Faction The Dark Imperium

[Habeus Volt]

Baal, Imperium Nihilus

The bells rang out their sombre peal, heralding the slow arrival of a new day. Sanguinala. The holy day of thanksgiving, when the faithful remembered sacrifice, blood, and the Emperor's undying protection.

High within his suite of chambers in Hive Primaris, Habeus Volt, Lord Militant of the Astra Militarum, woke alone, as he did every day. He lay still for a time, listening. The cold blue lumens set into the sconces along the chamber walls grew in intensity, reaching the prescribed threshold with mechanical patience, intent on rousing him as naturally as any sun might have done, had such a thing still been permitted to touch this place.

He knew the bells well. The sacred chimes of the Holy Sepulchre, rising from the vast sanctuary that guarded the Golden Sarcophagus of Sanguinius, rang with a higher pitch, sharp enough to cut through the irradiated air even at this altitude. Their sound climbed kilometres of ferrocrete and hab-stack, carried by vox-hailers and relay towers bolted to the hive's flanks, amplified and corrected and sanctioned until nothing remained of chance. They rang as they always had, with the assurance of long-established faith.

Volt told himself he could still hear them unaided, that the bells would reach him even without such mechanisms. It was a small belief, common among those who lived high enough to forget how much effort it took to be reminded of devotion.

A moment later came the reply.

Not from another cathedral, but from the lower shrine complex built in reverent imitation of the Sepulchre — its bells cast from salvaged warship hulls after the Devastation. The lower shrine rang out, its bells deeper, heavier, forged thick in the years after the Tyranid invasion and meant to be heard even across void-hardened walls. Where the Sepulchre called, this one answered. Its voice rolled across the spires and towers with weight behind it, as if to remind the hive that faith endured not only in memory, but in survival.

Together, the two voices spread through the city's vast interior, calling all souls—from factorium serf to Administratum clerk, from hive ganger to Militarum officer—to give thanks.

Volt exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright. The mattress depressurised beneath him with a soft hiss, obedient. Everything in the chamber obeyed. The temperature shifted by a fraction of a degree, anticipating movement. The air carried the faint tang of incense, a blend approved for joint Ecclesiarchal and Militarum use, layered carefully over the antiseptic sterility of recycled breath.

The ceremony would not begin for another four hours. On the highest of holy days, however, the Ecclesiarchy did not wait. Faith did not sleep, even if the hive did. The dawn was greeted early, loudly, and without compromise, to remind the city that vigilance was itself a form of prayer.

Volt swung his legs from the bed and sat, joints answering the motion with muted resistance. He waited until the stiffness subsided to an acceptable level before standing. There was no mirror by the bed; reflection was reserved for preparation. He crossed the chamber at an unhurried pace and entered the ablution alcove.

The mirror there showed him what it always did. A compact figure, thick through the shoulders, the flesh beginning to soften where discipline once held firm. His features bore the marks of inheritance and service alike: the blunt nose of a void-born line, the steady retreat of dark hair into grey, and the faint sag at the corners of the eyes. He regarded the image without comment. There was nothing in it he had not already accounted for.

The water came at a gesture, hot enough to sting. He leaned into it, bracing one hand against the wall as it sluiced over scars old enough to have lost their stories. Las-burns. Shrapnel. A precise surgical line where something essential had once been removed in the name of continued usefulness. He washed quickly, without indulgence, the act a matter of maintenance rather than comfort.

When he stepped back into the chamber, the wardrobe shrine had opened itself. The uniform waited within, arranged with devotional care: dark green coat heavy with braid, the Aquila picked out in gilt at the collar, the accumulated weight of service rendered tangible in fabric and metal. It was immaculate. It always was.

He dressed without haste, the sequence ingrained by repetition. The boots required effort; he sat to pull them on, pausing once to let his breath settle before standing again. By the time he reached for the coat, the chamber door chimed once, precisely.

"Enter," he said.

The door slid aside. Footsteps crossed the threshold and stopped at the prescribed distance.

"My lord," the adjutant said.

Volt did not turn at once. He finished aligning the Aquila at his collar, adjusting it until the twin heads sat perfectly level, then faced the man.

"You're late," he said.

"By forty-two seconds," the adjutant replied, breathless, only partly concealing the exertion. "Cause logged. Correction applied."

Volt nodded once. The answer required no response.

He lifted the coat from the shrine and held it out. The adjutant stepped forward and took it, settling the weight across Volt's shoulders with practised care. Fingers moved quickly, fastening clasps, smoothing the fabric, checking alignment by eye and touch. The medals followed, placed in silence, their order exact. Volt watched the man's reflection in the mirror as the work was done.

"The bells began early," Thoss said. "The Sepulchre."

"So I heard." Volt intoned, overlooking the hint of flippancy in his adjutant's voice when intoning the name of their most sacred shrine.

"Attendance projections have been revised."

"Up?"

"Yes, my lord."

Volt furrowed his brow at Thoss, a brief, involuntary reaction. The man was young by Terran standards, competent by any measure, and inclined—on occasion—to test the limits of what was permitted.

The uniform did its work as the last fastening clicked into place, compressing flesh, straightening posture, and imposing a shape that suggested certainty. The feeling followed more slowly.

"How many?" Volt asked.

The adjutant glanced to his data-slate. "Revised figures are still stabilising. The Administratum is pulling updated estimates."

"They always are."

Volt adjusted his collar.

"Yes, my lord."

The bells were fainter now, but persistent, threading their way through layers of stone and durasteel. Even here, one could sometimes see Skyfall's distant burn through the upper haze — the void-dock eternal, its colossal angelic statue forever turned toward the Great Rift, sword raised against a galaxy split in half.

Volt considered, briefly and without sentiment, how many of those who heard the bells would still be alive when the day ended. The thought required no answer, and so he let it pass.

"You slept well, Lord Militant?" the adjutant asked.

"Enough."

The word hung between them. The adjutant did not comment.

"What's first?" Volt said. Thoss picked through his sheets again, blithe and matter-of-fact.

"Private devotions at second bell. Attendance restricted per your standing order. Vox-link with Nihilus High Command immediately after. The procession begins at third bell."

"And if the route is compromised?"

"Alternate routes have been designated by both Arbites and Militarum High Command."

Volt nodded. He pictured the lines on a tactical slate, neat and abstract, curving through districts whose names were rarely spoken in chambers like this.

"And after that?" Volt queried, checking his cuffs once again.

The adjutant consulted the slate, the motion habitual. "After that, my lord, the schedule proceeds."

Volt turned from the mirror. The uniform creaked faintly as he moved.

"Very well," Volt said.

The door opened at his approach. The adjutant fell in behind him, close enough to be useful, far enough to remain invisible. As they stepped into the corridor beyond, the bells swelled once more, carried upward through the hive's bones.

Volt walked for several paces before speaking again.

"Is the Regent coming?" he asked.

The adjutant did not break stride. "No confirmation has been issued, my lord. Lord Dante remains within the Sepulchre complex itself The Regent's staff haven't communicated his intentions yet but we assume the occasion will warrant his attendance."

Volt nodded, as if he had expected nothing else.

"Astartes elements are already making landfall," the adjutant continued. "Blood Angels and successors. Flesh Tearers confirmed. Angels Sanguine inbound. Skyfall reports staggered descent windows."

"Of course they did," Volt said.

For nearly two millennia the Regent of Imperium Nihilus had ruled from Baal, holding together what the Rift had severed. When Sanguinala came, the sons of Sanguinius did not observe it lightly. Their presence altered the geometry of a city. Faith thickened. Expectations sharpened.

The corridor stretched ahead, bright and clean and endless. Somewhere far below, the city answered the bells.

Volt did not look back.

 

[Lucius]

Radioactive sand whipped through the air, seeming to cut through the Shock Troopers' limited environmental protection as they trudged forward across the blasted dunes of Baal's wastes. The 8th looked like ants as they moved in lines towards what had once been an Imperial Fort. Now a haven for greenskins in that corner of the planet. Lucius lowered his profile as he crested the slope of the dune among the long sections of other troopers.

They were about to find out if the artillery had done their job or not.

They moved down as a wave, just as the ork dakka opened up from the forts high walls, cutting down swaths as the Regiment advanced over the open ground. Men and women cut down and turned into meat in an instant. Lucius felt his heart leap from his chest as the man in from of him turned into a red mist that he sprinted through, not having time to redirect in the fray.

He awoke drenched in sweat, gripping his thin blanket like iron. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of his family's quarters. Beside him his wife, Sera, slept peacefully. Unaware of the demons running rampant through her husbands mind. Lucius thanked the Emperor for that and moved silently from the bed. Reflexively, he looked towards Cato, Hera, Ava, and Cicero's bunks, occupying seperate corners of the room. All but him slept soundly. His metal limbs creaked as he silently dressed himself in his bdu's, as was standard for all Guardsmen before moving into the hallway and heading towards the Redmond's communal family room, a gathering place for the lot of them. About a hundred or so typically when a war wasn't on.

He knelt in the Redmonds' large, squarish family room, next to the shrine the family maintained on a raised platform, a respectful distance from the normal activity between the different areas of the families small compound. Formerly belonging to a now extinct local gang, who the Imperial Authority had deemed potentially herectical and worthy of extermination, the Spiders first act on Baal after the war against the nids. Around the altar and the symbol of the Aquila sat pic stills in red black frames, the heroes of their Clan. Men and women, young and old. They bore similar faces and scars, lifetimes of strife maintaining what they had. As they had done on Necromunda previously.

"O immortal Emperor: Have mercy on us, miserable unworthies that we are.
O master of the galaxy, protect your flock from the alien.
O keeper of the light, guide our darkened path with your radiance.
We are your warriors and we are servants to thee,
we stand free from blindness of heart,
free from hypocrisy, vainglory and deceits,
but captive to hatred, malice and anger, to the filth, the alien, the heretic.
By thy agony and bloody sweat; by thy Golden Throne and thy death; by thy destruction and re-emergence as the God of men, keep and strengthen us, we who fight for thee."

Lucius spoke quietly, in the dark early hours, He'd made it a habit to pray early, as he tended to be up before many of his kin when home or his unit when in the field. Sleep did not come easily to the Guardsman. He continued repeating the prayer rythmically, lost in the repetition and alternating between others. Lucius found it incredibly helpful when he found himself awake, and alone.

Hours passed.

The deep echo of the sacred chimes of the Holy Sepulch and their imitations rang across all levels. The echo broke Lucius from his prayer. Around him a few more of his clan had joined him, he quietly returned to his family quarters to have breakfast with his family before reporting to the 8th's Regimental HQ, a few levels below. If he had no duties he would return rather quickly, but that was a precious rarity unless on leave in the day to day of an 8th Shock Trooper. Even on Sanguinala. He'd find out if the Lt or Cpt had been handed some task for his squad when he got there.

The thick hive air and morning rush of foot traffic greeted him as he stepped out into the street, joining the bustle of humanity as it awoke and began the day of thanks as it did most days, in a rush.

 

[Ludotius Tarisius]

He was back in the ash-choked streets, the air a thick, grey soup that tasted of cordite and burnt plastic. The skeletal remains of hab-blocks leaned against one another like exhausted, dying giants, their windows gaping like empty eye sockets. The crack of bolter fire wasn't a sound; it was a physical assault, a percussive force that hammered against his helmet and vibrated through the ceramite of his armor. His visor was a frantic symphony of crimson warnings and flashing auspex contacts, each one a potential death vector.

They had been pushing through the lower manufactorum hive, a routine pacification sweep toward what command had confidently marked as a minor insurgent strongpoint. Clean sweep. Extract data. Move on. It was never supposed to be routine.

The first brother fell without a sound. One moment, Brother Vorlag was there, a hulking form of indomitable will; the next, he was simply gone, replaced by an eruption of rock and shrapnel as a hidden emplacement, buried deep beneath the rubble, vomited its lethal payload. The return fire was a solid stream of death that punched through the squad's forward element, carving through ceramite and flesh with contemptuous ease before Ludotius could even form the words to order a dispersal. He saw Brother Kaelen, a veteran of a dozen campaigns, simply evaporate from the chest up. His torso erupted in a volcano of ceramite fragments and pulped organs, a fine, pink mist that painted the wall behind him in a gruesome fresco. The top half of his body, from the waist up, was just… gone.

They adapted. They always did. Formations flowed like water, seeking cover in the ruins of a dead world. Targets were acquired, prioritized, and erased with cold, brutal efficiency. But the enemy wasn't playing by their rules.
Then the air itself ignited.

Secondary detonations weren't explosions; they were a chain reaction of reality tearing itself apart. Stockpiled munitions, cooked off by the heat and chaos, bloomed into mushroom clouds of fire and steel that ripped through the street grid. The vox network became a symphony of the damned. a cacophony of overlapping screams, garbled warnings, the frantic, last-gasps of dying brothers, and the piercing shriek of feedback as relays were atomized. Dust storms, thick as the grave, swallowed sightlines whole. Thermal optics became useless, a painter's nightmare of searing white-hot signatures from the blasts and the cold, dark voids of the dead, all swirled together with the falling debris.

He remembered the weight. Not the weight of his own armor, but the dead weight of Brother Aekon. Aekon hadn't been killed by the blast, but by the falling ferrocrete beam that had pinned him like an insect. His legs were crushed into a mangled, bloody mess of bone and metal, the ceramite split open like a rotten fruit. Ludotius had dragged him, his servo-motors whining in protest, the sound of his brother's life support gurgling wetly through a compromised chestplate a counterpoint to the shrieking of the battle. He left a slick, dark smear on the broken ferrocrete. a trail of blood, coolant, and other, less identifiable fluids. Aekon's fingers, broken and bent, had scrabbled weakly at his own chest, trying to hold his insides in through a gaping wound where his abdomen used to be.

He remembered roaring retreat orders, his voice lost in the maelstrom, while suppressive fire thundered around them, the heavy bolts chewing through the very cover they cowered behind. He remembered calling names into the vox, each one a desperate prayer.

"Vorlag! Status!"
"Aekon, hold on!"
"Kaelen, report!"

Some answered, their voices strained but alive. Too many were met with nothing but the hiss of an open channel, the silent void where a brother's soul used to be.
By the time the Thunderhawk had finally arrived, its ramp a beacon of salvation in the hellish gloom, half his squad lay broken amid the ruins. Not defeated in honorable combat, but lost, snuffed out by a battlefield that had shifted, evolved, and turned on them faster than even Astartes reflexes could fully answer. He had stepped over the body of a new recruit, his helmet split open like a ripe fruit, his young face frozen in a mask of surprise, the grey matter glistening in the dim light. Another brother, Brother Rhys, was pinned to a wall by a dozen rebar spikes, each one driven clean through his armor, his body a grotesque puppet dangling in the smoke. His mouth was open in a silent scream, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.

Victory had been declared by command, a line of sterile text on a data-slate.
Ludotius had not felt victorious. He had felt the cold, hollow space where his brothers used to be.

The Thunderhawk jolted violently.
Reality slammed back into place with the force of a physical blow.
He straightened at once, his gauntleted hand tightening around the restraint rail, the metal groaning under the pressure. The craft shuddered through its final descent, and the red lumen strips lining the troop bay flickered wildly, bathing the interior in a harsh, blood-colored light that felt uncomfortably familiar.

The landing came hard.
Metal screamed against metal as the Thunderhawk slammed into the hangar deck, hydraulic clamps engaging with a solid, teeth-rattling thud. Engines wound down into a deep, resonant growl. Ludotius pushed himself upright, forcing the ghosts back into the dark. Present. Now.

The ramp began to lower, its servo-motors whining as the polluted air of the hive rushed inside to meet them. a toxic cocktail of promethium fumes, machine oil, ozone, and the stale, recycled breath of a world that never truly slept.

He stepped forward first, his boots striking the deck plating with a deliberate, ringing force that was an announcement of his presence. Across from him, the two Primaris Marines moved in unison, their armor still pristine by battlefield standards. few deep scars, minimal patchwork repairs. New brothers. Freshly blooded, if at all.

The hangar was a cavern of industry and shadow, its ceiling lost in the haze and smoke high above. Cargo cranes hung motionless like iron skeletons, overlooking rows of supply pallets and drifting servitors. Floodlights cut pale corridors through the gloom, illuminating battered Imperial banners and warning sigils etched into aging steel. Ludotius's helmet visor swept left to right, a cold, analytical machine assessing threat vectors, egress routes, and available cover. The rank markings on his pauldron, the stark white and crimson of his Chapter, caught the light, unmistakable even beneath layers of grime and the hangar's harsh glare.

The two Marines followed, their armored footsteps echoing his own as they fell into a flanking position. He slowed his pace, turning slightly toward the Marine on his right, his voice a low, steady command over the squad vox.

"Lieutenant Ludotius Tarisius," he stated, his tone stripped of all emotion, pure authority without volume. "You're both new to my command. State your name and specialization."
The answer came back promptly, the voice filtered and synthetic. "Brother Demetrious, Lieutenant. Assault Intercessor."
A sharp nod. Ludotius's gaze didn't waver. "Brother Demetrious. You are point on a three-man stack breaching a hab-block. Your auspex shows multiple hostiles directly behind the door, but no thermal signatures. What is your immediate assessment and course of action?"

There was a microsecond's pause, the Marine's helm tilting almost imperceptibly. "The lack of thermal suggests they are either in sealed armor or non-living combat servitors, Lieutenant. My assessment is a prepared ambush. I would signal for a melta-charge breach instead of a standard entry, to cook the interior and suppress initial fire before we stack."

"Acceptable," Ludotius grunted, turning to the second Marine. "And you?"
"Brother Cassian, Lieutenant. Heavy Intercessor."
"Brother Cassian. We are providing overwatch for an advancing tactical squad. You come under fire from an emplaced heavy stubber three hundred meters down an open thoroughfare. Your bolt rifle is ineffective at that range against its armor plating. What do you do?"

"Without a dedicated marksman, my role is to lay down suppressing fire to force the gunner to keep his head down, Lieutenant. I would target the surrounding structure with mass-reactive rounds to create shrapnel and concealment for the advance, while voxing for fire discipline and requesting a plasma or melta specialist to deal with the emplacement directly."
Ludotius studied them both for a moment longer than necessary, weighing not just their textbook answers, but the steadiness in their stances, the way their helms tracked motion across the vast hangar, the controlled tension in their grips on their weapons. They were not the brothers he had lost, but they were what he had left.

"Good," he finally said, his voice flat. "Stay alert. This hive is unstable, and we're entering it with limited support. Keep formation. Watch your sectors. Don't mistake Imperial walls for safety... they are just another kind of coffin."

He turned forward, the memory of ash and blood receding, replaced by the cold, hard reality of the mission ahead.
"We move."
With that, Ludotius led them into the depths of the hangar,

 

[Daes'yn]

Tags: Ludotius Tarisius

Daes'yn did not like hives, from the vague flashes of her childhood that cracked through her conditioning as she came closer to each time they refreshed it, she didnt think she ever grew up in one. But that was now irrelevant, those were someone else's memories. What was relevant was her distaste for hives now. Vindicare doctrine encouraged ranged engagement, and whilst there were hundreds of roofed vistas and enclosed courtyards where you might find a snipers nest there was a much greater chance that you would find your foe cornered in a hallway and close ranged engagement would be forced. It made her feel vulnerable, or as vulnerable as it was for one of the Imperiums most highly trained operatives to feel. Tactically imperfect, that was likely a better description.

Some where in the stinking metal walls of this hive was Spartas Iridius, a man who was once an inquisitor, but now, he was a traitor and marked for death. People in the hive were flocking to his banner and it was becoming a locus of rebellion. The latest of his blasphemous actions was the murder of a local governor for one of the othee hives. This was a mistake, this action increased his priority to the Ordos and Daes'yn had been assigned the task of ending his heresy. She would infiltrate, find a location overlooking his favourite oratory spot and then paint the emperor's decree in blood on the wall behind him.

But, as was often the case, additional variables had entered the calculus... Astartes... there would be no convenient speech for her to interrupt. No easy path of low alert heretics for her to bypass to her spot. No, the alert had been arranged and the sensors she has placed had already detected significant and unexpected activity. She considered her options of continuing ahead with her mission alone, but aligning with the astartes helped her manage this variable, so she would reveal herself to them once their gunship landed in the hangar. She watched from the shadows as their leader briefed them and checked their drills.

The woman stepped out of the shadows in her sleek cameleoline suit and face mask. She was female, but beyond that her gear gave no clues as to who she was, only what she was. The Lieutenant may or may not have encountered her kind before but her weapons and gear were clearly relics of the Golden age of the Imperium and she carried herself like much more than any normal human operative.

"Lieutenant Tarisius, I am imperial Operative Sin. It appears we are sharing an operational theatre today. We will not impede each other's divine objectives."

She held up a holoslate with a picture of an old and rugged looking man in imperial uniform. It contains no details, as the astartes would likely expect.

"This is my target. If you or your brothers eliminate or capture him, you will report it to me so the Ordos can be informed. That is understood, brother?"

Her voice was cool and without emotion, clinically relaying exactly what needed to be said. Her final term of address was deliberately chosen to indicate her respect for him and what he was, just as she expected respect for her own position under the emperor. She would go silent, awaiting the anticipated reciprocal briefing.

​

 

[Ludotius Tarisius]

The cavernous hangar was a symphony of industry and shadow, the air thick with the smell of promethium, ozone, and the cold, sterile scent of recycled life support. Ludotius Tarisius stood as a monolith of black ceramite, his helm catching the stark glare of the overhead lumen strips. He regarded the figure that emerged from the deeper shadows not with suspicion, but with the intense, calculating focus of a predator assessing an unknown but potentially vital ally.

His auto-senses worked silently, cataloging every detail. The operative's armor was not the mass-produced plate of the Guard or the artificer-wrought shell of a fellow Marine. It was sleek, form-fitting, and seemed to drink the light. The relic-crafted carbine she carried was a masterpiece of a forgotten age, its lines unmarred by the crude additions of modern tech-priests. The finely engraved sidearm at her hip was less a weapon and more a piece of art, a killing tool made with a level of craftsmanship the Imperium had long forgotten. Beneath it all, his sensors registered the faint, almost imperceptible hum of energy shielding, a whisper of technology from a time when humanity was master of the stars, not a scrabbling survivor.

"Operative Sin," Ludotius's voice was a low, calm baritone, amplified by his vox-grille to fill the space between them without losing its intimacy. It carried the unwavering weight of authority, but it was not a command. It was an invitation to a dialogue between professionals. "Your presence here is… unexpected. Our orders placed this theater under Scythes' jurisdiction. Yet, here you stand. I require clarity before we proceed, for the sake of operational cohesion."

He took a single, deliberate step forward, the sound of his armored boot echoing in the vast space. "The man you have marked. I do not ask for his name, for I trust you know it well. I ask for the substance of his sins. What heresy has he woven? What crimes against the Emperor and the Imperium have compelled the Ordos to dispatch an asset of your caliber? The nature of the threat dictates the shape of the response. A rabble-rousing demagogue requires a different hand than a genestealer patriarch or a heretek in league with the Dark Mechanicum. Misalignment in such matters is not inefficient; it is fatal."

His gaze lingered on her carbine, a flicker of something beyond cold assessment in his stance. "And those armaments… they are not merely relics. They are echoes of the Golden Age itself. I have known them only through dusty codices, battle-reports from the Great Crusade, and the careful preservation of doctrine in our Chapter's librarium. To witness them in active service is… instructive." He paused, the admission hanging in the air, a rare glimpse of the scholar within the warrior. "I confess a professional curiosity. I would have wished to see such technology firsthand, to understand its true measure beyond the hyperbole of ancient texts. Perhaps, in time, I may yet."

He turned slightly, his helm inclining toward the two Primaris Marines who flanked him, their posture rigid and attentive. His tone shifted subtly, sharpening with the familiar weight of command. "Brothers," he said, his voice crisp and deliberate, "listen closely. Operative Sin's target is a traitor to the Imperium, a man whose actions have drawn the scrutiny of the Ordos. We are not here to observe. We are instruments of the Emperor's will, and in this instance, she is the tip of the spear. Her instructions are not suggestions; they are operational directives with the same weight as my own. You will memorize them. You will execute with precision. Failure to comprehend the gravity of this will see you answering to me."

He let the silence stretch for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "I will not repeat this. You will carry this knowledge, and you will act when it is required. Observe her methods. Learn from them. Your role is to complement her efforts, not to question them. Is that understood?"

Two sharp, affirmative nods were his only reply.

Ludotius turned his full attention back to Operative Sin, his stance unyielding, the aura of command radiating from him even through the layers of ceramite. "Very well. We proceed in alignment. Our objectives converge for now. Upon the elimination or capture of your target, I will ensure a full and proper report is filed with your Ordos liaison. There will be no deviation, no delay, and no improvisation beyond what is dictated by immediate threat assessment. Is that acceptable?"

His voice dropped slightly, a subtle edge of steel beneath the formal cadence. "This is war, Operative. Not a protocol exercise, not a ritual... it is war. And I intend for every brother under my command to survive it, to learn from it, and to carry out the Emperor's will with the precision for which our Chapter is named. We will not falter."

Tags: Daes'yn

 

[Daes'yn]

Tags: Ludotius Tarisius

The reliability of the Astartes brought a small grin under Daes'yn's recon mask. He wished a full tactical appraisal so that he made best inform his decisions. It was absolutely expected.

"The theater, as it pertains to your standing orders is still under your chapters jurisdiction. As my orders remain under that of the Ordo. We are simply experiencing... variables." she allowed herself a smirk.

She pulled out her dataslate and touched it to bring up the details. So much was classified, Daes'yn knew even she could not know the full extend of his crimes or his identity, she was given enough that she could effectively do her job. And she would extend the same courtesy to the Astartes.


Crimes, found guilty in absentia
...dereliction of duty
...misconduct in office
...abandonment of duty
...treason
...blasphemy
...demagoguery
...sedition
...incitement to treason
...incitement to murder am imperial representative.
...all other crimes are considered classified.

I hope this information satisfies your tactical calculus. I am also aware that the target has mild precognitive and telekinetic powers, imperial sanction for these powers has been retracted."

There was probably enough there that Lodutius could hazard a guess that the target was an imperial psyker, navigator or fallen inquisitor, but none of the ordo's exactly liked admitting the fall of one of their owns, so Daes'yn was not at liberty to disclose that information.

She nodded as he explained his own expectations "Acceptable". He continued to inform her that he wished all of his marines to survive. She wouldnt do him the disservice of pointing out the likelihood that this personal objective would fail once it met the realities of war, be likely had a century on her in experience, despite her advanced training.

"If we have an accord. Then I suggest we proceed. If you allow my recon-skulls to interface with your auspexes, we can share tactical information. You're arrival has stirred up quite the hornets nest."

Sin pulled her pistol off of her leg and nodded towards the large dark corridor leading off of their position.

 

[Ludotius Tarisius]

Ludotius accepted the dataslate from Operative Sin, his gauntleted fingers closing around the device with a grip that was deceptively gentle. The slate felt cold, inert, a stark contrast to the venomous information it contained.
For a long moment, he did not speak.

The red lumen glow of the hangar reflected faintly off the polished obsidian of his helm as lines of accusation scrolled across his internal visor. Dereliction. Treason. Sedition. Incitement. Blasphemy.
Each word landed like a measured strike from a power hammer, each one a stain upon the honor of the Imperium.
There was no outward reaction at first, only the profound, unnerving stillness of a predator that has scented corruption on the wind.

Then, with a soft, sequential hiss of disengaging seals, his helmet unlocked. Servo-locks released in a precise, mechanical cadence, and he lifted the helm free, revealing a face carved from a lifetime of war. It was a stern, weathered landscape of faint service scars and a brow permanently furrowed in concentration. But it was his eyes that held the truth, sharpened by long decades of betrayal, they were cold, hard chips of flint.

He read the charges again, this time aloud, his voice no longer the filtered baritone of a vox-grille but the raw, weary timber of a man who had seen too much of humanity's capacity for rot.

"…Treason. Blasphemy. Incitement to the murder of an Imperial representative."
A subtle tightening of his jaw, a muscle feathering in his cheek.
"Mild precognitive and telekinetic manifestation. Imperial sanction revoked."

His eyes darkened at that, the light in them seeming to recede, replaced by a profound, visceral disgust. It was not the anger of a warrior faced with a foe, but the revulsion of a surgeon looking upon a festering, untreatable wound.

"So. A psyker," he breathed, the word itself a curse on his tongue. Not a question, but a final, damning judgment.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, a controlled breath meant to master the surge of contempt that rose within him. "Bolter fire alone will not suffice if he is shielded or forewarned. Precognition, even 'mild,' can turn a certain victory into a catastrophic failure in the span of a heartbeat. It makes a mockery of strategy and an insult to sacrifice."

He handed the dataslate back to Sin with deliberate calm, the movement sharp and precise. "I carry two magazines of psi-reactive rounds at all times," his tone sharpened, the memory behind the statement a cold, hard thing. "A lesson paid for in the blood of good men. They will serve... though this will not be simple."

He studied her for a brief moment, his gaze not one of doubt, but of cold, professional assessment. He was measuring her, weighing her resolve against the magnitude of the task.

Then he extended his helmet toward her, an offering of trust that was as much a test as it was a tool. "You may interface your recon-skulls through my helm's auspex array. It is linked to my brothers' systems. A shared feed will ensure unified battlefield awareness and deny this… creature… the advantage of fractured intelligence."

His gaze shifted toward the two Primaris Marines, his voice firm but no longer raised, the authority now intrinsic, a palpable force in the air rather than a projected sound. "Brothers," he said, "commit this to memory. The target is a sanctioned psyker turned heretic, an abomination who has perverted the Emperor's gift into a weapon of rebellion. Maintain spacing. Avoid predictable movement. If you feel so much as a whisper of pressure within your thoughts or a flicker of distortion in your perception, you will report it immediately. Is that understood?"

Two sharp, affirmative nods.

His eyes returned to the dark corridor Sin had indicated, the shadows within seeming to deepen in response. "You are correct. Our arrival has stirred the hive."

He stepped forward, helmet still in hand, his expression now coldly resolute, the disgust honed into a blade's edge. "If we have disturbed the nest…" His voice lowered slightly, dropping into a register of pure, chilling promise. "Then let them come."

A faint, terrifying hardness crept into his tone, not rage, but the absolute, unshakeable conviction of a man who knows he is an instrument of divine wrath. "They will feel the Emperor's damnation descend upon them."

He paused only for a fraction of a second before continuing, his gaze fixed on the unending darkness ahead. "And as for your target. death is too swift a mercy for one who has twisted a sacred trust into treason. It is a release he does not deserve."

His eyes narrowed, the disgust now a palpable force.
"We will capture him. We will drag him back into the light. We will make him an example."

Not hope.
Not ambition.
Certainty.
"Move."
Tag: Daes'yn

 

[Lucius]

Lucius made his way down a few levels through the humming clatter of humanity and to the 8th's Regimental Headquarters, situated advantagiously near the various gang territories they tended to draw their members from. A standing truce amongst the gangs, enforced by the Spiders, was that no one in uniform was to be targeted unless they themselves violated the statues of the regiment. They'd quickly taught many of the gangs on Baal a lesson that was mildly alien to some of them, loyaltly to the Empire was to be used as a ladder, not a chain. Especially given the circumstances Imperial Authorites found themselves in being cut off from Terra and the wider Imperium. Pledges of loyalty and shows of good faith went a long way. Outside a Large door marked with a red painted 8 stood two Guardsmen, helmeted and with lazguns in hand nodded and almost in unison greeted him with "Sgt." as he approached.

The one on the left hit the door's control on their end and Lucius nodded as he passed. Inside large, almost cathedral like rooms sat one on top of the other. Some were barracks, one was a mess hall, a few armories, recreation dens. Various staircases, cross sections, and bridges between. All that one needed to house a regiment contently on Baal Primus. The regimental colors proudly were displayed at various entrances and on walls.

He approached the desk of the master at arms, an aging man with a large cigar hanging out of his mouth, clutched between two mechanical fingers, who'd already begun shuffling through orders with his free hand as he saw the Sergeant approach. Which was typically how Lucius found him on days when they hadn't all been mustered up at the same time. The old man quickly slid a small paper his way across the duty desk.

 

[Lucius]

The letters on the paper brought a laugh from Lucius. "Go home and enjoy your family time.-Agathocles" It read in large letters. His cousin had a good relationship with the 8th and must have got the CO to slip him the note. The Spiders were probably taking over whatever security role his platoon had been assigned, as was the case on occasion when the gang or Empire wanted one thing or another done. He thanked the Emperor and smiled as he left the HQ and wove his way back into the Hive crowd before beginning to make his way back home. Agathocles had done good for himself after their PDF days, placing himself in a vital position within the Spider's structure. On occassion, the ganger would nudge his cousin along towards trying to get him to rejoin the Spiders full time. Said he could organize a discharge.

Lucius couldn't help but be tempted at the thought as he saw his childrens' smiling faces.

 

[Agathocles]

Agathocles wandered through the expansive crowd forming throughout the district, slightly larger than usual. Today was a day of reverance for the Imperium, and as such the lower classes would be indulging in vice, it was his job to direct it appropriately. Stalls with food and various goods and drink were set up by the large effigy to Sanguinius that occupied the level's common square. Those not occupied with duties stumbled about, the festivities were provided free of any exchange. No need for bartering or script. The common man loved the Spiders for it. Streets patrolled by bosses like Agathocles stayed amazingly calm during such events, due to the constant threat of brutality for troublemakers. People that caused problems at such things run by the gangers tended to find themselves without their possessions before being chucked into a waste shaft.

The ganger stood before the statue, taking a brief pause in his rounds as he eyed the immitation Primarch critically. He kept his face level, but inside he scowled. Monsters like that had used his family as canon fodder for generations, and here he was putting on a show for them, like a good subject. That was his price of admission for running levels. The one part of the job that burned coals in the center of his ego. He hated them, well and truly. The Emperor and his servants, slaves to a long forgotten and dead psyker, far as Agathocles could gather. An organization that collectively ate humanity even as it proclaimed it's place as a protector. People like the Spiders were the real protectors of the citizens of the Empire, if that neighborhood was lucky enough to have a decent crew. Like the Imperial Guard, the price of Imperial Order and comfort sat in the blood shed by the lower classes.

"Genetically altered panzy" He murmured to himself as he continued on to check on the various groups of four pulling security for the event, heavily armed enforcers placed at vantage and choke points in the square, taking note of the faces in the crowd as they came and went.

Each nodded an affirmation of smooth sailing as he passed them. Good.