What Chapter Am I: A Fan Fiction Guessing Game

[Dumah]

A simple idea I have to alleviate the occasional writers block and ensure that I do something. Every so often I will be adding flash fiction inspired by relatively obscure but fully cannon Space Marine Chapters. The first person to correctly guess the chapter will receive a like!

 

Now, without further ado...

 

 

Now comes the time.

 

The battle is won and our enemies lie shattered upon the rocky soil of this inhospitable planet. It once played host to an Imperial colony; hardscrabble men and women who eked out a pitiable existence on the rude ores and other detritus, paid a pittance by the local mining guilds when the tithing of the Mechanicus did not reap their yields to exhaustion. Now they are dead – all of them. Something came for them from the mines; something inhuman, dredged into the light by the careless ministrations of desperate industry. I do not know what they are and I do not care. I am here for one purpose and one purpose alone: to destroy the Enemies of Mankind wherever they rear their ugly, misbegotten heads.

 

I came to this world with my brothers, lured by the death pangs of the colony screaming into the void. By the time we arrived, there were no colonists left alive and the raiders were gorging themselves insensate on the human wreckage. It was a simple thing, for my brothers and me, to destroy those abominations. We ripped and tore them to pieces with our blades and our fists and, for some of us whose appetites run hotter, with our teeth. The day is won for Mankind.

This is a bleak setting for triumph.

 

The cry of scavenger avians draw the eyes upwards but my own are locked on the task set before me. I am the Sin Eater. I wear my badge of office tattooed across my face: a patchwork of scars that carry to the bone, artfully entwined with the looping scrawl of a dead language, lost to all but those inducted into my esoteric brotherhood.

 

“The enemy is me, and I am he,” I intone with ritual gravity. I lift the offering to my lips and bite deeply into the tissue. A taste both rancid and succulent flows through me and I struggle to maintain focus. I must not fall to the Appetites, not now. I focus on the kaleidoscope of images that slide across my mind, biting and clawing at them in a desperate attempt to create a coherent whole. Minutes pass, eons, epochs… And then I have it.

 

My eyes snap open and I look around at my brothers. They surround me in a loose circle, grim-faced and hollow-eyed. Not a man among them wears his helm and their mouths are stained bloody. One of them – Brother Tibor – has succumbed to the Appetites to a greater degree than the others, gnawing still on the calf muscle of a truncated leg. I cannot tell from which species it comes. I stand and unsheathe my short blade in one motion. Tibor is looking at me now, sensing my intent as his brothers back away, giving me space to attend to the second of my sacred duties; the first is set aside while I attend to this, the more urgent of the two. My blade meets transhuman flesh and I struggle, sawing desperately at super-dense vertebrae. Mercifully, Bother Tibor does not fight me. Like so many of our wayward brothers, he greets his release with a final surge of herculean discipline and dies with a bitter smile on his lips.

 

“Your strength becomes our strength,” I whisper once it is done. “Live on in your brothers and kill with them, for Him on Earth.”

Then the feast begins.

 

Once it is over, I convene with the others. We are sated and calm, digesting the new strength gifted to us by our brother. I look to Veteran Sergeant Ferenc and he nods through a mask of blood. His eyes are haunted like the others.

 

“I know where they are,” I begin, gesturing to where we have piled the dead of our enemies. “They make their lair in the mountains nearby.”

 

The sergeant nods again and checks his weapon, racking the slide to ensure a round is chambered. “Then let us meet them there,” he growls. A chorus of affirmation answers him and the battle chant begins:

 

“Pray for death! Pray for Death!” the others howl in unison. I can already feel the Appetites taking hold of them once more. I would be lying if I said I do not feel it also.

“Apothecary,” Ferenc says, using my formal title, “lead the way.”

 

END

 

Which Chapter Am I?

[Urauloth]

Flesh Eaters.

 

Also, this is very good, please write more. Of this, or in general.

Edited September 19, 2020 by Urauloth

[Dumah]

Flesh Eaters.

 

Also, this is very good, please write more. Of this, or in general.

Got it in one, well done!

 

You flatter me sir. I fully intend to keep writing and hope you keep reading. Thank you!

[Dumah]

Round 2:

 

 

“Are you a ghost?”

Gunderic turns his head, grinding servos in the collar of his power armor. A little girl has appeared behind his sniper’s nest, clutching a one-armed doll to her chest, staring with large eyes that shine through the ash that coats her face. Around her, the city she once called home lies in ruin; hab blocks reduced to mountains of rubble set against a backdrop of soot-choked sky. By his chrono, the sun should be at its zenith but the terrain is cast instead in ghostly twilight.

 

He considers the question, having assessed and quickly dismissed the little girl as a potential threat. “Yes.”

The timber of his voice startles the girl. She flinches back, eyes wide as saucers and her lip trembles slightly. Gunderic idly wonders if the ruin he is crouching in was once the girl’s home. Irrelevant, the voice of his brother scolds him. Gunderic places a calming hand on the skull that hangs from a chain at his waist. He turns his eye back to the scope of his rifle, dismissing all distraction as he resumes his vigil. His quarry has proved elusive; he knows where it is hiding but has thus far been unable to run it to ground. A tug at the hem of his camo cloak elicits a reflex response: his knife is out of its sheath and at the little girl’s neck in the blink of an eye, but he stays his hand. She cries out and stumbles backwards, falling heavily onto her backside, and begins to cry.

 

Silence her…

 

“Be quiet,” the space marine growls but that only makes it worse. He considers, for a moment, that he should end her life – it would be a mercy, under the circumstances. But no; he cannot bring himself to end a life that may yet serve the Emperors designs. Death is a sacred coin to be spent only in His service. Gunderic touches the skull at his waist again but his brother has nothing to add. Inspiration strikes. Carefully, the space marine unfolds his limbs from the firing position, feeling the scream of servos and muscles both as he shifts position for the first time in many hours.

“Be silent,” he admonishes, crouching to put himself on the child’s level. “The Emperor wants you to help me,” he adds, attempting to lighten his tone.

 

The little girl looks up at him, using the tattered sleeve of her dress to wipe the snot from her upper lip. “He does?”

Gunderic nods and holds out his hand, swallowing the small girl’s entire forearm within his armored fist, and lifts her easily to her feet. She is light as a feather – and useless, the voice of his brother chides, but Gunderic ignores it. He returns to his sniper’s nest, inviting the little girl to join him at the low parapet of shattered rockrete and twisted rebar. “See there,” he whispers, pointing to a ruined hab-block across the sundered concourse, “there is a monster hiding inside…”

 

“A monster?” the little girl squeaks, crushing the doll to her chest. Gunderic can smell the chemical reek of her fear and he knows that he has her.

“Will you help me kill it?” he asks the girl. She swallows thickly and nods her tiny head.

 

***

 

It can smell the prey-thing hiding among the wreckage, even from so far a distance. The beast smiles wickedly, feeling its incisors cut new furrows into its ragged lips. The prey-thing has been hunting it for many days now, never once coming close to catching the beast. It chuckles in the darkness, gleeful of the anger it can taste building in the one who watches – staring through the scope of the pitiful, mortal instrument it believes can possibly harm it.

 

“How the mighty have fallen,” the beast laments to the shadows, turning its avian helm to regard the moldering bodies it has piled high in the corners of its nest. Among the dead are kindred to the prey-thing – thin blood pretender whelps whose very existence are an insult to the beast and its ancient brotherhood. Servos growl as it stalks deeper into the dark of the labyrinthine ruins.

It can feel something new approaching its domain and it wishes to examine the intruder before eating it.

 

***

 

“The Emperor loves me,” the little girl whispers, clutching her doll so hard that stuffing pushes through its loosened seams. “The Emperor loves me…the Emperor loves-”

 

Something huge steps out of the air in front of her; the tunnel was clear just a moment ago, she is sure of it. The little girl looks up at the monster that looms above her, fighting to control her fear. It stoops like an animal and resembles the Ghost, but only in broad strokes. Its armored carapace is festooned with spikes and strung with dead meat and entrails and its head is bird-like, hooked into a beak set below two glowering eyes that burn with ethereal hunger.

 

“What’s thisss,” the monster purrs, leaning close, splaying the hooked talons of its overlong fingers. “Hello, little mouse.” It chuckles, snuffling loudly through the grill of its beak.

The little girl feels her bladder loosen in terror and she closes her eyes, unable to bear the monster’s suffocating menace.

 

“The Emperor loves me!” she cries, screaming into the face of her fear. The monster recoils from the word, shaking its head as if in pain. Then it hears the click of gears sliding into place from inside the doll the human child is holding. The beast realizes it has made a fatal mistake.

“Clever puppet,” it sighs. Then the light and the heat swallow it whole.

 

***

 

All things die, Gunderic considers, and the girl has done so better than most. He can feel his brother’s agreement where his skull swings at the space marine’s hip.

 

After confirming his kill, Gunderic sifts through the remains of what is left after the blast and finds, among the wreckage of the warp-filth traitor, a memento to honor the child’s sacrifice. Days later, when he rejoins his brothers, he carries with him a second, broken skull much smaller than that of his long-departed battle brother. He will honor her memory as a Soldier of the Emperor’s Light.

That is all anyone can ask for.

 

END

 

Which Chapter Am I?

[Celtic_cauldron]

Mortifactors.

 

This is a nice game and your stories are quite excellent.

 

Celtic_Cauldron

[Dumah]

Mortifactors.

 

This is a nice game and your stories are quite excellent.

 

Celtic_Cauldron

 

Thank you for the kind words! As for your guess, not the Chapter I had in mind but I'll grant that Mortifactors could fit the bill as well (that earns you a like!).

 

Here's a hint: think of other death-obsessed chapters that also have a penchant for collateral damage...

[WrathOfTheLion]

Star Phantoms would be my guess

[Dumah]

Star Phantoms would be my guess

 

And you would be right!

 

Thanks for reading, everybody. More coming soon(ish).

[Celtic_cauldron]

Well done WrathoftheLion!

 

@Dumah: will you also give a go to Traitor Legions and Renegade Chapters?

 

Celtic_Cauldron

[Dumah]

I'd love to have a go at some of the traitor kin! Stay tuned...

[sitnam]

I cant wait for your next installment. My guess would of been Mortifactors too, but IIRC they only take the skulls of their enemies.

[WrathOfTheLion]

Girl asks if a ghost and he keeps the skull of his brethren, so more Star Phantoms.

 

Monster hunting very much evokes Dark Angels as well, which is the presumed gene-sire of the Star Phantoms.

[Dumah]

Round 3:

 

 

Jorrit can’t remember the last time he actually caught something.

He sighs heavily and painstakingly reels in his fishing line by hand; he is too poor to afford a proper fishing rod. Even if he could afford it, he would be better off trading his credits for something more substantial than the water-slop gruel being doled out by the Sisters at the Low-Hive mission.

 

With fantasies of roasted fowl dancing in his hungry mind, the boy doesn’t notice that the line has become heavy in his hands. It’s only when the crude wire pulls back that he takes notice. The first tug is subtle, eliciting a frown. The second is much more forceful, pulling the wire hard through the flesh of his palms. The boy yelps in surprise and drops the line, watching as it slithers under the murky, oil-sheen surface.

 

“Frak,” Jorrit moans.

His pa is going to kill him – that was their only fishing line!

 

And the boy knows it will be him who is made to climb the teetering hab-stacks and cut a new one from the confusion of wires that choke the spans between skyways.

 

He is still lamenting his fate when he spots something moving under the surface. Jorrit’s face lights up; maybe he can catch whatever it is with his hands. It certainly looks big enough. The boy leans over the edge of the wharf, ignoring the pain in his bleeding palms as he plunges both hands into the filthy water. He fights to keep his throbbing hands still, watching patiently for when the creature next passes close to the surface. Jorrit spies the telltale gleam of scalloped hide and jabs at it with clawed hands. Even during the short time they are submerged, his fingers have gone numb from the cold. But he can feel them shatter well enough. Shockwaves from the impact with something unyielding travel up the length of his arms, sending lightning bolts of agony into his shoulders and neck.

The boy howls in pain, snatching his shattered hands from the water. Something underneath – not a fish, after all – reaches from the murky depths and grabs him by the tunic. Jorrit tries to cry out but only manages a gurgle as he is pulled underneath. The surface churns for a desperate moment and then all is still.

Only the gulls remain to witness the tide of brazen monsters that rise from the bloodied waters.

 

***

 

Each new body that adds to the pyre brings Veles and his brotherhood ever closer to their rightful place of glory. They burn easily, these mortal shells, aided by the chemical rain that falls from the false clouds above. Veles and his kin are deep within the bowels of the island hive, scarcely above the water table, and the network of canals and aqueducts serves as fruitful hunting grounds for him and his brothers. They start with the dregs, as they always do, allowing the occasional prey-thing to escape them the better to carry their panic into the rest of the hive, sowing the seeds of doubt that will culminate in the severing of their idiot faith.

 

Veles smiles behind the fanged grill of his face plate, reveling in the poetic justice of it all.

 

On a whim, he pulls the horned helmet from his head, tearing at seals that grow like flesh from the rim of his gorget. He closes his eyes and turns his face upwards to feel the caustic rainfall on the squamous skin of his face. The sensation is still a novel one; it was only decades ago that his flesh and the bones beneath it began to change. Each warrior of the brotherhood, in his own way, has come to resemble their totem more and more since the day of exile.

 

“Glory!” sibilant voices shout from the shadows surrounding the dancing flames, “glory to the True God!”

The fire burns brighter in answer to their praise and Veles grins at his brothers. Their burning eye lenses bore into him and, not unpleasantly, thoughts of murder ride on the swells of their thoughts. He knows he is the object of many of those violent appetites – he is the favored one, touched by the Deity, and subject to his brother’s jealousies. Good, the thinks, let them fume and conspire; the better to prove his worth to the True God. A flutter of movement disturbs the war leader’s ruminations. Veles turns to find a brother dragging a still-living body to the pyre. There is something about this one…

 

“You there!” Veles booms, voice carrying easily in the cavern. His brother warrior stops, poised to throw the mortal onto the flames. The war leader can sense his kin’s reluctance; one of the restless ones, then. “Give her to me.”

 

The warrior shifts uneasily. “She is for the Deity…”

 

He beheads the warrior with a smooth stroke of his sword. Veles sheathes the weapon with one hand and catches the prey-thing with the other. He sets her gently onto the ground, close enough to the pyre to feel its heat.

 

“You are one of His,” Veles says. She nods, as if it were a question. The woman’s habit is torn and stained with blood; some of it hers, most of it not. The war leader can smell her fear and he thrills to the prospect of squeezing the faith from her bones. “Tell me sister,” he continues, “what do you think of our offering?” The woman spits on his boots and Veles laughs. He hauls her up by the neck, holding her inches away from his monstrous face. The sister cringes away from the ammonia reek of his breath. “You think us monsters-”

 

“You are devils!” she cries, trying to turn her face away. Veles unhinges his jaw, smiling wider than any mortal thing should be able to.

 

“Your god made us devils,” he corrects her, squeezing where he grips her throat. “And He won’t be saving you.”

Veles looks up at the warband’s totem. It sits at the center of the sacrificial pyre, carved into the unfinished wood of a blackened trunk that was cut from a tree used to hang a thousand priests. So much has been made of his brotherhood’s betrayal; their heresy; their corruption. All because they worshipped the wrong icon: the creature that sits atop that pole is a snake, instead of an eagle. A long, stentorian sigh escapes the ravaged lungs of the war leader. The prey-thing squirms feebly in his grasp as he squeezes the life from her body. He no longer notices her struggles as he loses himself to the painful memories.

 

END

 

Which Chapter/Legion/Warband Am I?

[Urauloth]

This one was tough because I absolutely overthought it - I remembered there being renegade Black Dragons who joined the Swords of Epiphany and ended up going down a rabbit hole looking for them. Turns out the Swords had gold armour, not brazen, and...

also they all died

 

Once I dug myself out of that warren, the answer was staring me in the face - they have a serpent icon and bronze armour because they're Steel Cobras.

[Dumah]

This one was tough because I absolutely overthought it - I remembered there being renegade Black Dragons who joined the Swords of Epiphany and ended up going down a rabbit hole looking for them. Turns out the Swords had gold armour, not brazen, and...

also they all died

 

Once I dug myself out of that warren, the answer was staring me in the face - they have a serpent icon and bronze armour because they're Steel Cobras.

 

You got it, good work!

 

To be honest, I was a little worried that I was going too obscure. Chaos Marines are a bit harder for me, as I'm not as well-read on the various sub-factions, and I didn't want to go with any of the "big 8" so I perused some wikis and these fellas tickled my fancy. Looks like I'll need to dig even deeper into obscurity to really stump you guys!

[Celtic_cauldron]

Ha, too late...

 

Steel Cobras would also have been my guess.

 

Congrats Urauloth!

 

@Dumah: that was a nice piece of text you have proposed us. Your writing about this Chaos Warband was really pleasant!

 

Celtic_Cauldron

[Dumah]

Hail Fraters! I've been hard at work on my BL submission these past couple weeks, but you can expect some more entries soon. Also, if anyone has any requests as to which chapter/legion/warband to do next, feel free to PM me. Just be sure not to spoil the answer for everyone else!

[Dumah]

Round 4:

 

(Note: I took some creative liberties on this one...this chapter/legion/warband has very little in the way of official fluff so I added some minor cultural flavor of my own)

 

 

Whose blood is this?

 

It’s a thought he can’t get out of his mind; sitting in a cage, packed cheek to jowl with scores of other wayward patriots. Before it all began, they had come to a consensus: they would be willing to die for their freedom. It had seemed so romantic at the time but they had no real idea of what they were getting themselves into. It was only when the giants came on their wings of fire that Norbaer realized they had made a mistake. But whose blood is it that covers his hands?

 

Norbaer looks down, realizing it covers his tunic and the bare skin of his arms too. Beside him, Mirielle is slick with it – she had tried to intervene when they took one of the others away. They gutted him in front of her, maybe as a lesson, and try as he might Norbaer cannot remember the man’s name. Much of the red that stains his limbs comes from others besides; countless victims, hauled out from the cage at random and dragged kicking and screaming – or insensate and shivering – never to return. The giants who took them were calm – too damn calm.

But, whose blood is this?

 

“Does it matter?” Mirielle sobs beside him, glancing sideways through the lattice of burst blood vessels spidering through the whites of her eyes. Norbaer blinks, uncomprehending. He didn’t realize he had posed the question out loud.

 

Others are looking at him now, like they used to when they had a cause, and he shrinks from it. Where before he was uplifted by the hope and confidence he saw in their shining eyes, now he is only reminded of his failure and the doom that he brought down on their heads with his hubris. Plenty of those faces now glare with outright hostility. It would have been better if they had died in the fighting.

 

“What the fugg are they waiting for,” a voice in the crowd whines. There’s a tinge of nervous mania to his words. “Why not kill us and be done with it?”

“Shut up, Jens!”

“No! We should be dead…they don’t take prisoners…I’ve heard-”

“Shut your fuggin’ mouth!” Mirielle screams.

 

She shifts beside Norbaer and climbs to her feet, as far as their cage will allow, then lunges over the heads of the others, going for the hysterical man’s throat. No one has the will or the energy to stop her.

By the time she is finished, Mirielle and everyone around her is slick with new blood. But it’s quieter.

 

The respite doesn’t last long. Within minutes, or maybe hours – it’s becoming harder to tell the longer they go without food and water – the giants return. They come, as always, in pairs. Norbaer isn’t certain, but from his observations they are never the same two but there is a pattern in their respective roles. The first carries a heavy club, either locked to the hard planes of his thigh armor or grasped tightly in one of his massive fists. The club is made of some alien wood, tempered to hardness in fires beyond mortal ken and studded with shards of jagged obsidian. Norbaer shudders. He has seen the work of those vile instruments up close; shattering, crushing, and tearing ragged gashes in the soft meat of frail mortal bodies. But the way the giants wield them, with great care and precision, the wounds are seldom fatal. That is why there is so much blood in the cage.

 

“What do they want?” someone whispers in a familiar refrain. No answer is forthcoming. No one ever comes back once taken away.

The second giant carries a set of spiked shackles linked by vicious barbed chains that are brown and black with old blood. They never speak, only gesture. When the first giant flings open the door to the cage and beckons with his club, those crowded close to the opening flinch away. The giant gestures again, more forcefully, and his companion reaches for the dagger sheathed at his waist.

 

“Cowards,” Mirielle spits.

She pushes through the press of bodies, glaring murder at ever person she passes, and presents herself to the giants. Her eyes lock with Norbaer’s for several beats of the heart and he can feel his shame redouble. Of all of them, Mirielle was the most loyal; the most fervent in the fight for freedom from tyranny. She had believed in him…and he had let her down.

Worst of all, there is no anger in her gaze, only sadness.

 

The pain in his heart is almost too much to bear but instead of succumbing like so many others, he dredges deeply within his soul to find the last flickers of defiance. Norbaer stands abruptly, hitting his head on the bars of the low cage roof and snarling.

 

“NO!”

 

Time stops for a moment. All eyes are on Norbaer. He feels a surge of mania overtake him and he laughs. It’s a liberating feeling, choosing to throw your own life away. He will not go meekly.

“Take me instead,” he growls, putting every ounce of strength he can muster into his voice. The giants exchange a silent glance, inscrutable behind their blood spattered faceplates. There is so much of the vital fluid staining their plate that its original color is indistinguishable. The one who holds Mirielle starts to drag her away.

 

“I am their leader,” Norbaer cries, hating the edge of desperation that creeps into his voice. “I led them down this path – to this place of horror… Visit your wrath on me, not them!”

The one with the club cocks his head to one side and, with a screech of audio feedback that makes the prisoners wail and cower, the giant speaks.

 

“Your courage does you credit,” he booms, rattling the metal bars of the cage with the basso thunder of his words. “You will honor Him with your death…”

 

The force of the giant’s words vibrates uncomfortably within Norbaer’s chest, threading primeval fear through every sinew of his body. But the others are looking at him now, not with the quiet condemnation of before but with a flicker of the admiration they once held for him. Norbaer gathers himself with a heavy breath and marches forward, presenting his wrists to be clapped in irons.

 

“Yours will be a worthy sacrifice,” the giant murmurs, half-turning towards his brother. The other warrior nods and pulls his dagger, slashing the black blade through Mirielle’s throat. Norbaer cries out in denial, surging forward towards the opening in the cage. The impact of the first giant’s club against his solar plexus drives the wind from him and sends him sprawling into the tall grasses at their feet. Norbaer gasps, trying to regain his breath, and begins to crawl towards Mirielle’s crumpled, still-twitching form but a boot in his back holds him fast. The second giant crouches beside his writhing body and wipes the blood clean from his wicked knife; Norbaer can see his horrified face reflected back at him – judging him, accusing him – from the many facets of that igneous blade.

 

“Why…” Norbaer croaks. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see any longer. The giant’s voice startles them back open.

 

“Her death pleases the Emperor. She fought well and showed courage.” Norbaer can feel the metal spikes punch into the flesh of his wrists and ankles as vicious shackles are clapped on his limbs. “Rejoice, heretic! Your death will earn even greater favor,” the giant crows, sounding as if he expects Norbaer to agree. “After we’ve bled you dry.”

 

END

 

Which Chapter/Legion/Warband Am I?

Edited October 27, 2020 by Dumah

[Celtic_cauldron]

Intriguing...

 

I would say Red Hunters but without any conviction. Only thing I am pretty sure about is that they are Loyalists.

 

Celtic_Cauldron

[No Foes Remain]

Liberators?

 

They are found of sacraficing people for the Emperor.

[Osteoclast]

Liberators?

 

They are found of sacraficing people for the Emperor.

 

I think you mean Libators.

[Dumah]

 

Liberators?

 

They are found of sacraficing people for the Emperor.

 

I think you mean Libators.

 

 

Credit to you both! I've seen them mistakenly named the Liberators in many places, even wikis, but it is indeed the Libators. The bloodletting/human sacrifice angle is what inspired a Mesoamerican flavor for my headcannon and if I were to consider actually returning from retirement and playing on the TT, they would be near the top of my list for chapters.

[Dumah]

I have returned from my hiatus! I whipped this one up just the other day...have at it!

 

Round 5:

 

 

Bang.

 

The percussive thump of a bolter round exploding within the ribcage of a baying mutant cultist sent ripples through the still-born air. M219 swiveled at the waist and leveled his boltgun. He fired another precisely aimed shot at the skull of a leering pumpkin-headed creature that squatted on the back of M097. Their squad sergeant had been laid low in the opening moments of the engagement when the pumpkin-head had dropped from its hiding place among the rafters above and brought its sickle claws to bear. 219’s shot found its mark in the creature’s left eye socket as it turned to regard him over its shoulder and he allowed himself a tight smile while it’s distended cranium burst in a welter of gore. His ratio was good and he judged, based on the remaining targets and the number of rounds left in his magazine, that he would achieve optimal shots per kill – if he was fast enough.

 

Several meters to his left and slightly behind him, M916 fired on full automatic. 219 frowned and clenched his jaw against the urge to chastise his brother. 916 was one of the new breed – a Primaris – and had yet to fully embrace their ways like many of his kind. They were doughty warriors, and awesomely strong, but the introduction of untested variables into their ranks had caused no end of disorder within the Grand Schema.

 

 And that was just bad math, 219 mused in the microsecond of contemplation. He hated bad math.

The space marine shifted targets smoothly, tracking through the gloom of the vaulted breezeway. Many of the creatures had scattered into the abundance of shadow but the space marine could still feel their tainted eyes watching him.

 

“Clear!” 916 called.

 

“No,” M122 corrected. He was the most senior surviving brother of the four of them. “It is not.”

219 nodded in agreement. “They watch us still.”

 

“Let them come!” the Primaris boomed, holding open his arms in invitation. As if on cue, a mad rush of twisted forms and bestial features surged out of the darkness and drove a wedge of unclean morphologies right at the boastful warrior. He was dragged under in an instant. His squad brothers converged on the scrum, wading into the thick of it with bolter and blade. 219 lost his bolter in the frenzied melee and was forced to draw his gladius. He hissed with displeasure – the bolter was his weapon of choice – but his blade work was more than up to the task. When all was said and done, one more of his brothers had been taken by the beasts the legacy of a crushed neck-seal and a sawing lamprey mouth. Much to 219’s chagrin, the Primaris was among the survivors. He exchanged a look with their de-facto squad leader and 122’s eye lenses spoke volumes.

 

“That was ill-advised, brother,” he chastened. “To invite them to concentrate their strength…”

 

“We are victorious,” 916 snorted. The veteran merely shook his head.

219 stepped forward to look the boastful youth in the eye. Both he and the Primaris had lost their helmets in the scrum. “Aye, we prevail,” he began, casting a glance at the fallen bodies in blue-grey plate. “But at great cost.”

 

“Death in His service is its own re-”

 

122 chopped his hand through the air. His temper was flaring; something that 219 had never seen in their decades of service together. The younger space marine judged it wise to keep his own counsel and left the veteran to impart his wisdom.

 

“We are greater than one warrior,” the grizzled space marine said. He turned to 219 and pointed. “And one,” leveled his finger at 916, “and one.

“Links in a chain are strongest together and working in harmony. If one is unbending, fighting the Schema, it will cause its kin to warp and weaken around it. And the whole will shatter,” 122 snarled. “The Chapter is greater than any one space marine’s courage and strength at arms. We are all links in a chain that hold back the darkness together.” 219 felt his hearts swell with pride while the veteran continued. “We are all of us a part of a greater equation – one that becomes the lance we drive through the very heart of evil, but only together!”

 

916 looked perturbed, even crestfallen. He gestured weakly at the pile of bodies around his feet. They bore the marks of his blade and crushing fists. “And what of glory?” he asked. 122 shook his head.

 

“Glory is a fool’s prize. We fight for each other and for the greater whole… never for ourselves.”

 

The veteran turned away and began the grisly task of collecting their fallen brothers’ gene-seed. They had no Apothecary to perform the rites in the proper fashion. 219 breathed deeply of the silence, calming his body and returning his thoughts to order in accordance with the Grand Schema and its designs. As part of his post-battle ritual, he checked the ammo counter on his boltgun’s grip. The space marine frowned.

A loud crack and boom startled M916. He turned to his brother, who had just fired a round into the belly of a dead cultist. “A waste of ammunition,” he chided. His pride still smarted after the veteran’s dressing down and he sought a target for his frustrations. 219 smiled without humor. That shot had achieved the Ideal Ratio, as the schema demanded.

 

He approached his Primaris brother and clapped a hand on his massive pauldron, gesturing down at the bifurcated corpse. Smaller, tentacled creatures were spilling from its belly, torn open and thrashing in still-born death.

“Don’t fight the math,” he advised his brother space marine. “It’s never wrong.”

 

END

 

Which Chapter/Legion/Warband Am I?

Edited March 28, 2021 by Dumah

[Leonaides]

Iron Hands?

[Commissar Molotov]

Brotherhood of a Thousand.