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This is a short, four-chapter story based in the Grimdark Future setting of One Page Rules. Similar to other sci fi tabletop games; different as all of them are. I'm not entirely finished writing the story yet; I'll post updates here as the inspiration strikes me.

I'll put up the story starting with the next post and leave this as a little introduction. I wrote a blurb to describe it:

"In the Sirius Sector, a monastic order protecting the planet Aethel are faced with a stark choice: to join a galaxy-spanning alliance which will view them as mere numbers on a spreadsheet, or resist and risk an invasion. Their situation isn't helped when a third party offers help from the shadows - with a price that seems too simple and easy.

"Every choice is imperfect. Every action bears costs. Every path leads to one form of damnation or another. But the planet's simple colonists can't hold out forever."

I don't own the setting, and only the characters and plot are my own ideas. I don't know if I have to state that, but it feels safer to do so.

The clinic hummed with a sterile quiet, a stark contrast to the persistent clack-clack-whirr emanating from a diagnostic bay. Sister Solace, her power armor’s joint seals whining faintly with each precise movement, knelt beside a malfunctioning med-bot. Its optical sensors, usually a soothing cerulean, flickered with an agitated orange glow. A thin wisp of acrid smoke curled from a popped casing, the metallic scent faint against the clinic’s antiseptic air.

“Easy, little one,” Solace murmured, her voice a calm counterpoint to the machine’s distress. Her gauntleted fingers, surprisingly nimble, navigated the intricate wiring. This particular model, a battered older unit known affectionately as ‘Healer-7,’ had seen the silent suffering of a thousand scraped knees and mended bones. Its diagnostic screen scrolled through lines of corrupted code, a binary fever dream.

A small shadow fell across the bay. Kael, a child of no more than six cycles, peered over Solace’s shoulder, his wide eyes reflecting the med-bot’s frantic lights. He clutched a crudely carved wooden bird, its wings chipped from countless landings. “Is Healer-7 going to be okay, Sister Solace?” he whispered, his voice laced with the quiet anxiety only a child could feel for a trusted mechanical companion.

Solace offered a reassuring smile, though her visor obscured the full warmth of it. “Healer-7 is a tough old soul. Just needs a little persuasion.” She selected a minuscule optic-fiber tool from her kit, its tip glowing with a soft, analytical light. The colonists of Aethel, accustomed to the seamless efficiency of their automated world, rarely saw such mechanical frailty. Their lives were woven into the predictable rhythms of robotic tenders, cultivators, and caregivers. The Sisters, few as they were, provided the unpredictable, the human touch: defense, healing, and faith.

With a final, delicate prod, a soft thrum resonated through the med-bot. The orange flicker vanished, replaced by a steady, serene blue. The whirring smoothed into a gentle purr. Healer-7’s manipulator arm extended, offering Kael a small, wrapped nutrient paste – a standard gesture of comfort, even if the child was not in need of medical attention.
Kael giggled, taking the paste. “You fixed it, Sister!”

“We fixed it,” Solace corrected gently, gesturing to the med-bot. She rose, her armor quiet now, surveying the pristine clinic. Every surface gleamed, polished by the tireless hands of service-bots. This was Seraph’s Rest, the heart of the colony, a haven of tranquility guarded by thirty Sisters and their unwavering conviction. The smooth operation of a thousand such systems across Aethel was a testament not just to the robots, but to the quiet, ceaseless guardianship of High Sister Mercy, who understood that true peace was built on both automated efficiency and watchful, selfless devotion.

Somewhere beyond the clinic walls, a vibration stirred the dust. The old med-bot turned its head slightly, as if it too felt the unease.

---

The tranquil hum of Aethel's automated life shattered. A deep, resonant thrum vibrated through the very ground, escalating into a roar that dwarfed any natural storm. From the azure skies, a colossal shadow descended, blotting out the twin suns. The Iron Resolve, a spearhead of grim grey steel and scarred adamantium, plunged through the atmosphere, its thrusters spitting columns of superheated air. It settled with an earth-shaking shudder just beyond Seraph’s Rest, a brutalist monument to conquest amidst the colony's serene, low-slung domes.

Even the diligent service-bots paused, their optical sensors swiveling in unison, bewildered by the sheer scale of the intrusion. Colonists, drawn from their tranquil routines, emerged from habitat modules, their peaceful faces etched with a mixture of awe and nascent fear. They had known no invaders in generations, only the occasional alien predator handled by their Sisters. This was something entirely different.

A heavy ramp hissed down from the Iron Resolve's belly, disgorging a tide of armored might. Master Brother Varek strode forth, his plasma gun held ready, its internal coils a dormant menace. He was an edifice of polished black and grim gold, every inch of him radiating unyielding authority. Beside him, Brother Garrik’s flamethrower gleamed, a promise of cleansing fire, while Brother Doren’s chainsaw, teeth sharp and oiled, hung from his hip like an impatient beast. Behind them, sixty Battle Brothers, a disciplined phalanx of unblinking visors and heavy bolters, fanned out, securing a perimeter with chilling efficiency.

At Varek's side, a figure cloaked in dark, unadorned robes moved with a subtle, almost ethereal grace: Elyas. His eyes, though shadowed beneath his cowl, seemed to drink in the very air of Aethel, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through him. He was a conduit for whispers from the newly formed Conduit, a nascent entity whose directives, while absolute, often lacked clarity.

Varek’s voice, amplified by his helmet’s voice filter, resonated across the clearing, formal and precise, yet carrying an undeniable edge of impatience. “Greetings, citizens of Aethel. We are the vanguard of the Human Alliance, here to extend the benevolent protection and administrative embrace of the Conduit. By order of the Founder’s reborn will, this world, and all its inhabitants, are now designated for integration. Your compliance is expected, and immediate.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken demands. The colonists recoiled, murmurs rippling through their ranks like a frightened flock. Integration meant taxes, oversight, and an end to their quiet autonomy—things alien to their simple existence. Their eyes, wide with a quiet desperation, turned not to the hulking figures of the Battle Brothers, but instinctively towards the distant, less imposing spires of the Sisters' convent, a silent plea for protection forming in their collective gaze.

High Sister Mercy strode out from the convent, her thirty Blessed Sisters forming a silent, watchful semi-circle behind her. Her polished white power armor, emblazoned with the delicate floral motif of their order, seemed to absorb the harsh glare of the twin suns, reflecting their light rather than being consumed by it. She carried her formidable energy mace resting against her shoulder, its head a dull, latent thrum, while her heavy shield was strapped to her forearm. There was no aggression in her posture, only an unshakeable resolve that seemed to ripple through the air, pushing back against the oppressive presence of the Iron Resolve.

She stopped a respectful distance from Varek, far enough to show deference, close enough to convey parity. Her visor remained down, but the sincerity in her voice was palpable through her communication link. “Master Brother Varek, greetings. I am Mercy, High Sister of the Blessed Sisters of Aethel. Your arrival is… unexpected. For generations, this world has thrived under our stewardship, in peace and autonomy.”

Varek’s helmeted head tilted almost imperceptibly. “High Sister Mercy. Your order is known to us, a part of the nascent Human Alliance, though your autonomy is, shall we say, unique in its extent.” His voice retained its formal cadence, but the impatience was a cold undercurrent. “The Conduit’s will is absolute. It perceives a need for Aethel’s integration. Psychic advisor Elyas received a clear vision.” He gestured to the cloaked figure beside him.

Elyas shifted, a slight, almost imperceptible flinch. His voice, thin and reedy, sliced through Varek’s booming delivery. “The vision was… fragmented. Echoes. Dimensional echoes of… confluence. The Conduit desires… order.” He coughed, a dry, rattling sound, as if the very act of speaking strained his connection.

Mercy turned her head slightly towards Elyas, a rare flicker of curiosity. Then her gaze returned to Varek, unwavering. “Order, Master Brother, does not necessarily equate to subjugation. The people of Aethel are simple, peaceful. They desire only to be left to their quiet lives. They contribute no resources of value to the wider galaxy, nor do they pose any threat. Their well-being is our sacred trust.”

The colonists behind Mercy stirred, their quiet murmurs growing into a unified, desperate plea. “Please, Sister… don’t let them… keep us safe…” Their voices, soft as rustling leaves, carried across the clearing.

Varek’s hand, encased in a heavy gauntlet, tightened almost imperceptibly on his plasma gun. “Sentiment, High Sister, cannot supersede the imperative of the Conduit. The Alliance seeks to unify, to bring all human worlds under its protective aegis. Compliance ensures this protection.” He paused, his tone hardening. “Refusal… invites an alternative interpretation of protection. We will secure this world. With or without your cooperation.”

A tense silence descended. Mercy stood unmoving, her white armor a beacon against the grey might of the Battle Brothers. The weight of her vow, the silent pleas of the colonists, and the grim resolve of Varek hung heavy in the air.

---

The air in Mercy’s private chambers felt heavier than her mace. The room was spartan, a single cot, a prayer lectern, and a small, potted flower on a low table – a gift from Solace, a vibrant splash of color against the austere walls. Now, its petals were beginning to curl inwards, a faint browning at the edges.

Solace stood before Mercy, her posture rigid, her guilt a palpable shroud beneath her armor. “High Sister,” she began, her voice tight, “I… I failed. I told them of the Battle Brothers, of the risks. I spoke of the strength of the Alliance, of the peace it could bring. I believed it would be for the best. To avoid bloodshed.” Her gaze dropped to the floor, fixated on a scuff mark on the polished durasteel. “I thought… efficiency. Not… this.” She gestured vaguely towards the window, where the looming shadow of the Iron Resolve darkened the setting sun.

Mercy remained silent for a long moment, her thoughts a tangled knot of faith, duty, and impossible choices. She had seen the Battle Brother’s numbers, tasted Varek’s grim certainty. Thirty Sisters against sixty, even with their med-bots, was a suicide pact for the colonists. She closed her eyes, the image of the terrified Aethelean faces flashing behind her eyelids. Her mentor’s words echoed: “True service is sacrifice, Sister. Even of one’s own soul, if it serves the innocent.”

Her eyes opened, settling on the wilting flower. A subtle ripple of pain crossed her face, a flicker of what the flower's decline represented. This was not the path of righteousness, not the clean, honorable defense she had always envisioned. This was a descent.

“Solace,” Mercy finally said, her voice a low thrum that cut through the silence. “You acted with good intention. The consequences… are not yours alone to bear.” She paused, a deep, heavy sigh escaping her. “Varek leaves us no choice. Not if Aethel is to remain untouched.”

---

Mercy slipped from the convent through the rear cloister gates, armor dimmed to low power. Each step into the night felt like a sin, a retreat from absolution.

Under the cloak of Aethel’s twilight, she eventually found herself in a shadowed ravine, far from the watchful optics of Battle Brother patrols or the innocent gaze of the colonists. The air here was thin, sharp with the tang of raw earth and something else—a faint, cloying sweetness, like spoiled incense, that pricked at her senses. It was the foulness that clung to Namtar, the leader of the Havoc Brothers in that star system.

He emerged from the deeper shadows, moving with an unnervingly fluid grace, his black armor slick with an unnatural sheen. His plasma gun, its energy coils a faint, pulsing blue, rested easily in one hand, while the other, encased in a brutish, oversized energy fist, hung casually at his side. He was, as she remembered, annoyingly handsome, his features sculpted with a predatory elegance that seemed utterly at odds with the depravity he embodied. A faint, unsettling smile played on his lips.

“High Sister,” Namtar’s voice was a low purr, smooth as polished glass, yet laced with a metallic rasp that hinted at jagged edges beneath. “You honor me with your presence. Though I confess, the circumstance is rather… dire. Your white-clad angels against the Iron Guard? A pretty, but brief, spectacle.”

Mercy kept her posture rigid, her shield held almost defensively, not against a physical threat, but against the insidious charm he exuded. “Speak plainly, fiend. What is your price?”

Namtar chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across barren rock. “Always straight to business, Sister. Admirable. Predictable.” He took a step closer, the air around him thickening with that unpleasant, sickly-sweet scent. “My offer remains as it was: my brothers and I, with our… companions, will lend our considerable talents to your defense. We will break the Iron Guard and send them fleeing, or to their graves.”

He paused, letting the implication hang, then continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And my payment? Simple. The spoils of victory. The Battle Brothers are quite… attached to their baubles, their symbols. Their banners, their relics, their… skulls.” He emphasized the last word, his smile widening just enough to reveal a flash of gleaming, unnatural canines. “A small collection, a few mementos, to mark a mutually beneficial alliance. Nothing that impacts your precious colonists. Nothing that stains their hands.”

Mercy felt a surge of cold revulsion. His honesty, far from reassuring, was a brutal mirror reflecting her own desperation. To fight a former ally, using a former enemy, and allow the desecration of the dead – it was anathema to everything she believed. Her jaw tightened beneath her visor. The image of the terrified colonists, their simple, trusting faces, burned in her mind. Her order was underfunded, true. Distant from leadership, yes. But they were the shield of Aethel. And Varek had given her no other option.

“Agreed,” she grated, the word tasting like ash. It was a single, clipped syllable, but it carried the full weight of her fractured convictions.

Namtar’s smile broadened, showing more teeth. “Excellent, High Sister. A pragmatic choice. A truly grim choice, would you not agree? We prepare. Dawn will bring… an interesting day.” He melted back into the shadows, leaving behind only the lingering, foul scent and the bitter taste of compromise.

Mercy walked alone back toward the convent the convent, the scent of stale incense warring with the faint, foul tang of Namtar’s recent presence. The cool night air, usually a balm, felt like a chilling caress. Moonlight, bouncing off of a shattered stained-glass window depicting the God-Queen in battle, cast broken shards of light across the ground to decorate the silence. She held her shield out in front of her and briefly looked it over, its polished surface reflecting a distorted, somber image of her own power-armored form.

She looked towards the distant, low-lying lights of Seraph’s Rest, a silent promise to the innocent weighing against the dark bargain she had just struck. The colonists, tucked away in their peaceful ignorance, would never know the cost of their tranquility. Outside, the immense, angular shadow of the Iron Resolve fell across the colony’s sleeping domes, a silent, unblinking sentinel. As night deepened, it seemed to absorb the stars, growing larger, more oppressive. Tomorrow, Aethel would awaken not to the soft dawn, but to the thunderous arrival of a storm, unleashed by a choice no holy warrior should ever have to make.

The dawn on Aethel arrived not with the gentle warming light the colonists knew, but with the guttural roar of grav-engines and the thud of armored boots. Master Brother Varek, his voice a cold steel command through his comm, led the charge.

“To the cathedral! The Founder’s relic awaits!” he ordered.

His sixty Battle Brothers, a collective juggernaut of polished armor, moved with practiced precision, their heavy laser rifles held ready, sweeping through the quiet colony like a plague of locusts. They bypassed the low-slung domes of the habitats, their objective clear: the central cathedral, a structure built not for worship, but as a symbolic heart for the peaceful Aethelean way of life. Elyas, the psychic advisor, had whispered of a "relic," a focal point of power within its walls, a directive he believed would expedite the planet's integration, pushing Varek to act decisively.

The cathedral doors, massive slabs of reinforced steel, buckled under the concentrated fire of a dozen laser rifles, then exploded inwards in a shower of shrapnel. Inside, shadows clung to vaulted ceilings, and the air was thick with the scent of ancient dust and ozone. The soldiers fanned out, their visors scanning for the fabled relic, their movements confident, almost arrogant. They expected easy prey, docile colonists, perhaps a handful of defiant Sisters. Then the vents erupted.

The Sisters peppered the corralled Battle Brothers with EMP grenades, flashbangs, and gas canisters. Most of the Brothers were battle-hardened and all were well-trained, but in their arrogance, they'd marched into a crucible. Their newer recruits shot blindly toward the ceiling as the lights were shut off, leaving them in the dark and with their night vision visors non-functional from the EMP blast. Some of the Brother's had gear which resisted the blast, but at least one of their ranks fell to friendly fire during the initial panic.

Then, Namtar herded his "companions" in through the lower vents near the floor.

A dozen hissing shrieks echoed from the floor grates. From every shadowed alcove, every narrow service tunnel, every recessed grate, a nightmare spilled forth. Not the neat, disciplined charge of the Conduit's elite, but a writhing, screeching tide of mutant spawn. Their forms were grotesque, a hideous parody of life: raw muscle, malformed limbs ending in razor claws, eyeless heads that shrieked with primal hunger. More than a dozen of them, each one a whirlwind of frenzied violence, tore into the Battle Brother ranks.

The super soldiers gave as good as they got; they'd faced worse, and quite a few of them trained to fight in the dark. But the disgusting mutants had one advantage: they'd been bred specifically to fight to the death. They existed to cease. And they threw themselves at their targets with reckless abandon, even as Varek's troops opened fire. Lasers burned flesh, rifle butts slammed into craniums, boots kicked flailing limbs aside. The chittering horrors fell one by one, but their onslaught brought down the first casualties on the other side.

Brother Tavros, barely old enough to command his own squad, bellowed orders, trying to rally his men amid the shouting and malfunctioning helmet optics. A hulking spawn, all bone-spikes and snapping jaws, vaulted over a fallen pew, its claws ripping through Tavros’s neck guard. The young brother's scream was cut short as his armored body stumbled against a marble pillar, a crimson spray painting the pristine stone.

Only when his squad took up defensive positions against the mutant spawn did they realize that they'd fallen for a mere distraction.

The Blessed Sisters, their white armor stark against the cathedral’s muted stone, emerged from hidden positions, their own rifles cracking with focused fire. They moved with grim efficiency, not aiming to simply kill, but to herd. Each plasma burst, each mace strike, guided the disoriented invaders deeper into the cathedral, into pre-planned kill zones where the few surviving mutants already reveled in the carnage. The Havoc Brothers filtered in too, each one attached to a team of the Sisters, bolstering their numbers.

High above, nestled among the cathedral’s decorative gargoyles, Namtar watched. The faint pre-dawn light, finding cracks in the cathedral’s shattered roof, glinted off the malicious smile that stretched across his shadowed face. His own gun was still, his energy fist dormant. He simply observed, a conductor enjoying the symphony of destruction he had orchestrated. The last shriek of mutant and the dying gurgle of an elite pathfinder, the disciplined crack of laser rifle and the frantic hiss of plasma—it was all music to him, a prelude to the trophies he would soon collect.

The air in the cathedral choked with the stench of ozone, blood, and desperation. The Battle Brothers, caught between the surgical precision of the Blessed Sisters and the cold fury of the Havoc Brothers tagging along with them, were being systematically funneled into a meat grinder alongside what few mutant spawn remained. Their disciplined formations shattered, replaced by desperate, isolated stands against encirclement.

Sister Vigil, her white armor already streaked with crimson, moved with chilling purpose. Her face, visible through the raised visor, was a mask of grim determination, devoid of any discernible emotion. She reached a critical junction, a narrow side corridor leading to a series of emergency exits. With a hydraulic hiss, a section of the ornate wall slid down, revealing reinforced doors. Vigil slammed her armored fist onto the activation rune. The doors groaned shut, sealing off the escape route with a final, echoing clang.

A wounded Support Brother, surrounded by the mutants he'd killed before tsking a laser blast in the leg, lay sprawled near the closing doors, dragging himself forward with desperate, clawing hands. “Sister! Please! This planet was chosen by the Conduit!” he croaked, his voice thick with pain and disbelief.

Vigil didn't hesitate. Her laser rifle hummed, spitting a blinding beam that punched clean through his helmet. The Brother went still, a dark crater smoking where his brain had been. Vigil’s face remained blank, her eyes fixed on the closed doors as if ensuring their seal.

Across the sprawling cathedral, Sister Solace moved with her squad, their laser rifles spitting controlled bursts. An Assault Brother, impaled on a mutant’s severed claw, groaned, reaching for his fallen weapon to continue the fight. Solace raised her rifle, but her hand faltered. Her med-bot, usually a silent companion, whirred audibly on her back, its optical sensors flickering, as if sensing her internal turmoil. The small, rhythmic clack-clack-whirr that had once been a comforting sound now seemed to amplify the ethical dissonance within her. Her target was a wounded, helpless fellow human. Her finger hovered, trembling, over the trigger. She lowered the weapon, just barely, allowing another Sister to fire the killing shot. The discharge seemed to echo inside Solace’s helmet, louder than it should have.

Throughout the cathedral, the grim work continued. Sisters, their movements precise, methodically executed the wounded. Some moved with Vigil’s cold efficiency, their faces set. Others, though, displayed subtle tells: a sharp intake of breath, a tightening of the jaw, a hesitation that lasted only a fraction of a second before the killing blow.

“Why did that last one beg?” one young Sister whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of combat, as she dispatched a Battle Brother writhing in agony. “They’re supposed to be fearless. Dedicated to the Conduit.”

The question hung in the air, a sliver of doubt, a poison working its way into the Sisters’ collective conscience. Every laser blast that extinguished a pleading life, every mace swing that ended a whimpering form, chipped away at the idealized image of their adversaries, and, in doing so, tarnished a piece of their own souls. The guilt, a slow-burning ember, began to spread.

Master Brother Varek, a whirlwind of fury, put down a shrieking mutant spawn with a scorching plasma blast, its flesh sizzling. His commlink crackled with desperate reports, fragmented and raw.

"Flank collapsed! We're overrun! The Sisters… they’re with the Havoc blasphemers!" one of his subordinates reported just before falling to laser fire.

Disbelief warred with the grim reality unfolding before his visor. This wasn't a skirmish; it was a carefully orchestrated slaughter.

He pivoted, searching for Elyas. The psychic advisor lay crumpled near a desecrated altar, his dark robes soaked crimson, a gaping wound where a Havoc Brother had shot the man point-blank. His eyes, unseeing, were wide, fixed on a distant point. Varek knelt, ignoring the ongoing cacophony.

Elyas’s lips moved, a faint, almost ethereal whisper. “The vision… Master… it was… a test.” A rattling breath escaped him, a sound like gravel grinding. “Not of their loyalty… but of ours. The Founder… wished to see… our purity. Our… unwavering faith…”

Elyas's voice faded, a final, choked gasp escaping him. His eyes, still wide and unblinking, suddenly seemed to reflect an immense, terrifying understanding before they dulled to nothingness. The truth, too vast and too late, had claimed him.

Varek stared at Elyas’s lifeless form, the cryptic words hammering against his mind. A test? A test of their purity? And they had failed, somehow, in their zealous pursuit of order. Fury, cold and absolute, replaced his confusion.

His gaze swept across the chaotic nave, past the writhing corpses of mutants and the dying cries of his Brothers. There, amidst the carnage, her white armor gleaming stark against the shadows, Mercy moved. Her energy mace blurred, striking down a pathfinder who had survived the mutants’ initial charge, her form unyielding. And beside her, impossibly, disgustingly, fought Namtar. His energy fist flared, punching through an Assault Brother’s stomach with sickening ease, a grin of malicious triumph on his face.

The sight curdled Varek’s blood. The Blessed Sisters, revered for their devotion, had allied with the Havoc Brothers, creatures of destruction and vile desecration. It was an abomination, a betrayal that cut deeper than any wound. His face, hidden behind his visor, contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. This was no longer about integration, or the Conduit's will, or even order. This was about vengeance. This was about purging the taint.

The last gasping scream of a mutant spawn echoed through the cathedral’s shattered nave, followed by the wet thud of its body hitting the blood-slicked stone. Only then did the cacophony truly begin to subside, leaving behind the measured, precise shots of the Blessed Sisters and Havoc Brothers, and the labored breathing of the remaining combatants. Master Brother Varek, his armor dented and scored, his plasma gun still humming with a desperate heat, staggered back. Beside him, Brother Garrik, his face a charred ruin where the flamer had backfired, clutched his weapon, a guttural growl escaping him. Brother Doren, chainsaw sword dripping, squared his shoulders, a grim, unbreakable resolve in his stance.

They were three against two: High Sister Mercy, her white armor stained with crimson and dust, her energy mace held ready, and Namtar, his face now smeared with gore, his energy fist pulsing with a malevolent light. Their eyes locked across the desecrated space, surrounded by the mangled dead.

"Cut the heads from this hydra!" Varek shouted.

The shattered nave of Aethel’s cathedral, slick with oil and the dark sheen of fresh blood, became an arena. The air, thick with the metallic tang of battle, hummed with a nascent energy, a silent prelude to the storm that was about to break. Master Brother Varek, his face a mask of incandescent fury beneath his visor, leveled his plasma gun at Mercy, its barrel glowing with an angry, unstable light. Beside him, Brother Garrik, his flamer a scorched promise of incineration, stood poised, half his face a ruin of melted glass and cauterized flesh, a grotesque monument to a mutant’s claw. Brother Doren, his massive chainsaw sword held before him like a roaring, hungry beast, took a predatory step forward, the teeth of his weapon grinding an anticipation that sent shivers through the desecrated air.

Facing them, a stark contrast in their stained white and glistening black, stood High Sister Mercy and Chosen Champion Namtar. Mercy, her energy mace still humming with residual power, gripped her shield, her posture that of an unyielding bulwark. Namtar, the gore-smeared smile still fixed beneath his helmet, let his energy fist to crackle with an almost playful malice.

Doren launched himself first, a black and gold blur of pure aggression. His chainsaw sword, a monstrous implement of destruction, shrieked as it tore through the air, aimed directly at Mercy’s head. She met it with the solid, resonant thud of her shield. Sparks exploded where durasteel met energized teeth, the force of the blow jarring her arm. Mercy didn’t falter. She was a dancer of death, fluid and precise, her armor moving with an unnatural lightness. The weight of her duty, her faith, was a steel core within her. She parried, sidestepped, and countered, her energy mace a white blur, seeking openings in Doren’s relentless assault. She wasn't fighting with anger, but with cold, surgical efficiency, each movement calculated to inflict maximum damage and preserve her own life for the greater cause.

While Doren drove Mercy back, Garrik surged towards Namtar, his flamer spitting a torrent of superheated promethium. The air ignited, a blistering wave of fire washing over the Havoc Brother. Namtar, however, seemed to revel in the inferno. He weaved and ducked, his movements almost liquid, a grotesque ballet of defiance. Flames licked at his spiky armor, illuminating the sick grins of the dead mutant spawn lining the alcove behind them.

Namtar taunted the man to fight harder, his voice carrying easily over the roar of the flamer, a perverse joy in his tone. “Let’s see if your flesh burns as sweetly as your honor!”

He wasn't simply dodging; he was toying with Garrik, making him expend precious fuel, drawing him in, every movement a theatrical flourish designed to infuriate and provoke. His plasma gun remained dormant for now, his powered gauntlet a coiled threat.

The duel intensified, each combatant pushing the limits of their augmented forms. Doren, a whirlwind of muscle and plasteel, drove Mercy relentlessly across the nave. His chainsaw sword, a blur of saw-toothed fury, forced her into a defensive crouch, sparks showering from her shield with every glancing blow. He faked a high slash, then pivoted, swinging the brutal, blunt pommel of his weapon in a crushing arc towards her midsection. Mercy brought her shield down, but not quite fast enough. A sickening crack resonated through her armor as the pommel connected with her ribs, sending a shockwave of agony through her body. She stumbled, a sharp gasp escaping her helmet's voice filter.

Her companion med-bot immediately whirred to life. Pinpricks of light glowed beneath the cracked armor of her chest plate as it popped off and micro-repair filaments extended, knitting torn muscle and bracing fractured bone. The pain remained, a blinding lance, but the raw damage was being contained. Mercy pushed through it, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but her resolve unbroken. Her mace, still humming, lashed out, a desperate, reactive strike that glanced off Doren’s pauldron, sending him reeling back a step, buying her precious seconds. She couldn't afford to be anything less than perfect.

Meanwhile, Namtar danced with death. Garrik, enraged by the taunts and the sight of his fallen Brothers, emptied the last of his flamer’s fuel in a desperate, wide arc. The gouts of fire roared, forcing Namtar to dart backwards, abandoning his taunting advance. But a single, stray plasma blast from Varek’s gun, meant for Mercy but deflected by her shield at the last instant, streaked past Doren and clipped the edge of Garrik’s helmet. The steel vaporized with a searing flash, and Garrik staggered back, his right eye socket a smoking, cauterized ruin.

He screamed, a primal, animalistic sound of pure agony. The flamer, useless and empty, clattered to the floor. Without hesitation, Garrik slammed his remaining armored hand against his ruined face, the pressure attempting to stem the flow of blood and the blinding pain. Then, with a roar of sheer, unadulterated fury, he kicked Namtar hard in the chest, pulverizing the Havoc Brother's muscle beneath the armor via blunt force trauma. Namtar was knocked backward into a stone pillar, dropping his gun and struggling to remain standing.

Garrik dropped to one knee, seizing Namtar’s discarded plasma gun from the floor. With a grunt of effort that strained his damaged body, he bent the barrel over his knee, shattering the weapon with a raw, desperate strength. It wouldn't fire, but it wouldn't aid his enemy either. He then rose, a terrifying, one-eyed wreck, and charged Namtar, his bare, bloody fist cocked back, a grotesque mirror of Namtar's own energy fist, his rage incandescent.

Mercy, still reeling from the impact to her ribs, found herself backpedaling as Doren pressed his advantage. His chainsaw sword whined, a mechanical predator closing in for the kill. He swung again, a wide, sweeping arc aimed at severing her shield arm. Mercy, however, anticipated the move. Instead of parrying, she dropped her shield, letting it clatter to the bloodied stone. The sudden lack of resistance caused Doren to overextend, his balance momentarily compromised.
It was all the opening Mercy needed. With a guttural cry that defied the pain in her ribs, she lunged forward, not with her mace, but with her armored left hand. Her fingers, strengthened by her power armor, found purchase on the hilt of Doren’s chainsaw sword as it passed. With a terrible, grinding shriek of gears and metal, she twisted.

Doren roared in surprise and agony as his own weapon, wrenched from his grasp, embedded its hungry teeth into his unprotected thigh. He stumbled, falling to one knee, the chainsaw biting deep, spraying a fountain of dark oil and crimson. Mercy only needed one second more to grab both sides of Doren's head and twist, snapping his neck.

Varek, seeing his brother fall, bellowed a wordless curse and unleashed a blinding plasma blast at Mercy. The superheated bolt struck her in the ankle, precisely where her power armor articulated around the joint. Pistons exploded, and the leg locked, fusing the joint and sending a fresh wave of blinding pain through her. She cried out, a raw, un-Sister-like sound, and crumpled, her injured leg buckling uselessly beneath her. Her energy mace slipped from her grasp, skittering across the floor.

But the distraction was enough. As Varek’s attention fixated on Mercy, Garrik, a mad dog of rage, lunged at Namtar. His unarmored, bloody hand connected with the Havoc Brother’s helmet, a sickening thunk that echoed in the brief silence and cracked the visor. Namtar, momentarily thrown off balance, still met the attack with chilling efficiency. His energized guntlet flared, a crackle of malevolent power. With a detached, almost bored expression, he brought the glowing fist forward in a brutal left cross to the body. It punched clean through Garrik’s chest plate, leaving a smoking, jagged hole where the man's heart should have been. Garrik's eyes, the one still functional and the other a cauterized ruin, widened in a final, agonizing gasp of understanding. He clawed at Namtar's arm, then went limp, his body slumping forward, impaled on the Havoc Brother’s limb.

"Forgive me, brothers…" Garrik mumured with his last breath.

Namtar, with a casual flick, dislodged Garrik’s corpse from his energy fist. He turned, his gaze falling on the now-disabled Mercy, then to Varek, who stood frozen, horror and vengeance warring in his eyes. Without a word, Namtar scooped up Mercy’s mace.

“A true alliance,” he purred, and then, with surprising speed, he hurled the mace like a rock.

The humming mace head struck Varek's rifle squarely in the power cell. The weapon exploded in a blinding flash, tearing Varek's limb from his body. Varek screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony and disbelief, stumbling back against the cathedral’s desecrated altar.

Mercy, despite the searing pain in her leg and ribs, dragged herself forward, using her good arm to push. Varek, half-blinded by the plasma flare, roared, swinging his remaining fist in a wild, desperate arc. But Mercy was already there. She pulled herself up, grabbing Doren’s still-embedded chainsaw sword. With a grunt of effort, she ripped the weapon free, its teeth coated in Doren’s blood. Her eyes, filled with a cold, righteous fury, locked onto Varek’s.

"You were supposed to bring order, not ruin!" Varek said, blinking the stars from his vision.

Mercy wouldn't waver. Couldn't waver. "I am," is all she said.

With one last, agonizing surge of strength, she drove the roaring chainsaw blade into Varek's chest. The weapon bit deep, grinding through metal and bone, silencing his screams forever. Mercy held it there, the vibrations rattling through her injured body, until Varek’s form went limp. The fight was over.

Silence descended, heavy and absolute, broken only by the crackling sounds of Blessed Sisters finishing the grisly job in the main cathedral hall. The air, thick with the metallic tang of blood and ozone, pressed down on Mercy. Her ruined power armor hissed faintly, small internal diagnostics chirping warnings she ignored. Varek’s lifeless form, impaled on Doren’s chainsaw, slumped against the altar, his helmeted head canted at an unnatural angle.

Namtar strode towards the fallen Master Brother, his movements unburdened by pain or remorse. He knelt beside Varek’s corpse, his energy fist now dimmed, its work done. With a practiced, almost casual motion, he gripped Varek's helmet and pulled it off roughy. Namtar rose, holding the blood-stained helmet, a grisly yet elegant trophy. His other hand plucked a tattered, black and gold banner from the grip of a dead Battle Brother. He looked at Mercy, his handsome face sullied by gore, his eyes gleaming with a triumph that twisted her stomach.

"A true collector's piece," he purred, holding up the helmet.

Mercy stared, the image burning into her retinas. The sheer, casual depravity of it. The violation. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest. Her injured leg buckled further, the internal med-bot futilely trying to stabilize her. A bitter, metallic taste filled her mouth.

With a convulsive lurch, High Sister Mercy vomited, bile and acid burning her throat, splattering across her pristine white armor. It was not just the physical pain, nor the stench of death, but the profound, soul-deep nausea of what she had allowed, of what she had become. The victory felt like defeat.