Rogue blood Angel: Trial by Swarm and chaos, part 1

[Tred1998]

The planet of Caltraxis, a barren, rocky wasteland dotted with mountains of scrap metal and debris, sits on the outskirts of the Imperium. Once a thriving mining world with massive industrial complexes and orbital extraction platforms, Caltraxis was a critical resource hub for several sub-sectors. Now, after years of disuse and neglect, it is a husk of rust and ruin, its surface scarred by countless battles and orbital bombardments.

The forces of the Imperium are besieged by the Chaos Space Marines of the Black Legion, the largest and most organized of the Traitor Legions. Their invasion was swift and brutal, seizing one of the planet’s capital cities and unleashing destruction across major supply lines and vox relay stations. Their objective appears to be twofold: seize what little industrial infrastructure remains and establish a foothold in the outer rim for future incursions.

Amidst this chaos, a Tyranid Hive Fleet—its splinter tendrils slithering through the void—descends upon Caltraxis. Drawn by the conflict and potential biomass, the Tyranids descend like a natural disaster, disrupting both Chaos and Imperial operations. The invasion transforms the planet into a three-way warzone, where tactics and alliances are shattered beneath the tide of xenos hunger.

The Chaos forces, focused on annihilating the Tyranid threat to protect their own foothold, engage in vicious territorial warfare. The Tyranids, driven purely by instinct and consumption, respond with equal ferocity. Both factions treat the beleaguered Imperial forces as a secondary concern, though the Astra Militarum continue to suffer grievous losses. With the planet's surface bombarded and burned, Imperial survivors retreat to the last three heavily fortified capital cities, locking them down in grim hope—praying for reinforcements, or at least evacuation, before extinction arrives.

---

In the rugged countryside, far from the relative safety of the cities, Sergeant Lira Ventris of the Astra Militarum trudges through the desolate terrain. Her squad has been wiped out by a Chaos ambush, and she is now completely alone. Lira moves cautiously through the rocky landscape, the jagged ground covered in the remains of vehicles, machinery, and corpses. She clutches her lasgun tightly, knowing that every shadow could conceal her death.

With no clear destination and only her survival instincts to guide her, Lira uses her training to stay hidden. The distant sound of bolter fire and the screeching of Tyranids echo across the wasteland, a constant reminder of the war raging around her.

---

After hours of wandering, Lira comes across a massive pile of scrap metal, the remnants of an ancient manufactorum. Seeking higher ground for a better view of the terrain, she climbs to the top of the heap. Just as she reaches the summit, a shrill screech pierces the air—Tyranids.

A swarm of Termagants and Hormagaunts surges toward her. Lira opens fire with her lasgun, taking down several of the smaller creatures. She moves to higher ground within the junk pile, using the uneven terrain to slow their advance. Despite her efforts, the Tyranids encircle her, cutting off every avenue of escape.

One of the creatures lunges at her, and in the chaos, Lira loses her footing, tumbling down into a corner of the pile. Her leg breaks upon impact, leaving her defenseless. The swarm closes in, their alien forms glinting in the dim light.

---

Just as the first Tyranid prepares to strike, its head explodes in a spray of ichor. Lira’s head snaps up to see a towering figure clad in crimson power armor charging toward the swarm. With a storm bolter in hand, the Space Marine unleashes a torrent of fire, mowing down the xenos in a relentless barrage.

The Tyranids turn their attention to the new threat, surging toward the Astartes. Lira ducks her head, shielding herself from the deafening roar of gunfire and the chaos of the battle. Minutes pass, though it feels like an eternity, until the noise subsides. When she dares to look up, she sees the aftermath: the ground littered with Tyranid corpses, and the crimson-clad warrior standing amidst the carnage, bolter still smoking.

The figure strides toward her, kneeling beside her broken form. She can now clearly see the winged blood drop insignia on his armor—a Blood Angel.

"Are you alright, Guardsmen?" the Marine asks, his voice a deep and steady rumble.

Lira, still dazed, examines the warrior more closely. Though his appearance is intimidating, the realization that he is a loyalist Astartes brings her relief.

"Yes... Yes, I think so," she replies, her voice trembling. "Thank you for saving me."

The Blood Angel’s helmet tilts slightly, his gaze seeming to study her injuries. Without another word, he gently lifts her, his strength effortless. Lira clutches her lasgun tightly, though she knows she is in no danger from him. As he carries her, the roar of distant battles serves as a grim reminder that their survival is far from assured.

---

Tred’s helmet tilted slightly as he studied her, then his voice rumbled once more. "Sergeant Tred, 5th Battle Company, formerly of the Blood Angels."

Lira, still catching her breath, nodded in understanding. "Sergeant Lira Ventris, of the 107th, Astra Militarum."

Tred’s gaze fell upon her leg, bent at an unnatural angle. "You are injured."

Lira gritted her teeth and attempted to push herself up, trying to wave him off. "It’s nothing. I can keep going."

Without hesitation, Tred stepped forward, grasped her firmly, and lifted her onto his back, settling her atop the power pack of his armor. Lira gasped in shock.

"Why—?" she began, but Tred cut her off.

"If you cannot walk, you can at least shoot and be my eyes in the back of my head," he stated with finality.

With that, he began marching out of the metal junk pile, his heavy footfalls crushing debris beneath him. Lira steadied herself, gripping her lasgun tightly. As they moved forward, she finally spoke again.

"Where are we going?"

Tred did not slow his pace as he replied. "We are heading to a Militarum campsite that has managed to avoid the enemy’s eyes."

Lira adjusted herself slightly on his back before hesitating, then asked, "Where are the rest of your brothers? There were no signs of any Space Marine ships dropping out of the warp."

Tred answered bluntly, "I am alone. I stowed away on a Black Legion ship, which is how I arrived on this planet."

Lira remained silent for a moment, digesting the information. A lone Astartes operating without support was unheard of. After a few more miles of careful movement, avoiding enemy patrols, she finally asked, "Why are you helping the Militarum?"

Tred kept his gaze forward, his tone unwavering. "Because the Imperium still stands, and I am still its servant. The Militarum may be mortal, but they fight and die for the Emperor all the same. I do what I must."

Lira considered his words. "Even after being cast out? After losing your brothers?"

For a moment, Tred was silent. Then, with a measured breath, he responded, "Honor is not given; it is upheld. My exile does not change my duty."

Lira absorbed his words, her grip on her lasgun tightening. Despite the chaos of the war around them, she felt a strange sense of reassurance in his conviction.

A distant explosion shook the ground, prompting Tred to stop and scan their surroundings. "We are close. The camp should be within a few more clicks. Stay ready."

Before they could advance further, a screech tore through the air, followed by the skittering of claws against metal. A pack of smaller Tyranids, Termagants and Hormagaunts, burst from the shadows, rushing toward them with predatory intent. Tred shifted his stance, storm bolter barking as he cut them down with precise, controlled fire. Lira raised her lasgun, firing bursts from her elevated position on his back, aiding in repelling the creatures before they could close the distance.

The fight was over in moments, the Tyranids lying motionless before them, their ichor pooling into the rocky terrain. However, the noise of battle had drawn unwanted attention.

A sudden roar and the sharp crack of bolter fire erupted as a squad of Black Legion Chaos Space Marines descended upon them. Their corrupt armor bore the sigils of the Warmaster, their weapons glowing with warp-tainted energy. Tred barely had time to issue a warning before the firefight began.

Lira let out a sharp cry as Tred unceremoniously pulled her from his back and set her down behind a fallen piece of wreckage. "Stay down!" he ordered, drawing his chainsword with a metallic snarl.

The bolter exchange lasted only moments before the Chaos Marines closed in. Tred met them head-on, his chainsword roaring to life as it tore through tainted ceramite. The clash of blades and the thunderous impact of blows sent shockwaves through the battlefield. The melee was brutal, every strike driven by sheer force and fury.

As the battle raged, something within Tred shifted. The controlled warrior gave way to something primal—something darker. His movements became more aggressive, his blows more devastating. Bloodlust burned in his eyes as he carved through his foes, the remnants of the Black Rage seething beneath his composure.

When the last Chaos Marine fell, Tred stood amid the carnage, his breath heavy, his muscles coiled with lingering fury. His vision was still clouded with red, his instincts screaming for more blood. But with a deep, metallic growl, he forced himself down onto one knee, gripping the ground as if anchoring himself. His gauntleted fingers dug into the broken terrain, his body trembling as he wrestled for control.

Lira, still recovering from the sudden battle, looked at him with a mix of awe and unease. She had seen Astartes fight before, but never like this. Slowly, the crimson glow in Tred’s eyes faded, and he exhaled deeply, steadying himself. With a heavy push, he rose to his feet, the weight of his rage settling back into its cage.

Without a word, Tred turned and lifted Lira once more, carefully placing her atop his power pack. Lira, still shaken, tried to compose herself, pretending nothing had happened.

But as they drew closer to their destination, her curiosity got the better of her. "What was that all about?" she asked quietly. "I’ve seen Astartes fight before… but never like that. You fought like a force of nature."

Tred marched in silence for a few steps, then replied, his voice low and grim. "It is the curse of my Chapter."

Lira fell silent again, uncertain of what he meant—but she didn’t press further.

They soon approached their destination: the jagged silhouette of a crashed Imperial Endurance class light cruiser starship nestled in a rocky ravine. The vessel’s remains had been crudely fortified, its fractured hull forming natural walls around a hidden encampment. At its heart pulsed a humming field of blue light—the shattered warp core, still active, emitted a fluctuating energy field. Repurposed by the camp's Tech-Priests, the unstable warp emissions created a shroud of interference that masked their presence from Tyranid synapse networks and enemy augur scans.

Tred passed through the makeshift barricades, nodding silently to the sentries. He moved toward a cluster of field medics and gently set Lira down beside them.

"Compound fracture to the left femur, potential ligament damage," he stated with clinical precision. "Stabilize and brace immediately. See to her."

The medics immediately went to work, inspecting her broken limb and preparing a stabilizer brace. Lira, wincing but conscious, looked up at Tred.

"Thanks again… for everything," she said.

Tred gave no response, only a faint nod as he turned his gaze outward—toward the hostile world that still roared beyond the walls.

He began walking deeper into the camp, his heavy boots thudding against the makeshift flooring of scavenged plating and reinforced decking. The camp itself bustled with organized chaos. Guardsmen moved swiftly between defensive positions, Tech-Priests chanted binaric liturgies as they calibrated scanning equipment, and Vox-officers relayed bursts of encrypted chatter. Despite the urgency, a ripple of silence followed Tred wherever he passed. Men paused their duties momentarily to glance at the towering Astartes—some in awe, others in disbelief.

Tred moved with purpose, ignoring the stares, until he came upon a command post built within the remnants of the starship’s bridge tower. Inside, a hololithic display flickered above a cracked cogitator array. Standing before it was a grizzled man in flak coat and breastplate, his weathered face partially obscured by a rebreather mask. Rank insignia on his shoulder plate marked him as Colonel Verik Drast, commanding officer of the 107th Caltraxian Infantry.

The colonel turned as Tred approached. Without preamble, he asked, "How many did you find?"

Tred answered with quiet finality. "One. A sergeant. She has a bad leg, but she’ll survive."

Colonel Drast exhaled through his mask, the sound halfway between a sigh and a grunt. He tapped a control rune, shrinking the hololithic map.

"Damn shame. We’d hoped for more stragglers in the outer sectors. That junk field was swarming yesterday."

He stepped closer, arms folded across his chest. "Since you’ve been out there, things have gotten worse. Hive splinter to the west has been expanding. We lost Vox contact with Delta Company three hours ago. And the traitors are pushing toward the central ravine, likely trying to disable the warp core’s masking field. If they do, we lose our only cover."

He glanced up at Tred. "We could use more of your kind, Astartes. But I’ll take one over none."

Tred stepped closer to the hololithic display, eyes narrowing as the projection flickered through a planetary overlay. "I need a full situational report. What is the current strategic condition of Caltraxis?"

Colonel Drast turned back to the console, inputting new parameters into the cogitator. The map expanded, showing shifting frontlines marked in red and green. "The Tyranids are pressing harder into Black Legion-held sectors. The xenos are throwing everything they have at them in the north-western continent—Hive Splinter Omega, we believe. But the Black Legion isn't buckling. They're pushing back with force, and they haven't forgotten about us either. They're still committing significant firepower to harass Imperial defensive zones, particularly our last functional Vox relay stations."

Tred stared at the map in silence before speaking. "This war is lost. We must evacuate."

Drast scoffed bitterly. "Evacuate? How? The Tyranid Hive Fleet is in low orbit. The imperial Navy can't break through the bio-shielding, and the traitors have voidcraft patrolling what little clear sky remains. Even if we had a clear shot, why would High Command send anyone? We're just a few thousand Guardsmen, scraping out a last stand on a dead world."

Tred's gaze scanned the hololith with clinical precision, until it settled on a single icon deep within Tyranid-held territory. He leaned in slightly, armored finger tapping against the display. "Then we must make ourselves important. Here—Hydra Battery Theta-5. A Macro-Lance planetary defense installation. Still intact, based on these data pings."

Drast frowned. "It's buried deep in the dead zone. We lost that sector weeks ago. Tyranids swarmed it."

"Which is why the Black Legion hasn't destroyed it," Tred said flatly. "We strike fast. Sabotage a few key Black Legion forward operating bases to draw the Tyranids into their territory. Let the xenos do the bleeding for us. When their lines fracture, we move quickly with everything we have—retake Hydra Battery Theta-5. Once secured, we re-establish hardline Vox uplink to the capital’s Astropathic Choir Tower."

Drast’s eyes widened as he began to follow the logic. "You want to signal High Command… and have them reroute orbital support to this sector?"

"Not support—repairs," Tred corrected. "That gun will most likely be damaged, and we will not have much time for second guesses. When the gun is reactivate Theta-5’s primary Macro-Lance array. With targeting assistance from the Choir Tower, we use it to annihilate a Hive Ship in low orbit. The destruction of a Hive Ship will cripple the Tyranid swarm on the surface, disrupting their synaptic network and throwing lesser organisms into disarray. Once the bio-shield is breached, drop-ships can land. Then we can evacuate."

The colonel studied the map a moment longer, then exhaled a long breath. "It’s mad. But it’s the only plan we've got. We’ll need to move immediately. One delay and it all collapses."

Tred simply nodded. "Then we do not delay."

Colonel Drast fixed him with a hard look. "And how do you propose we destroy the Black Legion’s forward operating bases? We barely have the manpower to assault the gun compound, let alone fight a war on two fronts."

Tred’s reply was calm, but unwavering. "We use the warp cores that is give us cover. The damaged drives from the wrecks scattered across the field—Tech-Priests have already salvaged and stabilized several of them. If rigged correctly, they can be turned into improvised plasma warheads. The resulting detonations will obliterate the traitors’ positions, and the thermal and warp-based energy dust will draw the Tyranids directly to them. Chaos will face the full fury of the swarm."

Drast blinked, then slowly nodded. "Weaponizing reactor cores... Emperor help us all."

He turned toward a nearby vox-officer. "Get me Magos Feran. Inform the Mechanicus: authorization granted to begin immediate weaponization of the warp reactor cores. I want detonation protocols drawn up within the hour."

---

Within the hour, the entire encampment surged into motion. A grim, coordinated frenzy overtook the trenches and shattered hull corridors. Guardsmen loaded ammunition crates, checked power packs, and recited the Litany of Readiness. Tech-Priests, accompanied by servo-skulls and clattering servitors, worked around the clock calibrating detonator systems and programming the unstable warp cores into makeshift plasma charges. The air was thick with machine-oil, prayer-chant, and the distant thrum of the warp field.

Tred assisted where he could—helping move crates, offering structural assessments to the Tech-Priests, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with mortal men who were in awe of his presence. Despite his inhuman size and armor, Tred moved among them like a soldier at war, not a god on high.

Eventually, he made his way to the makeshift medicae center, a repurposed cargo bay beneath a ragged stretch of canvas and ceramite shielding. Inside, wounded Guardsmen were being tended to with limited supplies and whispered prayers.

Among them stood Lira, moving with purpose, assisting the medicae in transferring field dressings and organizing supplies. Her posture was stiffer than before, but she moved without visible pain.

She turned and caught sight of Tred, immediately standing straight and saluting with a clenched fist to her chest. "Sergeant Tred."

Tred's helm tilted as he looked her over. "Your leg was severely injured. How are you already back on your feet, Sergeant Ventris?"

Lira extended her left leg slightly to reveal a polished, reinforced augmetic limb. "It was replaced, my lord. The damage was too severe for a field recovery in time."

Tred stared for a long moment. "It was not beyond recovery. A few days and you would have walked again."

She nodded. "I know, my lord. But given what’s at stake, we can’t afford to lose a single step. I didn’t want to be a burden to the mission."

Tred’s voice softened ever so slightly. "Your dedication is honorable. Stay safe out there."

Lira saluted again, and Tred turned, stepping back out into the heart of the camp.

---

Outside, the preparations neared completion. Massive chimera transports and Taurox carriers were being fitted with improvised cradle mounts for the warp-core bombs. Valkyrie assault carriers were prepped for rapid deployment, their engines whining with readiness. Tech-Priests marked runes of ignition and shielding onto the cores, chanting the Omnissiah’s blessings over unstable plasma.

Vox-units crackled with deployment orders. The mood in the air was grim, but focused. This was no longer a desperate defense—it was the beginning of an orchestrated strike. A single gamble, upon which survival rested.

---

The operation began under a darkening sky. Valkyrie assault carriers soared low across the horizon, weaving between flak bursts and tracer rounds as they approached the Black Legion's fortified lines. Anti-air turrets and bolter nests opened fire in fury, peppering the sky with a storm of death. One Valkyrie took a direct hit to its starboard wing, spiraling out of formation in a controlled dive, trailing smoke and fire.

Despite the firestorm, the lead Valkyrie pressed on, engines howling as it descended into a steep dive-bombing run. Within its reinforced belly, a single warp-core payload, wrapped in stabilizer chains and ignited with crimson runes, was primed.

"Payload away!"

The core was released, plummeting from the bay doors and crashing into the Black Legion's forward bastion. A moment later, reality cracked. The resulting explosion was cataclysmic—warpfire and plasma erupting outward in a blinding shockwave. The detonation flattened bunkers, consumed entrenched positions, and ripped traitor marines apart mid-stride.

As predicted, the warp-induced energy distortion and spatial rupture triggered by the detonation acted as a beacon. The volatile release of raw warp radiation sent waves of unnatural light and gravitational disruption across the battlefield. The Tyranid swarm responded immediately. Massive broods of Hormagaunts, Carnifexes, and a towering Hierodule began converging on the newly torn sector, drawn by the violent surge of energy and chaos like carrion to blood.

Back at the camp, the last of the Imperial vehicles—Chimeras, Tauroxes, and armored sentinels—were loaded and idling. Troopers were already inside, weapons checked, engines humming. The vox-channel was deathly silent except for one command voice repeating the phrase over and over:

"Stand by. Wait. Wait. Wait..."

Tred sat in one of the lead Chimeras, kneeling amid the cramped interior, one gauntleted hand braced on the ceiling brace as he watched the auspex feeds on a field console. He remained still, silent, motionless.

Colonel Drast stood in the command vehicle beside the convoy's Vox-caster. He watched the data pulses, seeing the Tyranids nearing the enemy trench lines. His voice broke the silence.

"...wait..."

The swarm reached the heart of the Black Legion lines. Fire and biomass collided in a chaos of screeches, bolter-fire, and warp-roars. The Tyranids had taken the bait.

Drast's eyes widened. "Now! All units move! Go, go, go!"

Engines roared to life. Tracks churned through the dirt. The entire convoy surged forward at once, like a hammer blow being swung toward a single target.

The race to Hydra Battery Theta-5 had begun."