the size of a watermelon, and his torn apart clothing poorly concealed his lacerations and scars that at first glance looked like he had been tortured by a daemon of the Ruinous Powers.

His eyes gleamed with a predatory instinct. He was barely alive, and yet he appeared to be as if he was a flesh hound that had broken off the leash of his master. His eyes thirsted for blood and slaughter, and one look into those eyes would send a bolt round through his skull for being possessed.

But she knew better. She was an Ordo Hereticus Lord Inquisitor, and there were none like her in the sector. She was a lithe and fit woman, adorned in bare boned power armour. Her hair was starch white, with a red streak running through the middle of her wildly fringe. She despised using the helmet, and so had constructed a custom mask that she now wore. It was a Space Marine frontal helmet, stripped to its bare minimum; with a vox-communicator device, a Strategic Tactical Conveyor device, in which every Space Marine of every loyalist chapter had built into his memory core, and finally a re-breather. But it was fashioned into a red snarling skull, deepened with a black hue and the thorns intertwined around her hair to keep it in place. At her hip, she kept one unadorned hand resting upon the hilt of an ornate Bolt Pistol that had been named Purge. It was actually an in-built flamer-pistol that had been crafted by her master as a gift to her when she became a full-blooded Inquisitor. On her back sported a twin bladed power sword; one of her many weapons and by far her favourite. It was a shining and well-polished Admantium base intertwined with melted gold in-laid to provide it an extra kick in electrical ability. It also had a small dis-charger that unloaded (through the concealed pistol on the blades edge) the entire cell in order to melt through even the toughest terminator armour.

She had an obsession with roses, because it reminded her of what she was fighting for. So in order to keep her obsession alive, all around the room pink, gold, black and white flowers grew like wildflowers all over the floor.

“Barnitt, we have a guest.” Cackled a small high-pitched voice. She glanced across the sprawling tangled jungle of flower vines. She was sat upon a throne much like it was depicted in those holy texts with the immortal Emperors seat on Terra.

The small green creature sniffed again and cackled. If it weren’t for his awesome nose and certain skills, she would’ve squashed him when she first met him. His name as far as she was concerned was Lil’ One, one of the last remaining true goblin races that lived in the galaxy. He was an engineer of war, and had proved useful on many occasions as her advisor. His quick wits and natural instinctive knowledge of war had saved her on many occasions from both the enemies’ bullets and their strategies, and he made the perfect infiltration goblin.

But he was insane, and when not in war got bored easily and usually destroyed everything in his path. “Well what’re you waiting for? Show him in, and please for the love of the Emperor, don’t kill him.”

The goblin huffed in almost despair and danced to the door with quiet, deft movements that would’ve defied belief in a normal human man. He landed out of his small dance routine, gave a mocking bow and unlatched the door.

He squealed back in terror as the giant of a man leaned in the doorway. Up close he was even more animalistic. His teeth (Or what was left) shone through in a grimace and a snarl of pain, and his entire body was matted in blood.

“Greenskin.” He growled, almost swishing the words about in his mouth to enjoy the taste of it. His voice was impossibly deep, and sounded as if he were a throaty engine roaring to life.

He leapt forwards against the squealing xeno creature and his blade inched close to his throat.

And then the animal was punched backwards and slammed into the wall.

Barnitt rose slowly from her throne, and through the powers of the warp sent vines entangling around his flesh, binding him against the wall. He writhed and roared, trying to snap loose from his new found restraints.

“Psyker!” Bawled the now restrained animal. He snapped his jaw and tried to rip off the thorns that plunged tenaciously into his flesh.

“Ghelsbridge.” She uttered and the animal froze in his struggle, his fury now transfixed in the past. The thorns unlatched hesitantly and fell to the floor, lifeless again.

The animal just kept staring at her, forgetting about his grudge against the greenskinned animal that now was rubbing the bleeding neck. The animal just stood dumbly, almost as if not recognising anything around him. He glared at her with fascination.

“How-.” He began to find his voice when another strolled into the room. He regarded the room pompously, and then strolled to the chair on the boards of the room and sprawled in the seat, laying his head back. The servitor accompanying him instantly made for the back room and disappeared out of sight, wanting to find the power cable in order to shut down. The man was lean and young, with a full head of luscious golden hair and a massive scar that ran down the bottom half of his face. His eyes were the deepest orange and filled with contempt and vanity.

The animal shut up and stood in silence, glaring at everything and everyone around him. He purposely avoided the goblin that had now bounded behind the chair whimpering.

Barnitt whipped around and took her cape in her hands. It was a swirling pattern of white upon gold, and ended in the middle with the two transforming into a black double-headed Aquila of the Imperium of man. The edgings around it were trimmed with a light blue silk. It was a beautiful gift, one of the few images she still cherished from her childhood in the Scholam, training as a storm trooper. But she had modified its original design, adding a blazoning heart through the middle of it to symbolize the Inquisition training of the Ordo Hereticus knowledge and specialisation, and the lightning around the outside, which represented the wrath of the Emperor. It was also lined with carapace fabric, able to stop most assault weapons dead on and was her last line of defence in combat.

She fastened it around her. She knew this was going to get ugly.

Everything was slowly falling into place, like pieces of a puzzle she used to play with as a kid. She had been arranging this sprawling masterpiece for nearly a decade, slowly calculating each and every edge of every piece. Every piece of the puzzle had been especially honed and crafted for their individual place. She was now laying them down, edge to edge. The big picture was coming together one piece at a time.

A wild-eyed man burst into the room so loudly the goblin nearly had a heart attack. He was a tall and firm man, not unlike a gladiator in appearance. He had shaggy light hair and strong brown eyes. His skin looked as if it were proper leather.

He carried a man who was taller than him, although he was slightly slimmer. The prone man had taken a high-powered bullet through his stomach. But this couldn’t be it, something was wrong with this man.

He wasn’t a piece. This was all wrong, all terribly wrong, she was standing right near someone who didn’t belong in this sprawling puzzle, he had no purpose here. He was the only person in this entire room that she didn’t know, and it startled her.

She reached for her bolt pistol, racking the slide. “Stand back son, I will handle this.”

The man didn’t even look up, his fingers trying hopelessly to apply pressure to this alien. He didn’t belong, and had stumbled into the most sensitive operation in the entire sector. He had to be silenced once and for all.

The man was starting to gasp back tears, weeping for the man who was slowly dying.

She began to bend down to apply a clean shot to the prone form of the wounded man.

“You press that trigger and I will break you in half!” Growled a rough voice. Its origins came from the weeping man. His voice was cracking, but that provided an air of hostility. He was almost afraid, and now held a pistol to her head.

“He must die, I have no need of him…” She exclaimed, wondering why he would put a blade to her throat. She was the Inquisition, one of the chosen of the Imperium to defend the stars from threats both inside and out.

“But I do you bitch, and if you press that trigger I will make sure you join him by the Emperor’s side.” His eyes were puffy, but were not to be messed with. She would kill him later, rather than lose a prized piece of her puzzle.

He returned to his workings, trying to apply pressure to the wound.

She sat back down on her throne, rubbing her temples. Everything’s ruined, how did this happen? She had meticulously planned every minute of this, why was it that all of her hard work was going to waste?

She started when the wounded man flipped awake, rolling to his feet in unfathomable swiftness and grace. He instantly had his fists balled and his eyes switched to war mode. His deathly pallid skin flooded with colour, and the rest of his body woke up as if he just awoke from some drug-induced coma into the middle of a battle.

The man that was nursing him quickly snapped out of his confusion and grabbed the death defying man by the shoulders. The man turned and instantly faced her puzzle piece, and calmed down by the sight of him and relaxed.

The man pushed away from him and rolled his shoulders, nearly collapsing. The man grabbed the wounded comrade and placed him against the wall. The unknown man slid down the cold console, and fell back into a trance.

She was about to speak when the man asked. “Where do we sleep?” She was startled, what about the mission, what about service to the glorious Emperor and the Inquisition?

She huffed in annoyance. “Lil One, show them to their rooms. Get some sleep and I will brief you on the mission.” With a flick of her hand, the Goblin bounced with glee as he led the mismatched figures through the Servitor’s door. Silence shrugged his shoulders and strolled down the hall without a word.

The animal Choyle grumbled something over the resting form. The other man grumbled a thanks but no, and the animal shrugged. The savage got up and limped out of the door, and appeared to be as likely to kill the poor Greenskin than follow him.

The last one, named many things woke his comrade and heaving his weight onto his body, aided the stumbling and groggy unknown man out into the chamber. When the door slid shut she slid back into her chair, hissing to herself.

“Is it done?” A voice crackled from the speaker on her mask.

“The team is formed. There needs to be some official training and repair. Also sir…”

“What is it novice?”

“Great Inquisitor, there has been a complication.”

“And what is that novice Barnitt?”

“An unknown and wounded man appearing to be a partner to the man-of-many-names has inexplicably wound up in our ranks. I have been threatened-.”

“Novice Barnitt.”

“Yes, Great Inquisitor.”

“You know what to do, for the good of the Emperor.”

“Yes sir.”

Chapter 2: Battle Plan

For five days, the soldiers disappeared from mind. They were all in the infirmary or about the hab-block Barnitt had ‘bought’ with her Inquisition identity.

On the fifth day, she summoned all of them to the meeting chambers. It was a small meeting room, with the walls made out of organic Nano-tech glass, polished to a gleam. The rest of the room was bare, except for the middle desk, which in truth was an in-built Strategic Tactical Computer that had many holographic images. Small flickers of pale blue light from the whirring drives were all that illuminated the room, casting long shadows across the rooms that hid demons of her worst nightmares.

Lil One was dancing around, keeping into the shadows and giggling to himself like he was five. He was dressed in black khaki uniform of a Ratling dress, and it fit him a little too tightly, and it further recognized his own dark green skin that was so out of place.

She glanced up as the hissing door retracted to reveal Silence. He was dressed in black likewise, with a small emblazoned I decorated over his heart. His uniform was cleanly pressed, and there was barely a crease upon his uniform. He glided over and leaned back casually, his chin tilted high in automatic boredom.

A few minutes later in came an almost stranger. Dressed in the black uniform, Choyle looked almost entirely different from when he first strolled in. His mechanical arm creaked slightly, but was polished to a shine and his dead flesh was clean and cut around it. But his uniform was badly creased and already dirtied with food specks and other small debris. He wasn’t a polished soldier. He looked almost entirely different, except for his savage stare with was transfixed upon the steel table in the middle room. He stalked around the room, and re-coiled back in shock as the Goblin came out of hiding to scare him. He twisted around and slammed the Goblin against the next wall.

“Green skin!” He growled and his claws clutched around Lil Ones throat. The Greenskin started gurgling and flailing in terror, his squeals echoing through her.

She pulled out her pistol and trained the muzzle into the side of Choyle’s head. She racked the slide.

“Put Lil One down, or I will execute you soldier.” She breathed in his ear. This was far from how she wanted to meet him. He was meant to be one of the best soldiers in his entire regiment, and was one of only two hundred who survived the fateful massacre.

His death stare met the frightful goblin’s eyes. After a second of hesitation, the goblin slid down the wall and choked in tears. He was rattled, but he was alive. Choyle whipped around and smacked the pistol away from his head.

She put back the safety and holstered her pistol, breathing out in relief. Choyle stalked to the corner and leaned back against the wall.

After a few minutes the Man-of-Many-Names strolled into the room, chatting with the ever silent vigilant named Black Fox. So far the servitors she had requisitioned to found out who this man was had nothing of use. All she knew was that he had the Gene-Seed of a Space Marine, and had the purity had put him either to the Ultramarines, Dark Angels or Grey Knights. But she couldn’t decipher who he was, or what he was. He had something more, a mutation of some kind, a natural taint that made him something more than a Space Marine, and yet not a Chaos fiend. Also, his voice box was a bit damaged but there was no reason for him to be silent.

They huddled to the side of the room. Four very different personalities were assembled into this room, the vain, the animal, the joker and the mute. This was definitely not going to be like playing a game. Four different soldiers all assembled for a single purpose almost against their will.

White Fox snapped her out of her thoughts. “So are we going to get this show on the road?” He asked, voicing the thoughts of the gathering. They were anxious, especially Black Fox who was still pissed off with being shot. There was almost no damage to his vital organs, and he was lucky but yet moped in his own way. He had been cheated of death he guessed, and hated every single minute of being alive. Was I that unbearable? White Fox thought.

“We’re still waiting for one more person.” She nodded and prepared the presentation for her master.

A good ten minutes later, the door hissed reluctantly and revealed the final piece of her corner puzzle.

Thirteen troopers dressed eloquently in their armour filed into the room. Their armour was as black as sin, and was yet shining like it was the best quality Admantium. Strapped to their backs were well-maintained and polished Mark II Hell-Bolters; specialist designed Bolters that were designed to fire either las-rounds or Bolter rounds. They were versatile and treasured weapons of the Inquisition for the simple reason that they didn’t have to scrounge up specialist rounds for a single gun; instead they could just find two common rounds and fire them as their own. They also had holstered at their side an assortment of combat pistols and weapons that were all trophies of battle, and well polished and in good use. Wrapped around them was a flak made cape; a wrought piece of armour much like hers. But instead of her design, the background was pure black and they bore an elegant I in the middle of the material surrounded by blue and white and red flames seemed to writhe.

They all filed together in a tidy and well ordered salute to the incoming living angel.

The heavy fall of boots echoed off of the metal paving, and a figure emerged from the shadows. He was nearly twice as tall as any man had the right to be, and was built to the core. He was dressed in shining golden power armour, adorned with many badges that told of the many wars and horrors he has fought. His head was poking out of the monumental suit of armour that could have only been worn by a God, bald and clean-shaven with a sprawling mess of scars that were etched throughout his head. In his glittering grip he held a massive hammer that was jutted with sharpened edges and spikes that adorned the surface of it. At the end of the handle and grip of it was a white glimmering blade that seemed to glow with crackling power. His cape flowed about him, with the same design as the soldiers who were saluting to him.

She hurried into position and saluted smartly. “Great Inquisitor, how good it is to meet you at last!” She exclaimed.

“Yes, yes. Where is this great squadron you have promised to gather up for me?” He eyed her with a cold stare that made her shiver.

“Yes, men stand to attention in front of Great Inquisitor for inspection and evaluation!” She roared.

The Space Marine leapt forwards and saluted with the precision of a Captain in line with her. After a moment of hesitation, White Fox joined his comrade and saluted half-heartedly.

Silence shook his head in contempt and leaned back against the wall again. The animal Choyle just spat on the ground and grumbled.

“You have done it again Novice Barnitt.” He sneered. “You have screwed it all up again, what the Great Inquisitor ever saw in you is a mystery to me!”

Before Barnitt could construct a response, a voice came from the darkness. “What I saw in her is unwavering loyalty like none I have ever seen. Unlike you Novice Larsen.”
Barnitt snapped around and stood in awe as a man melted out of the shadows. It wasn’t like he was hiding and appeared, it was like the shadows put a veil over him and he pulled back the veil.

At first glance most people wouldn’t have ever thought he was ever a human. At first glance what was his skin was actually tight hugging scaled armour, made of something organic that Barnitt had never seen. It was an ugly charcoal black and was fashioned as a dress. He wore a re-breather fashioned from the bottom of a Space Marine helmet and every one of his weapons was from alien or unknown origins. To any Inquisitor like her, he was an affront to the eyes; he was wearing alien technology and smelt like luminescence. He was unclean and untrue to the human race and the Imperium. One of his eyes was engineered into a clean alien metallic eye, and his shaggy hair sprouted everywhere.

Four people melted out of the darkness with him. One was a small scrawny man with a blue dragon tattoo that ran from his cheek down under his black Inquisitor carapace jacket. He also had an easily identifiable camo-cloak that wrapped around him and the hood was pulled up, although it did nothing to compress the long straight black hair.

The other was in a black armoured suit that looked more elegant than any dreadnought armour. In the middle of where the head was meant to be was a single red eye that scanned everyone. Emblazoned within the centre of the chest was the familiar inscribed I.

The one who appeared on the far side of the room was a woman who wore a mask and was wrapped around in chains to conceal her bare body. She wore the chains like a huge old skirt that draped to the floor.

The final one was a man who had cropped silver hair and a beard that skirted his shoulders. His left eye was missing and a black eye patch barely covered the contorting scars that exploded out of the centre of the pupil. He was dressed in black and red Ecclarisary robes and in his gnarled old hands was the Emperor’s Gospel.

They were as weird as Barnitt’s band was. “Great Inquisitor.” She made the sign of the Aquila and bowed. The Space Marine’s stare suddenly turned deathly cold and his hand went to his belt. Choyle growled in annoyance. Silence still was dismissive, but his face fell for a second and she could see the look of shock and fear fall onto his shoulders. The Man-with-many-names just shrugged and saluted again with easy grace.

Barnitt shook with surprise. The Great Inquisitor was meant to be a man to be the purest man ever, and one of the most accomplished Inquisitors in nearly a century. He looked like he has assimilated to some alien society.

Novice Larsen glanced back to her in dismayed and then saluted along with her. The storm troopers looked less sure whether to kill or salute. In the end they did the latter.
He nodded and then waved his hand. Everyone went to ease and they all formed a circle around the middle table.

“Brothers and sisters of the Inquisition, by hearing this mission you agree that you will do your duty to the Emperor and never falter in the face of adversity or death.” His voice was soft and measured, like he was a hunter that was in the middle of a hunt.

No one moved.

“Okay, now onto business.” The Great Inquisitor’s voice hardened. “My name is Great Inquisitor Peridius Ille, and I am truly sorry about the secrecy. I have chosen you two because of your traits and because I can feel I can trust you two.
To the rest of you, these Inquisitors have chosen you because you are the best of the best. You are truly faithful to the Emperor and to the cause. For that I thank you.

“Now I will explain what we are up against. For twenty years I have been hunting a man who has wronged us all. His name is Pravus, once a great Inquisitor from the Ordo Malleus who had banished a prince daemon. After that fateful encounter, Pravus turned to the Ruinous Powers. He made his own army and started a ten-world butcher. Eighteen billion military personnel were killed, as well as nearly forty-six billion civilians. The High Inquisitorial council, to destroy this threat before it got out of hand, requisitioned ten Inquisitors including me. Twenty regiments of Imperial Guard, two Space Marine chapters and this small legion of Inquisitors attacked his traitors upon the world of Ghel.” Everyone of her band paled considerably and silently wept in horror as they remembered the fateful day.

“We thought we killed him, when he orchestrated a massacre of nearly thirteen of the remaining Guard regiments and a chapter of Space Marines. After that genocide, Pravus disappeared and we presumed him dead. That was until now.

“Of the ten Inquisitors who departed, I am the only survivor that is known. So I will start anew. Two new novices and their respective war bands, but we will not repeat the failure of the original ten. We cannot allow him to escape again.”

“We have found the co-ordinates of one of his Colonels, a nasty piece of work named Atrox. He is situated on the planet of Summaeo, among the middle of the stars. Our mission is to insert ourselves into the middle of his force and burn it from the inside. Once we get our target, we are not to neutralize, but to take him in for questioning.
You have twenty-four hours to get ready. We will depart at 22:00 hours with or without the late arrivals. Remember; steel your heart with faith, for it is the only light in a dark and troubled galaxy. Dismissed.” He flicked his hand. He didn’t bother asking for questions, because there were none.

The Great Inquisitors war band melted into the shadows and teleported to Emperor-knows-where. Barnitt halted her war band and stared as the troopers filed out in perfect sync, followed by a sneering Larsen.

Barnitt whipped around and glanced at her small band. “This is why I chose you. You are harder than chess-pieces, but that is why you will do better than chess-pieces. I chose you because I was at Ghelsbridge as a girl, and I will never forget it. I was counting on you not being ever able to forget the events. You have a chance now to face your nightmares. If you follow me, I only promise slaughter and death, but it is worse to hide from the light and live in darkness. If you do not remember Ghelsbridge, the genocide, you can leave.”

No one moved. After a moment, White Fox’s grim face came forwards and nodded. Black Fox came forwards as his shadow. Silence held his head in his hand and massaged his head. “I cannot believe it, I finally got away from the horror. Now I have to face it. Yeah, I will join you.”

“But let’s get this straight. I am being payed for this job, but I have bent the knee once and it has nearly got me killed. I will never bend the knee, nor will I ever salute.” Silence grunted.

“Here, here.” Chuckled man-of-many-names. Black Fox simply nodded his assent.
“He needs to get that thing out of his arse.”

“I cannot promise anything war band, but I will protect you the best I can.” She nodded.

“Let’s go kill this bastard.” Choyle grunted.

Chapter 3: 24 Hours To Live


Silence strode the halls towards his designated area. He hated being locked up with nothing else to do, but if he was going to do this he would have to do it now.

He reached his room and with one fluid motion flipped the enamel resin case onto its back and clipped away the latches. Inside laid his prized possession. It was a disassembled bolt-action sniper rifle, which was fed with Bolter rounds that hung within a belt of large metal casings.

He caressed the sniper and quickly screwed it together.

Time to be silenced.



“Our revenue within the Imperial sector will double if we just cut off a hundred thousand workers and close the Underhive factorium, and we use the profit from the sale to put into the stocks upon our moon factorium. We have a chance here fellow businessmen to create better and harder profits just by switching to servitors!” Informed a man who to many was named Justice. He was slamming the board passionately with gusto and pointed to the moon as if it were the prettiest girl.

They were set up in a homely-carpeted room. Five chairs held executives of the highest rank within the Polohive hierarchy. They were all here for one purpose, to overview their expanding of profits of their main source of income; Ionix toxin.

“But we will lose a market if we ship our manufacturing to the moon factorium. Remember nearly two thirds of our entire revenue is based upon the filth that works in the factoriums! If we close our Underhive factorium we lose our entire advertising campaign within that sector as well as the outer hives.” Countered a heated man by the name of the Brewer.

“Yes, but we will-.” A man named Seller never got to finish his sentence. His head blew apart in a brilliant display of a bloody firework of gore and brains splattering everywhere around the room.

Brewer started with a surprise and fell, his chest disappearing in a bloody mess.

Justice froze in shock and horror. He was royalty, and should be worshipped as a God for his smarts. He was above death and filth, how dare they even think about touching someone as high and strong as him.

A woman named the Screamer screamed so inhumanly it was like a daemon was ripping out of her chest. She fled to the door and slammed her fists against it in fear. “Let me out, he’s coming! I am important, get me out.”

The window smashed in a dazzling display of shattering glittering glass. The sun shone bright and hot through, swallowing the dark in brilliant rays. It sizzled his skin and he willed it to go away. He was a God amongst people; the sun should listen to him!

A man named Advertiser flew back as his body ripped itself apart in a flash of red. He hit the wall and half his body that still resembled him slid down the wall.

A man swathed in black leapt out and ran Screamer through the heart with a elongated combat blade. She gasped and went limp in his grip.

He whipped around and smiled back down at him. He scrambled back in horror. He knew this man; he was the mercenary who was caught for being so stupid. The mercenary (Silence, yes that was his name) wiped the bloodied blade on him.

“You condemned me to death, remember this as you die.” He uttered in a whisper. He hauled him violently to his feet and threw him towards the window. “You played with the wrong man. Any last words?”

“I am a wealthy man, please I will give you anything to spare me. It was a slip up and I will make you rich for all of your suffering. I am too important, you must know my name! I will make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. Don’t you want to live?” He pleaded on his knees, and Silence chuckled at his futile attempt at living. He was pitiful, and was not worth the hunt.

He grabbed him and pulled him back up again. He pressed in close, and whispered in his ear, “But, I am already dead.” He chuckled and Justice’s eyes went wide with fear.


“Enjoy the sight of your corrupt cesspit on the way down Mr Justice.” His boot smacked against him and he was flying out of the window, out into the smoking sunny sky. He screamed all the way down the tight and winding corridors and past the factoriums he once whipped enslaved workers in.

Silence grinned to himself and huffed in amazement. He had taken his revenge and fulfilled his final contract. Now, it was time to die.

He still didn’t know why he was following the bitch, but he knew that the Imperium paid well and there was always the bartering market to be had. Maybe, just maybe if he survived this ordeal he might settle down as a wealthy arms merchant.

He chuckled at the thought. No, he was doing this for the memory of vengeance. It was all he ever saw, the brutal savage slaughter of a million loyal soldiers of the Imperium. It wasn’t for his comrades who were torn apart by the murdering Marines of Chaos, nor was it the sense to hunt down and kill a traitor.

The bastards of Ghel had taken his sanity, and he wanted it back. Ghel had sentenced him to this life of which he never wanted or needed. It was bad for his health and bad for his life. All he wanted to be was a loyal soldier of the Imperial Guard. Ghel killed his dream, and he wanted that simple determination back.

And by the Emperor as his witness, he was going to steal it back.


*****

“So, where do you want to go my brother?” Asked White Fox, chuckling at his own tormented joke. Black Fox glared to him quizzically.

“Okay, so no suggestions from you? Let’s go to the local markets!” He laughed and bounded off, dragging the glaring Black Fox in tow.

“Actually, I need to speak to this Black Fox myself.” Inquisitor popped out of nowhere. She was so perfect, and the last time White Fox saw perfection like that was from a Daemonette that almost made him kill himself. If it weren’t for Black Fox tackling him he would’ve died then and there. That’s why he didn’t trust her.

“No, my partner and I were going off to the markets and do not want to be disturbed.” He turned and faced her with that lopsided mischievous smile. His brother-in-arms grimaced and shook his head.

“Let me re-phrase this; I command you Black Fox to come with me for a talk.” She stood her ground, her hands straying to the Bolt Pistol at her side.

“And let me re-phrase this Inquisitor; we are not your slaves, we are free thinking and feeling mercenaries and by Throne we will never listen to your commands-!” White Fox stopped his rant as Black Fox put a gloved ham sized fist upon his shoulder and nodded solemnly as if to say ‘what can you do?’

“Fine don’t listen to your partner and go off with little missy here,” Grumbled White Fox, pointing an accusing finger at the surprised Inquisitor, “But don’t blame me when she starts ripping apart your brain and slowly tortured to death.” He spat on the ground and stormed off.

As a final muttering, White Fox muttered “Tight ass.”

****

White Fox had changed his name to Azyl while he was wondering the markets. The hastily set up boxes were packed with hundreds or sometimes-even thousands of strange and alien artefacts. There were people shouting in constant switching languages of Low Gothic and the natural language he couldn’t recognize. He was thrown about through the thick bustling crowd but he didn’t mind, as it kept his mind off of his brother’s betrayal. He owed no allegiance to those bastards in the Inquisition and he owed nothing to the Forces of the Imperium. And yet it was as if he was a servitor to bow down and serve the Inquisition faithfully. His allegiance shouldn’t be to the people that had forsaken him to a horrific burning death, it should be to the one who pulled him out of the wreckage and nursed him back to health!

He smacked into someone and stumbled back in annoyance. “Oi-.” He glanced back at the bewildered and almost frightened man who he had seen in the room before. He had an almost animal instinct in his eyes, and he was constantly looking around him in awe.

He growled at him and almost pounced forwards in defence when he recognized the so-called man-of-many-names.

“Hey…” He growled out. It was a guttural rumble that pointed to him not being able to speak Low Gothic well.

“Howdy.” Azyl nodded. He spotted finally what he was looking for and kept strolling towards the warped and dirty building. The animal man, Coil was his name he thought, fell into line and walked with him to the run-down bar.

He opened the doors to behold an obscene affront to his eyes if he ever saw one. The bar was quiet, with some rugged and dangerous looking men and women filling the dingy and destroyed tables that were cluttered with food scraps and rubbish. People were slapping each other’s hands, trading drugs for money.

He settled into the rough-hewn stone high chair at the bars main stretching table and Coil the animal sat beside him. “Seeming as we are about to die, drinks are on me Coil.” He slapped Coil on the back and summoned the bartender.

“It’s Choyle.” He growled.

“Okay Choyle, what do you want?” He asked. Choyle shrugged, and studied the amount of drinks on the far side of the table in fascination. He definitely didn’t grow up in a hive city or any city with a bar, Azyl thought.

“What do you have?” He asked the bartender. The bartender shrugged.

“Two shots of that blue stuff then.” He shrugged and smacked down forty credits onto the table.

The bartender poured out two shots and grabbed the credits. Azyl laid out two hundred more for the rest of the night and the bartender’s eyes lit up.

He glanced around while he swished the blue liquid in the musty shot glass. There were only five more customers; two of them were PDF undercover agents, their badges shone behind their jackets. Two men leaned out the back and played a game of cards. Another leant out the back and slapped anyone who came near her. The last one had his head down at the bar table and was sobbing quietly.
The room was dimly lit, and the lights constantly buzzed and flickered as if they were struggling to run to full power. The floor was covered in stains of blood and liquid and the rest of the room was full of sticky papers of Wanted or Lost posters that were printed in paper.

He took the shot and gagged at the horrible taste of the foul liquid. It was like he was eating a rotten egg, foul milk and off beer. He glanced across and through tears of torment he was astonished to see that Choyle took down the shot with ease and looked like he enjoyed it.

He summoned the bartender again and pointed to the small bottle of soft brown liquor. He grabbed it and poured two shots and Azyl grunted, “Leave the bottle my good man.” The bottle sat there as he took back the shot. It was familiar liquor that tasted of fine sawdust mixed in with a solid punch to the gut and a burning throat. It got sweeter as he swished it about in his mouth.

“So Mr Choyle,” he started, pouring another glass for the man. “Seeming as I am buying you drinks, tell me about yourself?”

Choyle grunted, thinking about it for a second. After a small thought, he grabbed the bottle and tipped the bottle to pour some more liquor. “Originally I was… Guardsmen.” His guttural and near horrible tact of Low Gothic shone through. “From Tarusk.”

“What is your home planet like?” He asked, interested to find out about his new comrade.

“We lived in tribes, tracing the stone path our forefathers laid for us.” He muttered low, his eyes shining with pride. “We lived off nature, we ate her, we nurtured her, we fought for her. It was all we lived for.”

“And who was it that you were fighting?” Azyl asked.

“The green-skins.” He hissed. A dark anger fell upon him. “They infested our lands, broke our homes, slaughtered our food! They were a plague, and we were the doctors.”

“So what theatres did your regiment serve?”

“Moons, jungles, trenches. We didn’t care or take note. All I care about is killing the enemy that is what we were bred for. We destroyed foes for our mother back home, so she would be proud.”

“What about for the Emperor?”

He spat simply on the floor to prove his point.

After an awkward silence, a figure burst into the room. He was a familiar face, with his black fatigues, blond hair. But it was hard to recognize him with his pomposity gone and his figure covered in blood.

“Oh good you’re here.” He sighed and smacked himself on the other side of Azyl. “I need a drink.”

He grabbed the soft brown liquor and poured himself a shot. “Are you right there mate?” Azyl exclaimed, surprised at this mans ignorance.

“Feeling alive my friend-of-many-names, ah I am feeling liberated!” He settled back down and took a shot. He smelled of the sweet scent of death and decay.

“Call me Azyl.” Silence nodded. Choyle snatched the bottle from Silence and poured himself another glass. The bottle was half empty.

“So, what brings you to this part of town?” Asked Silence, nursing his third shot. He had calmed down a lot, and was slumping in exhaustion.

“No matter that mate, who’d you kill?” Azyl asked.

“Oh I was just finishing a business deal with some ex-associates.” He smiled and Azyl’s heart just sunk. This was not a man to piss off.

“But never mind that, what brings you here?” He asked, and skulled his drink with ease. He was getting quieter and more in control of himself.

“Well I am going to be a dead man in a few hours. A man before death has the right to have a final drink. A final send off to the life he’s leaving behind.” Azyl chuckled at the words. Man oh man if he were to survive this it would be a miracle.

“And you Choyle?”

“If I can die by drinking, bring it on.” Choyle skulled another shot.

“And what brings you here Silence?” Asked Azyl.

“I love the atmosphere.” He chuckled at his own joke. The atmosphere was so tense a small needle could pop it.

“Well then, these are our final hours of life men. Let’s make sure we turn up with fire in our bellies and puke on our shirts.” The three men raised their glasses of liquor.

“Salute.”

The room shook violently and they all fell off their chairs, half inebriated.

They glanced up with weary and blurry vision to gaze upon twelve people advancing into the room auto-rifles raised.

“Silence, you are under arrest for the multiple murders of five high class citizens with the penalty of death. What say you in your defence?” Asked the leading trooper. He wore the PDF badge upon his breast and in his hand he held out a battered snub nosed auto-pistol.

“Seriously? Five?” Azyl sighed in annoyance. He was about to regret what he was about to do he knew it.

He stood on his feet and everyone trained their weapons onto him. He chuckled and reached out for the bottle of three quarters empty liquor.

“Freeze!” The leading trooper roared.

“Hey I am just getting my bottle that I bought.” He chuckled and snatched the bottle from the counter. The bartender was down behind the counter and held an auto-rifle. “Keep the change good fellow, Throne knows you’re going to need it.” He whispered. The bartender nodded.

He ripped off the bottle lid with his mouth, sobering up a bit. He did not want to remember this mistake at all. He spat out the cork and yelled. “To the dead-men!”

He gulped down the liquor with the jealous look of his comrades and slowly waddled drunkenly forwards like he wanted to walk out. He cackled and slipped, catching himself once again to stumble forwards. He tripped over his own legs and a trooper caught him clumsily.

“To the dead men!” He roared and he jerked back, smashing the bewildered youth in the temple with the bottle. The bottle smashed and he smashed to the ground.

He flipped around with a shard of glass and plunged the next soldier in line with the remnants of the stem of the bottle in the throat. It cut straight into his voice box and he gurgled as he fell, blood welling out of the wound.

He snatched out the auto-gun off the dying trooper and whipped it around clumsily, setting it to auto. He gave himself room and kicked over a dank table, cowering behind it as he tried to shake off the encroaching drunkenness.

The table he cowered under bucking and splintered under the fire of auto-rounds that punctured through the poorly made metal all around him. The bartender was up again and with a small Stubber pistol raked the PDF troopers with machine gun rounds.

He heard a crack to his left and stared in horror as an undercover trooper ducked down and made a beeline to have a clear shot at him.

He dived back as auto=pistol rounds tore at him hungrily, and smacked into the bar, right next to Choyle. On the other side, another trooper was trying to flank them.

“I go right, you go left.” He slurred, trying to focus his mind. Choyle, seemingly unharmed by alcohol’s touch, nodded and leapt up from the terrible cover he was afforded. The new found shotgun in his hands roared in delight at being able to join the fight and the flanking trooper doubled back for cover.

Azyl checked how many rounds were left in the packet. Sixteen, or maybe twenty left in the clip, although he couldn’t be sure as he kept losing focus. He was going to die, how unceremonious. He thought he was going to die in the middle of a swirling melee or in a gunfight. Instead he was going to die drunk in a bar fight he didn’t cause. After scouting a Necrons tomb, killing Chaos Lords, and face horrors unbound he was to die with a bunch of uptight PDF bastards.

He ducked back around and on full auto let rip at the undercover PDF trooper. The man’s armour was ripped apart and his left half of his face disappeared. The man collapsed as he was slowly dying on the floor.

Azyl discarded the auto-gun for a more suitable combat knife that he had bought at the markets. It was an expensive steel blade, sharpened and elegantly carved in swirls and patterns. On the other side of the unnecessarily long grip another retractable blade was held.

He peered over to behold a swirling melee he caused. The two people who were playing cards now were in a fistfight with another two troopers, the dealer had fled the scene and Silence… Where was Silence?

His question was answered with a crack of gunfire. The PDF officer was roaring when his head and chest were pulped and cauterized in streaks of las-bolt light. He tumbled down with only half a body left and one of the PDF troopers screamed in horror before he tumbled down with no head.

Silence appeared at their sides and nodded solemnly. His aim was immaculate and his hands upon the sniper were touching and feeling every part of the stock and body tentatively as if it were a lover.

He tapped Choyle on the shoulder and they leapt over the barriers to meet the foes that had discarded their weapons and pulled out their clean silver blades.

Azyl’s elongated blade met a scared looking PDF’s squeaky clean double-edged bayonet in mid-flight and they cracked against each other. Azyl feinted and flipped the knife in his grip, his hidden knife sliding into place for the kill. He slammed the hidden blade into the PDF’s chest and the youth rocked back and fell to the floor with only a bruise. Azyl cursed realising he had proper flak armour on. The youth sprang up with desperate savagery and Azyl parried his clumsy blows and met them with his own clumsy blows.

Azyl smacked the bayonet to the left and stabbed down into the youth’s arm. He screamed in agony and dropped with tears running down his eyes. Azyl ripped out the blade and cut the youth’s throat with ease. The youth flopped down, eyes wide as he drowned on his own blood.

Silence put a las-bolt through the last PDF trooper before the remaining three fled in terror out of the bar. Azyl collapsed and wiped his blade upon the dead youth’s clothing. He needed another drink that was hard work.

He slammed down a lot of money upon the ruined table. “I will take another three bottles of that brown liquor my good man, and here is some money for your trouble.” The bartender gave him a cold stare and fixed him three bottles.

One of the men playing cards was bleeding heavily from a bayonet wound to the stomach, and the other was trying to get him out of the bar. The man poured white liquor through the man’s wounds and he screamed. There were the occasional groans of pain from those who hadn’t been finished off properly and were too broken to move or do anything useful. Silence stepped on a groaning man and the man screamed. He spat and stabbed the man with his needle blade. Choyle snorted in pain as he was nursing a flesh wound on his stomach from an auto-round and grabbed the drink. Silence caressed the other one.

“Let’s get out of here brothers, this is one fight I don’t want to see the result of.” He chuckled and together the three piss-drunk men stumbled on the path to become Dead-Men.

As they were stumbling through the quieter markets, an idea popped into Azyl’s head. “So Silence, where are you from?” He slurred drunkenly.

“A hive city named Forghast.” He nodded. He seemed to be the one who was holding up the best. Choyle’s drinking had caught up to him and he and Azyl leaned on each other for support in case the world decided that it wanted to shake them off.

“Tell… Me about this world.” His bile was rising in his throat and he tried to force it back down.

Choyle lurched suddenly and out of his mouth what looked like sewage water leapt out and onto the pavement. Silence hung back and looked away in disgust while Azyl chuckled and smacked the man on the back and kept him from collapsing.

“You first brother, where are you from? And what is your name?”

“I am from nowhere, I never had any name-.” His feet folded up beneath him and he joined the violently coughing Choyle.

“So… What is this planet-?” He began again after spitting out a gob of phlegm when sirens blared from everywhere around him.
“Lock down everything. I do not want anyone to even think about running this blockade!” A woman’s voice echoed.

Choyle slumped out of conscience. “Seriously?” Huffed Silence in annoyance. A tense moment passed while they thought of a way to escape the firing wall of the PDF.“I have a plan, but you’re not going to like it. Actually, he won’t.” He nodded to the groaning drunk corpse of Choyle, who flickered in and out of conscience.




“Help! He’s bleeding badly!” Cried a man. His black PDF uniform was tattered and torn as if he had just been through hell. Colonel Herius Polonius of the local PDF stared in astonishment as the two men carried their brother in their arms. They swayed and stumbled onwards like they were drunk.

“Colonel, what are your orders?” Asked a trooper beside her. She thought for a moment. This could be a trap, but they were chewed up badly as if they had stormed a bar without back-up and had paid for the price.

“We’re moving orders early. Get those troopers in a Medicae transport now! The rest of you dogs advance in lines and put down any resistance. We’re going Code 39, I repeat, Code 39!” She ordered and her troopers roared their ascent. Their auto-rifles and las-rifles clicked and powered up as lethal las-cells were slammed into the rifles.

They advanced a platoon at a time through the alleyways with expert precision. Cracking gunfire yapped and hissed throughout the tight winding slums, and screams filled the night smog air.

She glanced back as the three idiot troopers were loaded onto the Medicae transport, and then followed her Command Squad through the tight alleys to clean up the slums.



“You ripped out his arm!” Azyl stared.

“Your problem with that?” Asked Silence, settling into the back of the Medicae van.

“You. Ripped. His. Arm. Off.”

The bloodied metal arm lay strewn next to the passed out Choyle. His head smacked and thumped to the rhythm of the fast moving car.

“Yeah, but it got the job done didn’t it? So, quit your whining and help us to escape.”

After a tense moment, Silence grinned allowed.

“No, not this time. You got us into this mess, I will get us out.” He went over and knocked on the van’s door.

“gak help me! He’s cracked open and is starting to bleed out in earnest!” He cried into the man’s face. The man pulled back for a second, startled. He slowly opened the cage door that separated them and stared at the unconscious animal.

He glanced at him in confusion and then in terror and disgust as he felt the end of a las-pistol poke into his belly. “Amazing the things you can do with a bit of pickpocket training.” Azyl whispered.

The man started to pull back and call out when a fist came from nowhere and smashed him across the jaw. He toppled back into his seat.

The driver whipped around and his head disappeared in roaring hiss that hurt Azyl’s ears. His brains and blood splattered onto the window next to him.

Azyl vaulted clumsily into the cabin and grabbed the wheel, trying to get the dead mans grip off of it. He latched the car-door open and kicked the headless corpse out of the cabin and took his place in the seat. He braked hard and the rumbling vehicle shuddered to a stop hesitantly.

Azyl let out a pent up breath and rolled his shoulders again. He latched the other door open and kicked out the unconscious body onto the tight pavement. Silence climbed out into the rear seat and laid back in the comfier passenger seat.

“So do you know how to get back?” Azyl asked. He had no clue where he was within this sprawling hire spire city.

“Nope.”

Chapter 3: Transit

Inquisitor Barnitt glanced upon her comrades and sighed. Definitely not like her chess pieces. She had found Silence and man-of-many-names carrying a bleeding out Choyle. All three of them were completely drunk, and barely standing as it was.

The Space Marine stepped out of her room with a blank face and a handful of syringes. Quick thinking, she thought. “Get them cleaned up, I don’t want the Inquisitor to find out what’s happened.” He went over and jabbed all three of them without hesitation.

The three misfits stumbled aboard inclining ramp into the brightly lit gaping mouth. It was a Mark XXVI Excrubite Transport, an ugly box of a machine, but it bristled with thirteen fire-points that jutted like pimples all over the ship. It was meant to be a transport for a small company of High Imperial Officials, but she had commandeered it for her and her retinue’s personal transport. The bottom hull was stripped back and re-made into a Rhino pattern land vehicle that came off the rest of the ship. It was multi-functional and she was glad of it.

She had used this customized transport for some time, and it worked like a dream. The Goblin was racing around the revealed engine, welding certain things together.

Silence stumbled aboard to behold the leather couches of the cruiser and flopped down, snoring blissfully. The animal tripped and sprawled onto the metal floor boards and struggled to try and get back up to his feet. After a few seconds, he shrugged and just lied there.

The man-of-many-names swerved to the side and smacked himself right into the latrine. He hacked violently and opaque liquid frothed forth into the virgin clean enamel. The bowl was molested violently in every direction by the drunken mans aim. After a minute, he finished and lolled back, passed out.

After a bit of a struggle, the three passed out drunken men were strapped to the beds in the personal chambers. The ship was divided into four parts; the engine and control room, the dining room for relaxing and personal meeting, the personal suites that were so luxurious that it felt like she was a princess, and finally the grand suite room that she personally replaced with a combat simulation area.

“Ready to go?” She glanced at the brooding Marine who simply nodded.

She strolled into the cabin and switched on the servitors. They buzzed into motion as the Goblin bounded gleefully into the main chair. “Reporting for duty Ma’am!” He cackled and she huffed. He was by far the best pilot she had ever witnessed, as well as one of the best engineers. They had been acquainted for some time, and yet this was the only time she could stand him.

“Get ready for transit.” She nodded and he strapped on his harness and helmet. Immediately coils of wire hissed as they snaked towards him with frightening speed before latching onto his skin. He gasped as if he were in the climax of sex, and then settled, relaxing into the chair. His constant fidgeting stopped as his eyes went blank and devoid of emotion. Whatever people might say about the green skins, she was sure Lil One was born to be an engineer and a pilot.

She walked out of the cabin and strapped herself in as the ship growled. It rocked violently as it pulled away from the ground, the forward thrusters burning like a plasma glow. It broke away out of the platform and immediately she could feel the sharp incline they took. She glanced over to the Space Marine who had the same calm expression as he always did, and yet she could see in his eyes the loathing and apprehension of flight. He was scared of being airborne. She wondered why this was.

He was a Space Marine, the mightiest of the Imperium’s warriors. He was the personal champion of the Emperor, the embodiment of humanities hate for the xeno and Chaos beings that prowled the galaxy feeding off the worlds. They were meant to face down monsters even the nightmares of men would be afraid of, kill daemons that take no form and yet every form at once. So why was he afraid of simply flying?

She put it to the back of her mind. This was not the time.

She stuck her head to the porthole, gazing at the receding horizon. The sun broke the horizon of the new day, and yet the shine and light was choked severely by the smoke that rose from the city; like the underworld was on fire and the smoke was coming to reap the topside world of the free and pull the planet back into darkness and away from the Emperor’s light. Small piercings of reflections could be spotted amidst the chaotic swirling mass though, shining beacons glittering with the dawn that rose above the smoke. Although it was only a matter of time before they too were reclaimed by the impenetrable grey pandemic.

A few minutes later and the thick layer of smoke was the only thing to be seen of the planet.

“Halt, in the name of the Emperor! This is the Sky-board Naval Defence Force from Squadron Omega!” The loudspeaker rocked the ship. The Space Marine instantly put his hand to the belt, but Barnitt shook her head in response. It was just a routine inspection.

She walked to the engine room and found the Goblin already concealed in his metal casing. If anyone were to find out he was a xeno, then they would have already been shot out of the sky. The illegal trade of exotic animals and slaves was rife throughout this sector; the Ordo Xenos was having a hard time keeping tabs on the so-called ‘Purple Market’.
The ship came to a smooth halt in the air as the boarding party clanged at the hatch. The Goblin allowed them in and she came to greet them.

She quickly assessed the two boards-men ahead of her. The leader was a stout man with a greying trimmed beard and a baldhead, and he looked bored as all hell. The second man could be mistaken for a Kroot, with a snarling face, bronze skin and combed back hair. Both were wearing a three-pronged badge of the United Defence Force and the Coalition Autocracy upon their breasts and carried semi-automatic auto-shotguns.

“I am Pilot First Class Ghorium Usaf of the NDF, and this is Gunnery Sergeant Pol Wur. This is a regular check up of the exportation traffic, so nothing to be afraid about. Can I please see your licence and registration to this vehicle please?” The Pilot First Class sounded bored. He held out his hand expectantly.

The Space Marine stood up to his full length and caught the attention of Pol Wur, who took a step back in awe and fear of the eight foot tall superhuman. She was sure he was small for a Space Marine, and yet he towered her by at least two feet.

“Okay let me just…” She grabbed out her badge and handed it to them. It was a simple black pouch with a necklace in it. The necklace was a simple thick silver chain adorned with the emblem of an emblazoned I hanging limply off it. This emblem was the sign of the Inquisition.

The lead man studied it for a second. “We’re going to need back-up,” he voiced into his sleeve microphone. In two seconds flat another ten NDF officers rushed in and they surrounded the two people. “Seize them for forgery and treason of the highest volume!” Screamed the Pilot First Class.

This always happened. Why couldn’t people just believe that the emblem was real and she was a member of the highest tier order in the Imperium?

They snapped their aims onto the two people; a dozen or so snub nosed shotguns aimed at their heads. She grimaced.

“Seize the engine room and the other rooms now. We’re taking this baby home.” Jeered the Gunner Sergeant. Four of the dozen pulled away and rushed into the adjoining rooms.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She sighed.

“Shut up you traitorous bitch. You now belong to us. We hereby claim this entire ship as part of the Imperium in the Emperor’s name. All possessions are forfeit by law!”

She grimaced again. How come wherever she went, she had to kill people in order to get them to understand.

Everyone clicked off their safeties and aimed at her, waiting eagerly to give the room another pain job when the most unusual thing happened.

A groan escaped from the hallway.

It wasn’t a groan of pain, as much as a groan of ‘What happened’. The few officers turned their heads to glimpse a rugged and grimacing man stumble out of the bedroom holding his head. “I go out drinking for one night…” He glanced up and huffed. He ducked back inside the room from when he came out. What was the man-of-many-names playing at here?

Barnitt took her chance. She barrelled into the nearest confused officer, smashing him over and quickly flipping over the snub nosed shotgun. She smacked the guy out with the handle and rolled, feeling a spray of bullets take out the room as the rest cried out in alarm. She tackled the Pilot First Class, pulling herself behind him and pointing the shotgun into the small of his back.

She grabbed out her little trinket from his thieving pockets. “There are two things I hate more than daemons; traitors to the Throne of the Imperium and those who prey on the weak. You’re lucky I am behind schedule as it is, so I will give you two choices; one, you board that ship and fly away, remembering this lesson and vowing not to take advantage of the weak ever again. Or two, I will kill this bastard and then finish off the rest of you. I mean, I am getting sick of seeing just metal.
“So which is it?”

Four of the officers rushed by the Space Marines side and took aim, one of them jumping on his back and pointing a las-pistol to his head. The Space Marine stayed in the same spot, not reacting or even taking notice of the scene in front of him. “You kill our sarge and we kill Mr Giant here. All we want is our payment, and this ship is nice. All we ask for is that you give your traitorous hides up and go to you execution like soldiers and not screaming or kicking.”

“Yeah bad choice of words friends. You have one flaw; he’s a Space Marine.” The soldiers holding the Space Marine hostage stared at the intruder. The man-of-many-names held out an auto-pistol in one hand, aimed directly at the nearest soldier.

“Bull-.” The soldier on his back started. He never got to finish the sentence as meaty hands grabbed the man’s head and using him as a bat; the Space Marine smashed the nearest soldier with his fleshy body. Both went tumbling into the corner of the room at unnatural angles. The soldiers cried out as they quickly took aim. The man-of-many-names pistol roared and a headless corpse tumbled to the floor.

The Space Marine twisted away from the shotgun round that slammed into the metal wall and he grabbed the ugly looking weapon in one hand, and laid the man out with his other fist.

The Pilot First Class pushed away from the confused Barnitt and she quickly pulled the trigger on instinct. The man’s body was ripped apart and his smoking corpse hit the floor, deformed to near pulp by the super-heated blast.

The other three broke and tried to run. They were quickly blown apart by three ear-piercing blasts, half their body disappearing in a mess of red.

Silence glanced up with ringing ears. “Not good for the headache. Ow.” He groaned as he collapsed in agony. The man-of-many-names was in similar agony.

“Throne, can’t we just wake up to a good fry up, instead of a intense stand off for once?”

Barnitt’s head snapped to the side as she saw the two men running screaming out of the cabin. They ran straight into the Space Marine who smacked their heads together, dropping them.

“What a bloody mess,” Huffed man-of-many-names, picking up the first body and flopping it into the next ship. Silently, the rest of the small band started to clean up one by one, not a word shared as they scrubbed the blood from the metal floors and piled the bodies onto the ship.

After that was done, they dis-attached the small vessel and watched it from the open hatch as it plummeted to the twisted hive city below. “That was by far one of the worst places I have ever been.” Spat the man-of-many-names. Silence grunted in agreement.

They closed the hatch and turned around to see a pale Choyle stumble out of the room. He clutched his arm and mumbled and groaned in pain, pointing to the dried up stump. He collapsed onto the floor and everyone grimaced.

“Goblin, get a medicae Servitor online to clean up Choyle.” Barnitt grunted. After a few minutes, a twisted parody of a mixture of flesh and human scooped up the passed out Choyle and took him to the Medicae room.

A few hours later, all that could be seen from the planet of the Band’s beginning was a pale grey and white orb that glittered among the blackness of the void. “Prepare for Void transition.” Shuddered the loudspeakers.