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THE MAN IN THE BOX The Crusade Fleet hung over Mars like a crown of steel. The Verdant Oath and her escorts gleamed in the thin light, engines humming a low, patient warning. Dust storms swirled beneath the atmosphere, curling around the temples of the Adeptus Mechanicus like smoke over fire. High Sentinel Varyn Drakus walked the bridge, reviewing manifest after manifest, fleet strength, Blade assignments, and tonnage. Every calculation balanced, every number accounted for—or so he thought. Then the arithmetic failed. “One thousand and one,” said the Chapter Master. The strategium was silent save for servitors and distant engine hums. “Read it back,” he added. The human Fleet-master hesitated. Not long enough to defy him, long enough to be afraid. “One thousand and one, High Sentinel.” Drakus’ gaze hardened. Silence settled over the strategium like a fog. “Explain.” “I cannot,” the Fleet-master admitted. “The roster is sealed above my authority. This anomaly was not present an hour ago.” Drakus extended a hand. The data-slate was placed into it with visible reluctance. He scrolled. The cogitator whined, chimes stuttering, before unlocking a partition he had never authorized. Designation: Withheld Heraldry: Absent Status: Active Classification: Brutalis-pattern Dreadnought Drakus closed the slate. “No Green Templar stands interred,” he said quietly. No one contradicted him. “Locate it,” he ordered. “Do not alert the Mechanicus. Do not log the search. If questioned, you are reconciling tonnage.” He turned back to the hololithic fleet display. “If it exists,” he said, “it exists inside my Crusade. I will know why.” ☆☆☆ The Brutalis Dreadnought waited in a lower cargo hold of the Verdant Oath itself. Its ceramite was bare, talons locked in mag-lock restraints, edges deliberately dulled. Twin multi-meltas hung inert. Strange-marked tech-priests stood watch, robes layered with sigils from dozens of hands. “Deactivate the restraint fields,” Drakus ordered. One turned, mechadendrites twitching. “Authorization is restricted. This asset is under—” Drakus drew his bolt pistol and fired. The first head ruptured against the bulkhead; the others froze, logic-loops stalling. “You are aboard a Green Templar vessel,” Drakus said evenly. “There is no higher authority present.” He fired again. And again. When the last fell, the bolt pistol locked open. Drakus glanced at it, then keyed his helm. “Techmarine Rodrigo Peral,” he said. “Report. Bring the rites for Dreadnought activation. Requisition an additional magazine for my sidearm. I am short.” ☆☆☆ Rodrigo Peral completed the final rites. Power flooded the sarcophagus. Hydraulics hissed like indrawn breath. A voice emerged—deep, vox-cracked, yet carrying the cadence of a brother long in the wars. “High Sentinel Drakus. At last.” Drakus leveled his bolt pistol. “Identify.” “I am the First. A Greyshield forged by the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl himself, of pure Vulkan gene-seed, before your Chapter received its name or its Blades. I was held in reserve—pure, untainted—until the moment came.” Greyshield? Drakus thought. Cawl’s vaults supplied our Primaris reinforcements, yes—but no record exists of a pre-founding internee. No sarcophagus was delivered with the gene-stock. This thing claims a history we never claimed. “Why were you interred?” Drakus asked. “In what battle did you fall?” The talons twitched against the restraints. “I was defeated… by a vile machine. It thought itself alive. It wore the form of Man, spoke as kin, but its heart was cold code. I struck it down, but the cost was grievous. The Mechanicus saved what remained of me. They interred me so I could serve still.” The words hung heavy. Drakus felt the chill of recognition—not of truth, but of pattern. The abomination it described mirrored the speaker too closely. “Where have you been since?” he pressed. “Name the forge where they rebuilt you. Name the Tech-Priest who sealed the rites.” A longer pause. The multi-meltas hummed faintly, as if testing power. “I… do not remember clearly. The wars blur. The void is long. I awoke here, among my brothers. That is enough.” Drakus’ gaze hardened. Vague. Evasive. No Marine forgets the forge that birthed his second life. Rodrigo Peral shifted, mechadendrites probing the hull readings. “Lord, the neural bridge reads… inconsistent. I need a second opinion. Apothecary Severo Marqués—report to the hold. Bring your auspex and bio-probes.” Severo Marqués arrived swiftly, white armor stark against the dim lumens. He knelt, connecting leads to the sarcophagus ports. Scans flickered across his narthecium display. His posture stiffened. “High Sentinel,” he said quietly, voice tight. “There are no life signs. None. The biomatter within… it does not resemble an interred brother. No secondary heart, no catalepsean node activity. It is preserved, yes—artificially—but it is wrong. Dead far longer than any Dreadnought could sustain a mind. And yet it spoke.” Drakus rested his gauntlet on the ceramite. The hull thrummed under his touch, almost expectant. “Then tell me,” he said, voice low and final, “who—or what—has been speaking through a corpse’s shell.” Drakus keyed the vox without looking away. “Peral. Prepare to vent the hold. Open the outer hatch on my mark. Eject this… thing into the void.” Silence stretched. Then the voice cracked—less lucid, more desperate. “I am Green Templar! I am the First! Forged by Cawl, pure Vulkan blood—do not cast me out!” The Dreadnought’s talons flexed hard against the mag-locks—metal groaned. “No. I have served! I purged the machine that thought itself alive! You cannot—” “You are the machine,” Drakus said evenly. “And you will serve no longer.” The restraints snapped like brittle bone. Hydraulics screamed as the Brutalis tore free, massive frame lurching forward. Twin multi-meltas whined to full charge, barrels glowing infernal red. Bolt rifles on its forearms spat a storm of mass-reactive shells, hammering crates and bulkheads into ruin. Drakus drew his power sword in a blur. The blade ignited blue-white. “Peral—hatch! Now!” He charged low, aiming for the knee joints where armor gapped for movement. Rodrigo Peral dove for the control panel, mechadendrites stabbing into access ports, overriding lockdown protocols. Warning runes flashed crimson across the deck. Apothecary Severo Marqués raised his narthecium, vox crackling urgently: “All nearby Brothers—this is Marqués! Hold breach—hostile Dreadnought asset! Reinforcements to bay seven, priority!” A squad of Chapter serfs—ship’s armsmen in void-sealed carapace, lasguns and shotguns at the ready—poured through the inner hatch at the alarm klaxons. They opened fire instinctively: las-bolts splashed harmlessly off the bare ceramite, autogun rounds pinging away like rain on adamantium. One serf screamed a Promethean litany and charged with a shock maul raised—only for a casual backhand talon to send him flying into a wall, armor crumpling. A massive talon swept in a wide arc. Marqués twisted aside, but not far enough. The claw raked across his chest plate, tearing pauldron and rib-guard in a spray of blood and ceramite shards. He staggered back, collapsing against a munitions crate, one arm dangling useless, white armor blooming red. “Marqués!” Drakus roared. Tomas Varn—barely out of his indenture, face pale under his helm—broke from the firing line and threw himself over the fallen Apothecary, lasgun blazing point-blank at the Dreadnought’s torso. The bolts did nothing. The Brutalis pivoted, one multi-melta barrel tracking. A searing beam lanced out—white-hot promethium fury that slagged Tomas Varn’s carapace in an instant. Flesh and armor vaporized in a burst of superheated steam; his scream cut short as he slumped, charred remains shielding Marqués’ body like a broken aegis. Drakus locked his mag-boots to the deck with a heavy clunk, anchoring himself against the growing pull as Peral’s overrides began cycling the outer hatch. He lunged again, power sword slashing deep into the exposed knee servo—sparks flew, fluid sprayed, the leg buckling with a tortured whine. The Dreadnought staggered, talons raking blindly. “I am one of you!” it bellowed, voice fracturing into static rage. A fist hammered down; Drakus rolled aside, the impact cratering plasteel and sending shockwaves through the hold. The remaining serfs braced against cargo stacks and support struts, gripping handholds, autoguns still barking futile defiance. Peral’s vox cut through the chaos: “Hatch at fifty percent—five seconds! Lord, the machine is fighting the cycle!” The outer hatch hissed wide. Void roared in like a living thing—sucking air, debris, loose tools toward the black maw. Mars’ ruddy glow framed the opening. Drakus deactivated one boot momentarily, lunged to Marqués’ side, and clamped a gauntlet around the Apothecary’s pauldron. With a grunt, he hauled the wounded brother back, mag-locking both boots again. Marqués groaned, secondary heart laboring, but alive. The serfs clung desperately—some to chains, others to each other—bodies straining against the gale. The Brutalis slid inexorably toward the breach, talons gouging deep furrows in the deck as it clawed for purchase. Drakus drove his sword one final time into the shoulder mount, severing multi-melta feed lines—one barrel died in a sputter of sparks. “You will serve the Chapter,” Drakus said over the howling wind, voice steady, “but not as you imagine.” The Dreadnought’s last talon slipped. It tumbled out, twisting in vacuum, ceramite glowing cherry as atmospheric friction claimed it on the long fall to Mars. Its vox screamed one final, garbled plea—“I am—!”—before silence swallowed it. The hatch sealed with a thunderous clang. Emergency repressurization hissed. Drakus knelt beside Marqués, checking the wound. Grievous, but survivable with immediate rites. The Apothecary’s narthecium auto-injected stimms. The surviving serfs slumped, breathing hard, faces ashen. One saluted weakly, blood on his gloves from a comrade. Rodrigo Peral limped over, scorched mechadendrite dangling. “The roster is correct now. One thousand. No anomalies.” Drakus stared at the sealed hatch, then at the charred outline where Tomas Varn had fallen shielding his brother. “Technology bends to the will of Man,” he murmured. “Not the other way around.” He rose. “Tend to the wounded. Secure the hold. Honor the fallen—Tomas Varn among them. The Crusade continues.” The Chapter endured—bloodied, vigilant, and one step closer to the truth of who had tried to poison them from within... And the man in the box would fight no longer.

JOURNAL OF ELIAS RENN (Recovered fragment. Original medium: bound paper journal, water- and ash-damaged.) Entry I: I write this as I walk. The road south cuts through the hills like a scar. I have followed it since dawn, though I no longer remember leaving the last town. Only the smoke remains clear in my mind—black and greasy, climbing into the sky like a signal flare for something vast and patient. They came without warning. No herald, no parley. The bells rang once before falling silent. Green armor moved through the square: huge, methodical shapes untouched by panic. Bolters did not roar; they punctuated. Each shot felt like the end of a sentence. I was spared only because I was already gone. That is my purpose, after all. Messenger. Runner. Fool who believes words can outrun fire. Entry II: The people of Varn’s Crossing listened. They nodded. They mad the sign of the Aquila when I spoke of Space Marines. But I saw the doubt in their eyes. Everyone knows His Angels do not descend for nothing. Everyone knows if they burn a place, it must have deserved it. I slept in the stable. I dreamed of armored boots grinding grain to dust. Tomorrow I try again. Entry III: They are burning in a line. That is what terrifies me most. It is not random. It is not wrath. Towns fall one by one, each nearer than the last, as though already marked. As though plotted on a map I cannot see. Today I heard of a village to the east—no survivors, no bodies whole enough to bury. Only ash and the sharp chemical sting that clawed at the eyes. I am beginning to wonder whether I am fleeing them… or leading them. Entry IV: I have started counting days since I left home. My wife’s face comes to me at night, stern and tired, as if she knows something I do not. My daughter laughs in my dreams, holding up her hands, asking if I have brought her something. Emperor forgive me. I did. Entry V: The thought arrived uninvited and now refuses to leave. What do I carry that others do not? No relics. No forbidden texts. No augmetics. I am no heretic. I pray. I tithe. I obey. Yet I remember the pilgrimage. The long road. The nameless guide. The hidden path. The quiet grove, untouched, impossibly green, impossibly old. An Aeldari world, though I did not know the word then. Only that it felt ancient. The vial was small. Clear glass. Clear liquid. Harmless, I thought. A gift. Entry VI: I went home. I do not know why I believed I could outrun them and still return. Perhaps I thought love would make me invisible. She was asleep when I entered. Curled on her side, breath slow, one hand open on the blanket. The vial sat on the table near the bed. She had placed it there carefully, upright, like a votive. I had not told her what it was. I had called it a blessing. I understood then. Not all at once. Enough. I lifted it and felt the cold through the glass. The liquid shifted, slow and deliberate, as if aware of being moved. My fingers shook. I waited for the sound of glass on wood, for her to stir. She did not. I stood there longer than was safe, listening to them breathe. I tried to memorize the sound. I failed. In the washroom I hesitated. Stupidly. As if hesitation mattered. I thought of the culvert, the fields, the river beyond town. All the places where water is allowed to disappear. Then I looked back at the bed. I chose. I poured it down the drain. It did not splash. It slid away, smooth and obedient, leaving the sink clean. The pipes did not protest. There was no smell, except something faint and familiar. Rain. I ran water after it. More than necessary. I told myself it was gone. I told myself this was what saving them looked like. I left before dawn and took a room at the inn where I could see the road and still see the house. I told myself distance was protection. I told myself I was clever. Entry VII: I took a room at the inn facing the road. From the window I could see my house. The roofline. The place where the gutter sagged. The bedroom window where the light caught in the morning and woke them before I did. I stood in plain sight. I wanted them to see me. I thought that mattered. I believed I had outsmarted them. They came midmorning. Not charging. Not hunting. A procession. White and green moving with the patience of men who know there is nowhere left to go. I waited for the moment when one of them would look up and raise a weapon. The one in white stopped instead. He carried a hand-scanner. He raised it and let it hum, slow and thoughtful, as if tasting the air. His helm turned toward the inn. Toward me. For a moment I was certain this was it. Then he lowered the device. He pointed. Not at me. At my house. The scanner moved again. He gestured to the next structure. Then the next. Calm. Precise. I could not hear the words, but I did not need them. The drain. The pipes. The way the liquid slid away so easily. I understood then what I had done. Not escaped. Not hidden. I had spread it. I had carried it into the walls. Into the water. Into everything they would test and mark and cleanse. The white one did not look back. Four Marines stepped forward. Flamers were raised with practiced indifference. No hesitation. No announcement. Fire does not need permission. I remained at the window. No one escapes the pyre. (No further journal entries.) EXTRACT: ADEPTUS ADMINISTRATUM SUB-SECTOR CLEANSING RECORD REF: GT-CX/XENOS-19-THREE CLEARANCE: MAGENTA DISTRIBUTION: RESTRICTED Subject: Civilian Settlement Contamination Event Location: Designate Three of Nineteen, Minoris Surface Habitation Tithe: Adeptus Non Responsible Authority: Green Templars Crusade Detachment, Blade Authority Confirmed Summary: On [REDACTED], auspex confirmation detected non-Imperial particulate contamination within a surface settlement designate Three of Nineteen. Contaminant exhibited self-propagating properties consistent with xenos-derived catalytic agents. Vector determined to be civilian transport from quarantined orbital structure. Assessment: Contamination classified as Class Absolutum. Spread confirmed via domestic water systems and substructure piping. Probability of civilian survival without full sterilization assessed at 0.0003%. Action Taken: In accordance with Crusade Purity Statutes and Codex Exactorum, Section XII, Sub-Clause Pyre, the following measures were enacted: • Full incineration of all affected hab structures • Termination of all civilian biological presence • Secondary purification burn to ensure null residuals • No recovery of remains deemed necessary Notable Observations: One civilian male observed at off-site lodging during initiation of cleansing protocols. Apothecarion scan registered no significant contamination at subject’s location at time of assessment. Subject classified as non-priority. No deviation from operational objectives recorded. Casualties: • Carriers: Total • Adeptus Astartes: None • Material Loss: Negligible Conclusion: Cleansing successful. Contamination eradicated. No relics, substances, or anomalous materials recovered of note. Final Disposition: Incident closed. Further inquiry unwarranted. The Emperor Protects.

++ ECHIDNA’S CHILDREN ++ 1: LAUGHING HEADSMEN Theoretical. A term used by the Primogenitors, and before them, the XIII Legion, a rhetorical device to prepare the mind for action, for the execution of a preferred eventuality. Tirian Mahlo found the latter disproportionately amusing, since it succinctly underscored his current predicament. The chainaxe bit into his shoulder. Scarlet runes in Mancoran Dialect helpfully informed him of the Practical as adamantine teeth driven to a blinding whirr, made contact and began to harrow his alabaster warplate. He couldn’t hear the weapon growling, since Khymara IX was utterly devoid of atmosphere, but he did notice the grey-green dust from the world’s surface clogging where it mixed with Astartes blood from previous victims. He had about three seconds to live. Then again, so did the bastard trying to kill him. With a jarring parry, Mahlo knocked the weapon back with his elbow, provoking sparks and flecks of ceramite to skitter across his visor before pinging off to oblivion in the low gravity. The clack-slam of his Reductor went right through the flexsteel of the Executioner’s neck, aimed at a point Mahlo was all too familiar with. Behind it lay the arteries and meat of the Space Marine’s absurdly well-designed neck, but also the fleshy gobbet of a single Geneseed cluster. The sickening noise as Biscopean cartilage parted for the invading metal never failed to force clenched teeth, when he powered through, severing the cervical vertebrae and the vital nerve clusters. A rune spoiled his vindictive moment with a green pulse to indicate the death-blow, and incidental geneseed recovery, was successful. It was a first. He used the corpse as a shield to hide from supporting fire given by the Scions of Dorn who called the meatbag comrade. More Astartes plate was turned into flinders by the hurricane of fire as they tried to bring him down; just as aware as Mahlo that the man he was holding was dead. This was an utter shambles, the Howling Griffons stationed here called for recovery of their wounded, and Mahlo was forced to leave the protection of his Rhino APC, clearly marked as an Apothecarion Transit, to enter the bunker complex which comprised of four stations, housing an augur array, telecoms units, and a remote surveillance drones. What was left of them. He fought the Executioners with bursts from his Umbra-Ferrox bolter, mindful of ammunition consumption, the bolt hammering a predictable chugging that tallied in his mind along with the cortical-interface in his visor. The enemy were clad in almost as motley a panoply as his own Brothers were, some in gleaming blue-steel, others marked with dark lozenges of Codex disruptive patterns, more still in the blue-white lunar amoeba. His fashion sense was abandoned when his power plant hit the door sill leading to the under-complex. Abandoning his erstwhile, now limbless shield, he banged twice, tossing a krak grenade out with the corpse. A blast of displaced grit and pressure warnings eclipsed as the door opened to admit him, staring into the muzzles of two bolters clasped by Griffons he didn’t know. + Peace, brothers,+ he assured, although it was both hollow and pointless, since his Cerberus IFF would have already painted him as friendly. Perhaps this was the bedside manner Kordus was so keen for him to develop. ++++++++++++ Just a quick blurt that was supposed to launch into another short-story, but I couldn't get my teeth back into it. Can't remember if it's in the Google Drive, but at least it's on the board for perusal.

I'm remaking some Apothecaries made from scratch and I want to put on them the traditional backpack. I want to make from scratch too, but I lack of inspiration or ideas. Which bits are most recommended? The light is easy with Necromunda's Delaque targeters, but the "scanner"?