---An Archon's End---

The Archon delighted as the broken man in front of him trembled in fear. His subordinates were busy collecting other specimens all over the town, the terrified screams of the rabble piercing the ominous sound of great fires razing the city. So weak, these mon’keigh, the Archon thought, as he picked the helpless man up by his throat. So pathetically weak. The villagers hadn’t even had time to react to their sudden appearance, the raid tearing through the local militia in record time.

He squeezed softly in the man’s flesh, his nails pressing hard against the skin. He couldn’t understand how a creature so inelegant and foolhardy managed to cover so much of the universe with their filth. Although he had to give them credit; the mon’keigh proved to be resourceful, if nothing else. Their methods and machinery were perhaps crude and inefficient, but they achieved results, something they shared with the Orks, that other persistent blight on the galaxy. So much potential, yet so little experience, his Haemonculus used to say. Used to, as the Archon had been forced to flay the flesh-sculptor after that insidious bastard had taken to ‘experimenting’ on his courtesans. He’d given the flesh-shapers apprentice the honour of punishing his mentor, who took upon the task with an unusual vigour. Unfortunately, the apprentice had been a bit overzealous in his work, which ended in his mentor’s tragic demise. A classic case of the student outclassing the master, the Archon thought smiling. He’d then taken it upon himself to teach the errant apprentice the proper way to flay a man, being so kind as to give him a hands-on demonstration.

The Archon lifted the man closer to his face, bringing him to just about eye-level with his victim. The mon’keigh’s irises were shaking uncontrollably, unable to avert the Archon’s gaze. Just as he was imagining how he was going to torture his new plaything, he felt a slight disturbance in the world around him. Annoyed, he cast a look behind him, scouting the burning ruins around him. The place had once been a dark back-alley, where only those even the mon’keighs referred to as scum resided. The small, curved street coiled between several great wooden houses, which towered over him like silent giants. They were burning now, but the wood held, keeping the structure intact for as long as it could. It was almost a metaphor for the decrepit Imperium these mon’keigh served, he thought, grinning at the image.

But there was something wrong with the scene in front of him. His eyes darted around the landscape, looking for whatever had chosen to disturb him in his work. It was only when he stopped looking around that he realized what had piqued his interest; it had suddenly become a lot quieter.
He was rather puzzled by the information, unable to grasp what could be behind such a change. His Kabal was supposed to be busy rounding up the slaves, and the mon’keigh were supposed to be busy dying. The complete absence of sound of either of those things concerned him. The only sound he could hear was the rumbling sound of the fires eating away at the wooden constructions.

The Archon released his grip on the human’s throat, and turned to the alley’s entrance. He couldn’t see much of the street beyond the entry, the smoke of a burning vehicle blocking his view.
The silence was becoming more ominous, the sound around him dying out even more with each passing minute. The human had started sobbing uncontrollably, his wailing cries a new source of annoyance. The Archon turned around again, planting his heel firmly in the man’s chest.
Be quiet, worm!, he snarled. He was losing his patience rapidly. He turned to the entrance again, angrily peering into the thick smoke. Who dares interrupt me?, he shouted, noticing how frail his own voice had suddenly become.

There came no reply, no battle-cry of a desperate fool or a terrified gasp of a man who just realized his mistake. Only unending, uncaring silence.
Until a presence made itself known.

Without a sound, a hooded figure emerged from the black mist. He was human, judging from his size. The robes the man was wearing reminded the Archon of those machine-obsessed cultists the mon’keigh had running around, but the colour was wrong. They were supposed to be red, if he remembered correctly, but these were black and white, halved in the middle. The man’s face was concealed by his hood, only his eyes vaguely visible as they reflected the dancing flames. He walked slowly towards the entrance, not one of his footsteps piercing the noise of the fires raging above.

So it is you who disturb me in my little performance, the Archon spoke theatrically. No matter, the more souls the merrier, as your kind is so eager to say, he continued, grinning widely. He hadn’t been able to test some of his new toys yet, so an extra test subject was always more than welcome.
Unfazed, the man kept walking, until he was only a few meters away from the Archon. The Archon was starting to feel unusually uncomfortable, a strange sense of dread emanating from the man in front of him.

Have you nothing to say, human? , he asked, careful to add just enough concealed threat to his mocking tone. Don’t worry, I have many ways to make you squeal…
With that, the man opened his robe, revealing a horribly mutated arm, which split into several tentacle-shaped appendages as he quickly adopted a combat stance.

The Archon’s face twisted into an extreme expression of disgust. You sickening abomination!, he spat, drawing his sword in an instant. Your very presence taints reality, you pathetic warp-spawned mongrel! I’ll take great pleasure in sending you back to what miserable hell you crawled out of!

The mutant merely snarled at the remark, and lunged forward towards the Archon, whirling his tentacles in erratic arcs. The Archon responded by grabbing three throwing knives and flinging them at the man’s chest with dazzling swiftness. Three tentacles caught the knives in mid-air, odd-coloured blood sprouting from them as the barbed hooks on the blades dug into the flesh.

The Archon immediately followed up with a burst from his splinter pistol, the toxic shards only nearly missing the mutant’s head as it stormed towards him. One tentacle surged forward at such speed the Archon barely had the time to retract his hand before it hacked his pistol in half. The Archon hissed as he slashed the tentacle in one stroke of his sword, which sent it reeling back in pain. The mutant himself didn’t seem to notice, its eyes firmly fixed on the Archon as it raised another tentacle upwards, bringing it down like an axe made flesh. The Archon caught the blow with his sword, and used the momentum to plant his fist firmly in the monster’s face as he deflected the tentacle to his side.

The mutant staggered backwards, using his tentacles to regain his balance. The Archon charged forward and swung his left leg in a gracious but resolute arc towards the man’s neck. Moments before the Archon’s foot would connect with his throat, the mutant blocked the kick with its normal arm, after which it vehemently pushed the Archon back. With its breathing space regained, the mutant swung back all his tentacles at once, making the shape of a monstrous outstretched hand, each tentacle forming an elongated finger. The tentacles were swung forwards again, as if the mutant was trying to swat a giant fly out of the sky.

The Archon barely dodged the razor-sharp appendages as he leapt into the air and over the mutant, landing just behind his attacker.
Nice trick! the Archon said. Did they teach you that in the kennels?, he added mockingly.

Before he could set eyes on the mutant’s face to see the effect of his taunting, three tentacles burst through the front of his armour. Perplexed, he stared at the fleshy limbs, wondering how something so weak could pierce his armour. His back was fully impaled, his spine severed at three different locations. Somehow, even the combat drugs couldn’t prevent the anguish from taking hold. Somehow, a Dark Eldar, a being which lived and died for pain and excess, found himself in unpleasant agony.

He coughed up a large glob of blood, staining the ground at his feet. His body tensed as he was slowly rotated, until his eyes met the cold, dead gaze of his assailant. He felt a cold sliver of fear descend down his broken body as the monster leaned in closer, until its mouth was practically right in front of his eyes.

Malice is coming, Eldar, the man whispered softly, and he needs… fleeeeessssshhhh…..
The Archon looked over the man’s shoulder in terror as the smoke cleared, revealing several similarly-clad men and women feasting upon the remains of his Kabal. The last thing he saw was a maw filled with rows of small teeth, stretching wide open to swallow his head whole…

---In Death's Company---

Sanguinius leapt forward through the halls, his twin hearts pounding loudly in his chest. The interior of the Vengeful Spirit was especially labyrinthine, debris and fallen crewmen littering the halls. He ran for what seemed like an eternity, his mind set only on one thing.

Horus.

He was close now.

Another corner, another hallway. Strobes of light revealing and concealing the gore of the combat that had taken place here. More running. Endless running. He felt tired. So very tired.
Until finally, he reached the command bridge.

There he was.

Horus.

Horus.

HORUS!

He felt his blood boil, every inch of his body screaming for vengeance. The rage swept and coiled within his mind, and with a bloodthirsty howl he leapt at his brother. Blades spun and clashed, bolters snapped, armor cracked and blood spewed from inflicted wounds. His vision went red as the rage overtook him, the adrenaline screaming in his veins as he took wound after wound, his own blade cutting and stabbing his opponent in blind fury.

Until he heard an unfamiliar sound.

His opponent screamed.

And fell.

He saw Horus, sliding to the floor in pain. He saw his own blade sticking deep in Horus’ chest, and watched as he pulled it gently out of the wound, the edge covered in thick, crimson fluid.

It was almost unreal. He had done it. He had ended the heresy. He had ended the heresy! Horus was dead! His Father- He had to tell his Father! The war was over!

He turned around, joy filling his entire being, and he saw his Father, the Emperor, and several of his marines enter the room. His mouth opened to speak, but the words were cut off when he felt a sharp pain in his chest.

He looked down, and stared at the blade sticking through his flesh. But, how did- Horus was dead, he was-

Suddenly, the room disappeared, as if sucked away by a vortex. For the first time in five decades, Brother Ervelo saw the world as it truly was. The Vengeful Spirit was gone; Praxhia VII remained. The endless hallways changed into ruined hive-blocks, and the command bridge turned into a great battlefield, caked with gore and debris. The Emperor, his beloved Father, was gone. Instead of those dark, powerful eyes, he stared into the emotionless lenses of a skull-shaped helmet.

As he sank to the ground, the Chaplain fired his plasma pistol at the traitor who had struck Ervelo from behind. The Aspiring Champion fell down, finally dead after hours of dueling the crazed Blood Angel. Ervelo slid onto the debris, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His ruined body felt numb, the adrenaline wearing off as quickly as it had risen.

He looked up and he saw the Chaplain standing over him, blood-stained Crozius in one hand and smoldering plasma pistol in the other. The Chaplain calmly holstered his pistol, and reached for his helmet, never losing eye contact with Ervelo as he did so. There was a soft hiss as he removed the ornate helmet from his head, and a clank as he mag-locked it to his belt. His face was heavily scarred on one side, burn marks stretched across his cheek to his ear. The Chaplain kneeled over Ervelo, his stark eyes filled with regret and empathy.

H-have I done well, Brother-Chaplain?, Ervelo asked, his voice trembling as his ravaged lungs tried to grasp the few bits of air they could still take.

You have made the Chapter proud, Brother Ervelo. Many a traitor has fallen by your hand today, the Chaplain spoke softly.

I fear I can s-serve the Chapter n-no longer, Brothe-er-Chaplain… Ervelo’s voice stuttered with each word, as his consciousness began to slip away.

Your gene-seed shall return to the Chapter, Brother. And through it, you shall serve the Emperor again and again. Your legacy will live on, long after you have passed, the Chaplain continued, as he put down his Crozius and used his left hand to support Ervelo, who was slipping further downwards.

Ervelo’s eyes watered, his vision blurred as his consciousness gave away completely. He looked into the Chaplain’s eyes, comforted by his presence. The last words he heard before the light went completely dark, were perhaps the most fitting for one as lost as he had been.

May you find in death what you could not in life, Brother.



-+Incoming data+-
-+sender= Chaplain Leon+-
-+subject= Praxhia VII, Position Alpha-Gamma-XII
-+data=+-
Traitor position overrun. Enemy in full retreat. Forward command post established.

Casualties:
Death Company Squadron II: all members killed in action
Death Company Squadron III: 3 casualties: Brothers Avelon, Matteus and Ervelo
Request transport for surviving members.

The Emperor protects.
-+data_end+-

---Duel in the smoke---

At first, the world was filled with noise.

Virgo’s ears were still ringing from the explosion as he pulled himself up from the debris. The Earthshaker shell had landed right between his tactical squad and the Ork horde, resigning many to the embrace of death. His vision was impaired by the smoke the blast had left behind, a grey mist obscuring the battlefield around him.

I’m going to shoot whoever ordered that bombardment, he thought, grunting as he stood up straight and tried to get his bearings.

As the ringing faded out, Virgo felt the ground tremble softly. The mist impaired his sight and his ears were still ringing loudly in his skull, so he was forced to rely on his other senses. He stood motionless, taking in each movement of the earth. The trembling came from somewhere in front of him, that was certain.

Tremble.

Tremble.

It were footsteps. Large ones. Heavy ones.

Ork ones.

The trembling was heavier now, each footstep pounding the earth like a hammer striking an anvil. The ringing sound had almost disappeared.

There it was.

From the smoke rose a dark silhouette, monstrous in size and shape. It carried a large axe in one hand, and a crude pistol in the other. Virgo watched as it seemed to sniff the air, looking for a suitable prey.

It had found one.

The ringing sound in his ears disappeared fully right as the Ork charged, a mighty roar escaping its throat as it swung its axe in a large arc, aiming for Virgo’s head.

Lively fellow, this one.

Virgo ducked to the left, the blade’s edge missing his head by an inch. He rolled over and landed back on his feet, after which he looked back at his attacker.

He saw the Ork stumble forwards into the smoke, the momentum of his swing having knocked him off-balance. Judging by its size and behavior, it was a Nob, something of an elite amongst the greenskin horde. “Elite” was perhaps being too kind on the brutes, though, as they proved to be just as stupid and inept as their smaller kin.

Still crouching, Virgo used the brief reprieve to check his gear, noting the absence of both his Bolter and Bolt pistol. What was left of his original equipment were a grenade, which would be wasteful to spend on a single Ork, and his combat knife.

His line of thought was broken when a bolt slammed into his shoulder, the pauldron splintering under the impact. He fell backwards unto the debris, as he saw the Nob’s silhouette rise from the smoke once again. The lumbering creature had managed to get back to him faster than he had expected. Thinking quickly, Virgo grabbed the first heavy rock he could find and hurled it at the silhouette, hoping to prevent the Ork from taking a second shot. The Emperor was with him apparently, as the rock hit the Nob straight in the eye, causing it to stagger backwards in pain.

Virgo pushed himself up as fast as he could, and then ran straight at the wailing Ork, hunching as he braced for impact. The Ork had barely wiped the blood out of its remaining eye before it was rammed by the charging Space Marine, who planted his shoulder and elbow firmly into the Nob’s stomach. Virgo smacked the Ork down unto the ground and jumped on top on it,
punching the Ork numerous times in the head. In one swift movement, Virgo pulled his combat knife from its sheath, raised it over his head and brought it down straight into the Nob’s neck.

Gotcha, Virgo thought triumphantly, as he twisted the knife deeper into the wound.

Virgo’s victory was short-lived however, as the Ork merely grunted in pain and slammed its right fist into Virgo’s head, sending him flying. Virgo crashed back into the debris, his head spinning and blood dripping down behind his ears. Even his gene-enhanced body was struggling to compensate for the sheer strength the Ork had displayed in that strike. Virgo swore under his breath, cursing his arrogance for underestimating his opponent. He looked up to see the Ork still slouched on the ground, blood pouring from its wounds. The Nob was breathing heavily, the knife still stuck in its throat. It groaned as it stood up, and slowly raised its pistol for the killing blow…

Only to be interrupted by three bolts striking it from the side, two detonating in its midriff and one reducing its head to a gory paste. The headless Ork dropped to the floor, as Caius, one of Virgo’s squad members, emerged from the smoke. Caius stepped over to the Ork and brought his heel down upon the corpse, repeating the action until his greaves were covered in thick, crimson blood. He then casually walked over to Virgo, reaching out a hand to his fallen brother.

Seems like you ran into some trouble, Virgo, Caius boomed, his vox emitter lacing his words with static.

It would appear so, Brother, Virgo replied, as he took his brothers hand, who pulled him back on his feet. His head was still spinning, but his body was recovering fast now.

You were lucky today, Virgo, Caius continued sternly, Let us hope you are as fortunate next time, lest you end up like that, as he looked back at the Ork’s corpse.

Virgo laughed heartily, concealing his embarrassment. I don’t fear death, Brother, he smiled, certainly not with you around. You should be promoted to the Honour Guard, really, you seem to have a hidden talent for being a guardian angel.

Caius slapped him on the shoulder pad, a soft rumbling sound coming from his helmet. Virgo recognized it as the old warrior’s amused snort.

Very funny, Caius replied, taking a good look at Virgo. Seems like you’ve lost your weapons, Brother.

Virgo groaned. Aye. The blast must’ve swung them away. No chance of finding them in this blasted smoke, though.

Caius nodded in agreement. He reached to his belt and unholstered his sidearm. We’ll look for them later, he said, as he handed Virgo the Bolt pistol, Now, we must regroup with the rest of our brothers. With any luck, we won’t have to save them from rampaging Orks, unlike certain individuals.

Virgo smirked at the remark. Don’t speak too soon, old friend. Who knows, maybe I’ll have to save you next time, he replied, as they starting walking into the smoke.

Caius only grunted in reply. As they passed the dead Nob, Virgo crouched down and pulled his combat knife from the beast’s throat. He was ashamed by his foolishness, but it would be a cold day on Nocturne before he’d ever admit that to Caius. Underestimating the sluggish greenskins had been far too easy. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

In the distance, bolter fire and screams could be heard.

It was going to be a long day.

---Abaddon's Lament---

Abaddon strode into the Imperial Palace, distant screams his only companion in the echoing halls. The Talon of Horus crackled with energy, as if it could sense Abaddon’s excitement. Abaddon grinned as he surged towards his final objective, finding his way through the massive complex with ease. Seems like those Custodians had a use after all, he thought, reminiscing the moment his forces had raided their barracks. The fighting had been fierce, but they had managed to capture one alive in the end. His cabal of sorcerers had scoured the poor man’s soul for every last scrap of information he possessed, leaving him an empty husk by the end of the ordeal. His sacrifice had not been in vain; the knowledge of the secret passages had aided his forces tremendously in ravaging the defenders completely.

As he ran through the seemingly endless hallway, he couldn’t help but glance at his surroundings with a sense of envy. Each visible surface was covered in beautiful frescos, intricately woven tapestries and glorious golden statues, each detailing the many victories of the Saviour of Mankind. He growled as he passed them, his mind filling with bitterness and scorn. Soon, he would rip these vain glorifications from their place and shatter them beneath his feet. There would be no more praise for the wretched corpse he had despised for more than ten thousand years. The walls would be covered with his victories, his triumph over the weak Imperium, his weak father and the abomination which had spawned them both.

Although he had to admit, he had felt a certain hesitance towards destroying such works of art when he and his forces had reached the statues of the Primarchs earlier in the battle. Not out of sentiment, mind you; he had only wondered whether he would rather tear them all down or leave them standing so he could defile them later.

His mind was brought back to the present by the distant staccato of bolter fire, followed by more superhuman cries. Both the Imperial and Chaos forces were fighting on until the bitter end, even now. These final hours had seen Abaddon’s force shrink more and more, until finally only he and a few scattered marines remained. The Loyalists fared no better; the brutal siege had effectively ended the Imperial Fists Chapter, even if they had taken the Iron Warriors with them to the grave, the Custodians were all but crushed, the Assassinorum Temples burned and even the Grey Knights had been torn asunder by the sheer ferocity of this final Black Crusade. The other Loyalist Chapters were either long-gone or fighting a losing battle elsewhere, on Terra or in parts unknown.

He smiled, and continued down his path towards the Corpse-Emperor. The Dark Gods have given him great power, the power to get this far, but they foolishly believed they controlled him. Killing the Emperor and claiming the Imperium for himself would show all that he was in control, that he and only he had the right to rule over the galaxy.

Said right had been challenged all too often the past years. Several Chaos Lords had tried to usurp him, including the dreaded Daemon Primarchs. All of them had failed, even the likes of Fulgrim and Angron had been unable to strike him down. He remembered each of them well, cowards and twice-traitors all of them, scheming and plotting even as he lay siege to Terra, preparing themselves for the moment they could slide the knife into his back.

Huron Blackheart’s skull still ticked against Abaddon’s armour, hanging from a chain around his neck, next to the vile visages of Lucius the Eternal and Erebus.

No-one could stop him now. No-one.

[currently processing remaining data]

---A Sister's Last Stand---

"Run to the temple, children! Hurry!" Marghareta shouted, before turning to their pursuers. Her bolter spat its holy ammunition into the ranks of the oncoming cultists, exploding several of them into gory chunks. Undeterred, the maddened horde pressed on, closing in on her position, their bloodthirsty howls promising only death for all they could find. Bolts slammed into flesh, tearing apart limbs, splitting torsos and showering blood across the battlefield, staining the sacred ground before the holy church with deep shades of red.

Many of Marghareta’s Sisters had likewise fallen that day, the sudden uprising having caught many off-guard. She remembered the commotion outside the chapel she and her Sisters had been visiting, the hail of gunfire bursting through the ancient door, Sister Amelia and Sister Moira falling to the floor, their bodies riddled with gaping holes. Those who survived the first onslaught had ducked behind the heavy wooden pews, their bolters unloading in unison in response. But as valiant as the Sisters had fought, the Warp-damned cultists had kept coming until they had been forced to abandon the chapel.

The retreat was one executed in shame. Each of them would have preferred fighting the cultists until death claimed them, but Sister Superior Hanna had reminded them of their sacred oath; to protect, and serve, those too weak to protect themselves. Dying in that chapel would damn so many others who could use their aid. That was an undeniable truth.

But it had not saved her from death.

They’d ran all across the city, looking for survivors, helping the few PDF troopers they could find. The entire hive was in ruins, massacres taking place around every corner. The PDF took the worst of it; while the Sisters could be described as ambushed, the PDF were better referred to as slaughtered. Traitors from within their own ranks had turned several automated gun emplacements against their unsuspecting comrades, leaving a trail of anarchy and confusion in its wake. She remembered the PDF outpost they had passed along the way.

She wished she didn’t.

The group had been ambushed again in a back-alley of the hab-blocks, while they were escorting several terrified civilians to one of the few PDF outposts still in operation. They were about halfway the alley when a sniper blew off Sister Superior Hanna’s head in one shot, sending chunks of teeth and bone flying in all directions. Stubber fire from the rooftops cut through the civilians like a scythe through a corn field. Anarchy reigned as the sisters tried to shout over the screams of the dying and the noise of gunfire which poured from the windows and rooftops.
It was only by chance that she had survived the carnage. An explosion had swung her off her feet, sending her crashing through the window of an abandoned building. She’d awoken several hours later, covered in debris, surrounded by the smell of decaying corpses. The grenade blast had mauled her armour pretty badly, but her weapons were still in good shape. Against her better judgement, she’d taken a look out of the window she’d been propelled through.

The sight made her gag.

Marghareta’s sisters had been shot apart, most of them slouched against the remains of their cover, where each of them had stubbornly kept fighting from until death had found them. She saw a sister sitting in a corner, a hundred bullet holes torn into the walls as the cultists had focused their fire on the lone sister. Another lay face down over a pile of debris, her back covered in blood, her discarded bolter still smoking beside her.

It had been a massacre. She’d turned away, unable to look further, as she knew there were no survivors except for herself. She stumbled out of the abandoned building, her legs still shaking from the blast that had knocked her out. She wandered aimlessly through the city, her grief robbing her mind of coherent thought. Somehow she made it to the outpost, where her fractured mind and body gave in to the darkness of unconsciousness once more.

[currently processing remaining data]

---Strike like Lightning---

“Jubai, are you in position?”

Jubai was peering into the dark crevice in front of him when Kuban Khan’s voice buzzed in his ears. He detected a hint of impatience in his Khan’s voice, which was unusual for the usually calm and collected Chogorian. But Jubai understood his Khan’s changed demeanour. The campaign against these vile Xenos had been a gruelling affair, one that had been going on for way longer than any of the senior officers had liked. Every chance to eliminate another strain, another hive of the monstrous pests that plagued this system was welcomed with open arms, each slain hive-node bringing them closer to finally putting an end to this conflict.

It was Jubai’s first extermination campaign, but he knew it would not be his last. He knew all too well that this was only one race of Xenos of the millions that roamed the galaxy, blighting the Imperium’s domains with their presence. His father, the great Khan, the child of Heaven itself, had vowed to take his great hunt across the stars, so that the people of the Imperium would never again live in fear of the Xenos.

Jubai repeated those words in his mind as he made the final adjustments to his equipment. Today, he would be the instrument of his Father’s will, and turn His words into deeds. The Xenos would fall by his hand – and his alone.

He inspected his Guan Dao for the last time, tracing the blade’s edge with his eyes. The blade was razor-sharp, its energy field crackling softly as arcane power surged across its surface. It was a fine weapon, honed in countless battles, its shaft covered in Khorchin characters and icons from Talskar mythology. In combination with his trusty Jetbike, the Power Lance became the bringer of swift and inescapable death. It would serve him well this day.

He mounted his metallic steed, powering up its engines as he activated his vox-link.

“I am ready to serve, Kuban Khan”, Jubai replied, his helmet already mapping an ideal course through the maze of caverns. The tunnel network was vast, going far deeper into the planet as anyone had expected, but multiple scouting operations had provided the White Scars with enough intelligence to plan a strike against this planet’s hive.

“You know what to do, Brother Jubai”, Kuban Khan spoke. “May the Heavens watch over your Path.”

Jubai fired the Jetbike’s engines, and sped into the darkness of the crevice.

What was known of these Xenos, or more importantly, what was known with a level of certainty, were three things. The first was that they were violent, sadistic creatures that sought only to slaughter and consume whatever came in their grasp. The second was that the creatures themselves had little intellect nor sentience, but were guided in their actions by a Hive-mind, which was usually located in the deepest part of the tunnel networks these Xenos dug out of whatever planet they were infesting.

The last, perhaps peculiarly, was that the Xenos went into hibernation for several hours each year, hiding themselves deep in their caverns until the Hive-mind roused them again.
The Xenos had gone into hibernation three hours ago. Three more hours remained before the Hive-mind would send its subjects outwards again.

It was the perfect moment to strike. But there was a catch.

The Hive-mind knew of its own weakness, and had found a way to counter it. Vanguard creatures, stationed in hibernation in the upper parts of the tunnel networks, would awaken at the first sign of intrusion and could alert the entire hive in a matter of seconds. Many an expedition had fallen to the vanguard creatures, and those who made it through the first line of defence had found themselves suddenly facing the entire Hive.

The vanguard creatures were not infallible, however. A Magos Biologis seconded to the Expedition Fleet had analysed recovered corpses and had discovered that the vanguard had a reaction time of exactly 5.3712 seconds.

Which meant that Jubai had only five seconds before the Hive’s defences would awaken properly. Five seconds before every Xenos inside this wretched place would be wide-awake and ready to descend upon him like a tidal wave.

That thought passed his mind as he raced past the first line of the vanguard creatures.

Five.

The Jetbike screamed beneath him, even its modified engines straining to maintain the wicked speed at which he was travelling. It was fortunate that the creatures were deaf, for the engines of his Jetbike roared mightily as they burned through their fuel reserves, lunging forward through the tunnels. He knew it would not fail him. Not this day.

Four.

Jubai raced through the tunnels, frantically following the course his helmet projected on his visor. Soon, the small and cramped tunnels opened up into a great cavern, its walls lined with row after row of hibernating creatures. In the room’s centre sat the bubbling mass that was the Hive-mind.

Three.

He raised his Power Lance, aiming its adamantium tip at the throbbing center of the Hive. It shone brightly within the dark, damp cavern, the meagre light coming through the holes in the ceiling giving its cutting edge a deadly glint.

Two.

The sensors in his helmet struggled to keep up with the rapidly changing landscape as he zoomed past stalagmites and Xenos breeding pens. His visor was flooded with warning signals as he narrowly dodged obstacle after obstacle, cutting a path through the infested terrain at a frightening pace.

One.

The first animalistic screams echoed through the vast chamber, the vanguard creatures finally detecting a disturbance within their home. Rows and rows of malicious, green eyes lit up the walls, the clatter of chitinous hides signalling the Xenos creatures awakening in unison, audience to the imminent death of their core.

Zero.

The spear sliced the convulsing mass that was the Hive’s center in half in one clean stroke. Jubai did not even turn to see the result of his actions; by the time the top half slumped unto the rocky floor of the cavern, he was already at the other end of the room.

The Xenos, robbed of their collective Hivemind, dropped from the walls like flies, the light in their eyes dimmed as the resulting psychic shock fried their wiry brains.

---The Thirteenth Hour---

Thirteen hours.

It’d been thirteen hours since our entire Host landed on this world. A hundred Astartes, three Dreadnoughts and several armoured support units, including two Knights from House Venati, deployed by Drop-pod and Thunderhawk to the war-torn surface of Xsylla XII.

Four hours later, half of that strike-force was dead.

I peered around the corner of the ruined apartment block, clutching my bolter tightly in my trembling hands. A horrid mass of pinkish flesh and bright blue crystalline armour crawled across the street, its four spider-like legs ticking on the rockcrete floor, biological weapons following the motions of the beast’s twelve eyestalks. From somewhere within that monstrous shape came a flood of guttural sounds, resounding between the walls of the Hive. Somewhere in the distance, its calls were answered by more of its kin.

This should have been a simple extermination campaign. It would have been, too, if Host Master Amideus hadn’t dismissed all the evidence of the Zhademi invasion being far larger than initially reported, and if he hadn’t then decided the Host would deal with the Zhademi forces in direct combat rather than eliminating the threat from orbit, as was Crusade protocol.

The Zhademi warrior skittered closer, at present still unaware of my presence. I checked my Bolter again, counting how many rounds I had left. My helmet had been ripped off during my last engagement with the Xenos, and it had been too damaged to recover afterwards, forcing me to keep track of my ammunition manually.

I counted twelve rounds, my shaking fingers making it difficult to properly hold the clip in my hand. Had I been fighting anything other than the Zhademi, those twelve bolts would have been more than sufficient to deal with any threats I would come across the coming hours. Now, I could only hope I could outrun the Xenos as long as possible.

I heard the Zhademi warrior move again, this time away from my position. I almost audibly sighed in relief. With it out of the way, I could cross the street unseen and then-

Suddenly, a figure burst into my view from the other end of the street. I barely registered it as it made a beeline towards the Zhademi warrior’s turned back, only recognizing it as Host Master Amideus when he sped past my position. Panic coursed through my veins as I realized he was holding his Power Axe and appeared dead-set on engaging the Zhademi in close-combat. My hand almost dropped my Bolter as my hands reached out to him, a warning halfway across my lips when I heard him bellow a warcry.

“FOR THE EMPEROR!”, Amideus shouted, bringing his war-axe down on the Zhademi warrior’s back. The beast’s eyestalks had been turning slowly towards the disturbance when Amideus’ axe hacked into its crystalline armour, sending chunks of alien flesh and crystal flying. The Zhademi screeched in pain, turning around with frightening speed as it attempted to get a bead on the rampaging Astartes tearing into its back.

Amideus rolled under the monster’s body, evading a burst of fire from its biological weapons. I knew for a fact that he wouldn’t last another minute if I didn’t intervene, so with a curse I lined up my shot and peppered the Zhademi’s body and head with my remaining bolts. Three bolts cracked the crystal armour covering the beast’s torso and a fourth detonated two of its eyestalks, sending it into a mighty rage. I ducked back into cover as it unleashed its bio-weapons on my position, acid projectiles slamming into the walls of the alley.

My intervention proved to be a useful distraction, as Amideus managed to get behind the Zhademi again, cutting its right legs off in a single swipe. It roared in anguish once more, swinging its bio-weapons around rapidly, using them as blunt weaponry against his attacker. Amideus was too slow to dodge them a second time and was launched through the air, landing on an abandoned civilian vehicle. The beast then limped towards the fallen Astartes, intent on delivering the killing blow.

Its back now turned to me, I rushed into the street, aiming for the Zhademi’s ruined back. Five bolts smashed through the hacked-open crystalline armour, detonating inside the soft tissue underneath. The Zhademi imploded messily, a final roar of defiance escaping what could be interpreted as its mouth as it slumped to the ground. Its body twitched a few times before finally becoming still, a pool of purple blood forming underneath it.

Slowly, I advanced on the Zhademi’s corpse. The adrenaline pumping in my veins ebbed away with every step I took, my hands untightening from my Bolter’s grip as I approached the dead Xenos. Its purple blood sizzled on the rockcrete, steam rising from the bloody mess that had been its back. Amideus walked over to me, dusting off his shoulder pads, a triumphant grin on his face.

Had he not been my Host Master, I would have punched him in the face for his blatant stupidity. Perhaps I should have.

Not that it would have changed much.

“Brother!”, he spoke, enthusiasm evident in his voice. “Quite a fight these Xenos can put up, isn’t it?”

I didn’t respond, instead opting to check my Bolter again. With a sigh, I acknowledged what I already knew; only three bolts remained now. Amideus didn’t even notice my lack of response; that, or he simply didn’t care.

“I was on my way to a rendezvous-point when I ran into this one here”, he continued, kicking the Zhademi’s corpse softly. “Would you care to join me, Brother?”

It wasn’t a question. He merely phrased it that way to give me the illusion of choice.

“I’m out of ammunition, Host Master”, I replied, avoiding the question.

“Ah. Most… unfortunate”, Amideus spoke, his smile fading somewhat. Somewhat hesitantly, he unholstered his Bolt pistol and threw it to me.

“Use this, Brother. I will make do with my axe”, he continued, the smile returning as he traced his axe's razor-shap edge.

As he walked off into the distance, he half-turned to me, his eyes blinking with excitement.

“Stand with me, brother, and together we will ride this storm.”

He thought he was being a heroic leader, inspiring his loyal forces with a powerful speech. The fact that I was the only one there didn't seem to shatter the illusion.

And with that, he took off again, roaring praise to the Emperor as he stormed off towards his next triumph.

I stood vigil over his corpse not an hour later, caked in mud, dirt and blood, waiting for a rescue party to pick up the Host Master’s remains. Even our last battle had not managed to wipe that arrogant smile off his face. He died as he had lived, fighting for the Emperor and his Legion in the only way he knew how, and he had damned us all by doing so. And now he lay there, smiling, unburdened by the havoc his reckless ambition had unleashed upon this planet - and upon his Host.

I felt nothing when I put a bolt into his skull. I would not suffer his arrogance any longer.

---The Ghost in the Shell---

I’ve always liked the rain.

It used to remind me of how I felt inside, once. How my inner emotions, the turmoil that was caught in my heart, roared inside my body, whipping and screaming against the cruelties of life as the days ticked by endlessly.

Now it only reminds me of what I wish I could still feel.

The rain streams down my armour plating. I used to like that feeling. The water dripping down my chest. Feeling it drench my entire body, until my clothes stuck to my skin as if they had been glued onto it and my eyes were drowned by the raindrops. The water still drips down my chest.

Yet I feel it no longer.

My giant metal frame tilts upwards. The joints whirr pleasingly as they move into place. I remember them being flesh, once. No complex machinery, soothing oils or stability calculations. Only flesh, and bone. Smooth, curved muscles, rather than bulky hydraulics. It seems so long ago.

Maybe it is.

My tireless eyes gaze into the steel-coloured sky. I see the raindrops falling down on me. Like shooting stars, they pass ever briefly in my vision, speeding off to parts unknown. I don’t have to squint my eyes anymore to see through the downpour. My mechanical visors require no eyelids.

I must say I don’t remember why they took mine as well.

Motionless, I let the torrent slide over my body. It’s peaceful out here. Aside from the electrical buzz of my engines, there is nothing but the rain. It clatters on the stones, on the soil, on my armour. On the dead, lying under my feet. My scanners tell me they were traitors, worthy only of scorn. Worthy only of death.

Death. A strange concept, now.

I cannot remember how long I have lived. I remember only being activated, when the need arose. The priest administering the activation rites, preparing my machine spirit for war. I have seen many faces in my time awake. Soldiers, priests, acolytes. Heretics, traitors, daemons. Some were healthy, some were wounded. Most were dead, or dying.

Such is a life spent in service of war.

The wind howls dimly over the landscape. The battle had been a long one. Traitor and Loyalist had clashed in this valley, as they had a thousand times before. Both sides craved domination over this world, and the forge of the Omnissiah nestled deep within its bowels.

The Mechanicum did not stand at the front; the Imperial Guard held the line, as it always has, and the tech-priests were all too eager to sacrifice them if it meant they could save more of their precious machines.

It is strange.

Their contempt for mortal flesh runs deep, deeper than blood and bone. It does not run through their veins, nor does it rage in their hearts.

It is coded within their very souls.

I cannot remember why I am allowed the freedom that is thought. However, I remember a Tech-Priest, an ancient one. He was different. Different than most.

He did not carry this virus, this bug, which drives his peers towards hatred of the flesh.

He regretted many things.

I was one of those things.

My data is inconclusive on what happened before my ascension. I cannot access the specifics of my creation; I lack the required security clearance. My only memory of the event is that he was there. It was he who wielded the surgical tools that reshaped my existence.

By his hand, I was reborn.

He released me from my flesh, my body. He released me from mortality. The Ommnissiah would watch over me eternally.

By his hand, I was enslaved.

He replaced my limbs with mechanical parts, my veins with bright coloured cables, my blood with oil. The delicate tissue of my brain was consumed by hungry machinery, wires forcefully entering the wounds, snaking through my mind like parasites. Numbers, endless numbers, flashing before my eyes as I screamed for salvation. I screamed until my throat was ripped out and a vox emitter was jammed in the bloodied cavity. I cried, endlessly, as my eyes were punctured and dragged out of my skull.

And by his hand, and his hand alone, I was given life.

I felt a sharp sensation at the base of my skull, and suddenly, the pain evaporated. My mind was clear, the overload of sensations unexpectedly blocked off, as if it had never been there to begin with. My eyes opened, never to close again, and I saw the world in a different light. I felt my new body, the intricate machinery, every fiber and wire, working in unison. I had died, and had been given life once more.

Life beyond death.

My metal limbs whirred and ticked as I moved them for the first time. I felt gears and hydraulics noiselessly guiding my actions. I heard and saw things I would never have perceived as a human. The subtle flickering of the light above me, as the energy that powered it came with a delay of 0.26 seconds between each pulse. The barely audible humming of the massive generator deep within the bowels of the facility.

Life beyond flesh.

I was human no longer. My flesh had been cast aside in favor of metal and steel. My mind was no longer my own; I was now a servant to the Machine-God, who required only obedience and servitude.

That last fact seemed to trouble the ancient tech-priest.

Later, I was transferred to an armoury, where I was bonded to the war-machine I would lead into battle. It was a massive walker, almost human in shape. The irony is not lost upon me.

The process was painless this time. I was placed in an opening in the giant figure’s chest, my augmentations interacting with the machine’s own systems almost immediately. Wires extruded from my body, connecting me fully to my new form. As the chest panels closed before my eyes, I became one with this giant, my own body numbing as my mind gained control over the machine’s great mechanical limbs. I was put in stand-by, data streams providing me with the necessary information on my weapon systems and functions.

Deep in the night, or at least, my data told me it was night, I was visited by the ancient tech-priest. He had stood there, his eyes firmly locked on mine. His face was entirely mechanical, but even that did not disguise the traces of regret carved in them. Slowly, he had reached out a metallic hand, placing it on my chest.

++I cannot give you back the life you once had++, he had whispered softly, as if the words would damn him in the eyes of his fellows.

Perhaps they would.

++You deserve better than to become a mindless slave++, he continued, his face turning into a scowl as he spoke. ++This is not what the Omnissiah wants from us. It is not what He wants from you. ++

I did not understand at the time. I had no capacity to think. My place was to be a servant to the Omnissiah’s will, and nothing else.

He reached out to me, mechandrites from his back unlocking the chest piece that had entombed me. As the panels slid open again, the tech-priest had raised his arm, the mechanical limb stretching as it covered the distance between us. His fingers extended in multiple segments as they softly grazed over what remained of my skull.

My main systems blacked out when he reached into my control nexus, a necessary precaution against data corruption. At least, that is what my systems tell me.

When they came back online, the tech-priest was gone. The only remnant of his presence was a thin line of blood trickling down from my skull.

The following day, the younger tech-priests made their final inspections, before the war-machines of the Omnissiah would be sent out to fight his enemies where they were to be found. They took no notice of the fact my chest piece was not supposed to be open, nor did they see the dried blood on my forehead. They merely closed my chestpiece, entombing me once more.

But my tomb was quiet no longer.

I am called to the present once more by a stream of data pouring into my systems. I am to move exactly three kilometers eastward, in accordance with the coordinates I have been provided with. The Guard is pushing up now that the traitors’ ranks are broken open, it seems.

And so, as the rain still pours down upon me, I set myself in motion once more. The earth quakes with each step as I begin my march towards another battle in an unending war.

I am a servant of the Omnissiah. I am the extension of His will. I am the instrument of His wrath, and the death of those who oppose Him.

And I am free.

---The Price of Absolution---

Hive Antenora burned.

Governor Vassago drew his cloak closer to his body as he traversed the ruined streets of what had once been the crowning jewel of Canto XXXI. The void shields had finally died, murdered by the thousand stabs of the Black Legion’s artillery fire. Even now, shells were landing all over the city, laying waste to its proud avenues, toppling the palaces of the Ecclesiarchy and immolating the modest civilian houses he had once held dear. His Hive was dying.

He caught his breath behind the burning wreck of a civilian vehicle. There were dozens of them in this street alone, all belonging to citizens that had tried to make their way out of the Hive at the last moment. He could only hope some of them had made it to Maro’s Valkyries. The old Guardsman might have been a pain in his backside on occasion, he had been loyal to a fault, and although Vassago would never truly admit it, he’d grown rather fond of the old man.

His muscles protested as he brought himself to move on. He’d barely made it out of the Spire of Command after an errant shell had blasted the control centre, and his body felt bruised and wounded. As he ran, he glanced a look over his shoulder, to catch a glimpse of the place from which he had coordinated the defence of an entire sector until this very day. The Spire still stood, defiantly, its majestic form tarnished by ash and fire. The great statues that formed its flanks looked down on him, their stone eyes gazing at him from beneath their gold-encrusted hoods.
Vassago shuddered, a cold shiver travelling down his spine as he looked away from the statues’ accusing gazes. He had left his own men to die. Another sin he would one day have to pay for.

He just prayed it would not be the Dark Angels carrying out the sentence.

The sound of raw voices and gunshots broke him out of his reveries. From an adjacent street approached a band of armed men, wearing ragged uniforms and rusty autoguns. Whether they were looters, deserters or traitors, Vassago couldn’t tell. Before the group limped three Guardsmen, each with his hands above his head.

“Keep walking, scum! Or I’ll execute you for in-sub-or-di-nation!”, the group’s leader yelled, as he fired a round right past the slowest Guardsman’s head. Vassago growled. The leader was wearing a Commissar’s cap, probably looted from his last victim. The other men laughed, bawling loudly when one of the Guardsmen collapsed. The leader walked up to the man, turned him around with a kick and shot him once in the head, pausing only to spit in the dead man’s face. The other looters rushed towards the corpse, shouting and screaming as they tried to take the spoils for themselves.

Vassago clenched his hands into fists. It was time to remind these men of Hive Antenora’s primordial law.

No sin goes unpunished. Not anymore.