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So, I thought I'd take another pass at this this evening. Starting a new job tomorrow, so won't likely be on as much. Still, less responsibility, fewer hours, and more pay - who am I to argue with that? I'll paste the text here and the link to the audio passage. I particularly like this one as I have a weakness for my darling nieces and goddaughter and Wójek is what they call me, meaning 'uncle.' I always melt a little inside when I am called that. It is a very meaningful term of endearment one can give to an older relative or close family friend and all I want to do is be their guardian, just as Wójek is in this passage. ===== The nursery hallway was quiet, its padded walls dulling the sounds from within. Wójek sat just left of the entrance, boots planted square, hands resting on his thighs. Fatigues crisp. Plate carrier in place. His rifle was mounted above, secured high on the wall, well out of a child's reach. A woman arrived with a girl in tow. The child spotted him instantly. “Wójek!” She bolted forward and climbed clumsily onto his knee. He caught her with one hand, gently but firmly, steadying her as she wobbled, then rested his palm lightly on her shoulder. The other hand stayed relaxed on his thigh. He smiled. Just for her. A flicker of warmth behind a face built for silence. Her mother returned his nod, quiet and grateful. Another parent joined her, watching the scene. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Have you ever seen him in civvies?” The woman shook her head. “Not once.” Footsteps approached. Another fighter passed down the corridor. Wójek’s expression dulled, the smile gone, replaced by the blank composure of a man back on duty. He gave a short nod to the soldier. The girl hummed something tuneless, kicking her boots against his leg in time. He didn’t move. He just kept watch. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1fSlPYKfE0kg-NaWVfQQVF_Z6dVj-POMI/view?usp=sharing Thoughts and constructive criticism most welcome, as always.

This passage harks back to the assault on Complex 73. I lost the original text (thank you old hard drive). The Narrator and Kaśnyk find themselves unlikely partners as they both hunt for Barcza, the spec ops commander who commands the Night Rovfugl. Barcza was the brutal soldier who the Narrator's wife, Ida, who sought solace in the arms of another man while he toiled away in the mines. Her murder was at his hands. More below. To Kaśnyk, he is far more methodical. He is an asset that has jumped the rails and need reining in. For reference, Kaśnyk is pronounced "cash - NIK" and Barcza is pronouced "bar - CHA". ===== The fighting in the outer ring had thinned to scattered shots and the hiss of settling dust. I moved through the breach in the wall, bolt pistol raised, ribs aching from the fall earlier. Barcza had come this way; blood streaked the steps, dark against the concrete. A shape flickered at the edge of my vision. I swung left. Kaśnyk stepped out from the opposite corridor, pistol already levelled. I froze. So did he. Two barrels aligned across six metres of ruin. Neither of us spoke. The air hummed with distant generators. Sand scraped along the firing slits. My pulse thudded in my teeth. Then I heard it, wet, broken breathing somewhere deeper in the tower. Kasnyk’s eyes flicked toward the sound. Mine did too. Neither of us lowered our weapons first. We just shifted, almost the same second, easing out of each other’s line of fire. We moved without agreement. He took the right side of the corridor; I took the left. His steps were measured and precise. Mine were quicker, angling for the corners before he reached them. Two men hunting the same target for different reasons. The breathing grew louder. We found Barcza slumped near a collapsed embrasure, armour scorched and split. A round had torn through his chest plate. He was still alive, though barely. His eyes tracked me as I stepped closer. He didn’t reach for his weapon. He didn’t speak. He just waited. I raised my pistol. I held it, the iron sights square over his forehead. I breathed out, then lowered it. This wasn’t a battle. This was a man dying in the dirt, and killing him wouldn’t change a damned thing. I backed away, jaw tight, heat building behind my eyes. Kaśnyk watched me without expression. I turned and started for the door Behind me, Kaśnyk's voice followed calmly, measured, carrying the weight of doctrine rather than anger. “He showed you mercy. The Emperor does not forgive.” I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. A single pistolcrack tore through the tower. The sound hit me like a hammer blow to the spine. I flinched before I could stop myself, hand tightening around the grip of my weapon. Then silence. A long, cold silence. I kept walking.

So, this one follows on from the Death of 329 blog, but occurs before it, as regards timeline. As with that one, it's not set in stone, this is all first draft stuff. For some context, at the end of the previous story, the Resistance and bureaucracy ruling Prawa V made a kind of pact which benefitted both, but was ultimately not what either wanted. Reformed into the Concord. Read through previous blogs for more info. This story takes place about 50-odd years after the first story. Characters: The Narrator - name is Michał (Michael, pronounced in English like Mi-HOW). He is the Sergeant. His partner is Łaska (pronounced in English like Was-KAH - means 'grace' or 'mercy'). Age approx 76. Łaska - Tough as nails, but, although you don't see it in this sketch, deep of feeling. Before they retired, she was Michał's second in the 329 squad. Age approx 70. Freja - (pronounced fry-yah) - a mid-level analyst in the Concord who has uncovered certain secrets they'd rather not be discovered. Age approx 24. Krystan - neurodivergent, and I hope that comes across in the writing. Socially awkward; great with machines. I really hope I have avoided the 'gifted' tropes with him and would value any constructive criticism on him, or anything, to be honest. 329 - If you want to know about 329, I strongly recommend reading previous blog entries. It is not sentient, none of that anthropomorphising here. It has programming. But, no-one knows what that programming is, entirely. Background: The Concord has a data centre with records on all citizens and maintains a watchful, intrusive eye on them. I leave it a bit ambiguous. Interpret it as you will. Freja needs to get there to destroy it. Yes, basic, I know, but this is first draft, so am working on refining it! Anyhow, here goes. All constructive feedback welcome! EDIT: Please do excuse the formatting. The platform I write on and paste into this forums doesn't seem to want to play nice. Have tried to clear it up, but apologies in advance. Also, apologies to @W.A.Rorie, haha ===== “We need to wake it up," I said. “Hmm?” “You know what I’m referring to.” Krystan didn’t answer straight away. He looked down at his boots, then back up. “I know.” “Can you do it?” He drew a slow breath through his nose, then exhaled. “Yes.” “You know where it is?” Another pause. “Yes. But… does it have to be that?” “I wouldn’t ask, my friend, if it wasn’t our last resort.” Krystan’s jaw tightened. He stared past me, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. Already, his mind was clicking through the routines: fail safes, heat limits, fuel mix ratios, coolant tolerances. He blinked and nodded once. “OK.” We didn’t say anything else. There was nothing else to say. The descent into the vault was quiet. Dust clung to the walls, a shadow of how long it had been since anything had moved here. There were no lights but for the ones they brought. No sound but the echo of their steps. 329 was exactly where he’d left it, resting on the ferrocrete, half-shadowed, its armour pitted with time. The numerals still visible on the flank: 329. Faded, but not forgotten. He spoke to his crew without turning, "Stay here." A few nods. He continued, “Primary ignition sequence is triggered from the command cradle. I’ll do it myself.” He gestured at the sponsons without looking, his mind already seated in the cradle, mapping arcs from 329’s point of view. “Targeting gimbals will sweep. Don’t stand in their arc. Don’t wave. Don’t speak. And, please, do not draw attention to yourself. If it doesn’t like you, it won’t fire. If it really doesn’t like you, well, it might.” His voice was calm but inside, his heart was racing. A young tech shifted uneasily. Krystan didn’t look at him. “Cooling feeds are bypassed. It'll overheat within minutes unless I balance them. That’s expected. Please, do not attempt to intervene.” Krystan moved, stopped ten metres from it, then softly stepped forward. Climbing the hull was slower now. His knees weren’t what they had been, but the handholds were still there. Muscle memory guided him, a grip here, a twist there. The panel lift was stiff but intact. He dropped into the command cradle with a grunt and sat for a moment, feeling the worn metal beneath his palms. He ran a hand across the console. “Right,” he muttered. He flicked the manual override. Static. He reset the breakers, one by one. Then, finally, he slid the boot key into its old port, turned it ninety degrees, and waited. A low hum, barely audible, came from one of the secondary generators. Then the panel lit, faintly at first. One diode at a time. Red. Amber. Green. His eyes fixed on the console. The logic lattice unfolded. A systems handshake. Diagnostics spooled into view. Familiar, painfully so. He’d spent years trying to map the full chain, to coax it into transparency. He'd never had succeeded. But now, it welcomed him. He felt it under him, that vibration that wasn’t just sound, but a presence. Deep in the hull, turbines shifted while logic relays cascaded. Krystan swallowed. And despite himself, he grinned. Joy tinged with something sharper, fear and awe. The raw rightness of it. He knew power. He knew engines. But this, this was control. Brutal. Absolute. It sang under his spine. And still, he didn’t understand it all. It was the unsolvable question. The puzzle with pieces he would never fit. But it answered his call now, in this moment and that was enough. “Hello again,” he said softly. A line of text scrolled across the upper display: CRADLE OCCUPIED – IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED He placed his palm on the reader. KRYSTAN/R/1 – RECOGNISED SECURITY PROTOCOL OVERRIDE AUTHORISED WAKE SEQUENCE INITIALISED The hull trembled beneath him. A long, low vibration, rising through the floor, the walls, the air. From far off came the whine of priming hydraulics. He braced his elbows against the console, steadying himself. Then the sound, oh the sound that sent a shiver up him. A bass-deep roar, both mechanical and animal simultaneously. A howl of turbines long dormant, now stirring. The Vulcans twitched and pilot lights flared. Smoke hissed from the exhaust vents. 329 was stirring from its slumber. The systems stabilised and the console stopped flickering. Krystan exhaled, slowly and silently. He leaned in, one gloved hand resting against the warm metal rim of the cradle. “I need you to do something for me.” He entered the coordinates by hand. No macros this time; it had to be right. There would be no second chances. OBJECTIVE: CORE FACILITY DOORWAY PRIORITY: OVERRIDE – IMMEDIATE EXECUTION CONDITIONALS: DISREGARD RETREAT PATH He hesitated and let the final line sit there, the cursor blinking. RAID PROTOCOL: KRYSTAN/1/R – AUTHORISED EXECUTE? Y/N He hit Y. The machine responded. The primary generator kicked in, spooling up and adding to the raw noise. The Vulcans spun up, a mechanical howl that shook dust from the rafters. Krystan flinched. The sound wasn’t for him. It was an awakening and a warning. He stood, knees crackling under his weight, and hauled himself up through the hatch. He didn’t look back into the cradle, just climbed down the hull, one handhold at a time. He was slower now, but still steady. He dropped to the vault floor with a grunt and stepped back. 329’s drive motors spooled to full torque. The hull shifted and treads bit into decades of settled dust. The outer blast doors groaned open. Light poured in. Krystan stood to the side as the beast began to roll forward. Slowly at first, then with growing purpose. The was no hesitation. It had its task. And it would complete it or die trying. As 329 passed the threshold, Krystan murmured, “Last job. Make it count.” In the silence it left behind, the dust hung weightless in the air. For a fleeting moment, Krystan stood, distracted by the movement of the motes in the air. He stood beside the blast door, watching 329 roll into the half-light. The ground trembled under its treads. He didn’t speak. His eyes tracked the machine until it passed from view, swallowed by sun and dust. Then he turned, slightly. Freja was watching. Something passed across his face, a quiet sadness. The kind you carry when something precious slips beyond reach. He looked away from her, down at floor, and paused. He looked up again, meeting her gaze. He gave her single nod and then left without a word. I moved toward the blast doors and stepped up beside Freja. She hadn’t moved. Just stood there, eyes fixed on where the machine had gone. I unbuckled the sidearm from my belt and held it out to her, grip-first. “For you.” She stared at it with uncertainty. Then took it, with two hands, a little too tightly. “You ever fired one?” She shook her head. “Keep it pointed down unless you mean it. And if you mean it… mean it. Nothing in between. And keep your finger off that trigger unless you do.” She nodded. I didn’t know if she really understood. But that was all I had time for. Behind us, the squad gathered, six of them. Younger, keen, and alert, but with the kind of quiet I respected. Not showy. Just ready. Łaska joined last, her launcher low, eyes sweeping the soot-streaked vault. Even she paused, and if she paused, I knew something was shifting. She caught my eye, glanced at Freja still holding the pistol, and gave the smallest shake of the head as if to say "Really?" I just said, “Move.” I didn't shout. I didn’t need to. We passed through the vault mouth, into the access tunnel. No banners here nor signs. Just the wet-metal smell of old air and concrete that hadn’t breathed in decades. The slope took us deeper. Behind us, the door clanged shut and light vanished. Our headlamps clicked on one by one, narrow cones cutting into stale dark. We kept walking. Then came the sound, distant, through layers of earth and steel. A rumble, almost like thunder. Then a howl. Longer than before and sharper. Like something tearing loose inside the walls. One of the young fighters stiffened. “What the heck is that?” “Our side,” I said. “Keep moving.” Even Łaska turned at that one, briefly. Just enough for me to catch it. “It’s still fighting,” I murmured. Then lower, so only I could hear: “Gods help them.” We went on. The tunnel constricted the further we went. The air had changed. It was less stale now, more processed and recycled. That told me we were getting close to something still running. Something watching. The lights from our headlamps caught rust flakes clinging to overhead piping. Some markings on the walls, old Imperial codes, mostly faded. Others had been scorched off entirely. I kept count of the fighters behind me. Six when we entered, plus Łaska and Freja. Still six, for now. We pushed on, our steps muted by dust and grime. Every few metres, someone glanced upward, like they expected the walls themselves to shift.Ahead, the tunnel bent hard to the left. I slowed, held up a fist. The squad froze. Something felt wrong. I edged to the corner and peered around. A corridor beyond, straight and tight. No cover. A gantry overhead. Some kind of casing bolted into the ceiling. It was too clean to be old, too silent to be right. “Eyes up,” I said, quietly. Freja was breathing too loudly behind me. I tapped her arm once. She exhaled a little. She still held the sidearm too tight. I waved Czerny forward. Tall, lean, and sharp-eyed. He was our point man. He raised his rifle. He stepped past the bend... A bolt of blue light punched clean through his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. We dropped instantly. Łaska swore through her teeth. A turret. Auto-linked. Something dormant that woke when it tasted movement. “Suppressive fire!” I barked. Two of the squad rolled grenades down the corridor, concussives. The blast slammed our ears and lit the walls in white. When it cleared, the gantry sagged, metal warped and blackened. I didn’t wait. We moved. Fast, tightly, disciplined. We passed Czerny’s body without a word. Gods love him, but we’d come back for him. Freja had dropped in the chaos. I reached back, grabbed her collar, yanked her to her feet. “Come on.” She stumbled after us. Eyes wide. Still shaking. A few hundred metres further, the tunnel split. A junction, one path descending, the other a maintenance passage running east. We paused. Only five now. Łaska leaned against the bulkhead, reloading her grenade launcher. Sweat on her brow. Even she looked rattled. Then the sound came again, that same long howl we’d heard before. But this time it changed, twisted mid-way into something worse, a scream. It was raw and mechanical. Full of fury. Echoing down through layers of concrete and steel. Łaska didn’t flinch. She glanced upward and slammed the bolt on her launcher closed. We didn’t speak. We kept moving. We reached the blast door to the Core. Freja crouched beside the console, muttering to herself, tapping in codes. Her fingers moved faster now, more certain. Whatever she'd found in the archives, it was working. I stood beside her, weapon raised, watching the corridor behind us and waiting. I could hear footsteps. Distant, but closing. Łaska came up beside me. One of the squad stood at her shoulder, the others farther back, rifle aimed down the tunnel. “They’re close,” she said. I nodded. “Time to move.” She didn’t flinch. She just looked at me. Really looked. “You want me to take them?” “No,” I said. “I do.” Silence. “You’ve got a squad,” I said. “You and them. That’s it. Take the east vent. Loop around. Make it look like we split. Draw them off. Give Freja the time she needs.” Her brow creased. “You’re not coming?” “I’ll be right behind you.” And there it was. That was the lie. And we both knew it. Still, I said it cleanly and evenly. Not a flicker in my voice. She stared at me a beat longer. Then her eyes shifted and her jaw clenched, but she didn’t argue. She knew me too well to believe it, and loved me too much to make me say it. Her hand came up and brushed my chest. Then dropped. That was all. She turned, gave the signal. The others moved. Quietly, professionally, fast. She hesitated one step longer. Then she was gone. Behind me, Freja’s voice was calm. “Almost through.” I turned back to the tunnel. Took position. Raised my weapon. The hallway stretched on, empty for now, but not for long. Let them come. ===== The blast door hissed. Freja flinched as it juddered, then began to part. “You got it?” I asked. She nodded, breath shallow. “We’re in.” The gap widened, revealing only dark beyond. No light. No sound. Just the dead air of the Core, sealed for decades. She hesitated. I didn’t. I caught her shoulder, firmly, and pulled her gently but decisively away from the console and pressed her back against the wall. Her breath caught. My face was close, my voice low and tight. “Do you hear that?” The scream of 329 carried faintly down through the layers above us. It wasn't just a howl now, it was something deeper. Fractured. Dying. A Banshee. Freja nodded. “You know what it is.” Tears rimmed her eyes. She didn’t speak, she didn’t need to. “It’s dying for you.” I stepped back. “Now go.” She went through the gap and into the dark. The door stayed open. Whether by design or decay, it didn’t matter now. I heard echoed bootsteps, dozens of them I dropped to one knee and raised my rifle. I went through the ritual: Breathe in. Hold. Exhale slowly. Squeeze. Black-armoured shapes rounded the corner — rifles up, visors gleaming. I let loose, full auto, the butt slamming into my shoulder. They stalled. That was all I needed. Grenade. Cap off. Rolled it into them. I paused a second as I saw Łaska rolling her eyes in my mind at my choice of words. “Eat this.” The blast lit the corridor in white. Screams. Scorched metal. I kept firing. They wanted Freja. They’d have to go through me. And I wasn’t moving. My rifle was empty. I dropped the mag, slammed in the last I had, and braced against the bulkhead. My side was slick with blood. One round had found me. Maybe more. I didn’t check. They were cautious now, the Concord bastards. I’d killed too many. A few rushed, and had died. The rest held back, thinking I might run out of ammo before they ran out of bodies. They might have been right. Another burst from their side. I ducked but shrapnel bit into my scalp. It didn’t matter. They weren’t getting through that door. Not while I was still breathing. I pushed forward on one knee, exposed for half a second, and took one in the throat. One of the younger ones. Maybe nineteen, twenty years old. His helmet popped off as he dropped. "I'm sorry," I said to myself. The next came roaring around the corner, bayonet raised and desperation in his face. I side-stepped, caught his collar, and drove him headfirst into the wall. His skull cracked. He slid down, a deadweight. I backed up, near the door. I heard the whine of their comms. There were more coming. Then sudden pain, sharp and hot, in my shoulder. I dropped again, my rifle clattering beside me. My fingers were too numb to grab it. My breath was ragged. My vision greyed at the edges. Still, I smiled. Above me, 329 still screamed. Still fought and still held. “Good,” I whispered. “You hang on, boy. Just a little longer.” Footsteps. Five of them. Six. I couldn’t lift the rifle now. I reached to my belt. My pistol was gone. Ah, I realised. I'd given it to Freja. Well, at least it might give her a chance. Not that she'd got a clue what to do with it. The first Concord soldier rounded the corner. And then the world detonated. Not me. Not my grenade. Łaska came in like a sandstorm. Launcher up, eyes blazing. One round. Two. Shrapnel tore through their line; legs gone, helmets split, screams swallowed by her thunder. She didn’t shout and she did not and would not stop. She advanced, firing again, calmly, brutally, until the corridor was painted in smoke and ruin. Then stillness. I saw her boots first. Then her silhouette through the haze. She walked to me and knelt. I lay on the ground, eyes fixed on the ceiling. I couldn’t move my head and my arms barely moved. I couldn't feel my legs. Blood pooled in my mouth. I could taste iron, sharp and bitter. I smelled damp earth. The kind that came after watering. Our crops were blooming. Reaching for the sun. I saw her, moja Łaska, her face above mine, blurred, trembling, and so beautiful. She was talking to me but I couldn’t hear it. "I dream of rain," I whispered. Łaska sat on her knees beside him, holding his hand. "Kocham Cię, my love."

Nowa Avestia loomed ahead, washed in the pale glow of the setting sun. Marek sat atop the Chimera’s hull, arms folded, eyes scanning the familiar silhouette of the outer walls. The station was as he’d left it — quiet, unassuming. Yet, as the squad dismounted and rolled through the gates, something gnawed at the back of his thoughts. The yard should have been busy. The 280th, ever a fixture at the outpost, were nowhere to be seen. No idle banter, no groups lingering near the vehicle bays. Marek’s brow furrowed. “Where’s Rakoczy’s lot?” one of his troopers muttered. Marek waved him off. “Probably dug into some menial sweep. Nothing to worry about.” But the unease lingered. He hopped down from the Chimera, boots clanging against the cracked concrete. The garrison’s bustle was there — PDF guards on duty, traders arguing over cargo — but the absence of the 280th pressed at him. He made his way to the barracks, eyes subtly scanning the faces of passing soldiers. No familiar insignias from Rakoczy’s squad. Only the station’s regulars. Later, seated at his bunk, Marek flipped open his battered dataslate. His thumb hovered over the encoded message he’d prepared before setting out. It was ready to send — coordinates, maps, supply routes, the lot. He stared at it for a long time. His instincts, dulled by years of routine, were now fully awake. Something wasn’t right. Still, orders were orders. He clenched his jaw, weighing it in his mind. Nearby, laughter and the scrape of boots on metal floorboards echoed from the adjoining hall. Normal sounds, nothing more. But Marek knew better. He tapped the dataslate off and set it aside. “Maybe in the morning,” he muttered to himself, trying — and failing — to shake the sense that the desert had shifted while he’d been away. ----- Kasnyk’s office hummed faintly with the mechanical churn of the outpost’s life-support systems. Bright, artificial lighting left no shadows to hide in — a deliberate choice. The walls were bare save for a single shelf stacked with dataslates, parchment rolls, and battered binders. His desk was equally sparse, occupied only by a flickering cogitator terminal, a potted plant sagging from neglect, and a small globe — worn and faded — of his homeworld, Verdanos. It spun lazily under the ventilation draft. He sat stiffly in his chair, stylus tapping rhythmically against a half-finished report. A stack of investigations awaited, each more tedious than the last. “Case 39-14,” he muttered. “Water ration disputes again.” The file detailed a theft from the eastern cistern — a group of off-duty PDF accused by a local informant. No violence, just a missing shipment and too many conflicting testimonies. He sighed. “Nothing but thirsty opportunists.” The report, as always, was thorough — and suspect. “Smugglers disguised as wandering preachers,” Kasnyk read aloud, lips thinning. “Found near the southern ridge. Again.” He leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes wander briefly to the potted plant. He should have watered it yesterday. Next came routine shipping manifests. Supplies inbound from Prawa V Prime. He cross-checked them with requisition logs, frowning slightly. Minor discrepancies, nothing to lose sleep over. Yet. Finally, the next slate slid beneath his hand. Kasnyk’s monocle flickered to life without prompting, scrolling data across its lens. Material composition: standard dataslate alloy. Typeface: Imperial Gothic, Sub-Type 7-B. Handwriting: Sergeant Sobczak. Cross-referenced and confirmed. He skimmed the contents — coordinates, route reports, asset listings. On the surface, routine. But a knot settled in his stomach. He tapped the monocle. “Correlate.” The system displayed movements matching Sobczak’s unit. The 280th Sunward Watch had passed through the same region shortly before. His memory flashed back — Rakoczy and his squad standing stiffly during their debrief. He rose from his chair, pacing slowly. Why had the 280th shifted their patrol pattern? Why hadn’t he pressed harder at the time? He circled the desk once, fingers tracing the globe absentmindedly. “No,” he muttered. “Not enough yet.” Still, the discrepancy was filed, noted carefully in the margins of his investigation ledger. Kasnyk returned to his chair, but the silence of the office felt heavier than before. ----- The canyon appeared suddenly, like a scar split open across the earth. From the rise where we first saw it, it stretched beyond the horizon, a jagged wound deep enough that the morning haze concealed its depth. The desert sands broke off in sheer cliffs, and nestled against the cliff's edge was the narrow, winding trace of the old service road. We paused, engines idling, watching the worn track snake down into the depths. I could feel the unease ripple through the men, unspoken but clear. I gave the order to advance, and the column crept forward, single-file, our lead Chimera — 312 — taking point, with 376 following close behind. The first stretch was manageable. The canyon walls sheltered us from the worst of the desert wind, but as we descended, the temperature began to climb. The deeper we went, the less air moved. It became a trapped heat, like the blast of a furnace, dry and oppressive. Then came the grinding sound. "Stop," Krystan called from the driver's seat, voice edged with frustration. "Something's off." A brief check revealed the truth — 376's transmission had seized. The backup vehicle was crippled halfway down the descent. I climbed out, squinting up at the canyon rim as fine dust sifted down lazily from above. "What are we looking at, Laska?" I asked, wiping sweat from my brow. Laska, who had hopped over to peer into 376’s exposed engine compartment, wiped her hands on her fatigues. "Transmission's blown, Sarge," she said, deadpan. "Properly. She's not getting home under her own power." Her tone was so casual it might’ve been a joke, but there was no grin this time. Krystan cursed under his breath. I could feel the squad shift, eyes darting nervously to the cliffs above. Exposed like this, strung along a brittle road, every ridge and rock seemed to be watching. "Abandon it. Everyone on 312," I said. The order tasted bitter. It wasn’t just the heat making us sweat. We packed ourselves tight, soldiers and engineers perched awkwardly atop the hull, gripping onto straps and welded handholds. With the extra weight, 312 groaned in protest, her suspension creaking with every shift of momentum. We threw open the hatches, letting the oven-hot air sweep through. A poor trade — cooler, but now exposed. Every eye scanned the jagged canyon walls, watching for the flash of a scope or the glint of movement. There was nothing, only the rovfugl wheeling high on thermals, circling lazily. A scavenger by nature, it rode the rising heat without urgency, as if patiently waiting for something to die below. Krystan worked the controls like a man nursing an injured beast. The brakes squealed occasionally, a high, sharp note that echoed too well. Czajka sat beside me, silent as always, but his gaze never left the ridges. His marksman’s eye picked out every likely firing position, but he gave no voice to what we all knew — if someone waited up there, we’d never make it to the bottom. The descent grew harsher. Sparse desert scrub gave way to cracked stone, the last defiant plants replaced by small clusters of squat, purple succulents clinging to life. The heat was unbearable, the air unmoving and thick. Sweat pooled inside armour, and tempers flared. A sharp comment from one of the engineers drew a snap from Laska. Another soldier barked back, and I could see the tension boiling just beneath the surface. “Enough,” I said firmly, voice steady. “Keep it together. We're almost there.” They quieted, but the mood remained tight. As we wound lower, I found myself staring at the track ahead, then to the walls hemming us in, and back again. My stomach tightened in ways the heat couldn’t explain. This was the first time I was truly leading them — my squad, my responsibility. No sergeant to defer to. No Rakoczy to give the word. Just me. I tried to push the thought down, but it clawed its way back up like the dust coating our boots. Was I leading them into some forgotten treasure trove... or a grave? Finally, the trail widened as we emerged onto the canyon floor. The world pressed in around us — towering walls hemming us in on every side. Before us, half-hidden by a natural overhang, was the entrance: a vast cavernous maw where rock and machinery fused together. The outline of the bunker was unmistakable, its doors sealed and ancient. We dismounted. The heat down here felt heavier still, dead and oppressive. The squad gathered, looking to me for direction. Inside, the bunker waited. And none of us liked the feel of it.

Hi all, I realise I have not written here for a bit nor have I started on my pledges for the Call To Arms (for shame!). Been a bit occupied travelling and with new job, etc. I've set aside Prawa V and my beloved Resistance for a little. I've finished the story and am going to go back in a month or so with a big, fat, red pen and edit, whilst mostly muttering "what the heck was I thinking?" In the meantime, I've started on a sequel set some 50 years later. Here's a small sample. I've leant into the Danish a little more for flavour this time. And, speaking of other languages, when I use Polish and Danish, they're not supposed to be literally those languages, more they are placeholders for other languages spoken by the people there, much as English is not likely the actual tongue people speak in either. Danish and Polish are such radically different languages. Polish is very structured and has clearly defined rules. The idioms tend to be a little bleak, haha, but they reflect centuries of being conquered, then freed, conquered, then freed. You get the idea. Danish, in contrast, appears to have no rules at all. You either know how to pronounce something or you don't. And their idioms are a lot more whimsical. I've also taken the liberty of using local dialects from the places I've lived. The Polish is of the Silesian/Śląske dialect while the Danish, which I am nowhere near as good at, is Fynske. Anyhow, enough of me prattling on about languages. Here's Freja, an up and coming mid-level functionary, born and raised into the system, now known as The Concord, some fifty years after the events of Prawa V. She has led a fairly sheltered and privileged life with a good education and her career path mapped out before her. The Concord arose as a result of a treaty between the Resistance and the Imperium, ostensibly giving more rights and freedoms to the ordinary people of Prawa V. However, Freja is noting little inconsistencies and investigating so she can fix the errors. She was not expecting to find this... ===== The vidcomm unit's screen went blank for a moment. Then green text appeared on its dark display, overlaying the video capture: Classified Footage | Designate: A-329 | Complex 73 Engagement Timestamp: [REDACTED] Audio: ENABLED Playback: Begin Freja leaned forward, her breath fogging slightly against the glass of the console monitor. The footage was grainy, pulled from a static-mounted vox-cam overlooking the southern approach to Complex 73. The weather was overcast. Figures moved across the dust-choked plain, Imperial troops advancing in loose formations, fanning out around ruined emplacements and moving toward the shattered gates of the outpost. She keyed the volume up a notch. At first, only wind. A dry hum across the microphone. Then, low and distant, the sound. A rising howl. She could not discern its source at first. It came from somewhere beneath the camera, rising like pressure forced through a tunnel. A mechanical scream like some chained and tortured banshee. It built until distortion clipped the audio. Freja instinctively winced. Then came the first burst. Two seconds of staccato hammering, each round a fist slamming against the the very fabric of the land. The Vulcans spoke with all the fury of a storm battering a shore. On-screen, an entire forward squad simply vanished. One moment they were crouched by a barricade. The next moment just mist, and parts, and ruin. The earth behind them erupted upward in blood, and mud, and flame. She held her breath. Another burst. This time it tore through an armoured personnel carrier. The vehicle buckled in place, armour peeling backward like fruit skin, then erupted from within. Screams lanced through the audio feed, brief, and wet, and silenced too fast to linger. Between each burst, she could hear the sound of shell casings hitting the floor. The camera shuddered as something passed it, a dark shape, fast, tracked only by its wake and the blur of hull. It pivoted mid-frame with unnerving speed for something of its bulk. There was a pause. Then three more staccato bursts. Bunkers detonated like oil drums. Earthworks collapsed inward. The footage blurred again as debris smashed against the lens. Freja flinched. Not from the violence, but from the sound the deliberate rhythm of it. The way each burst was spaced, measured, and executed. She watched a nightmare given form. She reached for the controls, and paused. Her hand was shaking. More footage followed. Distant shouts. Vox-commands from officers trying to rally their troops. Then came the flame. The side-mounted weapons ignited, torrents of liquid fire scouring trenches. Shapes ran and burned. The beast moved through it all, steady and purposeful. It did not halt. It did not hesitate. The howl rose again as the cannons spun, a keening shriek as it unleashed its rage. And Freja, who had grown up beneath silver and white banners, who had believed in census codes and public order, watched everything she understood burn beneath its barrage. On-screen, a final burst tore across the horizon, cutting down the retreating line like stalks at harvest. Then static. Freja sat back in her chair, pulse roaring in her ears. Her voice, when it came, was small. "Emperor's name..." But the file gave no answer. Only a final tag in the corner of the screen. Designate: A-329 [NO FURTHER RECORDS FOUND] ===== I did think about having Freja's final line be "Holy Emperor on a bicycle..." but I thought that might break immersion a little. I've just recently watched the Fallout series and love the naïvety of the main character (okey dokey, then!) As for 329, it's based on the Macharius Vulcan and I took the name Vulcan and ran with it. The Avro Vulcan, a jet bomber from the 50s and onward, is famous for its 'howl'. There's plenty of vids on YouTube out there demonstrating it and I remember seeing one at an airshow in my teens. If I knew I was going to be on the receiving end of its wrath, hearing that sound would make me reconsider my life choices. So, I built it into 329 as a psychological weapon. Just hearing those cannons spin up would have many doing an about-face and heading in the other direction. I do appreciate the game 'meta' with this particular model isn't great, but it is rather one of my favourites! I do rather imagine the sound of 329's cannons sounding like a deeper, bass rumble variant of the smart guns in Aliens, though I have struggled to put that sound into words. Suggestions gratefully received! Anyhow, thoughts, as always, most welcome.

Hi all, Following a suggestion from @W.A.Rorie, I'm going to summarise the main characters in each of the two stories I have written. This came about because I've been posting passages out of chronological order and a mix of the two stories. I hope this helps clear things up. As my readers will know, I do enjoy my languages and will provide some context for their names. The meaning of the names isn't terribly important, but thought it might make a point of interest. I've spent time in Śląske (Silesia), Poland and lived on the island of Fyn, Denmark and, where possible, I've used local dialects from those places as opposed to the standard Polish or Danish. Polish is easy. Danish has a lot of glottal or rear throat sounds and I am really not sure how to describe them, so will do my best. Hopefully there's a Dane here who can help! Anyhow, enough language waffle - I'll bore you to sleep if you let me carry on! So, to begin, the first story: Comes The Sandstorm Characters: The Narrator - Age approximately 25. Worked in the mines to provide for his wife and home. He spent every waking hour there and she found affection in the arms of another man. However, he was a brute, and the new opening passage details our Narrator identifying his wife in the morgue after she was beaten to death. He didn't return to the mines and was punished through conscription. He is later noticed by Mona, who sees promise, and chosen to be the new squad sergeant of the 280th after the death of Sgt. Rakoczy. He is a reluctant leader, but grows into the role. Laska Nowak - [lass-KA noh-VAK] - Age approximately 24. Her name meaning 'grace' or 'mercy,' she's the squad's lance corporal, so second officer under the Narrator. She is passionate, but disciplined. She put on the tough front, but, in moments of silence, she reveals her loneliness. She is fiercely loyal but I have tried not to step too much into the 'tough gal' trope. She is the special weapons member, wielding a grenade launcher. She and the Narrator eventually get together, which firms up her loyalty even more. She's strong, mentally, and has a rather sardonic sense of humour. Krystan Jensen - [kri-STAN yen-SEN] - The 280th's Chimera driver. He is, like myself, on the spectrum, but quite a bit further along. Like me, he loves logic and things being 'just so.' When he is seated inside the cockpit of a machine, nothing else matters; only he and the machine. Develops a relationship with the unsolvable puzzle that is 329. Czajka Gorski - [chy-KA gor-SKI] - Age approximately 24. His first name meaning 'lapwing,' a type of bird. For those not familiar: https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/lapwing. His surname means, approximately, 'of the mountains.' Squad sniper. A man of few words. Not distant, but certainly observant. He does have some heart-to-hearts with the Narrator. He is a good advisor, doesn't give up much about himself, but, as he has been with the 280th since his late teens, he knows how the squad works. Zofia Malmgren - [zo-FEE-ah mal-GREN] - Age approximately 38. Polish first name, Danish last, so a mixture of cultures. No nonsense medic. She is somewhat of a pacifist and does not like weapons, but understands the importance of the cause and is always on-hand to do her medical duties. She does carry a pistol, but we never see her use it. There is a frisson of sexual tension between she and Róża, but nothing explicit. Róża Makówska - [roo-JA mah-KOOF-ska] (the 'J' is pronounced like the French 'je'] - Approximately 28 years old. First name meaning 'Rose.' Sergeant of squad 265 and career military. Initially eyes the Narrator with caution, maybe even looking down on him, but grows to respect him. Holds her own during the assault on Complex 27, scruffing a young soldier and snapping him out of his fear. Unspoken attraction to Zofia. I leave the idea they are intimate to the imagination. Marek Sobczak - [mah-REK sob-CHAK] - Approximately 35 years old. Lance corporal of 265. Not entirely won over by the Resistance. Betrays the Resistance to Lieutenant Kaśnyk, providing intel. Slain by the Fennec. Lieutenant Kaśnyk - [LEF-tenant cash-NIK] - Approximately 40 years old. I've tried to write him like a film noir gumshoe detective. As exemplified by his interview of the functionary, he is normally given mundane investigations and, while he completes the job at-hand, he yearns for a challenge. When the Resistance start to act, strange movements, stealing old, mothballed war engines, he gets fired up. He follows the rules to the letter. He is bureaucratic to a fault and sees everything in black and white, though he is aware of the value of a bribe. Possesses a monocle that projects information onto his left eye that provides information on whatever he looks at. His henchman, Barcza, is his last resort and he is reluctant to use him, but he knows the value of the use of a little force. Barcza - [bar-CHA] = Approximately 35 years old. Spec Ops commander (read: Kasrkin). Launches a stealth attack on Nowa Avestia (the Resistance's HQ) after Lieutenant Kaśnyk gave him his orders. Mission failed due to 329 and he itches to go back and fix the problem. Barcza is the soldier the Narrator's wife, Ida, fell into the arms of. But, he is not only a highly professional solider - he is also a brute. The Narrator gets his justice, but have not revealed that, yet. ;) His team, Raven, Lis, Gauge, and so on, infiltrate in a stealth modified Valkyrie named the Night Rovfugl [Night roh-FOOL] - meaning 'Night Bird of Prey.' I'm working on a model for this at this time incorporating LED lighting, engine modifications and a few other things inspired by stealth aircraft such as the F-117 and F-22. Mona - [MOH-NAH] - Effectively the GSC Magus. We never see her be violent nor use her psychic powers. She uses her powers of seduction, that soft scent of cinnamon and cloves, her guile, and, on occasion, womanly charms. She is extremely manipulative and has lived for an undetermined amount of time. She was there for the previous uprising, approximately 80 years ago, and has not changed since. One of three touched by the Genestealer's Kiss. Jagiello - [yag-GEE-EH-woh] - Age unknown, though likely 40-50 years old. Effectively, the GSC Primus. Cunning, tactical commander. Supremely confident. He listens to Mona when it is convenient and matches up with his plans. His confidence as a military commander inspires others and it was he who organised the current Resistance....but this begs the question: is he pulling the strings or Mona? One of three touched by the Genestealer's Kiss. The Fennec - [FEN-ECK] - Approximately 30 years old. Based on the Jackal Alphus, but she acts alone. She wields a rifle based on the Denel NTW-20 with the .50 cal barrel. She is not loyal to a particular leader, but 100% loyal to the cause. She is the final tool in Jagiello's armoury and she silences Marek Sobczak with a round through he and his vehicle. One of three touched by the Genestealer's Kiss. I am looking forward to making a conversion to represent her. The Patriarch - The Patriarch only appears twice in the first story and only in the shadows. I wanted to keep him out of the way, as I am far more interested in the stories of the people than him. He may show up more in the future. Vehicles: Brutus - Based on the HH Malcador with the battle cannon. Brutus is the epitome of reliability, determination, and standing ground. If something needs doing, Brutus will be there by their side, a steadfast ally, her crew confident in her abilities. The Iron Duke - The mighty Minotaur, its huge frontis shield makes it an impenetrable target, protecting those sheltering behind it, all the while its mighty twin Earthshakers launch shells, shattering enemy fortifications. While Brutus is the all-rounder, The Iron Duke is the shield. 329 - The unknown. This is where I break canon. It is autonomous in the sense it can function without a crew. No AI. just programming. The problem is, no-one quite knows what that programming is, so it is unpredictable. The closest person to finding out its secrets is Krystan. And even he is still scared of it. Detects the danger from Barcza's team when they try to lay demo charges on it and obliterates some of them, forcing a retreat. The Night Rovfugl - [nite roh-FOOL] - Barcza and his team's unique, customised Valkyrie, built with additional modifications to simulate stealth features found in F-117, F-22, F-35, including exhaust baffles, matte black radar-absorbent paint, intake baffles, modified tail plane, etc. The model is still the flying brick of a Valkyrie we all know and love, but it was a fun challenge to try to do something about it. ===== Thank you for coming to my TED talk. I will work on the characters from the second story next week. In the meantime, have you any questions, please feel free to reply.

Hi all, I wrote this small scene as an experiment. It features a man guarding the nursery in Nowa Avestia, the headquarters of the Resistance. Now, I will confess, it is a little self-indulgent as the name Wójek is what my Polish little goddaughter and nieces call me - it means "uncle". My heart melts a little when they call me that. If I decide to include this in the story of Comes The Sandstorm, he'll only appear in this one scene, otherwise I think it'll become redundant. Sorry I am not publishing so much of late. Bit of an injury issue that impairs typing, painting, driving, etc. at the moment, but I am on the mend! Thoughts, commentary, and constructive criticism, as always, most welcome. ===== The nursery hallway was quiet, its padded walls dulling the sounds from within. Wójek sat just left of the entrance, boots planted square, hands resting on his thighs. Fatigues crisp. Plate carrier in place. His rifle was mounted above, secured high on the wall, well out of a child's reach. A woman arrived with a girl in tow. The child spotted him instantly. “Wójek!” She bolted forward and climbed clumsily onto his knee. He caught her with one hand, gently but firmly, steadying her as she wobbled, then rested his palm lightly on her shoulder. The other hand stayed relaxed on his thigh. He smiled. Just for her. A flicker of warmth behind a face built for silence. Her mother returned his nod, quiet and grateful. Another parent joined her, watching the scene. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Have you ever seen him in civvies?” The woman shook her head. “Not once.” Footsteps approached. Another fighter passed down the corridor. Wójek’s expression dulled, the smile gone, replaced by the blank composure of a man back on duty. He gave a short nod to the soldier. The girl hummed something tuneless, kicking her boots against his leg in time. He didn’t move. He just kept watch.

So, firstly, may I take a moment to thank those who have followed my blog and the story of Prawa V. I am truly grateful for your feedback and support. It has spurred me on to continue writing. Now, for the hard part. I've not received any negative criticism. I would like to invite you to take my writing apart and really lay the hammer down on me. Where am I am going wrong? What doesn't make sense? Which character(s) just doesn't make sense? I ask this because, while positive praise is great, and it is appreciated, I want some criticism. I want to know how I can improve. Go ahead. Do your worst. And I will say thank you. I appreciate your time!

I've been going through and editing the first story of Prawa V, Comes The Sandstorm, and making changes to it, such as adding to the story with things such as physical descriptions, and so on. I've completely changed the beginning and given the Narrator a far better motivation. We've all lot someone precious and I hope I can convey the numbness one feels in such a circumstance. As always, constructive criticism and thoughts most welcome. Ida is a Danish name. Czajka is a Polish name meaning 'lapwing,' a type of bird, for those not familiar. I thought it was important to establish the two languages in the opening passage, even if the reader doesn't immediately understand the differentiation. I do try, when using other languages, to ensure I give context, as I don't wish to alienate anglophones. Regarding myself, I am a Brit, but speak several languages as I am a bit of a mongrel! I won't curse you guys with Welsh, haha! Anything in my writing that doesn't have sufficient context, please do tell me. I want my writing to be accessible. Thank you. ===== I gave a reluctant nod, jaw clenched, lips tight, and glanced at the orderly. He carefully replaced the sheet over her face. The chill of the morgue was nothing compared to the cold inside me. She lay there on the slab, bruised and swollen, eyes shut. She’d left me months ago. The mines took all my time. She was lonely. I don’t blame her for that. I just wish we could’ve talked before she found him. A soldier, one with time for her. My Ida. And now she was dead. Now she was gone. I stood there, unsure of the protocol. So, I just stood. “Subject 07-B, confirmed as the deceased by husband,” the orderly muttered into his terminal. He paused, then looked at me. I barely noticed. “We’re finished here. Please go to the office for the paperwork.” I nodded, slowly, then walked numbly to the door. The sand scratched at the windows, a soft, steady hiss that hadn’t stopped in two days. The light outside was the colour of rusted brass, sky and ground smeared together in the wind. I didn’t go back to the mine and no-one came looking. There were no calls nor knocks, just silence, and the low hum of the building’s backup generator when the grid dropped for an hour. I sat on the floor, back against the wall, Ida’s tags in my hand. On the third morning, a slip pushed under the door. No name was on it, just block lettering: FAILURE TO REPORT – WORK CONVERSION ENACTED - MANDATORY SERVICE REASSIGNMENT - BLOCK C-7 – 0900 HOURS I read it once and folded it. I didn’t pack. Just slipped the tags around my neck and left the flat as it was. The conscription hall was a prefabricated block off the railway line. Rows of benches, dust in the corners. A machine-voiced clerk read names from a slate while two enforcers handed out equipment bags. No-one spoke. They gave me a PDF uniform that didn’t fit, stained boots, and rifle with "Nowicki" scratched into the stock. No instructions, just a sector map, a bunk number, and a duty rotation I couldn’t read properly. My post was a wire-fenced pump station on the edge of the district. Nothing ever happened. No one even passed by. On the fourth night, Czajka sat down across from me in the mess. He didn’t introduce himself. I had already asked who he was. I’d seen him watching me. "Heard about your wife." I nodded, eyes on the table. "Can't have been easy." Another nod. "They... uh..." He paused. Searching. "She didn't get a burial. That's not right." My jaw tensed. I kept my stare fixed on the scratches in the metal surface between us. "It didn't have to be that way." He stood. He didn’t look at me when he spoke again. "There’s a unit. 280th. Rough posting. Not for everyone." He paused. "But they bury their own." He walked out without waiting for a reply.

So, I am tinkering with a follow-up to the story I have written while I take a break before editing. I cannot recall who who said it (Oscar Wilde, maybe?), but someone said "kill your darlings." I've written this brief passage that follows on from the blog entry here: Essentially, Krystan has programmed 329 to get ahead and provide a distraction for Freja so she can do what she needs to. There's no sympathy here. It is a machine. And it won't stop. Its only programming is to advance and wipe out whatever is in front of it. And it's buying time for her. "You hear that? You know what it is. It's dying for you." This is Freja returning to the scene of the battle. This is also a bit of an experiment in that I've never written like this before. I know this breaks from WH40K lore, but it felt right and I am happy with it. This isn't written in stone, yet, but it is an idea I am toying with. Anyhow, thoughts most welcome. Did my Beast in the Basement die a good death? Bonus points for getting the Alien 3 ref, haha ===== She waited until the patrols moved on. The battlefield wasn’t cordoned, just forgotten. It was left to smoulder, and rot, and settle into silence. Wrecked Chimeras still dotted the ridgeline. Spent casings pooled in shallow craters. The stench of fuel clung low in the air. She moved carefully, her boots crunching over vitrified dirt, past what had once been a sentry post. The husk of 329 lay ahead, split open along its spine, blackened and half-submerged in rubble. One of the Vulcans had melted down the side of the hull. The other pointed skyward, cracked at the base. She climbed the flank, fingers brushing scorched plating, and dropped into the wreck. It was cooler than expected. Dust lay thickly over the control systems. Most of it was ruined, slagged by the brutal impacts that finally took it out. The forward compartment had collapsed completely, but the rear diagnostics bay remained intact, though barely. She found the recorder wedged beneath a fused junction box. The casing had warped, its paint seared off and serials unreadable. She pried it loose with both hands, teeth gritted, and held it up to the weak light filtering through the wreck. One orange diode blinked, slowly and steadily. Still alive. She fired up the recorder. It showed a static camera view from the turret: low angle, scorched lens edges, a skewed horizon. Ahead advanced the defensive line of the 135th PDF, twelve soldiers braced behind reinforced barriers, barely visible through the haze. The turret began to rotate. Overlay data appeared across the screen. - Rotate –34.5° to port - Elevation –4.0° The Vulcan cannons howled. - FIRE: 1.7s – 29 rounds expended The image blurred with recoil and muzzle flash bloomed white across the lens. A cloud of dust, and flame, and shredded bodies. Freja flinched. She hadn’t seen it from this angle before. She hadn’t understood what was happening above her, in the tunnels. She thought she had heard it, the howl, but this was different. This wasn’t a war. This was an extermination. More data scrolled across the feed: - Inbound airborne munitions detected - Inbound airborne munitions detected - WARNING: ECM failure - Impact to primary weapon - Primary weapon operating at 50% operational capacity The footage stuttered. One barrel exploded out of frame. Molten debris flashed across the periphery. - WARNING: Primary generator temperature +89.4°C over tolerance - Power reroute: PROTOCOL KRYSTAN/R/1 – Primary weapon overclock engaged The remaining Vulcan whined higher, a metallic shriek rising to a scream. - FIRE: 0.8s – 17 rounds expended - WARNING: Primary weapon operating at +205% of thermal capacity The cam shook. - Impact to primary generator - Impact to primary turret - Impact to primary turret - Sensor anomaly: unexpected error - secondary sensor suite - WARNING: Fire in cryogenic compartment - WARNING: Primary weapon operating at +137% operational capacity - FIRE: 1.2s – 21 rounds expended - Rotate +22.5° to starboard - Elevation +1.6° - FIRE: 2.2s – 43 rounds expended Freja’s mouth parted slightly. The image blurred for a moment. The final burst sprayed wide, uncontrolled. The last defiant scream of a dying machine. - WARNING: Primary generator: terminal damage - WARNING: Secondary generator: terminal damage - WARNING: Primary sensors offline - WARNING: Primary weapon offline - WARNING: Hull integrity failure imminent - WARNI- ===== DATA LOG ENDS She sat still, her hands clenched in her lap. She hadn’t wept in months. Not for what she’d seen. Not for what she’d done. But for this? For a machine? She didn’t know. But she sat with it. With the silence that came after its scream.

I am so looking forward to completing one of my pledges - the Night Rovfugl, Barcza, and his team of Kasrkin. I will get this done this weekend. It is, quite honestly, one of the most adventurous models I have taken on. You ain't seen no Valkyrie yet, guys. And, in keeping with my mixing of languages and giving my vehicles some character, 'rovfugl' is akin to 'bird of prey' in Danish. The Night Rovfugl flew blacked-out, its matte hull cutting low across the desert. No lights nor insignia. Just the shimmer of heat bleeding from shielded exhausts, briefly visible, then gone. Inside, the troop compartment was dim and red-lit, casting the squad in blood and shadow. Ten troopers sat in silence, visors down, weapons held loosely across their laps. Straps swayed faintly with the motion of the hull. Barcza sat near the rear ramp, his helmet resting between his boots. He scanned each figure once, methodically, then tapped his throat mic. “Roll call.” The replies came clipped, one after another. “Lis.” “Raven.” “Slate.” “Gauge.” …others followed, each punctuated by a nod, a pat on the side of their weapon. They were ready. Weapons were checked again. Magazines seated. Grenades counted. Las-sights flicked on, then off. Barcza slid his helmet on and locked it tightly. His visor polarised with a faint click. No one spoke. A red light above the side doors pulsed twice. The cabin shifted subtly as the Rovfugl dropped in to hover. The sound wasn’t a roar, more a pressure. A low, rhythmic throb, felt more than heard. Fast and tight as it neared the drop point. Each pulse landed in the chest like a second heartbeat. The red light turned amber. Then green. The doors slid open. Barcza stood first. One hand up, a closed fist: hold. Two fingers pointed forward: on me. A flat palm, sweeping left: form wedge. The squad moved. Ten black shapes dropped into the dark. No comms. No noise but the soft grind of boots on dry grit. The Night Rovfugl lifted behind them. There was no flare nor aftershock. Just a lingering pressure in the air, then nothing. Barcza gave a short circular signal: check arcs. Two peeled left. Two right. The rest swept forward, low and methodical. He tapped his mic once, low gain. “Follow me.” And they moved into the dust, into the dark.

The Resistance have finally captured the war machines they believe they require to make their stand. Brutus, the Malcador, reliable, dependable the spine of their battleline. She will not fail them. She will hold the line, her battlecannon roaring, her sponsons blazing as she paves the way for the Resistance's advance. The Iron Duke, his twin Earthshaker cannons blasting holes in the enemy's fortifications. He guards those retreating and the wounded behind his massive blast shield. Then there is 329, the Vulcan. ===== The Macharius Vulcan squatted low, its twin cannons draped in canvas shrouds that no one dared remove. Someone had tried hanging a tarp over the sponson flamers. It hadn’t stayed up. The air around it felt different. Heavy and watching. Krystan moved along the left track guard with slow, deliberate steps. One hand held a grease cloth. The other rested lightly against the hull. Sometimes the main power relay was warm when it shouldn’t be. Once, the hull had shifted an several metres overnight. No one admitted it. No one spoke of it. He’d stopped trying to explain. He was tightening a bolt near the forward access port when he heard boots behind him. Jagiełło. The Primus approached. His coat hung open, desert dust still clinging to the hem. He didn’t speak immediately. He just looked. "Is it secure?" he asked. Krystan kept his eyes on the bolt. "Operational, if that’s what you mean. I cleaned the filters. Primed the coolant. She’s fuelled and ready." "That’s not what I asked." Krystan hesitated, then looked up. "No. It’s not secure. It’s not anything. It’s just... watching." Jagiełło stepped closer. Krystan’s breath caught. "I wouldn’t go near it. Not without me." The Primus paused, just within the shadow of the Vulcan. The hull loomed like a waiting animal. Then, with a mechanical whisper, the main turret turned. The was no warning. No servo whine until it was already moving. The cannons angled downward with purpose. A red dot appeared on Jagiełło’s chest. Laser targetter, dead centre. Krystan didn’t move. "I didn’t tell it to do that." Jagiełło didn’t flinch. But his eyes narrowed. "Then who did?" The moment held. The red dot stayed there, unmoving. The turret didn’t twitch. It just waited. Then the light blinked off. The turret rotated back to neutral. The bay was silent again, save for the soft settling creaks of 329's cooling frame. Jagiełło stepped back, eyes still on the hull. "It responds to you," he said. "It tolerates me," Krystan replied. A long pause. "Do you fear it?" "Every time I climb in." Jagiełło gave a short nod. Then turned without another word and walked away. Krystan remained, alone in the silence, one hand resting near the hull but never quite touching. Behind him, 329 waited. Mona stood alone on the upper gantry of the repair bay, half-shrouded in shadow, her coat drawn close against the lingering cold of early morning. The lamps cast long, low arcs of yellow light across the floor below, catching on riveted hulls and coiled fuel lines, throwing everything else into gloom. Three silhouettes waited in that gloom. Brutus, the Malcador, rested broad and battered, its weight sunk into the cracked ferrocrete as though it had been there forever. The Iron Duke lay tarped still, its shape concealed, but unmistakable to those who knew. A relic swaddled in dust cloth and reverence. And then there was 329. The Vulcan crouched in the middle of the bay, a slumbering beast. Its plating still bore the soot of battle, scorched streaks trailing from vents and barrel shrouds. Someone had tried to clean it. No one had finished. Mona said nothing for a long time. Her gaze shifted from one war machine to the next, slow and measured. There was no warmth in her face, but no fear either, only thought. Beneath her coat, her fingers moved gently against one another, like feeling the edges of something invisible. A memory, perhaps, of something she held once. "We called them symbols," she said softly, to no one. "We needed strength. Something to anchor belief. And they answered." She let the words hang. From her vantage point, she could just make out Krystan, a lone figure by the Vulcan’s track. He hadn’t moved for some time. She didn’t need to see his face to know what it held. She had seen it in others. After the laying-on of hands. After the whispers. That quiet dread that follows faith too quickly given. Her eyes drifted again, past the tarp of the Iron Duke. It stirred faintly in the motionless air. "Perhaps too soon," she murmured. A tremor passed across her shoulders, a chill. The hairs along her scalp prickled before she heard him. She heard no footsteps. Just the sense of presence behind her, as though the shadows themselves had grown heavier. She did not turn. Her hands stilled. The air around her felt too still, too sharp. Even the Vulcan below seemed to hold its breath. "We can wait," rumbled the voice. It was not loud. It was not kind. It was not unkind. It was a voice Mona knew. A voice she had heard long before the desert, before the Resistance, before she had words for what moved beneath Prawa V. She closed her eyes. Her body remained still, but inside her chest, something shifted. "We have waited this long," the voice said. "We can wait longer." Silence followed. The air felt charged. Mona did not reply. When she finally moved, it was only to raise one hand to her collarbone, fingers brushing the skin there like she might steady herself. Below, 329 remained where it was. Waiting.

I realise I've not posted a lot of late. Apologies. This is the follow-up to the Resistance uncovering 329 and Kaśnyk and his squads attempting to prevent them. I'll be honest, not totally satisfied with this, but constructive criticism welcome. ===== LV-426. The white-red-white livery of 2nd Company. Not a rescue bird but a retrieval asset. The paint was scratched, worn by desert grit, but unmistakable. Even before it touched down, the survivors of Kasnyk's squad were already moving, dragging themselves upright, rifles slung, eyes sunken. No one spoke. The ramp hissed open. Kasnyk stood apart from the others, his greatcoat stiff with grit and dried blood. He waited until the rest had climbed aboard. The wind caught at the hem of his coat as he paused at the threshold, eyes scanning the desert once more at the gaping vault entrance behind them, the scorched earth where PDF troopers had fallen, and somewhere beneath it all, the thing they'd failed to recover. He stepped inside. The cabin was spartan. Bare racks. Jump-seats bolted to the sides. A single data-terminal flickered to life as the co-pilot keyed it. No greetings nor debrief. The turbofans never stopped. Kasnyk sat without a word, pulling the dataslate from his coat. He thumbed it active, fingers moving with practised precision. Engagement Zone: Vault 17A Hostiles: Irregular, structured. Command signals: present. Asset loss: 3 squads. Cause: Heavy armour. Designation: Unconfirmed pattern. Hull marking 329. Behaviour: Independent acquisition. Targeted PDF units. No allied coordination. He hesitated at the last entry. Believed allegiance: Insurgent. He added a line. Note: Asset exhibited selective targeting. No known Imperial response signature. He checked it twice. Cross-referenced what he could. He still didn’t like the gaps. When the slate was done, he stood, crossed the cabin to the co-pilot, and handed it over. The man took it, glanced once at the header, then looked back at Kasnyk. "Transmit this immediately," Kasnyk said. "Begin immediate relay to Sector Command. Classification of asset loss, Irregular engagement, Evidence of organised insurgency." The co-pilot gave a short nod and plugged the slate into the relay port. The screen blinked red, then amber, then steady green. Kasnyk didn’t return to his seat. He stood at the open hatch, one hand on the frame as the Valkyrie lifted, engines roaring. Below, the desert peeled away. Dunes, and stone, and smoke. The sun threw long shadows over the cratered landscape. He stared down at the vault until it was just a black smudge, swallowed by dust. The hatch closed with a mechanical hiss. Kasnyk didn’t blink. He replayed, in his mind, the moment the beast opened fire and how he had no control over its actions.

So, I've been enjoying writing my little vignettes for the follow-up story to my story of Prawa V. For those following, you already know 329. I hope you enjoy its redicsovery. I do have a weakness for 329. It, ultimately, dies, buying time for Freja. But, in the meantime, I am happy to let it terrorise people! Also, I do know this board censors naughty words, which is cool, but I have written Łaska to be, say....expressive! She's the only character who swears in my stories, but, if she swears, you know something is going on. In this instance, she is not exclaiming about a duck. ===== We’d walked deeper than I would have liked. The air had that dry, metallic weight to it. Maintained and monitored. The kind of place that hadn’t been abandoned so much as sealed. Freja led us through most of it. She didn’t speak much. Eyes fixed forward, dataslate tight in her grip. Łaska kept glancing at her, then back at me. She didn’t like how quiet Freja was. Neither did I. We reached the vault door. It was bulkhead-class, reinforced, built to outlast a war. The panel still blinked faintly. Standby power. I moved beside her. “This is it?” I asked. Freja nodded. Her hand hovered over the control, then pulled back. “Wait,” she said. “Why?” She hesitated. “If I’m right… this isn’t just a server room.” She didn’t explain. She keyed the override anyway. The door unlocked with a sound like pressure releasing from some cold storage. Metal groaned. Then silence. Inside, the dark was absolute. I found the manual switch. I hesitated for a moment. The lights snapped on in slow sequence, each one humming into life, pushing the dark back a metre at a time. Then it came into view. 329. Dead centre. Facing us. No effort to conceal it. The paint had blistered from heat at some point, I could still see the war scars along the front plating. Dust settled over it like ash. The cannons didn’t move. The treads didn’t twitch. It looked like a tombstone with a spine. Łaska exhaled. “Oh, :cuss:.” She held her breath. Her hand lingered over the trigger of her grenade launcher. My eyes tracked the chassis. No heat shimmer. No charge hum. Then it came A thin red beam touched my chest, high on the sternum, just left of centre. A laser targetter. Perfectly still and locked over my heart. I didn’t move. Neither did it. “Back out,” I said, my hand gesturing, “Now. Slowly” Freja looked at me. Then at the beam. She didn’t speak. Just stepped backward, one deliberate pace at a time. Łaska was already moving. Her hands weren’t on her weapon. She knew better than to appear armed around that thing. The dot held steady on me until I crossed the threshold. Then it clicked off. I killed the lights. The dark swallowed it whole again. We didn’t speak until we were two corridors clear. And even then, barely. We three knew what it was.

Apologies for the lack of updates over the past few weeks. Had a few things going on I won't burden you with. Now, it is time to return to the sciroccos and the sands of Prawa V. For context, I've already finished this story and we're about 1/3 of the way through. This is the first draft, so any and all constructive criticism is most welcome. I've not yet returned to it to revise for the second draft, so am open to ideas. (Yes, @W.A.Rorie, that includes your mini-Napolean complex Cyclops.) On a slightly different topic, I am going to pick up some Kreig Death Riders soon and convert them to represent the Scandi nomads. Looking forward to it! But, I have so much else to paint. But, I want more models. But, I have so much left to paint....you know the story. Anyhow, here we go: The air in the office had gone stale. The only sound was the slow churn of the cogitator’s cooling fan — faltering, now. It let out a low whine and rattled as it drew air through its dust-clogged vents. A faint scent of ozone crept across the room, sharp and dry. The heat it gave off blended with the weight of lamp-glow and the dust stirred by old paper. Scrolls lay unfurled across the desk, overlapping in long arcs of yellowed parchment. The ink bled in places. Some of the seals had cracked when he broke the bindings. One was still faintly scented — sweet, brittle, like dried fungi left in a mine locker too long. The script was in multiple hands: faded stamps, half-legible annotations, marginalia in a style he hadn’t seen outside of recovery court reports. Kasnyk stood over it all, monocle flickering. “Overlay patrol routes with decommissioned facility grid. Apply compliance-era topography filter. Match for inconsistencies in power draw.” The cogitator’s hum deepened. The screen strobed slightly — it wasn’t meant to run this hot for this long. Across the display, lines shimmered and redrew. Patrol paths curved and nested in awkward patterns. A few coincided perfectly with power retention lines. Others bypassed old bunkers — ones officially listed as “cleared,” but still drawing heat and cooling resources. He tapped the side of the monocle. “Cross-check redacted facility codenames with sealed archives. Confirm any entries tagged 329.” Pause. Kasnyk’s breath left him slow and controlled. He turned away from the screen for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The room smelled of dust and hot copper, of old paper and machine breath. Behind him, the cogitator whirred again — slower this time, struggling. He reached toward the centre of the desk, clearing space, arranging the layers with precise hands. A single zone remained blank. Not blocked. Not encrypted. Just… absent. Patrols moved around it. Supply shifted past it. Everything curved. He stared. A long moment passed. He leaned forward, one hand flat on the desk. The lines converged. Patrols. Supply. Power. Marek. Rakoczy.All of them — circling nothing. And yet, he knew. He swallowed once. He didn’t smile. He didn’t sit. He just stood there — eyes fixed, alone in the heat, while the cogitator continued to hum itself toward collapse. The cogitator was still running hot. The cooling fan wheezed like a winded beast, struggling against a backlog of compiled overlays and archive decrypts. The room smelled of metal fatigue, old oil, and the dry bite of ozone. Scrolls lay peeled across the desk, anchored with dataslates and half-empty mugs. Parchment curled at the corners. Ink had begun to smear where Kasnyk’s fingers rested too long. He barely noticed. His monocle fed him blinking overlays: redacted vault codenames, sector patrol paths, topographic heat profiles. Somewhere between fatigue and obsession, the patterns had begun to blur. A knock. He didn’t answer. The door opened anyway. Aleksy Klimek stepped inside, clutching a slate under one arm. His boots thudded softly against the metal floor. “You asked to see me, sir?” Kasnyk blinked, then nodded toward the second chair. “Sit.” Klimek set the slate down beside a teetering stack of old requisition orders and eased himself into the seat, glancing once at the glowing cogitator. “You’ve been at this all night.” Kasnyk ignored the remark. “Take a look at this sector breakdown. Theta designations. Focus on venting cycles and active power routes. Something’s not… aligning.” Klimek leaned forward, brushing aside an empty recaf tin. His eyes scanned the overlapping schematics. His brow furrowed. “Sir—Vault Theta-6. See the vent cycle log?” Kasnyk made a dismissive gesture. “I’ve seen it. Slight deviation. Not enough for a flag.” “No, not just slight. It’s purging every nineteen hours. Look at the others in that zone — twenty-eight, thirty-two, some as long as thirty-six. That’s steady baseline.” Kasnyk stopped. Klimek pressed on, a little more confidently. “That frequency suggests internal heat build-up. Which means something’s running in there. A generator, maybe. Or thermal bleed from active systems.” Kasnyk turned fully toward the screen. “You’re certain?” Klimek nodded. “It’s not just Theta-6, either. I was running a comparative when I noticed another spike — Sector 12, southern reach. No vault codename. Just coordinates. No record of habitation.” Kasnyk’s voice dropped. “But it draws?” “Same vent rate. Power spike around the same hour every cycle.” Silence. Kasnyk tapped a stylus against the desk once. Then again. His thoughts were already leaping ahead. “No turret,” he murmured. “No marking. Not Imperial pattern.” Klimek tilted his head. “Sir?” Kasnyk straightened. “Nothing. Good work, Aleksy. That’ll be all. For now.” Klimek stood, glancing once more at the screen before collecting his slate. “Sir—if you don’t mind me asking. That Sector 12 anomaly. What do you think it is?” Kasnyk looked up at him, face blank. Then, with just the faintest narrowing of his eyes: “Something no one wants us to find.” Klimek left, the door clicking shut behind him. Kasnyk waited a beat, then moved to the comm terminal at the rear of the room. He keyed in a line request. Clearance denied. “Flight support for investigative flyover is non-essential. Declined.” He exhaled. A pause. Then reached under the desk and withdrew a flat tin — dust-covered, corners worn. He pried it open, selected a small item, and stared at it: a ration token. Not legal tender. But enough, in the right hands. “More than your job’s worth,” he murmured. He shut the tin, keyed in a private channel. “Kasnyk. I need a favour.” ----- The wind had settled. The dust hung in the air like a faded veil, stirred only by the slow shifting of langkløv hooves and the soft creak of saddle leather. In the distance, the Resistance patrol faded into the horizon — first as shapes, then heat-blurred smudges, and finally nothing at all. Ælka stood on a rise of packed sand, her weight leaning subtly against the shaft of her walking staff. She wore a linen tunic stained by years of sun, layered beneath a leather breastband reinforced with stitched bone and thread. Her forearms were wrapped in hardened bracers, the leather dulled and scarred. Tough breeches, desert-worn, were tucked into heavy, dust-filmed boots that reached mid-calf. Her face, as always, was mostly concealed — a cloth wrap over her mouth and nose, her head covered in gauze and woven cloth. Only her eyes were exposed: lined, dark, and steady. Strands of long grey hair spilled from beneath her head covering in an uneven curtain, soft and dry like wind-carved scrub. She spoke without turning. “They walk toward something they do not understand.” The words carried no malice. Just certainty. Stenrik stood beside her, hands at his belt, watching the same empty horizon. His frame was compact, wiry — not with the mass of a fighter, but the lean tension of a cliffside climber. Every tendon was taut, every motion efficient. He had already re-secured his mask after the meeting — an old, functional thing, scratched and patched, its lenses clouded at the edges. Now he lifted it back into place with a practised tug of the strap. His voice came muffled through the filter. “If that is what must happen to prevent a war, so be it.” He moved with precision, swinging up onto the langkløv beside him — the tall, long-legged desert beast shifting its weight as he settled. Its hooves pressed deep into the sand. Ælka’s mount stood nearby, snorting gently, saddle tassels clicking in the breeze. A younger nomad lingered behind them, eyes still fixed on the fading trail. “Why help them?” he asked quietly. Ælka turned to him just enough to be heard. “Because Kova walked with us. And because they walk toward something no one else will.” She looked back out across the desert. “Hun kender varmen fra støvet.” The young man nodded, uncertain but trusting her wisdom.. Far ahead, the Resistance convoy had already vanished into the dunes. Only the dust lingered, swirling like mist. Ælka said nothing more. She pulled her face wrap tighter and mounted her langkløv, moving with the slow precision of someone who had done this for decades. Behind her, the desert waited.