Only the Pure.

[Monstra Sumus]

ONLY THE PURE.

 

The Cetus Vacuo didn’t slide from the immaterium like the majestic prow of an ancient galleon through fog, it was vomited out in a riot of colours that would be offensive to any eyes that observed them. The strike cruiser spun in a slow, cumbersome arc, the veins of it’s corridors squealing in protest at such a boisterous maneuver. The powerful plasma drives at the rear of the vessel flared into life, punishing the glittering blanket of space with spears of purple fire, the cruiser angled itself back onto a negotiable course and it began to glide like a silent predator through the stars. The rictus of rippling light sealed behind it with a silent scream as unseen claws lashed out at reality. 

 Legionary Castor punched the locking mechanism on his trans-warp bench, freeing his broad chest from it’s flexible cage. He stood, knees popping in his black body glove, and cast his blue eyes about the transport deck. Five genetically enhanced posthuman soldiers sat in the wide deck, islands amongst the sea of mortal crew. His sharp senses picked out four naval ratings out of the fifty stationed in this transport compartment had expired, having died where they were strapped in, six were wracked with uncontrollable spasms. The sound of the ship flexing groaned throughout the compartment, the metal ticking as it swelled and contracted under the stress of real-space. Castor released a silent thanks to Him on Earth that their Geller Field stayed operational for their short week long jump through warp-space. 

  Castor was young, only ten years of active service beneath his sloping brow, his tactical designation still fresh and unchipped upon his curved auto-reactive shoulder plate down in the bowels of the ships armoury. Recently elevated from the 10th into the service of the 3rd crusade, he’d won his arrowhead during the pyrrhic campaign involving the Kolstrom system and his participation in the anti-armour suppression squads holding the third ring of Kazon Hive. He had been seconded to a special operations task force that patrolled the borders of the Ocularis Terribus, an area of space where the realms of reality and the immaterium wove together to create a rippling maelstrom of daemons and insanity known as the Eye of Terror in Low Gothic. The new Marine was given unto Veteran-Prefect Heriot of the Bellum Sus, a highly specialised combat squad who excel at suppression operations behind enemy lines. Seek and Destroy missions carried out by the War Pigs filled entire data banks back at Crusade HQ and Castor would not deny that he was intimidated by such a rise in soldiering. 

  A hand came down upon his shoulder and he turned to see Legionary Romulus, the only Marine he could identify with inside his new squad. Romulus has three decades experience beneath his belt, a veteran of the Macharian Heresy and a natural born killer with any ranged weapon, his easy going demeanour belied his ruthless ability with a boltgun. Castor pulled his left cheek in what passed for a welcoming smile, it was a gesture best left at home on a Sundar Beast-hound. The wire caged speakers suspended in the corners of the transport deck crackled into life and a droning voice hissed through the static.

 

 

 “...Pzzzt...Trans-warp relocation status report, void shields down to thirty seven percent, Geller field operational to within seven percent of critical overload, sections four-two through four-ten inaccessible due to machine corruption, bulkheads blown on decks seven through nine in aft plasma drive housing, repair crews at critical alert, projected souls lost aboard - four hundred and six. Relocation to Typhon Anchorage successful, the Emperor guides us this day.” 

 Deck officers congratulated each other and the sound of clapping hands filled the deck, Castor turned his eyes from the speaker grille and back to Romulus who let a curving smile grace his oddly vulpine features, the voice that came from between his wide lips was like silk pulled over guitar strings. 

 “So, that went better than expected.”

 A short bark crossed them, the sound being something that would come out if a bear could laugh. The sound came from Legionary Tarquin, the biggest Astartes that Castor had ever seen. Even out of his armour and in his form fitting body glove it was obvious that Brother Tarquin was built for but one thing; war. His shoulders were so broad and his neck so thick that his muscles gave the impression of steel cord beneath his leather tight skin. His hands were capable of killing an armoured man in one punch, his legs as thick as iron oaks back on Sundar and he had a face that had felt the acidic burn of the Tyranid. His lips were a mess of scar tissue, one eye had been burned away and replaced with a cruel, hard bionic that glittered like a black beetle. 

 “I do not think you were loud enough, Romulus, there are still some mortals who did not hear you.” 

 The giant stood, his harness snapping back from his torso like retreating serpents. An impenetrable wall of muscle reared up before Castor, ending in a full head above his own prestigious seven feet of gen-hanced bulk. He turned his slate grey eyes upon the recruit, the hard lines of his terrier face scrutinising.

 “First jump, Lick?” 

 Castor gave a short shake of his head, snapping his heels together.

 “Fourth, Legionnaire Tarquin, last out of Kolstrom before being assigned to the Bellum Sus.” 

 The brute’s expression was almost unreadable, but the flicker of his left brow indicated some form of emotive response. Whether it was surprise, scorn or doubt, Castor did not know, nor did he get the chance to enquire as Tarquin shouldered his way between the two other Marines, almost sending Castor to the metal decking.

 “Why does he call me lick?”

The other Marine shrugged a thick shoulder.

 “The way he sees it, until  you have proven yourself to the Pigs, you are just as wet and useless as one.”

 Castor frowned, his brow creasing. Romulus released another of his smooth as silk laughs, waving his hand dismissively at the retreating giants back.

 “Ignore Mother, he is just bitter he missed the Macharian Heresy.”

Castor perked at the quip, inclining his head for Romulus to expand on the subject.

 “Tarquin was a draft in after the war, the Star Phantoms ground us down to almost nothing, bastards, but they could not kill us all. The Prefect, Devil-Dog and myself are all veterans of that war, we wear our white skulls and red stripes to prove we were there, that we survived.”

  A new voice cut into the conversation as a swarthy black skinned Marine approached the duo, his shaven head glistening in the strip lighting, golden rings clinking from his ears.

  “We don’t have to prove anything, they hit us with superior firepower and higher numbers, but we did more than just give them a bloody nose, we survived and to me, that is a victory. They will never forget what happened to them when they hit the Terrax. I just hope they grind themselves to dust against the ‘Claws at Badab.” 

 Romulus locked his gaze with Pullo’s and jabbed a finger into the dark skinned Marines chest.

 “Watch your tongue or I will book you for inciting treason and minor heresy.” 

 Pullo lost the grin that had spread across his features, hiding his perfect white teeth from the conversation. 

 “Besides, if the Tyrant crushes them, that does not leave any for us to have a crack at later on.”

 The pair cackled like hunters reminiscing over a past kill, Castor felt like a jigsaw piece that didn’t fit, his brothers were making sport of killing fellow loyalist Space Marines. He cast his eyes around the transport deck as naval ratings and ships crew moved off back to their assigned posts, it seemed that the War Pigs were afforded seniority and stood outside the order of the ship. He clapped his eyes onto the form of Veteran-Prefect Heriot who stalked the aisles of men with his hands clasped behind his back. The commander of their squad was a hard man, built for war and prepared to see the worst of the galaxy. Heriot had been involved in several boarding actions against the Eldar of Lugganath, integral in the suppression of the Arx systems failed succession attempt and repeatedly led raids against the Ork fleets around Gathrog. A survivor of a hundred battles, the prefect wore his experience on his face. Two dull, gun-metal studs jutted out above his left eye, his face clean shaven, his hair in an immaculate warriors stripe. Heriot was a product of war, nothing more, nothing less. 

 “Step to, Legionary. We have got places to be.” 

 The silk tones of Romulus broke his inspection of the prefect. Castor turned on his heel and exited the transport deck via the yawning blast doors. The bustle of humanity was claustrophobic. Bodies jostled against each other for as much space as possible as thousands of souls passed through the central corridor of the transportation deck, ferrying their way to different parts of the ship and Castors nose wrinkled at the stench. The Marines moved like sharks among prey, the sea of people parting wordlessly around them. Romulus and Pullo moved against the flow of activity, Castor followed in their wake, contemplating just what kind of action his first independent operation would be. Whatever it was, it would be a far-cry from gunning down World-Eaters. 

 

                                                                      -+-

 “Why do they call you Mother?”

 The briefing room was spartan. Bare metal walls, fixed metal furnishings and the air palpable with the tension of four predators in a confined space. Castor sat at the rear of the fixed benches, observing the interaction between the Marines, his question hanging in the air. The hum of the spaceship buzzed through every surface, accenting the banter within the room with a metallic ring. Pullo was engaging Tarquin in some mild bull baiting and was all too happy to carry on, according to Romulus it is what occurred frequently in time between missions, which always ended in Tarquin destroying most of the ships supply of combat servitors in the armoury training cages. 

  “So, Mother here, gets caught between a cross-fire and if he sticks his head up, it will get blown off, but he has to regroup with First Suppression. He knows this, so what does he do?”

 Romulus raised a brow, Castor leant forward. Pullo flicked his eyes at the ugly faced Marine sat to his left.

 “The meat head decides which route is easiest to take and blasts his way through. That route just so happened to be right through the centre of our allies advance. I have never seen so many Imperial soldiers butchered because they were in a Marines way. He even scored a tank.”

 Tarquin frowned.

“Two. I got two.”

 Pullo rolled his dark eyes and carried on.

“So, half a platoon and a tank later-”

“Two.”

“-Mother comes charging up to First Suppression as it advances towards an enemy redoubt. His ident code is scrambled due to taking a solid slug to the gorget. He does not stop and signal, does not call out. He just runs at the rear Rhino as it crunches its way through the rubble. Naturally the targeting spirit opens fire on him and the idiot takes it, two bolt rounds detonated right inside his chest cavity.”

 Tarquin’s frown turned into a full blown scowl and he absently rubbed his chest through his body glove. Romulus whistled softly and Castor looked at the brute with a new light. 

“They call him Mother because while he was in a chemical induced coma in the Apothecarium he babbled like a maniac about his mother. The only reason they did not flush him out the airlock was because no one in 3rd can fill his armour.” 

 Romulus and Pullo burst into laughter, Tarquin cracked a smile but Castor kept his mirth curbed. He knew his gene-line was obscure and that Crusade HQ never made it entirely clear during hypnotherapy just which Primarch their lineage came from but it always gave him pause to hear of something slipping through the cracks such as Tarquins episodes. The Astartes did not dream, it was repressed, stamped out, but every so often something wriggled its way through the psycho-conditioning and latched onto what ever thing passed for a Marines conscience. 

 “Enough. Eyes front.”

The words came like a whip crack, snapping the air in half and subduing the laughter instantaneously. As one the men of the Bellum Sus stood, striking a fist across their chests. Striding to the front of the briefing chamber was Heriot, his face grim. A large metallic sphere at the front of the assembled benches released a series of popping noises, like an engine ticking over before a dull green glow flared out around its circumference. Flickering in the air above the sphere was a display grid, it showed a planet, small and unimportant. Heriot came to stand before the assembled Marines and indicated with a nod they should be seated, they complied. He fixed his curiously soft green eyes on each face before clasping his hands behind his back. 

 “This is Justice Rock-”

The holo-display crackled, the planetoid jumped and magnified until they were looking at washed out footage of a ground battle.

 “..as of one standard Terran year, it has been the seat of a series of small skirmishes. Civil discord and political maneuvering saw treason against the Administratum and the capital city-state declared the planets independance. The rest of Justice Rock did not agree and as such, war has broken out among the inhabitants and disrupted the Imperial tithes. That is not our concern. Our concern is the encoded message we received from forward elements of Imperial Intelligence. It seems that right at the heart of this secessionist movement is something of interest to us. Traitors.” 

 Tarquin growled and Romulus leant forward in his chair.

 “The Black Judges, is what the new political order is calling itself. It had no cause for alarm until a scrying was under taken of the surviving cabinet and Intelligence unsealed an info-vault stored in the Administratum marshal stationed there. The Black Judges are who the Iron Warriors of Olympia overthrew during the Emperors Crusade. Seventeen agents died recovering this footage and scrambling it to us.”

 The room dimmed and the holo-display flickered once more, dusty speakers screeching into life about its base. The Marines were given scant seconds of shaky footage from a helmet video feed, muffled voices and the deafening report of what could only be a bolt weapon. Before the feed disconnected into static they were afforded a grained image of a behemoth in burnished iron plate and glowing red lenses. 

 “The Imperial Fists have sparse patrols around Medrengard, keeping the filth contained as best it can, yet it seems even the mighty Fists do fail after all. Increasing amounts of Iron Warriors have been chased all across the Helican sub sector, yet this time they have pushed too close to our lanes of operation and engaged elements of the 3rd in its protracted campaign with Craftworld scum. HQ have compiled all of the evidence gathered and its clear only one thing is happening, the Traitors are gathering supplies.”

 The hologram shifted focus again and blinked into the captial city-state once more, green flashes and obscuring smoke filled the hovering image. 

 “I.I have been tracking a small craft for weeks now, believing it to be the source of the enemies presence. It was shot down over Stonemarsh and is somewhere inside the city, we will deploy via SR-06 to loyalist HQ in Solomons Square and cover the distance between the cities on foot. We are not here to fight the war for them, we are here to find scum and kill them. One less Traitor makes the galaxy a purer place.”

 As one the assembled Marines barked.

 “VIS SANCTIMONIA!”

 Heriots features barely flickered.

 “Indeed. The Cetus Vacuo will rendezvous with the orbital blockade in seven hours standard. You will prepare for disembarkation in five. I want this to go smoothly, we have our mission, I want no divergence. I will not accept it, we clear?”

 The Marines snapped a fisted salute once more.

 “Dismissed.” 

 

 Heriot watched them leave, his fingers clasped tightly behind his broad back. A dark warriors stripe sat clear upon his head, his service studs glittering under the lumen stripping in the ceiling. As their foot steps rang distant on the decking he put his fingers to the holo-display and tapped a nail against the dull metal rim. He regarded the circling images of the captial city-state, watching the stitches of tracer rounds illuminating the nights sky. The Chapter had significant dealings with turn-coat Astartes. While the bulk of the 3rd had been involved in assaulting the Lugganath Craftworld, the reinforcing elements had been called planetside in the Kolstrom system to enter into a rather short siege against marauding World Eaters. Before that, the entire Chapter had been whittled down to a few companies after the Macharian Crusade turned into Heresy where they had come to blows with the Star Phantom Space Marines. No Malevolent would tell it any different, they were in the right, the Phantoms the wrong. That is why Heriot had pulled his rank and drawn his tight grip across the entire Crusade, plucking those with the most experience against renegades and rebels into his fold. He’d rely on their tenacity against other Astartes, this mission was not about surviving, but about completion. He hadn’t told them as frankly he believed they did not need to know, especially his youngest Marines. Despite being freakishly gene-spliced and natural power houses, they were still the same children snatched from their beds or dragged from their mothers all those years ago. Deep down at the core of it, the Astartes were child-soldiers, they believed completely in the cause and dotted with utter loyalty on their superiors to show them the way. It was tragic, if one were to look into the true core of the Space Marines of the Emperor. They used to be striding proud men, taken and reshaped, molded into being better, faster, harder and stronger, but now, with so much lost to darkness and time, the process is incomplete. They are but children underneath the indoctrination and physical manipulation, just children. 

 Heriot released an almost imperceptible sigh and tapped the imaging ring, the flickering display cutting and zooming down into the midst of the fog and battle, silhouetting the green shape in bright white, seven burnished iron giants tumbling through belched smoke from a downed Dreadclaw assault craft to bark their weapons into the inhabitants of Stonemarsh. He tapped his finger again and the display spiralled even further into the grained image, pulling and distorting it until a single figure stood half turned, baring its wide crested helmet and lined chevrons. 

  “We’re coming for you….brother”

[deathspectersgt7]

A good read liked the ending a traitor to be hunted.Will be watching for more . Now chop! chop!

[Welcheren]

The grim atmosphere is established very well.

[Monstra Sumus]

 +Preparation+

 

 

The armoury stank of sacred ungents and the thick incense burned by the tech-adept clouded the high ceiling, shrouding its vast metal struts in purple mist. Tiny things clicked and teetered about in that smog, winged children with auspex scanners for faces and mnemo plugs for fingers chirped and fluttered about and hovering skulls blinked their light lenses in a rapid, soundless language. Cowled figures shuffled back and forth between the four post-human soldiers upon the arming benches, baring the revered equipment that would carry their charges to the crucible of war. 

 Castor, newly inducted Marine into the ranks of the Bellum Sus, checked himself. With a roll of his shoulders the underlay of his power armour whined and whined, lending strength and speed to his movements. He turned his left hand, which had been fully armoured from his fingers to his elbow and clenched his fist, hearing the ceramite tips clack together. He wrinkled his brow at the sensation that flooded his mind, it was almost as if he could feel the armoured digits rubbing together. He shook his hand and indicated that the serf before him should continue to dress him of his battle garb. The deep yellow of the servants robe matched the huge rounded shoulder plate it carried. With the whirring of tiny mechanisms, the mechanically enhanced servant began to weld the armour plate into place, attaching fiber bundles and neuro-net cables. Castor lifted his eyes from the serfs work and gazed about him in the armoury. 

 Artificial candlelight flickered, simulated to give the impression a quiet breeze gusted through the dusty vaults of the Cestus Vacuo. Sparks flashed and danced in great blossoms along the metal decking beneath as Tarquin was locked into his hulking suit of MK3 Iron pattern power armour, the heavy weapon specialists favoured instrument of war was being stripped down by a swarm of servants, cleaned, oiled and tested to bring it to perfect working order. Pullo lifted his MK4 Maximus pattern clad arms out in front of him, the dark skin of his brow covered in a sheen of cleansing oil. The right arm stuttered and the elbow mounting sparked, he pursed his lips in response. Almost casually he lifted his left hand and struck the serf who had fitted the rotor housing, a sickening crunch echoed among the sounds of the workshop as the servant collided with the decking. Another rushed to take his place, removing the armoured cowter and attending to the mistake. Castor let his eyes travel to the form of Romulus as the servant finish fixing his pauldron in place, subconsciously he lifted the opposite arm to allow the continuation of his preparation. Romulus was already housed in his suit of power armour, an imposing figure in MK6 Corvus pattern plate. He held the extended eagle beaked helm in his right hand, the left pushed inside to adjust some sensor array to his specific magnification.

  “Master, stand” came the crackling bleat from the servant before him. The voice snapped him back to focus and he stood, the knee joints of his MK7 Aquilla pattern plate settled with a subtle whine. The servant waved forward two more and between them set about fixing Castors broad  black breast plate into position. He jostled as they tugged it into a tight fit, his eyes regarding their work. They were little more than property in the eyes of his Chapter, tools, things to be used. If they failed in their duty they were discarded and replaced. Other Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes looked favourably on their indentured serfs and staff, even keeping entire generations of a single family under their service. Not those of the Marines Malevolent, they cared not for the well being of insects. Imperial prisoners and the survivors of conflict torn regions made up the dedicated servants to the Marines, their lives held in the palms of the ones they served. 

 The vacuum lining covering the inner side of the breastplate hissed shut and interfaced with his black carapace. He felt the familiar rush of external fluids pumped into his body, a rush of chemicals and hormones. He took a deep breath and let the momentary head rush subside, everything before him took on a sharper, more contrasted tone, his ability to pick out detail in his surroundings greatly enhanced. The servants busied themselves with the final part of his ensemble, the nerve center of his highly advanced war suit. Two of the serfs knelt, holding aloft yellow helm, an adamantium skull embossed upon the sloping brow above its cold black lenses. The mouth grill, shaped after a portcullis and resembling the teeth of skull had been recently repaired after he had taken a concentrated las-beam to the face. The third servant employed a small device and connected it to a port upon the side of the helmets ventilation tubing. He invoked ancient and mystical rites of function, learnt from the ships sole tech-adept and all within earshot bowed their heads in silence. 

 “‘Lo, I beseech the almighty Omnissiah of the Cult Mechanicus to turn his electrifying gaze upon this article of war. May he bless the bearer with sight beyond sight, may he bless the bearer with sense beyond sense. His will be done.” Each sentence was accompanied by a flickering of holy oils across the surface of the helm. “With his blessing, I do insert power-input four four dash three into the receptacle to allow the spirit of the machine to awaken from its slumber. With his blessing, do I press the start up sequencing runes in order of their function laid down in the holy texts. With his blessing, do I awaken the machine spirit so that it commune with the bearer of his instrument and guide his hand unto victory in His name.” 

 A click heralded the birth of a low hum, the internal workings of the helmet flooding with power. A subtle glow, pulsing within the black lenses gave them a sinister appearance. The adept removed the cable from the helm and it powered down, ready to interface with his suit. 

 “Bearer, take unto your body this vessel of the Deus Mechanicus will, intone the final rite of perfection and stride unto the altar of war to receive your instruments of death.” The servant bowed low, folding his hands beneath his robe in supplication to the towering form of Castor. The Marine inclined his head and removed the helm, tucking it beneath his left arm. He turned away from the arming bench and strode past the bellowing form of Tarquin being sealed into his armour. He brushed shoulders with Romulus who turned his features to Castor, his hands finishing his inspection of his Godwyn pattern bolter and its M40 scope. 

 “Ah, brother Castor, a fine figure you cut in that mark of plate. I am sure you will bring much woe to our enemy.” The small turn of his lips that he permanently wore gave no indication to Castor whether he was being sarcastic or serious. Castor opted for the later and gave voice to his own thoughts. “As do you, brother Romulus. I come to retrieve my weapons.” 

 Romulus nodded and darted his eyes to the red robed tech-adept behind the altar. The mans face had been replaced by a brass rimmed speaker and a cluster of sensors, each one flickering in a simulated blinking pattern. “Bzzt..Legionnaire Castor, you attend me for your armaments. You are issued one Godwyn mark vee bee pattern boltgun seventy five caliber, bring death unto His foes with this holy instrument. Bzzt. You are issued five sickle magazines containing thirty rounds of propellant ignited solid slug rounds, bring death unto His foes with these holy instruments. Bzzt. You are issued one mono-molecular edged combat blade and magnetic sheath, bring death unto His foes with this holy instrument. Bzzt. You are issued two fragmentation grenades and two high yield controlled armour piercing grenades, bring dea-”, Castor cut off the tech-adept with a wave of his hand and retrieved his weapons, stowing them by magnet lock to his utility belt. 

  The circular portal leading to the inner reliquary of the armoury hissed open, its iris shutter spiralling back to reveal the armoured form of Prefect Heriot. His broad shoulders were enclosed in the advanced MK8 Errant pattern of battle plate, reinforced ceramite with adamantium wiring. A high skull studded gorget hid half of his stern face from view, his warrior stripe had been oiled tight against his skull to provide no resistance to the black helm clutched in the mechanical fingers of his massive power glove. Slung about his torso by a steel wire harness and nestled beneath the joint of his shoulder was a Hecaton pattern stormbolter, the powerful rapid firing weapon kept close to his center mass for a quick draw. The decking rang as Heriot approached, a wave of yellow and red robed servants in his wake, splashing him with oils and wafting incense about his limbs. Each mumbled and cried out, intoning the Machine God to watch over the veteran perfect. He came to a stop before his Marines, all of them clad in their war glory, his dark eyes passed along the faces and helms of each one, judging them. Satisfied he turned from them and approached a wide skull embossed blast door, a loud grinding sound accompanied by a flashing red light filled the armoury as the door rumbled open.

 “Double time to the embarkation deck, SR Zero Six is ready and waiting our arrival, departure for the planets surface will commence in approximately forty minutes, I want you stowed away and harnessed before I get there. MOVE!” 

 

The Marines leapt from their positions and thundered past their commanding officer. Romulus and Castor took the lead, the former outpacing the youngest member by a foot fall. Their tread echoed before them and ships crew scrambled to stop themselves being trampled by the might of the Astartes. Pullo snatched his plasma fusion rifle from the tech-adept without ceremony and mag-locked the venerable melta weapon to his thigh, racing after his brothers. Tarquin hefted the bulk of his heavy bolter, the weapons weight and the bulk of the ammunition canisters strapped to his power pack should have made him twice as heavy as his one ton mass was but gravity stabilisers built into the weapon and the additional ammo kept him relatively light weight. He still left dents in the decking as he jogged after his squad mates. 

  Castor was the first to reach the flight deck, rounding the massive bulk head to be met by a wide rectangle opening. The massive blast doors were flanked by two automated weapon servitors built into the structure of the door, covered in armoured sheets the quad linked heavy bolter systems tracked the Space Marines. Red sensor beams flashed out to scan their identification codes and a wailing klaxon filled the hallway. The rest of the squad caught up and together they moved through the guns field of fire and into the vast flight bay. It stretched for tens of meters in every direction, a yawning cavern of steel and machine. Inside sat row upon row of Lightning fighter craft, flanked by the form of four Storm Talons. The huge bulk of their Marine pilots evident among the smaller Imperial pilots. In the far right of the hangar bay casting its shadow on smaller Storm Raven gunships was the magnificent form of a Thunderhawk mass transporter, its machine spirit powered down between campaign deployment. Out on the ready platform waited SR-06, its angular wings and boxy armoured fuselage atmosphere burnt and studded in kill markings. The top mounted turret swung in a testing arc, the linked las-cannon tracking an non existent foe while the hull mounted hurricane bolter arrays had their final load of ammunition inserted. A powerful hum issued from the twin turbines housed within each wing, giving the impression of some vast predator ready to pounce on command. 

 Castor walked towards the rear entrance ramp that had been lowered for the squad to embark upon, the frontal assault ramp kept sealed tight. He strode up into the dark interior of the gunship, reaching his allotted bench and stowed his boltgun in the overhead compartment. He sat upon the reinforced seat, capable of bearing his immense weight and strapped himself into the gravity harness. A small black box was fitted into the top of each harness, rapidly ticking down number by number until they departed the strike cruiser. Castor took the time to address the thoughts swimming at the back of his mind, they surged to the fore and he regarded them, his mouth a tight line. He was both hesitant and excited at the prospect of facing Astartes in the field of battle, but this time he knew it wouldn't be the mindless berserk rage of the World Eaters, it would be the cold logic of a far more deadly foe.

[deathspectersgt7]

Worth the wait Brother. You are making it harder not to do a sqd.

[Monstra Sumus]

++0 150 935....local time is....00:30, LZ is cold but will get hot, I repeat, it will get hot. Prepare yourselves.++

 

The boxy form slipped under the bruised purple clouds swirling above Stonemarsh, its black hull flashed in orange from the miles of inferno stitching the city. The transport's weapons tracked the skies as it hurtled towards the ground, ready to engage. The retrothrusters fired and a great plume of dust and debris was cast outwards as the vehicle came to hover five feet above the cracked slabs of a ruined plaza. Veteran Prefect Heriot was the first to disembark, his armoured boots crunching into the concrete. The rest of the special operations squad followed in short order.

 

++Package deployed, SR Zero Six adopting angel eyes, Emperor watch over you and good hunting.++

 

The gunship roared into the night sky, tracer fire crackling in the distance as rebel emplacements opened up. There was little the enemy forces could mount to bring down a Storm Raven gunship but it was sensible to not test that theory. Orders were given and the quintet of Astartes fanned out into a V formation, advancing down the plaza. Romulus clutched an auspex in one hand, the green screen casting a pale light up the curving point of his helmet "Three kilos to the crash site, Prefect". His bolter tracked back and forth, the inbuilt gun cam casting a feed over his retinal display allowing him to focus on the auspex device and search for concealed enemies. Castor lifted his gaze, the tactical readout in helm flashed a white outline over each piece of terrain or obstacle around him, his battle suit aware of every potential site for a trap or mine, any enemy emplacements or likely hiding spots. His dual hearts beat in a steady rhythm but still held a faint murmur of excitement. The squad could hear sporadic fighting in the distance, stubber fire inter shot with occasional explosions. The scream of aircraft performing reconnaissance was a constant, their auto senses adjusting to remove it from their environment. It was a kilometre towards their destination when they encountered the first sign of resistance. A sniper round impacted against Pullo's breastplate, gouging the yellow paint and ricocheting into the ground. The squad instantly dispersed into cover, whoever fired at them was obviously confident in their attack on a Space Marine.

 

"Tarquin, brace for counter fire, Romulus, find the bastard." Heriot growled into the vox link and all eyes were searching. Romulus adjusted his auspex and requested that Castor run across his field of fire to assist Tarquin. Castor didn't hesitate, pumping his legs he vaulted a smoldering vehicle wreck and dashed towards Tarquin. Another shot rang out, zipping into the ground at Castors heels. Romulus locked in the target location into his auspex and relayed it directly into Tarquin's tactical feed. The brute squeezed the trigger on his heavy bolter. The weapon bucked on its gravitation harness, sending round after round screeching through the air, heavy shell casing ejecting high over head. A half dozen explosions blossomed in the upper floors of a ruined administratum building and the top portion of the structure collapsed inwards. "Neutralised."

 

Castor took point with Romulus, each moving in tandem with each other as the auspex sniffed out their mission waypoint. The route took them through an old scholarium district, their foot falls echoing noisily through the dust and rubble strewn halls. Propaganda leaflets lay strewn on the floor in their thousands, blood pooled in large dark stains, months old. This war was one of civil strife and politics. No matter what side won the struggle for dominance, it was the imperial citizens who paid for it. Castor didn't spare a glance for the emaciated corpses with their hands bound and bullet holes in their skulls, his boot crunched through the wasted leg of one such unfortunate. Romulus held up his hand and they stopped, Castor went to a knee, his bolter braced against his shoulder. Romulus swept the auspex device and pointed to a door fifteen metres ahead of them. He sub vocalised to the squad, "Contact, five returns."

"Understood, we shall advance, you two are on elimination duty."

"Affirmative."

 

Both Castor and Romulus took up position either side of the door, the later stowing his auspex and drawing his combat knife. The edge shined a vicious orange in the fake daylight of the city fires. Castor nodded and slung his bolter, drawing his own knife. On the three count both Marines exploded through the door and in less than a second were among the enemy. They were a patrol group of the liberation fighters fighting under the Black Judge movement, crude silver skulls painted on their flak armour. They had stopped in their patrol to erect a small fire, the faint aroma of broth could be detected through the air filters in the Marines helmets. The first rebel died before he even knew what was happening, Castors fist slammed into the back of his head, killing him instantly. With a quick motion he thrust the long blade of his combat knife into a second rebel, impaling him. Romulus slashed the third across the face and the man tumbled backwards over his make shift chair, the fourth scrambled for his las carbine but didn't get the chance to fire a single round as Romulus kicked him square in the chest. The fifth rebel, a woman, tried to run. Castor's arm shot out and his armoured fingers curled in her hair. With a vicious yank he snapped her neck and she collapsed to the floor. It had taken the Marines less than six seconds to dispose of this patrol. With a casual glance over the grisly scene, both Marines returned to the squad.

 

Heriot walked through a closed door, the old wood shattering around his frame. He cast his head left and right before waving his men forward, again ordering Romulus and Castor to take point. The squad moved into a wide carriage way, wrecked cars and transport trucks were piled up for what seemed an eternity. The asphalt of the road surface was cracked and scorched, upon quick inspection it seemed a refugee column had been attacked during the night. Castor picked his way through the vehicles, oblivious to the charred bodies within.

 

"Prefect, is this another hun-run or are we in for a fair fight?", the gravel of Tarquin's voice cut into the vox.

"Hun-run?"

"What Tarquin means, Castor," replied Heriot "is are we going to be pursuing a single traitor Marine, hun being an inflection from ancient Terra, or do we stand a chance to engage another element of equal strength and disposition to ourselves. To answer his question, this is both. Our target will flee from us until he has achieved his goal, only then will he opt to stand and fight. It is then we must eliminate him."

"So it is him?"

"Yes, Pullo. It is Harkas. Cut the chatter, get back on form."

 

Castor paused a moment in his stride, Romulus side stepped him and continued trail breaking through the labyrinth of vehicles. Castor's brow knit beneath his helm and he searched his memory for information. Harkas. That name solicited a burn of rage and contempt in him and he couldn't recall why. He followed after Romulus as his perfect memory dredged up the information from his subconcious. Harkas, former brother-legionary of the 4th battle company, Marines Malevolent. All active service records expunged, all data pertaining to his induction into the Chapter destroyed. Only a series of his known aliases and where about's since the Hellican Schism incident, also black level encrypted. He understood now, this wasn't just a mission to hunt down renegade Marines, this was house cleaning. This was the kill mission, he realised what an honour it was to be chosen to be included in this ritual hunt of a fallen brother.

 

Harkas would die. Slowly.

[deathspectersgt7]

Was worth the wait.

[Stoneheart]

This is awesome mate. Nice to see the malevolent's perspective, found Nick Kyme's portrayal of them in the Salamander books a bit too simplistic. Who needs the Black Library eh!

[Monstra Sumus]

This is awesome mate. Nice to see the malevolent's perspective, found Nick Kyme's portrayal of them in the Salamander books a bit too simplistic. Who needs the Black Library eh!

 

Thanks fella! While Kyme gave them a crack, he made them seem more "dastardly and villainous" and not "unsympathetic and pragmatic". I have a load of fluff I've structured as to why the Marines Malevolent are the way they are and who I believe they are descended from. I'm hoping to continue this story to shed some light on who I think they are. 

 

I know a lot of people hate them and the Salamanders books are, well obviously, pro-Salamander but I can't help but feel the MM get given a bit too much hate from the wider hobby. I mean all you have to do is read the 1d4chan page on the Marines Malevolent or any discussion forum to get a general idea of how un-liked they are (which to me is ironic considering they haven't done even half the crap the Dark Angels or Grey Knights have done). 

[Stoneheart]

 

This is awesome mate. Nice to see the malevolent's perspective, found Nick Kyme's portrayal of them in the Salamander books a bit too simplistic. Who needs the Black Library eh!

 

Thanks fella! While Kyme gave them a crack, he made them seem more "dastardly and villainous" and not "unsympathetic and pragmatic". I have a load of fluff I've structured as to why the Marines Malevolent are the way they are and who I believe they are descended from. I'm hoping to continue this story to shed some light on who I think they are. 

 

I know a lot of people hate them and the Salamanders books are, well obviously, pro-Salamander but I can't help but feel the MM get given a bit too much hate from the wider hobby. I mean all you have to do is read the 1d4chan page on the Marines Malevolent or any discussion forum to get a general idea of how un-liked they are (which to me is ironic considering they haven't done even half the crap the Dark Angels or Grey Knights have done). 

 

 

Calls em how I sees em ;)

 

Kyme doesn't do nuanced I think! I can't wait to see your interpretation develop. As a long-time Salamander player I actually enjoy the MM, they're not as black-and-white as my guys, makes for more compelling fiction I think, as we can see here!

 

I've always viewed the MM as like you say, cold-hearted pragmatists. They claim to see the big picture and aren't fussed about gunning down a few guardsmen/imperial citizens if it means saving thousands more, or winning a war. They believe in themselves and their viewpoint utterly and see other Chapters like the Salamanders as sentimental fools I think, which makes them seem arrogant and heartless to other more humanitarian chapters.

 

The salamanders are conflicted I think. They see themselves as the defenders of the Imperium's people and will gladly lay down their lives for them, but this clashes with the practical aspects of 'the big picture' which I think is what Vulkan tried to instil into them when he first joined his legion in M31, and saved them from their own suicidal bravery - this is what translates to the the Promethean cult in M41. I bet a lot of Salamanders would view the MM as unshackled by conscience which they see as the antithesis of one of the pillars of their cult, so they are against them on principle.

 

If you don't mind me suggesting, it would be very interesting to see your interpretation of the Salamanders from the MM point of view! :)

 

Can't wait for the next instalment!

[Thomas Aquinas]

Hmmm War Pigs eh? evil minds that plot destruction; sorcerers of death's constructon. Anyway That description of coming through the warp and the toll it took is awesome... and that trip was a success?

[Monstra Sumus]

This is awesome mate. Nice to see the malevolent's perspective, found Nick Kyme's portrayal of them in the Salamander books a bit too simplistic. Who needs the Black Library eh!

Thanks fella! While Kyme gave them a crack, he made them seem more "dastardly and villainous" and not "unsympathetic and pragmatic". I have a load of fluff I've structured as to why the Marines Malevolent are the way they are and who I believe they are descended from. I'm hoping to continue this story to shed some light on who I think they are.

I know a lot of people hate them and the Salamanders books are, well obviously, pro-Salamander but I can't help but feel the MM get given a bit too much hate from the wider hobby. I mean all you have to do is read the 1d4chan page on the Marines Malevolent or any discussion forum to get a general idea of how un-liked they are (which to me is ironic considering they haven't done even half the crap the Dark Angels or Grey Knights have done).

Calls em how I sees em

Kyme doesn't do nuanced I think! I can't wait to see your interpretation develop. As a long-time Salamander player I actually enjoy the MM, they're not as black-and-white as my guys, makes for more compelling fiction I think, as we can see here!

I've always viewed the MM as like you say, cold-hearted pragmatists. They claim to see the big picture and aren't fussed about gunning down a few guardsmen/imperial citizens if it means saving thousands more, or winning a war. They believe in themselves and their viewpoint utterly and see other Chapters like the Salamanders as sentimental fools I think, which makes them seem arrogant and heartless to other more humanitarian chapters.

The salamanders are conflicted I think. They see themselves as the defenders of the Imperium's people and will gladly lay down their lives for them, but this clashes with the practical aspects of 'the big picture' which I think is what Vulkan tried to instil into them when he first joined his legion in M31, and saved them from their own suicidal bravery - this is what translates to the the Promethean cult in M41. I bet a lot of Salamanders would view the MM as unshackled by conscience which they see as the antithesis of one of the pillars of their cult, so they are against them on principle.

If you don't mind me suggesting, it would be very interesting to see your interpretation of the Salamanders from the MM point of view!

Can't wait for the next instalment!

Absolutely on par with my view of the Marines Malevolent. I see them as win at all costs type of guys, after all a victory is a victory even if there's only one of you left standing. This story has it's own path but I'm happy to do others involving the Marines Malevolent. I may even do an Armageddon one involving the Salamanders, divulge a bit from established writing *cough* and do it in my own style.

Hmmm War Pigs eh? evil minds that plot destruction; sorcerers of death's constructon. Anyway That description of coming through the warp and the toll it took is awesome... and that trip was a success?

Thanks Thomas, glad to see you got the reference! I try to embellish the grim dark a little and make it seem like everything is a struggle, no matter how simple it may seem.

[Draakur]

Veeeery cool, looking forward to the next instalment. Great perspective on one of the more compelling Chapters :)