It's About Time: Psycho Edition

by Jonas Grant

A rewrite of It's About Time from which I've removed all the Zerg bits. Sven is a Spectre, nothing more. Anyhow, it's the story of a ship full of escaped convicts from the Koprulu Sector ending up forty thousand years later. There, they try to make a home for themselves, but these people are destroyers, not builders, and the learning curve in the far future is very steep.

1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a partial rewrite of the story "It's About Time." Now, I'm leaving the original up because it went an all other direction than what I intended and I am somewhat embarrassed to have birthed such abomination, but one has to learn from their mistakes..

This version is what I intended this story to be like when I began.

I'll leave relevant author's note in, but take out the ones where I'm being a dick, because I'm being a dick in them and they're not relevant. You know what they say? When you don't feel like clubbing your two years prior self with a piece of plumbing, it means you've stopped evolving.

A/N: Needed to get this out of my head, I like the WH40K setting and wanted to send some foreign elements into it, but 40k is extremely overpowered, given Games Workshop apparent desire to outgun every other universes out there, so it might not be completely accurate, it migh cause some rage, it might even make you want to stop reading and that's cool, ain't like I'm being paid or anything, but I can assure you, if you just keep an open mind, because I also use a pretty unorthodox style, you'll have fun. Might not be the greatest read of a lifetime, but it will be worth the eyebleed you'll get from all the traditions I break.

Welcome to Braxis Penitential Facility Network Intelligence.

Login:ArkansasM

Password:********

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Welcome, Director Arkansas.

/Accs_RootBPFNI-ADMIN

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Administrator Privileges Granted.

/MnGrd_0

/PwrGenMain_0

/PwrGenAux_0

/EmrgLD_1

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Main Defense Grid: Offline.

Primary Generator: Offline.

Secondary Generator: Offline.

Emergency Lockdown: Enacted.

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/D149-Opn

/D222-Opn

/D501-Opn

/D732-Opn

/HngBDr-Opn

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Door149: Open

Door222: Open

Door501: Open

Door732: Open

Hangar B Door: Open

/Accs_Cnvtfl-28470

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Accessing Personal Files

Convict: Kerensky, Vincent

DoB: 09/23/2471(33)

Height: 190cm

Weight: 112kg

Hairs: Black

Eyes: Green

Known Crimes:

Manslaughter

Grand Theft Auto

Qualified Theft

Desertion

Probation Violation

Rape

Sentence: Death (Postponed)

Forced labor

Former Affiliations:

Confederate Marine Corps.

Reaper Corps.

Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.

/Accs_Cvtfl28488

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Convict: Worst, Karen

DoB: -

Height: 170cm

Weight: 67kg

Hairs: Brown

Eyes: Brown

Known Crimes:

Insubordination

Attempted Manslaughter

Perjury

Murder, First degree

Sentence: Death (Postponed.)

Forced Labor.

Former Affiliations:

Ghost Program

Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.

/Accs_Cvtfl28466

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Convict: Fauster, Gregor

DoB: 11/16/2460 (44)

Height: 204cm

Weight: 166kg

Hairs: Gray

Eyes: Blue

Known Crimes:

Murder, Second and first degree

Drunk driving

Sentence: Death (Postponed.)

Forced Labor.

Former Affiliations:

Mar Sara Militia

Sons Of Korhal

Dominion Marine Corps.

Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.

/Accs_Cnvtfl28469

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Convict: Kudrenkov, Sven

DoB: -

Height: 188cm

Weight: 86kg

Hairs: Brown

Eyes: Gray (Formerly Brown-Green)

Known Crimes:

Manslaughter

Insubordination

Treason

Destruction of Government assets

Grand Theft Auto

Identity Theft

Public Inebriation

Sentence: Death (Postponed.)

Forced Labor.

Former Affiliations:

Ghost Program

Project SHADOWBLADE

Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.

/Accs_Cnvtfl28500

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Convict: Darka, Hannah

DoB: 01/27/2475(29)

Height: 158cm

Weight: 59kg

Hairs: Purple

Eyes: Black

Known Crimes:

Larceny

Murder, First degree

Impersonating an Officer

Treason

Drug Manufacturing

Drug Trafficking

Sentence: Death (Postponed.)

Forced Labor.

Former Affiliations:

Tarsonis Paramedical Response Service

Dominion Medical Corps.

Current Status: Imprisoned, BPF facility, B Bloc.

/SetAllCrntSts_Deceased

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Set all Convicts Current Statuses to: Deceased? [Y]/N

Y

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Warning, All BPF Residents Deceased.

/Format_RootBPFNI:

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Goodbye

I wave the computer as it flickers off for the last time, "Bye."

Hacking is an easy task for a Spectre; all it took here was some elementary Technopathy and the computer thought I were the Prison's director; it gave me full access and even committed suicide when asked to.

Taking two steps away from the boxy terminal, I swiftly scan the dimly lit room… Actually, it's not dimly lit, it just doesn't have any bright colors, just grey and brown.

Arkansas' office is crammed with my fellow convicts, the ones who's files I just looked up, all spread around like the trained soldiers they used to be. Greg and Vincent guard the door, their shivs at the ready, while Karen and Hannah search the place for weapons. Not that there's much to search, beyond trophy cases and framed pictures… The desk is where he'd keep his gun and I already checked that; nothing.

Maybe it's unfair of me to poke around their past without permission, but I like to know who I'm dealing with, though I could easily read their minds to find what I want, that would not be much more ethical.

In any event, my new friends are exactly what I expected, nobody appears to be a snitch and we can all be best friends forever, although Karen, knowing I stuck my nose in her file, slaps the back of my head.

Hannah, the former medic and drug dealer, glances at the former Ghost, worried that she'll enact a psychotic break from that big witch doctor dude hacking Arkansas' computer.

Heh, girl's afraid I'll slash her arteries open in her sleep… I'm not the one she should fear; Karen is, but the former medic seems to think the tall, white eyed guy is more of a threat than the petite Dominion assassin.

Shit, I killed far less peoples than she did, and I can argue that the voices in my head told me to do it.

"Sven," Karen growls, "Shut the fuck up."

Whatever, cranky Ghost bitch… She's pissed off because she rated nine on the Psi Index and never expected anyone to surpass that, yet I had a rating of eight before SHADOWBLADE. Now it must be somewhere between nine and eleven…

Between nine and eleven. Don't you hat when people do that?

'Somewhere between one and three…'

'That would be two, asshole!'

What I actually mean is that Spectre procedure, though very effective, is still rather raw…

"Yeah, yeah, you're a tough psychic," She whines, "Can we get going now?"

"I wasn't aware this was my call…" I quip a wide smile.

Seriously, yours truly may act like a dumbass, but while the dumbass was trading jabs with Karen, the Spectre cautiously remote viewed the whole way to the exit and I now know it's crawling with convicts and guards.

Now, it's not an accurate science; Remote viewing is akin to squeezing your arm behind the couch to get the remote. Distances are weird, you only get a general feel that you really should clean up and there's parasitic stuff crawling all over.

Verdict: Dudes outside. Don't know who, don't know how many, don't know where. Sue me.

Quite frankly, all I have on Karen are Psi powers and; she, however, is a far better leader, or, at least, not quite as creepy, and definitely a better shot, just looking at the way her brain evaluates temperature, air pressure, distances and squishiness of available cover.

"Okay, we'll have to fight our way out of here. Sven will take point, Vincent, you cover the right flank, Gregor will take left, and I'll bring up the rear with Hannah."

I squeeze past the two mountains of muscle, sensing their heavily contrasting minds on the way.

Gregor used to have a family on Mar Sara and joined the militia to protect them from the Zerg. It failed, however, as the Colonial Magistrate sent him on a patrol to Blackwater station and, by the time the militiaman came back home, his whole family was kaput, torn to shred by the Zerg.

He later joined the Dominion Marines, hoping to die or get resocialized, but that never came and he only ended up causing others the same kind of pain he had felt. This messed him up even further, to the point that he got himself blind drunk, killed everyone in his section and took a Vulture hoverbike for a spin through town, hoping he'd finally bite the big bazooka.

Greg crashed his bike in a house and killed four civilians inside, one of them family package deal. Then, before he realized what had happened, he was on Braxis, mining ice. All that keeps him going is our momentum, focusing on our escape. The moment we're out of here, his mind will shatter and his soul will die, soon to be followed by his body.

Vincent, on the other hand, only remembers the smell of oranges, warm blood on his hands, satisfaction and Reaper Corps' training school.

The man doesn't give a fuck what he did before; he loves killing 'toss and bugs so, humans are boring, but what the hell, beggars can't be choosers. How he ended in prison is a very complicated story, meaning the dumbass himself doesn't know for sure.

I trust neither. The former might blow his brains out any second and the latter might blow my brains out any second, but they're all we've got right now, so, what the hell, let's rock!

Actually, let's figure out where everything is first… I emerge in a silvery corridor, the rows of blast doors leading further into the facility now all open, same as the vents overhead we used to get here.

The hallway itself is large enough for four men to stand side by side with room to spare, yet we keep a tight formation. Bad idea when peoples can shoot at you, as it can get everyone in the team hit by a single burst, but with us Specters, the rules change…

There is a curve ten meters ahead and four ornate wooden doors on both sides of the hall, in between each bulkheads. Living quarters.

I point the last on the right, "Guys with shivs about to bust trough them," then to the bend, on the left. "Two dudes manning a blockade there, CMC suits, facing the wrong way."

Karen already knew, but I'm the pointman, it's my job to call out shit like that.

She distributes orders through suggestion directly in our brains. I hate it and send her a mild psionic spike in retribution, her to jump in surprise. Yet another trick I can do she cannot.

Now, my job is to dispatch the Marines without damaging their suits, so our two grunts can get some firepower. Easy as pie. Okay, I can't cook for shit, so let's say easy as Pi.

3,14159265…

First thing I do is take off my prisoner shirt, since orange is the worst camouflage ever, and tie the sleeves around my waist. The white t-shirt underneath isn't that much better, but it might give the meatheads a split-second of hesitation.

Now, I've got about thirty steps to think of which way would be best. Frying their brains would cause nose and ear bleed and that would not be optimal for whoever wears the suit next, psionically choking them would leave some time for them to retaliate.

Answer? I'll lockdown their armors and choke them. To us psychics, locking down CMC suits is almost a hobby, even Karen did it a couple of times for shit and giggles.

The others at my back, I drag my shaky carcass across the slip-proof floor with about as much paranoid care as a rooster… Seriously, that's the best analogy I can think of.

My ass and I are about five paces from the bend, close enough to hear the mechanical whining of CMC suits, when convicts with shivs bust out the room four meters back, thinking they've got the drop on us.

My attention is focused on the Marines, however. The cotton wraps around my feet did a good job of keeping them warm, but perform poorly in term of traction and I half-sprint, half crawl around the bend, right into the Marines' line of fire.

Already waiting for me, they adjust their C-14s, but only earn a dry click each and some electrical buzzing from pressing the trigger.

I flick the switches on the side of their armors, like flipping on the kitchen light, except from ten feet away, and they both freeze…. Then, my stumbling dash abruptly ends against the wall, knocking the air out of my chest for a second.

Still, guess I shouldn't complain, seeing as I cut their air supply a second later. Getting to hear their thoughts as they die is one downside of my job.

Carl, the one on the right thinks he should have called in sick this morning and went to Bacchus moon as planned, while Lenny, the one on the left regrets skipping breakfast, as he'll now die hungry.

Peoples think very strange stuff when their time has come. One time, I killed a guy who regretted never owning a dog.

Both finally die while, behind us, the two convicts are disarmed and knocked on the floor.

Worst quickly reads their minds and I just listen in on hers.

One's a child molester and quite simply can't be trusted, the other is a pyromaniac and former fireman who turned himself in after his first crime.

The former gets his throat cut open with his own knife while the latter is helped back on his feet and gets integrated to our happy little family.

Vincent gives the dead man's knife to Karen and when I ask why, she answers that I don't need one, since I'm such a powerful psychic.

Maybe there was a hint of sarcasm in there, but hey, I'm just a moronic psychopathic psychic, not a psychologist!

"Alright, smartass, can you unseal these suits?"

It's easy, as easy as walking up to the downed Marines and touching their helmets. A little Technopathic talk with the onboard computers gets them open in thirty seconds flat. That's actually long, but Worst's presence in my brain slowed down the process. She tries to be subtle when snooping around in there, but to a Terrazine enhanced high level psychic such as me, she's as subtle as a train wreck.

"Milady requires anything else?" I ask, bowing.

Vincent wants to take one of the suits, but is shoved away by Greg's massive shoulder. The former Marine decided that was his armor. Vince doesn't object.

Gregor may not like the smaller Reaper, but Vincent still views him as a role model because of his badass scars and attitude. Criminals aren't such complex beings after all, who would have thought?

The suits are the open top CMC-400 variants, allowing the wearers to remove the shoulder and helmet parts and gear up in two minutes, more or less.

The guys will take a while putting on their suit, time I use to scan every room on our path. That still counts as Remote Viewing, but it's actually closer to looking into every drawers of a poorly lit room.

Kinda hoped I'd find an armory, but no such luck, only supply depots.

So I scan the hangar itself. There is a battle there between guards and convicts… I mean, who else could be fighting in an underground penal facility?

The crew of a prison ship, here to resupply and drop off some of its cargo.

"Worst," I call, "check this shit out!" and send her an RV image of the hangar. The effort and Terrazine withdrawal trigger a few seconds of muscle spasms and intense shivering, but it soon subsides, replaced by the usual withdrawal effects…

The ship I felt is round and segmented, with four engines and a protruding control booth. No weapons, but enough room to house ten thousand Cryo-pods, at least.

All in all, the thing looks like an oversized potato that crash-landed in a scrap yard…

"We need a pilot." She mumbles, knowing full well we'll have to do some mind digging to find one in the crowd battling inside the hangar.

Fact is, we'll need an engineer, navigator, cook… A whole crew, and I think we won't need to assemble it.

That supply ship didn't come here by itself, did it? We just need to convince its crew to help us, once we find them… Somewhere in that Hangar, trading pot shots with escaped prisoners.

Karen is still plugged to my brain and she likes that idea, so she decides it will be my job to find out where they are, seeing as I can handle myself just fine. A year spent mining ice and minerals in this freeze box with minimal rations and free time has gotten pretty much everyone in this slam hard as neosteel, but Ghosts are given close combat training from the day we're eight and I have my psi powers to tilt the table further.

For the time being, however, I'll stick with the group, since we're going in the same direction… We don't have much choice in the matter; I locked down every other sections of the prison, didn't want other inmates getting in our way. So much for that idea.

Vincent calls my name, from the left, so I turn and catch the makeshift knife he was carrying, nodding in thanks.

The ex-reaper just lifts his Gauss rifle, itching to kill something with it.

The new guy, Alan Kade, has his own knife already, so Hannah finally gets a weapon, even though I don't see the frail woman stabbing anyone…

Ahead, the hallway stretches on fifty meters and ends with a flight of stairs. I scan it, but feel nothing, so I call the all clear and we get moving.

There are mobile force fields every ten meters, set up by the guards, but Worst and I shut them all down along the way. The trip itself is eventless, and even if it hadn't been, we got the firepower to knock an Ultralisk out of commission.

One we reach the stairs, Greg and Vince both take up position to the right while Karen and I set up to the left. Hannah and Alan just stand aside and let us do our shit.

Beyond the bulkhead we're cowering behind are two flights of ten steps, barely large enough to accommodate two armored men, and on top of these is a pair of Marines with ballistic alloy shields and five light infantrymen waiting to tear us to shred. They saw us coming on thermals. We know where they are and they know where we are.

Don't you just love when the number of options drops to one?

I go first, Vincent shadowing me, and use a little trick my Ghost instructor called 'Butt-fuck their brains', telling the two Marines that there are Zergs crawling behind them while fueling their fear with nightmarish images of twisted corpses and deformed monsters.

They spin and unload their rifles at point blank into their five unarmoured pals, turning the men into fine paste.

Before they can even say 'woops' Vince physically butt fucks them with 8mm subsonic spikes.

"Gruesome!" I laugh, holding myself up on the man's shoulder pad for a second as dizziness steps in. I need my fix.

Straining myself a bit to project a psi shield, I run, flanked by Vince, and once we're on top, telekinetically lift one of the AGR-14s the light boys were packing, snatch it from the air and shoot down a pair of guards running in from further into the facility.

To the right, Vince is spraying a cluster of convicts with his own rifle. Sparks fly from all around them and one is even knocked to the ground by the air disruptions, but no one dies. Not sure if this was done on purpose, Reapers aren't the greatest marksmen in the Dominion…

The guards came in from the hangar while the convicts crawled through the air duct. I mind probe every of them and find out they are mostly mercs, which is why they stuck together; three are War Pigs, one is Hammer security, another's a Dusk Wing and the last one is an Hel's Angel.

Professionals, incarcerated in another part of the slam, but smart enough to know that if they want out, they've got to find the hangar, so they crawled through the vents from the beginning of this shit, finally ending up here, hidden in the air circulation system and waiting for someone to take out that checkpoint.

Two women, four men, all veterans of the Great War, like us. Although one must admit they don't look like much with their faded orange prison uniforms, turned into very efficient camouflage suits by all the dust and grime.

I like these guys already and Karen decides we should extend an invitation to our little party. I don't say anything; instead, I mentally kick two AGR-14 their way and physically lower Vince's rifle. The leader, a black guy called Dylan, picks a rifle off the floor and nods.

It takes the other a moment to catch up, so I get to mess around with my new weapon.

The 14s line of rifles is reliable, versatile and cheaper than dirt. I've been to places where you could buy the AGR variant for the price of a meal. On Tarsonis, you can get some of those old, steel plated ones for the cost of a beer.

The one I'm holding is new, smells of oil and has smooth carbon fiber parts with no attachments whatsoever, unless you count a drum magazine as an attachment. The mag has its previous owner's name stenciled on it, Henry Jackson, it reads.

I salvage and distribute whatever gear survived the hail storm; a few grenades, some regular magazines and knives, one of which I keep for myself, and we get this party moving.

We're practically at the edge of the hangar when I suddenly freeze, hit by a stray thought from the Hel's Angel and Dusk Wing. Knowledge.

Ahead, shipping crates, spare parts and forklifts are turned to cover by a handful of Marines, quite a few light troopers and every single prisoner smart enough to have found their way here. It's chaos, subsonic ammunition pinging around armoured walls and reinforced crates, smoke and extinguisher foam obscuring about half the scene and just the wailing of the wounded is enough to turn this nice and tidy loading dock into one sick rave party.

Vince, Greg and the Mercs are quick to join the fray, but I stop the pilots before they can follow.

"You guys can fly that scrap yard?" I ask, pointing to the prison ship. They both nod.

"Ain' nothin' to it, darlin'" The Banshee girl boasts, "Dave an' I can fly or drive anythin' yah want."

I like her, but then, I like just about everyone that gets the job done. Karen's satisfied with this alternative and she informs me that there is something in a nearby supply room I should check.

Ghosts are weaker than Specter, but much more focused and careful. Knowing this, I'm not amazed she felt something while I didn't, but am just a little irked I didn't smell it first…

Terrazine Infuser. My Terrazine Infuser. They took it from me when I first arrived, along with my suit, gear and rifle. Maybe the whole stuff's in there… I hope so, anyway.

I'm addicted to the stuff, Terrazine I mean, it makes me strong and stops the shakes dead. Of course, I don't really need it anymore, since my body has built up a supply sufficient to keep me at my level of power for few decades, but fact is, I've seen Specters attempt to quit the stuff and end up totally fucking their brains, so I still use the infuser at a low setting, as a mean to slowly quit the stuff…

Point in case, I just spent a few months without it and the withdrawal effects are just starting to become serious.

With Karen's blessing and the others' cover, I sprint trough the hangar and away from the team. A Marine engages me and I must dive behind a pair of metal crates to avoid the onslaught of Gauss rounds.

They stick into the metal, glowing white hot and forming three white hedgehogs. Inmates and most guards use AGRs, low penetration, but Marines from the prison ship pack Impalers, the kind of firepower you'd get from an APC.

There are more crates ahead, a full blown war to the left and a metal wall to the right…

I creep into the man's brain, but am too weak to make him shoot himself. Instead, I convince that kid I'm actually behind those crates, just ahead.

He aims his gun there and I fire a single spike trough his visor.

"Night-night…" A cheesy one liner is all the apologies he'll ever get.

Going from cover and firing a burst in a cluster of light infantry who were coming to investigate, I get my ass about halfway to my destination. The cluster in question never giving me room to breathe.

Sixty-six rounds remaining. To a grunt, it's not a lot, to a trained sniper like me? Well, it would be plenty if I had a scope and nobody shooting at me… Right now, it's still not a lot.

I slide under a stream of C-14 fire and drift behind cover just in time to avoid being fried by a firebat. A quick suggestion in the guy's resocced brain convinces him he should check on the two Marines advancing on my position…

Nah, you don't need to stop flaming, what's wrong with fire?

The Perdition twin linked plasma-based flame throwers do not penetrate the CMC-400 suits, but it does cook the wearers alive.

By the time they're dead and the Firebat is shot down by other Marines, I'm already inside the supply room, surveying it for the faint psionic 'smell' of Terrazine while firing out the door at advancing tangos.

There are ammunition crates all over and a few weapon ones as well. There's one containing C-10 rifles as well as a few explosive canister boxes, which I toss next to the door. I don't like C-10s, they shoot slowly and limit their users to a sniper role, AGR-28 DMRs are much better, in my opinion, but Karen is a Ghost and Ghosts use C-10s, so I'm taking the guns with me, as soon as I've found my Infuser…

I know it's somewhere in those square boxes, out back, but can't pinpoint where.

Enough bullshit; one psi blast wrecks the whole room, tearing every boxes apart and lifting everything touched by Terrazine at eye level.

There, found it! The silver helmet and glowing red optics are glaring at me, as if shocked and angry that I found them… The things were custom made for me and they snuggle perfectly around my head and face. This supply room is full of stuff meant for the prison ship. It's likely they want to send my suit and mask on Korhal for reverse engineering… Or as a trophy.

The HUD takes a second to initialize and soon warns me that no Hazardous Environment Suits have been detected, which means no increased strength, speed or durability.

"Shut up and pump the juice!" I growl at the machine.

Soon, my nose and mouth are filled with blood flavoured gas and the HUD points out I have a week before I need a refill.

Perfect.

My hands stop shaking and my mouth quickly dries up as I get that feeling of liberation that comes with the first rays of sun after a particularly violent storm… It's sweet as a whisper, rolling through me like hemoglobin perfumed honey.

The helmet is linked to a small box that I attach to my belt awkwardly. It's meant to be secured on specially designed clamps, in the back of my Spectre suit, but that'll do for now.

I walk out of the room, into the utter chaos beyond and send a psionic whisper to every guard and convicts in the area, accompanied by a great deal of irrational terror and an image of my helmet. A nifty trick I used on Drelor VI to disperse a crowd quickly.

"Hell is here."

The whisper spreads across the room like the rising tide, making every single person present attempt to get the fuck away from me.

Such a feat would have drained me just a minute ago, but now that my body has had its Terrazine fix, I am a fucking god. Of course, had Karen not bounced my Psi wave, I most likely wouldn't have affected half as many people, but now, everyone is just staring at me, terrified.

I creep in the heads of two Firebats and have them detonate their own fuel tanks while making a pair of especially weak minded Marines shoot themselves.

Needless to say, resoc or no, everyone runs the fuck out of my way and I simply walk up to the supply ship, keeping my mind open for any sort of aggressive thoughts. There are none, Karen is keeping the fear at very high levels and it paralyzes even the bravest of these bastards. I make it to the loading ramp in a minute or so, but that's long enough for Worst to turn ghostly pale and sick looking from the constant effort.

Shit, she ain't a Spectre, she can actually die from this!

I turn my attention back to the crowd and replace Karen as she collapses in Alan's arm. Behind me, the boxes clatter on the floor, breaking my focus long enough for pretty much everyone in the room to shake me out of their minds…

That technique can backfire quite badly, should the targets shake free, seeing as I suddenly become everyone's priority target.

Fortunately, this time around I'm in the ship and the ramp closes by the time everyone has truly awakened.

That was close…

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

A/N: So, unrelated note, I just found Sven's theme song xD Voodoo, by Godsmack...

The Revenant –That's the name of the prison ship- is meant to house a contingent of Marines plus its standing crew, yet there is twelve of us, so we get plenty of personal space and I fully intend to use it and isolate myself for a bit.

I'm now set up in the armory, using the automated systems to manufacture a Spectre outfit. Nothing to it, really, it's just about bringing up the right schematics and having access to the right material, and god damn does this ship have enough material! It's filled with all we mined in the last year; Vespene, raw minerals, spare Neosteel plates, water and even a tiny amount of Terrazine.

Tiny, but sufficient to see me through that addiction, if I go easy on the Jorium, because without Jorium, Terrazine would either kill me or fry my brain… Maybe Hannah can synthesize some… I'll have to ask her…

Through the glass before me, tiny arms assemble the supple psi-sensitive muscle layer, temperature regulating coating and bulletproof weave, laced together so tightly it becomes perfectly airtight. Using what the Umojan taught me, I improve the Psi-lace a bit and tighten the bond even further.

I know for a fact someone could easily survive in space with this thing on, for a time, anyway.

The under layer assembled, the machines withdraw and glowing hot plates of Neosteel protrude from the wall, just next to the current layers, nothing more than a glorified diving suit, for the moment.

Mechanical claws and pincers torture two small plates until they look like the top part of human forearms, without fingers, then cool them down and the tiny arms begin assembling circuitry into these with the speed and dedication of ants or bees…

Once both arms are done, they are installed on the soft under layer, circuitry linking up with the weave. The arms then repeat the process with two more pieces, forming the lower forearm part, soon followed by fingers, then the chest piece, back and so on.

Spectres are not as rigid as Ghosts, we all have our own preferences when it comes to suits; mine just has the same type of armor plates as the Ghost variant, the male one, anyway.

I never understood why we removed the solid plates when the Protectorate gave us

Finally, the Nyx-class cloaking module is attached along the spine and warning lights flicker off. I'm free to retrieve the customized HEV suit.

I'm finally going to get a real armour; been a while since I haven't worn something NOT orange…

The suit is tight and very formfitting, but comfortable enough and the plates save me from looking like some retarded super-hero.

At first it is dark, but I link up my helmet to the rest and restore alimentation.

The power source? My brain. It does cause some mental fatigue after a while, but so long as I don't do anything too straining and have my regular dose of Terrazine, it doesn't matter.

Angry red light pulses all over the suit, erratically at first, like a heart with arrhythmic disorder, but it soon grows steadier, pulsing in two parallel lines staring at my feet and ending in my gauntlets.

After the first pulse climbs its way along my body, a pair of round Psi capacitors, located on my gauntlets, burn the same blood red shade. Finally, I close the helmet and begin customizing the onboard computer…

First order of business is to download my personal music playlist off the internet, second is to 'attune' the systems to my brain waves, allowing smoother commands and last is to play Terran Up the Night so loud I can't hear anyone thinking.

A quick scan of this part of the ship reveals there is an empty room right above mine, so I pick up my new duffle bag and head there.

On the way, I resume searching my damaged memory for glimpses of past events, something I took to doing on my free time.

Don't get me wrong, who I was doesn't matter now, I'm a Spectre and I love it, I just enjoy the mental puzzle that is my brain.

I grew up in a farm, on a green lush planet, helping my father grow crops in the morning and playing with my dog the rest of the day. I don't remember the dog's name, just that it was a poodle, one of these genetically engineered companion I had worked very hard to buy.

Time went on like that, I was happy just messing around and knowing I would inherit the farm. I felt safe, everything was perfect… Then the Confederates requisitioned the farm, or tried to, anyway, but my father resisted them, so they killed him and, as a result, I killed them.

I remember the blood. So much blood… Pulling someone's insides trough their throat leaves quite a mess, so does making their heads pop… Everything died around me, even the poodle.

I reach the room and push the memories out. I haven't slept in a real bed for a long time, so the plan is just to eat something, work out and go to bed.

The helmet hisses off and land on the bed, in the right corner of the cabin.

The left side just has a writing desk and there is a one and a half meter wide space between it and the bed. I sit directly on the floor, grabbing an MRE from my bag.

…They managed to perfectly replicate the taste of cardboard!

Legs crossed, I munch on the thing while trying to convince my body that I weight nothing. At first it scoffs at me, citing bullshit like gravity…

I knew a Wraith pilot who said "Gravity, pal, it's not just a good idea, it's the law."

He was wrong. I just need to convince every cells of my body that he was.

It begins with a feeling of lightness, like zero gravity, then I get butterflies in the stomach and my body slowly wins the struggle against the artificial gravity. I then find myself hovering inches from the floor, legs crossed like some levitation master from… Somewhere, I dunno.

Ever since I found out I could levitate somewhat, I've been doing it every chance I get. I even use it to run up high walls and increase my jumping range. It's not really a substitute to dropships or jetpacks, but it can get me out of a tight spot or save me from a potentially deadly fall… If I have the time to convince my body that it is floating, anyway.

I slowly unfold my legs and lean back, hands behind my head.

That's right, bitch, I sleep in a psi hammock, you got a problem with that? Of course it takes an effort to hold myself up like that, but not nearly as much as actual telekinesis would and, in any event, my subconscious will keep me up from the moment I pass out.

Tosh showed me this trick; honing one's mind by sleeping. Doesn't work on complex manipulations though, only with more passive stuff like regenerative meditation, psi screens and, well, passive levitation.

0

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"So," Alan asked the Ghost and Hammer Security merc as they sat at the cantina, eating stuff reserved for officers, "What did you guys do?"

Worst merely took a sip on her light beer, but the large black man was much more outgoing.

"Me I was with them Hammer boys, but seems I blew something I shouldn't have…"

Vince crashed into the table pretty much at that moment, right between Alan and Dylan and bleeding out the corner of his mouth.

Dylan turned to see the War Pig girl, wrapping a cloth around her hand, holding herself into a low combat position.

"Just try and grope my ass again, you fucking pig." She spat. Vince smiled and hopped off the table, ready for a fight, but Alan stopped him.

Vince was a young and lean bastard while Alan must have been ten years older and quite a few kilos heavier, this might have been a fair fight in other circumstances, but now Alan had his hand on the Reaper, preventing the kid from using speed to his advantage.

Of course, Vince didn't realize that, tried to punch Alan, landed a good hit and ended up knocked across the room as fast as he would with jump jets, before reaching a smashing stop at the feet of Gregor, who picked the dazzled man up before shoving him on a chair.

"Stay." He stayed. "What happened here?" Boomed the militia sergeant, his authoritative voice causing even the hard as Neosteel mercs to look at their boots.

He scowled, a scowl that would have made Clint Eastwood proud, not that the old militiaman would have known him, and glared at the War Pigs' girl.

"How about you, kid? Got enough grit to tell me what the fuck that was about?"

She gulped loudly and spoke with a small voice, "Sir, the guy… The guy groped my left cheek and made an improper comment about…"

Gregor's body language shut her up; his large shoulders rising slowly in pace with his breathing. "So you figured you'd punch him? Exactly how old are you, Marine?" She went to answer, but her mouth clapped shot as he shot her a death glare.

Dylan laughed and earn a stare of his own.

"Seems you kids need some form of authority figure, so from now on, you'll address me as Sergeant Major Fauster, Sarge or Sir. Anyone got a problem with that?"

Karen seemed about to say something herself, but Gregor saw it coming and added : "As for the Ghost girl, she's gonna be Ma'am, Lieutenant or Boss. Anything else can and will get you mind raped."

He turned to Vince next, "Behave yourself, Vince, or you'll get tossed out the airlock."

"Copy that, Sarge." The Reaper answered, perfectly military like.

"Now, you play nice, kids, I'm going to check on our other Ghost…" He was about to leave the room when Karen's soft voice corrected him.

"Sven is not a Ghost."

That caused some shock, since none of them could envision someone gaining this kind of power outside Ghosts.

"What is he, then?" A redhead War Pig asked.

The ensuing silence was deafening. Gregor still stood in the doorway, waiting to know the answer.

It came almost a minute later; "He's a Spectre."

She then explained Spectres were Ghosts made even more powerful trough exposure to Terrazine and Jotium, causing them to climb one or more levels on the Psi Index.

"Wait a sec, baby, we could all become Ghosts from takin' that stuff?" Dylan asked, sounding somewhat eager. This actually made Worst laugh.

"No, you could all become psychotic murderers addicted to a drug so rare even the Dominion can't find reliable reserves… and would end up killing you."

Gregor wondered if this guy was half as bad as the Ghost made him out to be. Of course, he kept that hidden from Karen, all the while picturing a brick wall or a vault door to shield his thoughts.

If Sven was such a psycho, why would he have helped all these peoples in the time they spend together in the freezing work camp? Giving away some of his food, stopping fights and using his psi powers to heal frost bites and such, stuff Karen herself had never done, instead focusing her strength and time on plotting their escape.

To the veteran, it felt more like the two were just two sides of the same coin. One was extremely powerful, intense and laconic, the other was hyper lethal, cold and strictly business.

He preferred the Ghost, however; the Spectre was a lone wolf and unpredictable. Heck, he said it himself when they first met, 'I ride solo and I go wherever I feel like.'

In front of him, two tables away, Karen had finished explaining why the guy was a time bomb pumped full of psychoactive drugs and subject to unprovoked and violent killing sprees.

The redhead snickered at that, "So says the Dominion, how much do you know firsthand?"

Worst had no answer.

Alan sat back and thought about it while Greg left the room, behind him, the War Pigs resumed eating and Dylan did the same.

0

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I smile. Ghosty got her mouth slapped shut, didn't she?

"Hi, Hannah." I call to the Medic standing in the doorway, bewilderment plastered on her face, "May I help you?"

She blinks, "You're flying."

"Hovering, yes, would you like to try?" I offer, still smiling, arms folded behind my head and floating a meter above the floor.

She pales and back away, "N… Nah, I'm good… I wanted to know if you knew where I could find medical supplies…"

Despite her attempts to hide it, I hear her wonder what it would be like to have sex while floating in the air like that, so I must focus not to laugh at her face.

"I'm afraid not…" I kick myself in a back flip and land on my feet, facing her, "Although I was wondering if you could create a counter agent for me once you get some sort of laboratory set up." One flick of my wrist brings the infuser from the floor to my hand, causing even more unease on the medic's part. I should wait until we're done to put the helmet on, but what the heck.

She watches with more interest than fear as I hook up every tubes.

"Well?"

Hannah shakes herself as her mind goes through every kind of drugs I could possibly be doing, and decides whatever it is, she may be able to make a profit out of it in the future. "Sure, if you get me a sample." Her smile is as fake as her hairs…

These people don't like me, they tolerate my presence, but just barely. That's ridiculous, Vince is a much bigger bastard than I ever could wish to be, but they don't know that, they rely on chemical impulses and emotions to pass judgements.

"Excellent" I quip squeezing past her, "Now I suggest you tell everyone to get geared up, there are plenty of suits down on in the cargo bay, then tell them to meet us on the bridge."

I'm walking away when she recover from the unease of being so close to me. "Why?"

Quoting some old movie, I take an old and patronizing voice, "Disturbance trough the force, I sense, ready, we must be…"

With that, I cloak and psi-sprint away to avoid having to explain the joke. Yoda isn't all that popular these days. I mean, he probably already wasn't when our ancestors were stuffed in cryo tubes and hauled off into space, but now, some five hundred years after his creation... I suppose some tales are timeless.

An eye on my suit's power gauge tells me I'm still going strong, but should perhaps ease off before I burn a synapse.

Psi sprint is merely a way to say I overcharge the suit's psi sensitive muscles fibers, effectively becoming twice as strong and fast as I was, but at the cost of four times the power consumption.

If I run over an hour in this mode without rest, I risk a lot of health issues, namely coma and death, but right now, it only takes me seventy seconds to leap up the ladder to the next level and speed through a few sets of dark hallways and finally arrive in the main cargo hold.

There, I find my old Spectre suit inside a crate with my prisoner tag printed on it, the thing is worn and beaten by the many combat it has seen. Can't say I'm disappointed to have gotten a new one, though, the old girl was falling apart. So I toss the armor aside and check out the rest of the crate.

My AGR-28 is lying there, dusty from the time spent unused, but still in prime condition, along with my Psi-enhanced Tanto and silenced P220 pistol. They even left the blood red Balisong –or butterfly knife- Tosh gave me when I graduated as a Spectre. I wonder if everyone else's equipment is in this ship as well, or if we left it in one of those crates back on Braxis.

One way or the other, there is plenty of gear in the cargo bay for them to replace theirs, while mine is much harder to come by. The AGR itself is nothing fancy, on the contrary I had it stripped of most accessories beyond a holographic scope and installed a lightweight carbon frame. Even so, it's worth twelve 14s, at least.

Once I'm fully armed, I send a psi echo through the ship and analyze the feedback, drawing a mental map of the prison vessel. I don't remember where the bridge is…

There! The distinct taste of those pilots and overworked machinery resonates and I orient myself on those.

A few bulkheads and two ladders later, I'm on the bridge, still cloaked.

The Banshee pilot, Irena, and the Viking driver, Dave, are walking from a display to another in complete incomprehension.

"Why the heck is it doing that?" is the clearest thought I can grasp, this tells me we're on the verge of some great scientific discovery.

'Eureka!' rarely precedes important breakthroughs, because if it's a breakthrough, then you didn't know about it beforehand and you have no clue what it's doing there and then. That's how I discovered I had Psi powers, how they discovered Terrazine could make them stronger and it's a part of most adolescent's life, if you catch my drift.

I uncloak and lean over one of the Warp jump monitors, but since I don't understand shit, soon turn to the two pilots and ask, in a hushed tone so as not to scare them into cardiac arrest, "Enlighten me."

Might as well have detonated a D-8 charge; they both leap and backpedal as fast as they can away from me, despite the fact I'm all the way across the room and there's four set of consoles and a command chair between us.

"Crap! Don't do that shit!" Irena snaps, spinning on herself in an attempt to ride off the adrenaline rush without punching someone. I grin under my helmet and Dave slowly eases away to step beside me. I'm not halfway as scary as his colleague.

"There was a mistake in calculating Warp coordinates…" He explains. He and Irena found some military uniforms in there and are both dressed as Lieutenant Commanders, with white pants and shirts. Sight to see, given the fact they still didn't get to take a bath.

"So?" Not only is my voice naturally rough, the Terrazine inhalations and gas mask make me sound like the devil himself, so I better keep it short if I don't want to spook our pilots. That's not arrogance, it would be if I were just stating my opinion and not, you know, reading their minds…

The guy's not easily spooked, however, despite the earlier display.

"So? So I got nothing! Astronavigation computers say we're two parsecs off target, stars are all fucked and," He points at a computer to my left, "This ain't Mar Sara, that's damn sure."

Lush green plains, huge trees, swamps; a tropical planet without any seas, just lakes and rivers.

I went to Aiur once, as part of a deal with some Dark Templar, and this place looks a lot like the Protoss home world.

Greg walks in, fully suited in a brand new CMC-400 and a first gen Impaler in hand, he is followed by a War Pig, wearing custom CMC armor with ballistic shield on the left shoulder and something that looks like the bastard child of an Impaler and a grenade launcher in hand, but his most remarkable feature is the helmet; it's not round like regular CMCs, but encompasses his head perfectly, leaving a roughly T-shaped plasteel visor for the guy to see. Cerberus issue.

Cerberus… I worked with them once, the second iteration that is; resocced criminals, hypno-trained in days to the level of actual marines, then outfitted with high-end gear bought with the funds usually meant for training. They're not smart, but marines usually aren't, and they follow orders without question, like obedient little pawns. I never did know what to make of them.

Karen is next, clad in a perfectly white Hostile environment suit that hugs her shapes like a dominatrix at her wedding…

She slaps the back of my head, hard.

Yeah, I guess I earned that one…

The Bridge is now so crowded, we resolve to just send the feed from Greg's suit to everyone else. A merc whines about replays not being the same as live performance and another calls him out on the large amount of porn material in his suit.

Ignoring them, I mentally brief Karen before Dave has started explaining, so we involuntarily begin a psychic conversation as the Viking pilot goes into more detail for his audience. Being psychic is like having contagious ADD; your mind gets bored and seeks out other Teeps to talk to.

"Nice suit, SHADOWBLADE model?" Karen begins, not really thinking it. Well she is thinking it, that's the whole… Oh nevermind.

"Yeah," I answer, smugly, "the best warriors get the best toys, natural order of things."

"Right, it has nothing to do with you whoring out to the Umojans..." I don't feel any anger in her, just annoyance at the fact I'm likely to be right. "So, why no shoulder pads? The rest seems pretty close to the usual HES… Except for the color anyway…"

"Why shoulder pads? Since when are shoulders so vulnerable you need to sacrifice mobility and accuracy to protect them?"

"Alright, smartass, there is a whole flight of Dropships and Vikings down the hangar bay, you certified for these?"

"Certifiable? Or do you want to know if I can fly one?" Sure, they taught us how to fly military aircrafts, but since the Dominion branded all of SHADOWBLADE as terrorists, I have not been officially certified to do or touch anything, at all.

"Just get down there and wait for my signal, I have a feeling we'll need to speed up on this one."

"No 'Up' or 'Down' in space, ghosty…"

"Shut up and do it."

I nod once and cloak, feeling both tension and relief from the others. I guess I'll have to work on my karma or something, because it would seem they're as fond of me as a bad venereal disease… Not to say such disease are fond of me.

Maybe I should start by not being an asshole, but, seriously, you've got a Dominion assassin, a rapist, a pyromaniac, a maniac-depressive and a bunch of pirates and war criminals… Spectres might be questionable in their work ethics, we might even be a little rough at times, we're still professionals, good people even, who ended up having to do bad things. These folks here are not good people, they're bad and they deserve what they got.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

A/N: Bad mojo on the way :D

As awesome as Vikings are, and as useful as Dropships can be, I still figure I'll need another type of ride, so I use the ship's assembly chain to create something better suited to me… I just need to type in the serial number of the ship I want.

Wraith. 8812539WI.

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.

.

Construction in progress…

Completion in: 23:59:58

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.

.

Guess I'll take a Viking, this time around.

I'm not exactly trained for these, but have extensive knowledge on how to drive Goliath walkers and Wraith fighters, so it should be alright… I hope.

All nine ships are perfectly lined in front of the hangar door, six Vikings and three APOD-33 dropships, sitting behind the 'transformers', just below me.

I leap off the catwalk and use telekinesis to slow my fall, causing red flame-like psi energy to ripple around me as I descend.

My boots bang on the top of a Dropship, the sound echoing across the room. It takes much effort to lift a human being trough telekinesis, but not nearly as much just to slow him down, so although I fell ten meters without a scratch, I am still somewhat stunned by the impact.

This lasts only a second, however, and soon enough, there's a cheap nylon seat under my butt and enough buttons all over my face to make an acne ridden teenager feel better about himself…

Okay… Big red button, green diodes… Four joysticks? Who flies this thing, Shiva!? What's this suction hose poking my ass for?

Fuck this, Dropship it'll be.

I try to pull myself out, but the AGR is stuck between the seat and console. I use the K variant, the one shaped like a baby C-14, precisely to avoid this kind of problems and because I just plain like the boxy look.

And now the front iron sight just won't let go of the safety harness. I pull as hard as I can and the stock somehow hits me right in the eyebrow, cutting the bridge of my nose slightly in the process.

See, that's why you should wear a full face helmet at all time.

I stumble backward, my rifle in hand, but stumbling backward inside an open cockpit can only end one way; the idiot has to fall out of the damn thing… And set course with the floor face first. Good thing my psi powers are wired straight to my brain, as my subconscious instantly uses a mix of levitation and telekinesis to flip me upright and land on my feet, like a cat.

Good news is there was no one around to witness that… Let's get that Dropship prepped.

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The War Pigs de facto squad leader, Victor Langley, took off his helmet to breathe the slightly less enclosed air of the bridge.

Langley was actually just a Corporal, but he had seen his share of combat. All of the pigs did, he had gone against Protoss more often than Zergs, so when he saw the world below, his first reaction was fear, and his second was utter confusion.

If they were above Aiur, they were utterly fucked, but he knew for a fact that this was not, seeing as there were Zergs on its surface along with surviving Protoss tribe, none of which liked humans. Had it being the Protoss home world, the Revenant would have gotten its fat ass atomized as soon as it left warp space.

So the Corporal waited as the two pilots ran around the deck, trying to find any sign of where they had ended.

The bridge was semi-circular in shape, with a large plasteel viewports to the front that allowed a 180 degree view of the space, and holograms running all across its surface, providing status reports on everything, from engine to cryo-prisons.

Langley walked to one of the displays and brought up the prisoner list.

Retinal Scan… Unauthorized User, Please Contact System Administrator.

He'd have to hack that thing, sometime soon; maybe there were some badasses they could thaw for additional firepower.

Something blinked yellow to his right and he pressed it, not really thinking much of it.

There was an explosion of light and, out of it, the image of a Protoss appeared in front of him, gigantic and ethereal against the plasteel glass. The alien's surroundings were so dark, the Terrans could only see a pair of green orbs and scales.

"Uh… Hi." Langley spoke, somewhat calm despite the situation. When they want to talk, then there's a way to get them to spare you.

"En taro Tassadar, humans," The alien greeted, his emerald green eyes glowing brighter it the ambient darkness, "I am Shaanis, Librarian of the new Templar order…"

Karen stepped forward with a look around as if challenging anyone to contest her authority, "I am Lieutenant Karen Worst, Captain of the Revenant, state your intents, Librarian." She was always taught to be careful around aliens, and quite frankly, this one creeped the fuck out of her.

"This is embarrassing, Lieutenant Worst, but I need not speak to you, is Sven Kudrenkov present."

Had the Revenant been armed, she would have kicked that 'toss in its mouth-less face so hard she'd actually knock some teeth out.

Instead, she… Wait…

"Librarian, I believe we have a problem…"

Beyond the Protoss' image, against a background of silvery stars, were a fleet of ships so close to each other they looked like a single entity. However, the Ghost's ocular implants allowed her to make out the shapes of each individual vessel.

They weren't Terran nor Protoss and that worried her somewhat.

"Fear not, Karen Worst, we have cloaked your ship, these… Indigenes cannot detect us. Now, please, I must speak to Sven Kudrenkov."

"Why?"

The eyebrows of the Protoss formed a straight line while its eyes took a puppy air.

"I was sent to rescue him from the prison you left."

The opposite part of the glass turned black with a pair of glowing red optics on a metal background.

"Shaanis," Sven greeted, his breathing worthy of an asthmatic Darth Vader as red optics bobbed up and down in a nod, "I was afraid you might be remorseful after our last meeting."

"It was nothing personal, though I admit to being disappointed in your attitude…" The Librarian spoke, softly.

"Hey, you said you wanted to sell the thing, fifty-fifty… Next thing I know, we're doing this for the greater good of the Protoss race and the galaxy. See, the galaxy and I aren't on the best of terms lately..."

"Your altruism is touching, however there is more pressing business to attend." If Protoss could look angry, this one was positively pissed, and so were pretty much everyone else at being excluded from the conversation.

"Such as?"

"Nothing you can help, I merely wanted to ensure you were indeed aboard this ship…" Sven seemed about to say something, but his screen flickered out of existence and the Librarian turned to Karen once again. "Miss Worst, you have my sincere apologies for this terrible incident…"

The Ghost's mind immediately went into overdrive, "What incident?" But the Librarian was still speaking.

"… we were honor bound to ensure Sven Kudrenkov was freed, thus we followed your vessel into the warp space despite our best judgement, yet unknowing that we would cause such catastrophe…"

Gregor understood first. "You're a Dark Templar, your ships don't travel through the Warp…"

The Protoss seemed surprise at the man's knowledge and nodded slowly.

"So…" Langley spoke, "What went wrong?"

"The void drives of our ship interacted with the warp; our ships were frozen in time and place, caught within the space time singularity our mistake created and unable to exit until it collapsed. A few hours have passed, to us, and millenniums to the universe at large."

Karen didn't blink, "How long exactly?"

"Thirty-nine point five millenniums."

"Says what?" Dave fell into the captain chair, "I forgot to shut the bathroom light at home," He wined, "It's gonna be a heck of a power bill!"

No one listened to him, all too caught in the implications of this, although it was Langley who voiced everyone's ultimate conclusion the best; "Sounds like we're not wanted by the Dominion anymore."

Everyone on the bridge and outside laughed, it was as if a huge weight was removed from their shoulders and the Protoss themselves felt some relief, the unknown ships meant the universe had not ended in their absence and their new allies seemed to take the situation well enough.

This situation, of course, was a cause of concern to most everyone in the tiny fleet, but was quickly and calmly accepted. Heck, Warp drives were known to fuck up on their own even with skilled navigators and seeing Irena take a deep gulp to some old Cognac bottle, everyone felt just glad to be alive.

Really, you don't end up in a high-security labor camp because you care terribly about the galaxy at large…

"So," Vince's voice on the radio brought everyone back to the moment, "What's our angle? What we gonna do now?" The Reaper had everyone else beat on the 'not caring' department.

Karen turned to the Protoss, who frowned, "This is your area of expertise, humans, my race has lost its skill for exploration long ago…" The voice seemed old, all of a sudden, and Gregor was the only one who knew why.

He was strong, brave and smart, yet he was old, outdated. Reapers moved faster, Marauders hit harder, Hellions performed better at infantry fighting… He'd performed excellently all of his career, but just wasn't adapted to the current state of things. Just like the Protoss as a species.

"Very well, what assets do you have?" The Ghost did not seem very comfortable with giving orders to a Dark Templar.

"A Star Relic class ship, two void rays and four Phoenixes, as for ground troops, I command three of my Dark brethrens and eight Zealots although the latter are not combat capable for the moment…"

Worst nodded and frowned in surprise when her screens shimmered with data about their surroundings.

"We have networked our ships with yours, you now see what we see."

A few seconds earlier, the Revenant had been blind as a bat and oblivious as a newborn kitten, but now, they knew everything, from the composition of the unknown ships plating, a substance close to Neosteel, to the amount and looks of cities on the planet. Even population graphs, crime and birth rates, appeared above each.

There were a great number of urban centers, but one in particular attracted the Ghost, somehow, she just felt it was the right place to begin, so she ordered Sven to go there and find out what he could. She wanted to send a Dark Templar as support, but knew Spectres were lone operators and wouldn't appreciate having an alien babysitter.

Instead, she asked the Librarian if he had the necessary material to retrofit the Revenant with some better tech.

"We have plenty of Vespene gas and minerals…" She added at the Protoss' frown.

"Of course, let's consider this gesture as a mark of goodwill on our part." He hesitated. "I am… Pleasantly surprised by your willingness to cooperate, yet am slightly skeptical of it…"

The Ghost shrugged. A year earlier, she would have rammed her ship into the Alien ones and gone down for the glory of the Dominion, now, left to die by that same Dominion and spent the last year of her life working herself half to death alongside peoples that the same Dominion had branded as evil, Karen Worst felt alone, she would not turn away a friendly shoulder to lean on.

Karen owed her life to these altruistic souls, those painted as monsters by her former bosses. She had thus decided to keep an open mind about everything in the future, even aliens. Maybe even Sven.

She told Shaanis just that, keeping the Spectre out because he really had no importance in the discussion.

"The ability to see beyond the flesh is something few of us possess, you are wise, Terran." The Protoss approved, "I will send drones and a technician to your ship right away."

The 'toss signed off and Karen told everyone to get ready for a combat drop, should the Spectre need backup.

She would have gone herself, this was her comfort zone, but these people needed guidance and Kudrenkov could be relied on not to put the ship at risk.

0

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0

It seems to be the rain season in the area 'Lieutenant Worst' wants me to scout. Good, rain helps cover the sound of footsteps, although it makes my cloaking generator less effective, as peoples will see a shape from the droplets landing on me.

My Dropship emerges from the clouds just above another ship, a merchant shuttle, I think, held together with duct tape and a lot of prayers.

I discuss with its IFF emitter for a few seconds and soon explain to it how it's all mixed up and that is actually transmitting my ship's signal. The stupid machine bites, bait, hook and sinker. All I have to do next is transfer the signal to my own emitter and broadcast at the right frequency.

Technopathy allows me to hack onto non encrypted transmissions, when I know the right frequency, but there is so much chaotic techno-gibber in this city it felt like I had the whole Zerg Swarm throwing a party inside my skull last time I tried to listen to everything, so now I make sure I'm at least close to the signal I want to hijack. It's less tiring that way in any case.

There was a guy in SHADOWBLADE, drug addict, he could actually fix stuff through technopathy, convince machines they weren't broken. I tried that once, but don't know enough about engineering for it to work; the Vulture bike I tried to fix blew up.

The port authorities give me clearance to land while the other shuttle gets escorted to the nearest military base. Sucks to be him…

My ship lands on the dirty, moss covered pad with a faded 12 painted on it. Terran number, I guess this is a human world. UED? Possible, though my money's on Kel-Morians.

I don't intend to get out there and explain my gear to every passerby, so I exit, cloaked, through a maintenance hatch, which I lock back behind me before giving the auto-pilot instructions to wait here ten minute, then head back to the Rev.

Once that's done, I scan my surroundings, first visually, noting the tall yet decrepit skyscrapers to the right, the dense and dark jungle to the left, the big square pieces of concrete ahead and finally , the multitude of ships, varied in size and condition, that take off and land on the honeycomb cluster of landing pads.

Then, I survey the place psionically, touching the surface thoughts of at least a thousand human beings in a few seconds. To a Ghost, this would be a very unpleasant experience, but my brain works differently, so that's just a bit gross.

Mostly, all I feel right now is despair and misery, the peoples here are poor and no one's coming to help them, so they slave away, chucking wood in a jungle that wants them dead and only earning the bare minimum in exchange.

One of them is close enough for me to pick up a prayer to a God-Emperor.

"Our Father who waits upon the Golden Throne,

Hear our plea,

Grant us the strength to carry on,

Grant us the will to brave temptation,

Grant us the courage to do what is right,

With your grace, we shall never tire...

And please help Cody, he is young and has so much to see…"

I push into that brain and analyze it carefully. Just a kid, yet so tired and old… She had to raise her son on her own from when she was sixteen and now he's growing blind from a plant burning his retinas as he worked in the jungle.

She's spent whatever she could to get him healed, resorting to threats and sexual favors, without success. And to think I've got the equipment on me to heal that kind stuff. A simple nanite injection, some bandaging and kid's good as new.

But I'm not going to… Am I? I mean, do it for one kid and you need to do it for every other, and the dropship doesn't have an unlimited amount of medical supply.

Then, there's the fact I'm not even here. What happens if I help out this boy? Maybe his mother's grateful and keeps her mouth shut, maybe she slips when other moms in the same situation ask how she did, and my cover's blown.

The girl suddenly gets the weird and uncontrollable need to take a walk, convinced it will solve all of her problems.

She walks in her son's room and past the clock, hung on the wall, not caring that it's way too late for such a walk and that the streets are unsafe for a lone woman.

She watches the kid's angelic face; he looks like his father. She's not sure it's a good thing…

Then she exits her house, thick wool shirt quickly getting soaked head to toe, yet she's happy. Something good is going to happen to her, the Emperor's presence fills her mind.

She walks up a street for about five minutes, then hooks trough an alley filled with vagrants and other rejects. Most don't notice her, but those who do and so much consider harming her get a headache so intense they are forced to their knees by the pressure.

The girl then enters a dead end completely devoid of life and that's when I release her.

She's confused at first, feeling like the last seconds were nothing but a dream, and is wondering what to do now.

I'd like to make it less dramatic, but the point here is to make this so unbelievable and outlandish she won't even consider telling anyone about it, so I uncloak ten steps in front of her and immediately hear a dozen explanations rush through her brain; devil, arch-enemy, psyker and Eldar are the most credible, in her humble opinion.

Me, I think mercy is for the weak and am wondering just why the fuck I'm bothering with that bitch when I should be running recon, yet when you're a psychic, you do weird things, not because it makes any sense or you want to, but because you have to, for sanity's sake.

She turns to run, but I stop her with one sentence; "Leave and Cody shall never see again."

I swear to god, the vibes I'm getting from her confirm she's more that capable of ripping me a new asshole if I threaten her child.

"Who are you?" Her maternal instinct is strong, but it doesn't completely overwrite survival, so there is still fear in her voice.

"Call me Spectre. You were praying, just now…" I explain, taking a step forward. She makes no sign of trying to get away so I take out a nanite container and hold it at arm's length.

"How do you know?" Interesting, telepaths are very rare here, or inexistent. I thought we would become the norm in the future…

"I know many things, Laurence," I taunt, still holding the canister, "this will heal your son…" I quickly read the bases of her faith in her mind and soon realize technology is not very appreciated here, neither is anything even remotely foreign looking.

"For a price, I suppose? I'll…"

"No price, no catch, it's yours and I will never ask anything of you in return."

"Why?"

"For the same reason you were praying." Because we're both textbook basket cases.

"And you expect me to inject this to my son?"

Yeah, when you put it like that…

I walk over to her and open my visor, so she can see my eyes. Not really the smartest move, seeing as Terrazine made most pigmentation fade from my iris a year ago, yet the gesture in itself makes her more comfortable.

"You asked for a favor, it is granted to you, if you did not want this gift, why ask for it?"

Always bugged me. If your God knows everything, is benevolent and somehow loves you, why bother praying? He's gonna do whatever he wants anyway!

She takes the syringe gingerly and looks back at me. She's scared, I feel it now, piss scared, but it's not natural, not a rational fear, as if my aura was just making her shit her pants.

Once she's taken the syringe, I step back, cloak and run two meters up the right wall before kicking myself off it, onto the opposite wall. A telekinetic pulse gives me enough momentum to run up this one as well and grab onto some rusty pipe that leads to the gutters, seventy meters higher. My visor lowers itself automatically; a new function I programmed after my earlier misadventure…

I'm not in prime physical condition after these months spent malnourished and overworked, but still manage to painfully drag myself all the way up by focusing more energy trough my suit's muscles. The pipe is slippery and rickety, not the ideal path, but the most direct one.

I reach the top exhausted and collapse on the soaked roof just as the taste of copper that accompany a Terrazine shot fills my mouth.

God damn this shit is good!

Resting on my back, I watch the cloudy sky for a while. Droplets of water form tiny ponds on my optics. I like rain, the concept behind it, the eternal cycle, it's fascinating, yet so banal at the same time…

Through the goggles, I see every detail in the cloud ceiling, every puff of vapor and each fluffy bump. Most people never take time to observe it, but they actually melt as water drop, so it's almost like those gargantuan formations are crash-landing on the ground bellow…

In this case, they are crashing against huge spires and blocky structures, strew around the city haphazardly, mixing gothic architecture with patchy repair jobs.

This is a good place to camp and gather intel. Groaning with the effort it takes to sit up, I'm about to remove the AGR-28 from my back to set up an observation point and relax a little, when the clouds are ripped by the biggest motherfucking ship I've ever seen.

The HUD goes ape shit, filling with thermal signatures and electromagnetic interferences as gunfire erupts from the ship all across its flanks. Either that ship has very big engines, or its ass is on fire; either way, it sure is losing altitude fast…

Soon, tracer rounds rise all around the city to meet the newcomer, leaving pink trails on my thermal imagery.

Ballistic 60mm Flak. Informs the hud, pointing to the smallest trails. High Energy Lasers 6000gw. It adds, about the biggest pink ribbons.

Smaller ships pour out of the unknown vessel and scatter all over the place; fighters and dropships.

From every single mind in my vicinity, I hear a single line of though: "Pirates, Emperor save us!"

I can't help but answer to those praying the hardest, "The God-Emperor is not available at the moment, please leave a message after the tone… Beep…"

The incredulity I get as a result is totally worth the waste of time.

Straight ahead, one of the dropship burns, missing quite a big chunk… It's going down hard, but most importantly, it's going down hard in my direction…

I don't know who it is from, but a single word crawls into my brain: Valkyrie.

I could slow its fall enough to prevent its passengers from dying, but the sheer violence and rage I feel from them dissuades me. I can appreciate anger and brutal effectiveness, but the only word that can describe those… Things, is animals.

The eagle-like ship screams over my head and comes to a crashing stop on a roof two buildings further. Half its passengers are killed in the crash.

The remaining four pour out, looking for something to kill. Their thoughts are so erratic I'm having trouble keeping up with them.

What I do find out is that they used to be Imperial Guardsmen, whatever that is, but turned to Chaos years ago along with their whole company, and now they're here to kill every living thing on the planet.

Chaos… I get a lot of information about it from the scared civilians as much as from the feral beasts that are now looking for a way off the roof. Most of it is just religious crap about hell and god. These people just know there's something out there, a devil that the Imperium is shielding them from.

My helmet heats up with effort as it sets up a communication channel with the Revenant. I need to know what our next move is.

"Kudrenkov!" Karen doesn't seem to agree with something I did, "Status report!"

"Ma'am," I greet sending over the video of the ship I recorded earlier, "Hostiles in the area. Recon complete, requesting permission to engage."

"We know, and denied, soldier, I'm sending a Nerazim shuttle to pick you up now; you're coming back to the Revenant." Logical, since I still have to make my report, but these things that landed in the city are going around almost unopposed. One Spectre in the right place could slow them down enough for at least some of the civvies to evacuate.

"Command, if you want the locals on our side, I think letting them get butchered might not be a good base for friendly negotiations."

"Alright, Sven, you want to fight? Do it, but you're on your own; I need everyone else here in the ship in case we get attacked. Understood?" Wouldn't have it any other way.

"Ten four, command."

I switch my comlink off and turn to the crash survivors, now rappelling their way down the side of the building.

Let's save some ammo on this one… I wait for all of them to be on the rope to remind said rope how flammable it is. Psi powers are all about communication; the best you talk to things, the stronger you are, and I am quite the smooth talker…

The drenched wet rope ignites from the inside and snaps like some old tired string at the exact point I was looking at, near the ledge.

All four corrupted guardsmen fall to their death and most wonder if they would have had a better death in the Imperial Guard.

I sense a large massing of troops, near the warehouses, so that's where I'm headed. There's a powerful presence there, so old it puts any Protoss I ever met to shame, must be the commander…

Hope they make jumbo sized body bags, 'cause that guy sure doesn't feel like a midget.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

A/N: I couldn't find info on the Spectre Psionic Lash, beyond the fact it can down a battle cruiser in one or two hits, so I made some up.

The two beastmen are bored right out of their mind, stuck patrolling an empty alley while all of their pals are out collecting skulls.

The alley they are patrolling is almost a hundred meters long and so thin at most places only one man can go in at a time. That's good, it means they will not be facing Astarte.

All in all, they are careless and sloppy. They still eagerly search the place for something to kill however, poking bayonets through piles of junk and keeping an eye on both ends of the alley.

They could search this place for decades and never find me; I'm over their head, feet pressed to a wall and back to the opposite.

I draw my silenced pistol, but patience is a virtue and I stand by, waiting for them to get closer. One's tiny and looks more like a farm animal than a soldier while the other reminds me of these Tauren Marine stories I heard. Perfect candidate.

In the meantime, I do some digging inside their heads… Not a lot going on in blood god is the supreme boss, then comes Tirus, a renegade Chaos Space Marine, whatever that is, then there's Viderrick, the commander of the corrupted guards and that's pretty much it, anyone else that tries to order them around gets his skull added to the skull throne.

Their mind taste like shit, like putrefaction, corruption… It's repulsive.

One gets in range and I line the crosshair with his goat-like head.

Where exactly is the brain? Wait, I'm using HE/SP 6mm rounds; I could hit his shoulder and the head would still come off, so who cares?

A plate sized hole appear in the beastman's face, forcing all of its content out into a water pond on the floor.

The other one falls to his knees as I creep inside his head, rewiring its chemical impulses and synaptic receptors to make him obey only one god: Me. There is some resistance at first, but instead of creating some form of loyalty to me from the ground up, I choose to overwrite the concept of Khorne and put myself in its place.

Then, I uncloak and drop to the floor, splashing blood-stained water all over my boots.

The Minotaur kneels. "I be servin' the Spectre god." Heh, that was easy.

"Here's what you'll do…" I send him the mental instructions and he bows deeper. "Yes, master."

His horned head snaps up with fierce determination painted across it. He grips his lasgun tighter and scream a war cry that sounds close to "BLOOD FOR THE SPECTRE GOD!"

That's kinda funny, if you ask me.

I cloak back and use some levitation and telekinesis to slowly rise to the top of the building where I set up my new gear.

The stuff is just where I left it, under a tired looking blanket.

It's just stuff I looted from the wreckage; a long-las rifle, some grenades, rappelling gear, a lascarbine and some very unstable looking demo charges. Most of it I took just for fun and field testing, as my AGR-28 has a sniper mode while being the size of a carbine and packing just as much punch as these babies.

To be fair, they probably are way more powerful than my AGR, seeing as they are laser based, despite the archaic feel, yet my Gauss rifle is obviously the most advanced piece of equipment.

All in all, I have no idea what I'm up against and how my gear will fare. A bit like fighting Protoss, really.

My sniper nest is a hundred meters further, squeezed between an air conditioning unit and radio antenna. It's quite low; standing at twenty meters, and offers a poor shot at the target, but that's the whole point, seeing as an easy sniping position would be pretty obvious.

There is a staircase leading to that particular rooftop and although the building is unoccupied, I still take a minute to hide a fragmentation grenade or two in every flight of stair from ground level to the top and set up the demo charge just above the staircase. No need for detonator, I can just psyonically set them off.

Then, I unfold the long-las' bipod and let it rest on the edge of the building while shouldering the AGR. I'm two hundred meters away from the command center.

Well, I guess it's the command center; this thing's barely more than a bunch of ships and makeshift shelters and a boiling maelstrom of brutal fury and anger. They set up in some kind of huge plaza with a statue of some guy in armor in the middle.

Well, the guy in armor is not there anymore, but I've seen enough memories of this place in the past few minutes to know it used to be.

The whole situation reminds me of that movie they showed us at the Ghost Academy, 'And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.' It became my squad's motto after Shadowblade, an explanation as to why we fought the dominion.

The minotaur reaches the camp at that moment and I peek down the scope of my AGR. This will be interesting…

The beastman has a rock in a hand and his lasgun in the other; he is carrying out my orders flawlessly.

"Tirus!" He bellows, just at the edge of camp, "Come ya! BLOOD FOR THE SPECTRE GOD!"

Everyone in the camp stands still for a few seconds, all eyes turned to the crazy fool.

"Ya scared, ya big tin boy?"

A low rumbling voice, sounding like an avalanche of granite echoing in an empty valley, answers from the darkness, "You will die for your insolence."

"Yah, I will and so'll ya!" Something the size of a Marauder 5-4 armor steps out of the darkness, chain axe in hand. It is wearing a helmet, just as I felt, with an angry scowl as a face and shoulder pads so big I they could probably serve as toilet seats… What's with everyone and shoulder pads! Is there some vital organ in there they forgot to teach me?

The beastman roars and fires his lasgun into the Chaos Marine's face, barely scratching the paint. The Marine charges and chop off the minotaur's arm like it were made of butter, yet the beef guy still lands quite a few hits with his rock before being swapped away by a backhand strike that shatters his spine. Doesn't matter, he fulfilled his task, so I cut the pain receptors in his brain and let the thing die in peace.

The Marine, his lens scratched and damaged by the furious assaults of the crazed beastman, removes his head gear and toss it aside.

His face is ghostly pale with horns protruding all over his bald scalp.

His lips and lower jaw are a mess of scar tissue and one eye glows a sickly yellow. How can anyone be so ugly with only one head?

"You got something on your face," I compensate a bit to the right, optics warning me about a mild wind midway to the target, and squeeze out a single supersonic Neosteel spike, aimed right between the Marine's eyes, "Got it."

Old Ghost joke.

His face caves in under the impact, apparently struggling to repulse the 8mm spike that slowly makes its way through. In the end, such resistance cause more damage than good, as the round is not stopped, but slowed enough not to exit out the back of the head; it just bounces around the guy's skull like a rubber ball before shattering the jaw.

Big bastard's still standing though, cerebral liquid and gray matter dripping from the mangled mess that was his mouth a second ago.

The troops in the camp begin a frantic search, chaotic and disorganized, as predicted; they search every single building without so much as trying to determine which direction the shot came from. They were animals earlier and now that I killed their leader, they're retarded animals.

I look up at the troop ship still struggling to get back in orbit. This thing is the next target, now that I took out the commander…

How the fuck am I supposed to go about doing that? I guess first I need a very big gun or bomb, although if there was such a thing around here, the Imperial forces would have used it already…

So… Psi lash? Last time I did that, the whole Dominion was on me in seconds and the Frigate I took down was nowhere near the size of that transport.

Then again, this ship is already falling apart, all it needs is a little motivation.

The concept of Psionic lash is quite simple, one must focus a cluster of raw energy, keep it close to the body while building up power until the moment it packs enough energy to power a whole battleship for a full minute, then you find a target and 'lash' out at it with your mind.

Unlike Psi blast or other psychic attacks I could summon on a pinch, this technique doesn't follow the laws of physics; it is capable of cutting through anything, the only restriction is how long you can keep it up.

I'd like to think of some one liner to say, something badass, but right now, I'm so damn nervous all I can think about is 'Yippy Kay Yay, Motherfucker' and I sure as hell don't want my last sentence to be some Bruce Willis line.

Instead, I quote that Wraith pilot; "Gravity: Not just a good idea, it's the law." Yeah, I did better… Anyway, let's turn that cloaking generator off.

I focus intensely and, soon, the air around me crackles with energy as I get weaker and hungrier. I'm still malnourished, so this will be very taxing. Doesn't matter, it'll suffice.

It tickles, like running your hand on a TV screen you just shut off. Impressive, to think all that power emanates from my brain… But that's what Terrazine is for, otherwise I would fry my synapses right there.

Once I've given all I can reasonably contribute without passing out, I unleash a needle-thin stream of pure psi energy. It swirls around like ribbons in the wind, graceful and silent in the rainy night…

I focus my attention on the ship itself and the string pulses angrily before uncurling in a furious thunderclap that leaves tiny criss-cross patterns of molten metal near the choking engines.

The ship doesn't seem to notice at first, then something just… breaks and fall off; a large triangular chunk at the rear, crushing a whole apartment block in the process. The vessel itself twists and screams under the sudden and unexplained structural modification. To the machine's credit, it stays airbornr for half a minute before finally realizing all the laws of physics it breaks in doing so.

The transport tilts to the right slightly as explosions run all across its structure, slowly pushing it away from the city. The whole engine soon breaks away, crushing at least four blocks upon impact. Fortunately, the ship itself crashes into the jungle and, less fortunately, goes off in a fireball that ignites a good chunk of the city and an even bigger bit of jungle.

God… I did this. Not some Protoss High Templar or Thor walker. Me, a lone, tired, beat up Spectre, just officially raped a Dreadnought-sized ship with nothing but my brain and... Shit.

My Psionic 'radar' warns me that I now have a horde of berserk cultists bearing down on my position and should, if it fits my agenda, get the fuck out.

Using telekinesis to fire the long-las into the horde and my rappelling gear to set up a zip line to the now abandoned camp, two hundred meters further, I ready my escape. There's nothing holding the line except my psi powers, but it'll do.

The hordes are now in the staircase. No matter I'm already gone and, once they reach the top, none of them gets to take a shot or even see the abandoned long-las, as I detonate a cluster explosives. The effort causes a mild headache and some numbness in the extremities.

I crash to a stop and drop to a knee, my legs too wobbly to hold me up. I'm weak, but I still retrieve the laser sniper rifle with a short telekinetic burst that sends it spinning in the air.

A bit more sporadic telekinesis guides it all the way to my outstretched hand. Once it's there, I sling it on my back and push myself up. Got damn my legs feel like cotton…

I should have brought some Stimpacks… Bah, whatever, I'm done here anyway.

"Revenant," I call, "Operation successful, can I get an EVAC here?"

There's only statics on the line for about twenty seconds; a very long time, if you ask me.

"Negative, Sven, local defense forces are crawling in your area, sending anything in there would be crazy."

Indeed, the sky is crawling with eagle-like ships. Looking for whatever it is that took down a transporter in a single strike. Projector beams are sweeping the whole area and I hear patrols coming in. Some of them seem to engage the cultists in heavy combat, judging from the sounds of battle in the alleys around the plaza.

I feel someone emerge from an alley directly behind me, filled with fear and apprehension.

Fuck, I didn't turn my cloaking field back on after the psionic lash.

The Planetary Defense Force trooper's mind touches mine. Not very sharp; he's an artist, not a soldier and killing just ain't in his nature. He won't shoot me and hasn't reported my presence yet.

"Hello, mister Arkovitz." I greet, slowly lifting my arms up. The kid is at my back, out of sight…

"Put your hands in the air!"

"It's what I'm doing, Harold." Mocking him isn't a good idea, but he's no threat, really.

"G… Get down, on your knees!"

"Can't do that, pal." With that, I send a boost of energy to my suit and sprint backward. Psi sprint makes you feel as if you were running in low gravity. I hate it.

A solid psi amplified punch to his lasgun suffices in disarming the trooper while a quick leg sweep prevents him from attacking me while I run my ass out of this mess.

I am cloaked long before he's up and far away by the time he begins firing at every shadow.

When the squad leaders will ask him what happened, he will most probably answer that he met a Spectre… Because I implanted this thought in his brain, as free advertising.

You know; be feared by your enemies and your allies alike, stuff like that.

So I run. No clue where, no clue how long, I just fucking run until there are no more Imperial ships looking for me, then, when the only thing in the sky is the reflection of the raging fires on the rain and clouds, I run some more, dodging chaos and PDF alike.

The city has an octagonal layout, spread on a single level, unlike bigger hives, who have many. It is separated in many sections: first one occupies the center of the hive, it contains the habitation districts and trade sector as well as quite a few entertainment establishments, second is to the south and west, it's occupied by the landing pads, docs and warehouses. Third come the northern area, the PDF base and training ground. Finally, the east side… Doesn't matter because it's kind of on fire right now…

As for me, I just drag my ass all the way from the warehouse district to the city center. I send a psi echo across the street and wait for the mental map to get in place. I need a place to rest, this last feat drained me and if I try to track down chaos troops now, I'll wind up dead by morning. Fortunately, there are things that never change and I quickly find a very shady brothel that would probably be purified by fire should the authorities ever find out it exists.

Just the kind of places I like.

It takes me about a minute to get there and one more minute to actually find the door; it's in a dark alley, hidden between what appears to be public restrooms and a...Honestly, I have no clue what that's supposed to be, seems like a church or something, only in a cut down, cheaper version.

I enter the alley and knock on a steel door, hidden ten meters away from the street, under the restrooms. I uncloak a second latter. So tired I forgot I was invisible in the first place…

No answer.

I knock again and a loud voice booms as soon as my fist touches the door: "Password?"

The man's mind is weak, an Ogryn, apparently, and I immediately find the password.

"Discretion is the better part of valor." I totally agree with that.

The door opens and the huge man waves me in. He's approximately the same size as Gregor, although I'd bet on the Marine in a fight between these two. The Ogryn is dumb as a brick.

The place is dirty, dark and empty. There's a bar straight ahead with stairs right next to it, going down, and only two tables. Just as well, seeing as the room is barely bigger than the restrooms above.

The boss, a Ratling called Siveras, greets me from a nearby stool.

"Oi! Welcome to Silver Paradise, my friend!" He looks at my armor and gets two thoughts almost simultaneously.

"He's rich." And "He can't be a normal customer." That and a feeling of unease, as if he felt I wasn't supposed to be there.

"How much for a night?" No time for bullshit; I want to sleep.

"Well, now, I suppose ya know what kinda service we do here…"

Mutants. This place hires mutant prostitutes… That's just great, I'll have to spend a night in the same room as a horny female Ogryn…

"Yes, I am aware of you specialty."

He's getting suspicious, peoples who hear from his place do so from being referred by other customers, so in theory, I should already have an idea what I'm looking for. I just need to take a pick from the midget's brain. Peoples in this place are just so fucking easy to mess with, it's as if they've never seen a telepath!

"I heard you employed a renegade Navigator, is she available?"

His grin makes me want to shoot him right there. "Khalia!" His shrill, high pitched tone hurts my ears and doesn't help with my murderous intents, "Time ta work!"

The girl looks human, kinda cute; short red hairs, black eyes, lips a little too big for the size of her nose… but at least five years younger than I am and I'm really not that old… I think I'm around twenty three or twenty five, so that puts the Navigator in her late teens-early twenties. I don't care, I don't intend to do anything with her.

Maybe I should have lifted my visor before she arrived, because the fear I sense from her is so intense, it overshadows any I've ever felt before. Either she's brave as a mouse or that weird aura bullshit is at it again. In any case, I'm really beyond caring right now. But no, she's no coward; I've seen Marines panic from fear half that strong…

Still, Khalia almost begs the Ratling not to let me hire her, refusing to follow me to her room, and I'm about to tell Siveras that I changed my mind when, on a signal from the owner, the Ogryn doorman punches the tiny mutant girl in the guts hard enough to make her see stars trough even her normal eyes. I try to access the part of her brain linked to the third one, but my instinct tells me whatever made that girl so brave, it came from that eye and I don't have the balls to handle it, so I retreat from her skull and shoot the men a piercing glare… Through my optics… Might as well be trying to kill them with a laser designator.

First: Sleep, then I'll mind rape the midget and the giant so hard they'll think they're farm animals.

A slight tweak in the little guy's brain make him think I paid double and gave him express orders not to disturb me until I decide I'm done, which he's glad to agree to.

"Why, of course, sir, you may take as long as you want!" And he begins counting money only he can see.

The Navigator's the only one to realize what I did and that just increases her fear. She'd like to run, but all the guns I'm carrying dissuade her from doing it. Instead, she heads down the stairs, clutching her stomach in pain and dragging her feet all the way.

The Navigator's room is barely more than a circular chamber with a queen sized bed occupying half of it.

The girl is dressed in robes I can only guess are supposed to make her look like a Navigator from one of those Imperial ships. I can't tell since her family was banished long ago and she never served the Imperium. She never even set foot on a space ship.

She asks me something about undressing, but I'm busy unlocking my helmet and infuser.

Feeling the stale air of this place on my sweat drenched hairs and face is a delight, but one I must cut short, seeing as the mutant on the bed is growing more scared with every passing seconds. Might as well make things clear now…

"Don't worry, Khalia, I want nothing from you, I just needed a safe place to rest."

With that, I toss my weapons on the floor, quickly following them as I use my hardened backpack as a pillow.

I didn't get here by coincidence, that mutant knows things I could use, but right now, I just want to sleep. Be a psychic long enough, you accept there's things you don't understand. I spend my life browsing other people's brains, manipulating their beliefs, maybe someone's browsing mine, manipulating me…

I send a data package to the Rev using just technopathy -and a nearby metal tower- and quickly fall asleep.

0

0

0

Revenant

Six hours latter

Braxis' Orbit

"C'mon, baby, ya need to follow the move, don't try to go against the flow!" The Hammer Securities merc explained to Alan as the other man tried to move his gargantuan CMC-660.

They were standing in a makeshift gymnasium Dylan had whipped up out of an empty cargo hold and Alan was trying to learn how to become a Firebat. It was very hard moving in that huge fucking suit…

Kade took a stumbling step forward, then another, then crashed on the floor like a ragdoll.

"Gettin' there…" The Marauder laughed over the downed Firebat, "Ya should just relax, baby, let the suit do the work. Your own muscles don't factor it, tha suit's robotic, a' least ten times as strong as ya!"

"So if I try to push it instead of gently nudging it, I eat dirt?"

"That right."

Alan pushed the massive armor back up with his twin flamethrowers and gave it another try, just nudging the armor forward. It was still nowhere as fluid as Dylan's pervious dancing display, but it would get him through the incoming combat drop.

Nearby, the War Pigs were using piled crates and containers as simulated urban environment to train in, they had spent the last two hours doing it, preparing for the upcoming battle.

Alan opened a comlink with Langley, they defacto team leader, and asked him what the operation's status was. Langley asked Fauster, who asked Worst and the Ghost answered on the general frequency.

"We're waiting for the Probes to finish assembling the Void canon, then we'll contact the defending fleet. If they authorize us to launch an op in their city, we're going to hook up with their forces and lead standard support operations, if they refuse, we're still going in, but on our own and with Nerazims acting as scouts."

"What the fuck's a Nerazime?" Vince's voice asked. The Reaper had disappeared soon after Karen had announced that they were heading down to find Kudrenkov.

"Dark Templars." Hannah groaned from inside the infirmary, "Christ, Vincent, I thought Reapers were brilliant killers or something!"

"I was, but then they ressoced me five times, so I guess I ain't as sharp as I used to be…"

On the bridge, Karen and Irena were trying to find where the comm. console was located, with little success. There were monitoring systems, cryo release commands, newly installed Protoss weapons consoles, but the communications system were a complete mystery.

So Karen decided to inspect the section of plasteel the Corporal had touched earlier, looking for anything with the words ON and OFF.

There was a list of numbers that seemed like radio frequency with, at the top, a frequency marked with the word UNKNOWN ERROR. She pressed that one and Shaanis' face filled the screen view, replacing all the diagrams and frequencies.

"You addressed me, Lieutenant?"

Well, that was not the intended result, but it would do. "Yes, Librarian, could you put me into contact with the Defender's flagship?"

"It shall be done." And he blinked away.

"Shady bastard." Irena commented. Worst secretly agreed, but then again, she was a shady bitch herself.

Soon enough, her screen filled with statics, quickly replaced by a severe looking man clad in some kind of blue military uniform.

"I am Rear-Admiral Reich," He announced, speaking as if she should somehow know the guy, "Identify yourself immediately!"

Karen hated that guy already. "Lieutenant Karen Worst, sir…" She was about to say 'from the Terran Dominion, but this would have been… Inaccurate: "Independent mercenary."

Maybe she should have chosen something else, seeing as the man's face immediately took a furious red shade.

"How dare you show yourself here! You scum, show yourself so I may smite you from the sky!"

What? If that was the best that pompous asshole could muster, she would give him a run for his money.

"Listen to me you fat fucker, I don't give a rat's shit about you, I only called to figure out whether I should just blow those two remaining junkyards you try to command and obviously fail, seeing as my man had to eliminate the enemy commander and their support ship all by himself…"

The man's face fell at her use of singular. A singe man? Impossible!

"That's right," Karen laughed with a ferocious grin, "Just one of my boy did what your whole fleet couldn't, of course, don't take my word for it, why should you? Ask the PDF and local about Spectre; that's my boy."

The man straightened himself and quickly analyzed the situation. There was an Ultramarine strike cruiser inbound; it would be with them any day now. Whoever these mercenaries were, the Astartes could deal with them easily, so in the meanwhile, he could enlist them to wipe out Chaos forces and assist the Planetary Defense Forces… If the Governor agreed, that is.

"Very well, miss Worst, let's hear you out…"

Karen regretted not being able to probe the man's mind to find out the reason behind that sudden change in heart. How non-telepaths got by was beyond her.

"We need Vespene gas and minerals… Here I sent you the chemical composition of both resources…"

The Admiral asked someone off screen to check it out and they answered these had absolutely no value and could not be used for anything outside cheap jewelry and fireworks. They were simple oddities, really.

Karen understood from this exchange that the Imperium did not have the knowledge of how to extract Neosteel from the crystal formations, nor of how to turn Vespene into fuel. How could any civilization make due without these two resources was beyond the Ghost's understanding.

"You will get what you requests, now, how many men can you spare?" Reich would be disappointed by the answer…

"Nine, it's a Special Forces group, however."

The Admiral asked for more information on these men and Worst obliged. She had nothing to hide, really, if these guys knew their history, they'd know about every kind of unit she had already.

"Marine Sergeant Fauster will lead the unit, Reaper Corporal Kerensky will serve as scout, War Pigs Corporal Langley is our Elite infantry team leader, with Private Darka as our medical officer, Firebat Corporal Kade and Marauder Sergeant Rainer will serve as heavy infantry, Privates Smiles and Cole as Riflemen and, finally, we have a Spectre Black Ops Specialist on the ground."

"Dave." Irena pointed out and the Ghost facepalmed. She needed some rest…

"That's right, we have a Viking versatility weapon platform as air and armor support."

Didn't take a telepath to know the Admiral was totally lost. The man was chewing on his bottom lip trying hard to understand what the woman had just said. When an admiral did something like that, it was never a good sign; privates chew their lips like that, sergeants, not so often. Admirals… Well, when your Admiral is tense, run for the nearest life pod…

"Fine, you may deploy immediately, I will clear it with the governor. I hope your men are as good as you say…"

So did she.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

A/N: So, let's get this clear, the Warp was not like it currently is back in 2504, Chaos didn't exist back then, so neither did Psykers... I'll explain it in this chapter ^^' The Protoss aren't Psykers either, more like Orks, drawing power from the Waaagh! Dark Templars, however, draw power from the void, which has no equivalent is WH40K...

Anon: They will get it rough, trust me, but not until I'm done making readers care about them :3 I like killing off characters at the peak of their glory, otherwise, it feels like redshirt death...

Kane: I enjoy such constructive reviews, but too many question, mate ^^Keep reading and you'll find out. But no, the third eye is because she's a Navigator. As for the Zergs... They will make an appearence latter on :D

Master of the Blood Wolves: hehe, thanks :D

Baka Ecchi Kon: Thanks man, I'm glad you think so!

Thatnk's for the reviews, everyone, it means a lot!

Vince was a dumbass, a bastard and a very lousy human being at large, yet that was alright by most people he worked with, because he was also a Reaper and one of the best in the whole Dominion.

Even Greg knew giving actual orders to the guy would limit his combat effectiveness, so when the Dark Templar on recon told them their LZ was way too hot, the Sergeant only had to utter a single sentence.

"Take care of it."

And Vincent gladly obeyed; the Reaper opened the shuttle's rear hatch and jumped out yelling something around the lines of "Geronimo!"

Out the open ramp, he could see Dave's Viking heading for the ground a lot faster than it should have, smoke rising from its frame. There were three hostile stuck on his six and trying to finish him off, but the Viking disappeared amongst the buildings and the ships pulled up.

It was only a matter of time before they found the shuttle.

Bellow, Vince was raining supersonic 8mm spikes on a group of soldiers who answered right back with their lasguns. A few shot grazed and the Reaper fired his jetpacks to remain mobile and avoid the onslaught.

The Chaos forces on the ground were set up in a sloppy formation around a captured Leman Russ and the buildings on their right and left extended high behind the Reaper, meaning he could only swing back and forth.

Once he was about thirty meters from the ground, Vince fired the jets at full burn and slowed down enough that two cultists actually managed to take a shot at him. This caused second degree burns on his chest because of the radiated heat, but no structural damage to the armor itself… A Stimpack made the pain go away and got him ready for some ass whooping.

The Reaper finally touched down and immediately used a combination of Deuterium 8 and Scythe pistol fire to force his enemies to cover while he, himself ducked behind an abandoned civilian vehicle. His Reaper armor may not provide the level of protection CMC suits did, it had its perks, like being able to actually take cover.

The tank's main gun lined up with the car Vince was hiding behind and the Reaper had to jump out of cover. He fired his jets just in time to evade the Heavy bolter fire, but not fast enough to escape the blast from the tank's main gun.

He watched with amusement as his left forearm detached from his body in slow motion. Seems like he was going to need some more stimpacks…

Not really knowing how, Vincent found himself straddling the tanks' main gun. He didn't need to know how, in his job, thinking got you killed; instead, he lifted his remaining Scythe and shot the gunner in the head before priming two D-8 charges. He walked over to the opened hatch and shoved both explosives in. His jump juts screamed in a tone that clearly indicated they were badly damaged and Vince jettisoned them while still five meters above ground.

The impact was hard, but nothing compared to the Russ' explosion.

Vince somehow found himself embedded in the reception desk of some building and swiftly kicked himself up.

Out the hole his armored body had left in the front door, the Reaper could see Cultists approaching, so he hid behind the smashed wooden desk and scanned the killbox; Four pillars were the only covers available ahead and some sort of elevator was his only possible fall back route.

"Last stand," He scoffed, "I love last stands."

He reloaded his weapon and tossed a pair of remote-controlled D-8 charges near the door.

The First cultist to get in dies with a spike the size of his finger shattering his skull while the nine others were blown to pieces before Kerensky could do anything. Premature detonation?

Dylan's voice on the comlink was all the explanation he needed: "Kaboom, Baby!"

The shuttle swung in low, dropping the Terrans trough some sort of antigravitational field before recloaking.

The team leanded in some kind of shallow crater and both riflemen separated on the ground, one securing the north-west flank and the other taking the south-western one. Alan went with Cole to the north while Dylan went south, giving weight to the two Marines' arguments…

Gregor, Hannah and Victor, on the other hand, hurried to Vince's side as soon as the Reaper made it out of the half-destroyed building.

Hannah didn't say a word and used her Tissue Regenerator to cicatrize the stump now replacing his left arm.

"Hope it ain't your wanking arm." Was Victor's only reaction to the Reaper's predicament.

"What's your status, Reaper?" Greg then asked, more as a way to say 'If you want out, no one's gonna blame you'

"Looking for payback, sir." With that, Vince drew his Scythe pistol and moved all his D-8 charges to the left side, this way he could holster quickly and hurl bombs without too much trouble.

"This man has issues." Hannah commented after the Reaper had walked away.

"I like him." Langley retorted, smiling under his helmet.

Greg attempted to open a comm. channel with Dave, but got only static in return. Seems they would have to do this without air support… What had The LT been thinking? Sending only a single air support craft?

"Alright, people," Greg announced on the squad comm. "there's something called a Baneblade half a klick west of here and the locals want us to secure it until they can get a crew ready. Keep it tight and shoot anything that moves; the locals are quite trigger happy and the best counter is to be even crankier than they are!"

With these words of wisdom, the bunch of escaped convicts got moving, Marauder and Firebat on point and War Pigs bringing the rear.

0

0

0

When I wake up, the mutant is deeply asleep on her bed and I must admit I envy her a little; mu whole body hurts from the night spent straight on the hard floor.

I slip my helmet back on and inhale a shot of Jorium and Terrazine before the shakes begin. This shit wakes up like two cups of coffee and a slap in the face.

Next, I grab an MRE and toss it to the sleeping mutant, hitting her square on the side of her head she wakes up with a start and I tell her to eat, as we'll have to discuss later.

Someone like Vince or one of the War Pigs would probably have taken advantage of the situation with that pretty girl in the same room as them and all that, but me… Well, I can't say I'm a noble soul or shit like that, truth is, Terrazine and Jorium fried my sex drive, so although I can appreciate the beauty of her features, I am just as sexually attracted to that girl as I would be to a flower or pretty bird.

Tell me, if you had an exotic flower or fancy parrot in your bedroom, would you even want to fuck them? Exactly.

Most people focus their whole life on reproduction and that's all right, it's the way the world has been for centu… well, Millenniums, now. But I guess one could see me as the human incarnation of the Zergs; survival is one of my goals, but ultimately, power is the final objective.

Now, I'm no evil overlord, not by a long shot, I dare say, but fact is, life is all about will to power, peoples just don't admit it. Why work? To get money. Why get money? To become more powerful. Money is power, but in my case, it's all about psi. I've seen what the Protoss can do and although it seems real fancy, I know I have the potential to do much more. What for? Well, quite simply; fun. What else is there? I could take life seriously and go fight for some noble cause and die a martyre, or have fun for the hundred and twenty years I have left to live.

What would it change? The end result is the same; I'm dead. Not proud, not disappointed, not even happy, just dead.

So, in the meantime, I'll get out there, get in trouble, cause trouble, have a blast and see shit most peoples wouldn't believe. Maybe make a few friends in the process, who knows.

Speaking of which…

"Name's Sven, by the way." I call out. I don't feel fear from her anymore. Whatever it was that caused such unease, she got used to it overnight. She's now sitting on the edge of her bed

"You're a Psyker." She states and I search her mind for the definition of Psyker.

Basically, it's a Psychic human like me, somewhat, but aren't as… Complete as I am. If I'm a knife, psykers are shotguns. I produce my abilities trough training and imagination, power them from my brain itself and use my body to point them in the right direction. I do everything myself whereas Psykers rely on something close to the Khala, drawing power from it and only capable of using rigid, albeit powerful, psionic abilities. All in all, they have more juice than me, since they have an external power source, but I got a lot more tricks up my sleeve and won't be having a demon take over my body. Oh, and I didn't fry half my brain to obtain my powers… More like a third or so…

"No, I'm something else."

She seems doubtful and, once again, I'm about to go diving trough her head for info…

"Stop doing that!" The outburst takes me by surprise and I blush despite myself.

"Y-y…You can feel it?" I stutter, completely lost. She's no Telepath, that's for sure.

I'd search her brain to find more, but she asked me to stop.

"Yes! It's like a large shadow is always hovering around you, complete darkness, and every time you do… Whatever it is you do, that darkness extends from your body and it crawls in my head, it's so cold and dark…"

She actually hugs her knees at that sentence.

"Tell me more about that shadow…" I ask, hiding the shame I'm now feeling as best I can.

"It's like the warp parted around you, leaving you in complete darkness… You look normal with my regular eyes, but…"

"The Warp… What's wrong with it?" Everything I felt, the association of the sub-space to hell, the demons that reside in it, it's not the same thing as we used to travel trough, it can't be!

Without entering her brain, I can still pick up her surface thoughts and that last one was very offencing.

"No, I didn't live under a rock, I lived in a Warp/Void space time singularity, you got a problem with that?"

Her look is priceless and the "Throne I hope he is joking…" I pick up is just as much.

"Well, In the year 2510, three entities were created within the Warp, three gods of Chaos, Nurgle, Khorne and…" Whatever she says next sounds more like someone sneezing than a name… Anyway, What she just said could coincide with the Protoss prophecy about the return of the Xel-Naga… Maybe those gods are actually the same gods that made the Protoss and Zergs… I learned a huge amount of things from having a few drinks with Jim Raynor.

"Uhm…" She observes my laser weaponry, uneasily, "Although you can't be affected by the Warp, these weapons are corrupted by chaos and could corrupt peoples around you."

They suck anyway. I toss both to a corner of the room and heft my AGR-28.

"Is this one good?"

She squints at it, apparently uncertain. "It is not corrupted, but the shadow surrounds it as well…"

Probably because it is powered by my suit… Anyway, it's time for me to move, I got some hunting to do, but first, I need to get that Navigator on the Revenant.

"Khalia, I got a way off this planet for you, although you'll most likely get into all kind of trouble with the Imperium."

She scoffs, "Think it can get worst than my current situation?"

"You're alive aren't you?"

So I call for a Shuttle to be sent and this time I get it, no questions asked.

"What's the situation, by the way?" I ask Ghosty, while I'm at it.

"We contacted the locals and agreed to a trade of resources in exchange for our military support… Your performance helped quite a bit and I have received eight requests from Imperial High ranking officers to be granted a meeting with you as well as… Irena?"

I hear Irena speak in the background, then Karen returns on the line, "Twelve job offers from guys calling themselves 'Rogue Traders'. I guess you just became the ace up our sleeve… " Her tone becomes serious suddenly, "I have to ask, how do you actually handle against the peoples in this place? Think you can pull off some high risk missions?"

I make a quick review of my previous encounters and come to the conclusion that I am either outgunned, outmuscled, outnumbered or just outpowered. Or all of the above. This is the kind if fights I was trained for and I kept encountering back in the days, so the answer is obvious.

"Combat effectiveness remains nominal."

For some reason, hearing myself say that gives me goose bumps.

"Good to hear. I have a job for you on the request of some guy who calls himself 'Inquisitor'…"

I turn to the mutant and ask her to tell me about Inquisitors. Basically, they're like the inquisition on earth, back in the witch hunting days.

"What's he want?"

"The governor is an incompetent and an imbecile, but the Inquisitor doesn't have enough Guardsmen left to break into the palace, so he wants you to infiltrate the place and bring the governor's head to the nearest Imperial Guard camp."

"Charming."

"Isn't it?"

I sign off and leave the room. Up the stairs, I find the Ratling and Ogryn and quickly reorganize their neural pathways, using those of a goat and a horse as templates.

The Ogryn then turn to me with wide panicked eyes: "Neahhh!"

He rams trough the door and quickly leave the place while Siveras just stands there, looking at me with wide eyes. His crooked nose and prominent forehead look nothing like a horse's face, honestly.

"What did you do to them?" The Navigator gasps behind me, sounding more mad than surprised.

"Oh, don't worry, a few decades of psychiatric internment and they'll be their original selves again." I answer playfully. She doesn't think it's funny.

"You can't go around playing with peoples' brains like that!" She scolds, "Did nobody ever tell you that with great power come great responsibility?"

What the fuck is this? Do I look like the good guy in this story?

"Yeah, but it always ended with them changing their minds after I liquefied half their brains." I look at the mutant, "So, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Nothing important." Interestingly, she doesn't look afraid, just amused… I need to stop with the random acts of nicety, I'm getting soft.

"Look, there's a ship coming to pick you up, I got peoples to kill…"

"I'll wait here." She confirms with a nod, before shoving the Horse/Ratling off his stool to grab herself a drink.

Siveras whines in pain and flees trough the shattered door and I soon follow.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

At first, I intended this to be a Rogue Trader styled fic with a tiny crew and even tinier fleet, with Sven controlling only a few hero-level Zergs, but now, I just realized the Terran industrial might is their biggest asset against the Imperium, seeing as they can turn some moppet into an Astarte cheap knockoff in 24hours... How could I say that?

Make no mistake, dear readers, war is coming, with all its glory, and all its horror, forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage...

Kane: The prison was mostly like a Gulag, temporary installation in the ice of Braxis, it was destroyed during the planet's global warming.

As for Lexicanum, I did read a good part of it, but still feel like there's stuff they didn't elaborate on enough, so be ready to see a lot of personal interpretations in the near (Far?) future...

hopefully, this chapter will answer all your questions :D

Master of the Blood Wolves: Thanks hope you'll like the direction I gave it :D

Sovietkid: I try to, but 5000 words chapter daily with perfect spelling are a lot to ask of me :S

Once again, thanks, for reviewing everyone, your feedbacks really helped :D

If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.
- Sun Tzu

Getting to the palace in itself poses absolutely no problem to me, I just need to avoid peoples with heat detection devices or beastmen with an acute sense of smell, my psionic powers allowing me to pinpoint those detectors long before I enter their detection zone… Of course, this is no video game and that means I must either go underground and into the sewers when the enemy has a heat seeking device or take a wide berth to stay under the wind when it's a smelling bastard… The second situation is not exactly aided by the first one, but I think even if they did smell me, they would think some sewer leaked in the street or something.

So the trip is uneventful in itself, yet takes four hours and I'm not even to the palace gates, right in the middle of the city, but instead two kilometers north and five hundred meters above, lying on my stomach and observing the perimeter defenses with my optic implants set at max magnification.

Quite a challenge: Thermal and motion sensing laser turrets, five hundred elite guards with implants on par with my own and most likely capable of piercing my cloaking field, a hundred semi-robots called Servitors. They don't really think, but technopathy should allow me to manipulate their minds as well.

Then, the palace itself has ceramite doors reinforced wit Adamantium, the name we used to call Neosteel, even tough some technopath digging in the local archives reveals they get the thing exclusively out of asteroids and not form chemically altering OR3 crystal formations, this makes Adamantium about thirty percent tougher than Neosteel, but a lot harder to find, as OR3 can still be found on seventy percent of the words known to the Imperium and while they realize the benefit such plentiful resource could bring them, they lack the chemical knowledge to find an actual use to it.

That's fascinating, but I don't have time to waste with history.

The plan is to attract something or someone with a dropship to my position, kill everyone, steal the ship and disguise it as a supply transport for the palace, which, from what I understood, is due to arrive at any moment.

I'd like to plan it all trough and double check my calculations, but I'd rather get this done with soon so I can go eat something, I'm starving.

Normally, I would use a smoke grenade to attract the attention, but I'm not packing any, so instead I use my Psi powers to lift up a large column of dust and make it crackle with Psychic energy. The thing looks like a small twister filled with red lightnings… It requires barely more power than a mind blast, yet, if I give it enough spin and use tougher particles, could easily be used as an anti-infantry power, acting on the base of sand paper and vaccum cleaners…

I'll give it a try right away, I suppose; there's an Imperial Guard Valkyrie dropship coming for the east, where the fires still rage.

First, however, I send a shockwave into the tall building's structure, shattering the windows, then attract some of the finer shards all the way to the roof and into the twister.

It is now glowing a bright red and spinning lazily. At this velocity, it would be no threat to anyone, but that's the point right now, I want the soldiers to leave their ship to inspect the phenomenon.

The dropship hovers around the roof for about a minute before finally deploying its landing gears. Never touches down though; a Chaos-controlled dropship rises from the southern edge of the building, having most likely approached the area at low altitude then ascended close to the building to avoid detection.

The Guard pilot tries to evade, but is too late and his ship is hit by two Lascannon shots right in the cockpit.

The fist Valkyrie just fall like a dead leaf, chipping one of its wings on the edge of the building in its descent.

The newcomer drops only four soldiers, three carrying hotshot lasguns and one packing a chainsword and hotshot laspistol.

The dropship speeds away while the four corrupted shock troops spread on the roof. One of them has a mechanical eye, so in adition to my cloak, I need to physically hide behind an air conditioning unit. I altered the thing to emit the same amount of heat as me for just that purpose.

Next step; kill every single motherfucker. The Psi twister picks up speed, suddenly emitting a sound close to a circular saw, and I feel a very light mental strain at the expense of energy, yet far too little to be crippling or even bothering.

Nature does things to near perfection and the twister effect is a perfect weapon; it sucks the air up its tube so violently and brutally two of the corrupted guards get sucked it and added to the mass. By that point, it's like spinning on a swivel; all I need to do is giving it occasional shoves to keep the thing going.

The suction or levitation are just side effects of the wind displacement. In fact, the only thing keeping me from being thorn to shreds by my own creation is the air conditioning unit between us.

The twister soon 'digests' its first victims –essentially using its abrasive properties to break him down to the cellular level-, turning a darker shade of red as it adds the flesh, bones and armor of the Cultist to the screaming maelstrom.

I nudge it to the left, where the remaining two are hiding, and I feel both of them die, yet the Psionic signature of the pistol wielding man remains.

I cannot end the twister in itself, but I do stop powering it, which causes a slow deceleration and, soon enough, the roof is covered by a pool of liquefied biological matter turned slightly muddy by all the dust, glass and bone fragments, without forgetting the flak armors and lasguns.

"Now this!" I laugh, more for myself than anyone else, "Is purification! Dust to dust, indeed."

On the ground, floating atop the pool of bloody goo, is the hotshot laspistol… That's where the psi signature is coming from, as if that pistol had wielded the Cultist and not the other way around…

I pick it up and it blurs all over, loosing it WWII era to become more sleek, refined; the canon, slide and reticule's shape reminds me of an overly long P99 pistol of the twenty first century, while the grip is closer to the Glock series. The slide, which doesn't actually act as one, extends over my hand and all the way to my wrist.

A nice gun that looks more like a mix of Terran and Protoss tech, instead of that high-tech low grade Imperial stuff.

I slip it in my belt, as a trophy of sort. I know about daemon weapons and I'm pretty sure it is one, but Ka… fuck, what was her name again? Kaila? Khalia? Whatever, the mutant whore, she said I was immune to warp influence, so better I'm the one carrying such an item than I leave it there to be picked up by some kid or whatever…

Nah, actually, I just want the trophy.

Now, to get off this roof… Of the few available options, taking the express elevator is my favorite.

I could jump off and levitate for the ten minutes it would take me to go down, but a single second of distraction and I fall to my death. No, elevator is much more practical.

I overload my suit's muscle with psi energy, focusing on the arms and back, and observe as a red vines-like pulsing light grows on my forearm, disappearing under my gauntlets.

One such overpowered punch cracks the floor, but not much, so I punch again and again…

I could use a psi blast to carve a way down, but overloading my muscles is much more power efficient as my actual muscles do half the job.

Once I've dug my way down, I punch the elevator doors open and spread the energy more equally across my body, causing the vine-like lights to vanish.

This elevator works out of magnetic repulsion, not ropes, and since the power has been cut in this building for one reason or the other, it is not gonna move from the first basement.

I'd like to say I'm confident about what I'm about to do, but truth is, I think this is a terrible idea.

Still, time to jump.

The jump across to the right side of the elevator shaft earns me one of the most intense adrenaline rush I ever felt and the following descent -slowed by my hands and feet pressed against two parallel rails in the wall, as well as levitation- is pretty high on the list of my 'Oh shit that's was DUMB!' moments.

I made sure to grab the left rail with my right hand, so I don't end up with my face in the wall, but I think I also strained a muscle in the process.

Mistakes don't kill people, panic and failure to adapt does. In that case, all I have to do is stay calm and hang on. Basically; no going back now.

The Neosteel covering my fingers presses the metal so hard sparks soon fly from it, bouncing off my mask harmlessly.

The side of my feet is rubbing on the rails as well, causing just as much sparks to pepper the Neosteel plates covering my legs, burning the paint away.

Well, at least it's working; all I have to do to stop the vertiginous descent is squeeze harder.

I need to pressurize my suit however, to stop the growing pressure from popping my eardrums. That's one thing I didn't plan for.

I descend for almost three minutes like that and everything goes according to pla… Fuck.

I didn't foresee that the rails could actually end and be replaced by another set to the opposite end of the shaft, three meters away. I'm going too fast to stop in time and if I keep on going, I'll hit some sort of safety break so hard I'll spit feet bones for the rest of my life…

So I push myself off and freefall almost thirty meters before reaching the other side. My right hand left rail technique doesn't quite work out at terminal speed and I find myself holding the piece of metal with a single hand, the deceleration so brutal I can't even move my other arm.

The only thing that keeps this one hand from ripping off is the fact my subcounscious had somehow foreseen this problem and is now diverting all power to the muscles of my spine and right arm.

That's CMC armor-level strength and it still isn't stopping me!

Numbers on my visor scroll at a vertiginous speed; a countdown leading to the unavoidable impact with the elevator.

I build up a smaller version of a psi lash in my left hand and wait, now leaving a trail of residual psi energy in addition to the shower of sparks.

One hundred meters, one hundred and twenty-five kilometers per hour. My gauntlet and fingers are glowing hot now, but the hostile environment suit underneath is protecting me from harm, although I can still feet the fabric heat up.

Fifty meters, one hundred kilometers per hour. I rear my hand at the sight of the elevator bellow.

Ten meters, ninety-nine kilometers per hour. U unleash the energy buildup, but don't shap it in a lash, just letting the shockwave tear everything bellow to shit. Walls, doors, elevator, everything seems to have been his by a Dragoon plasma canon.

A split-second later, my whole world is the angry red glow from the molten and burning metal as well as residual psi energy. The elevator is now falling freely, albeit slower than me. Convenient, as I seem to have destroyed the rail, my hand now holding nothing more that a piece of twisted metal.

I crash into the falling and burning cabin so hard, my suit warns me of internal organs bruising as well as brain damage. Brain damage, however, is quickly fixed by Terrazine, so I don't much care.

Thirty two kilometers per hour and rising. I calculate the frequency at which the sub-basement doors speed by, wait, the telekinetically as well as physically push myself up while sending a psi blast right from my forehead.

The numbers stop scrolling, the pressure in my guts almost makes me shit in my pants and I can feel the heavy strain on my spine despite the synth muscles working overtime to keep it from harm. Not only that, but I have a segmented Neosteel structure built in the back of my suit for that same purpose.

In any event, my sight soon returns and I can take a look at where I landed.

Level -6. Not so bad. I'll take the stairs.

I try to stand, but my legs won't respond. Either I busted something I shouldn't have or the adrenaline rush has already worn off and I now get the physiological effects. Both are likely, seeing as I metabolize drugs twice as fast as a normal human.

So, lying on my back and shaking like a leaf, I ride off the rush and wait. No sense moving now, it'll only attract attention and I can't fight in that state.

It's not the scheduled time, but I still inhale a shot of blood scented gas, calming my nerves and helping me focus. After that, I can actually sit up and check the damage; the paint was completely burned away on my right gauntlet and the inner side of my legs with some 'splash' effect all over the armor caused by the sparks, as if I had walked in a pond of fire and it sprayed a bit over my clothes.

Getting up is a bit trickier, but I manage it. Next thing to do; engage my cloaking field.

Once I'm invisible to about eighty percent of the population, I get my AGR ready and carefully step across the large room I landed it. A hangar, from the looks of it, filled with wooden planks, beams and such, nothing useful unless I want to set the building on fire… I don't want to do that, do I?

A quick scan confirms all there is on a seven hundred meters radius around this building are Chaos cultist and me… And the pistol, who seems just as shaken as I am from our earlier fall.

I tell the wood around me how hot it is around here and fire spreads like a wind in a field, soon filling the whole room. The heat is already getting hard to bear by the time I reach the stairs and that's just two steps away.

By the time I reach ground level, emerging to the right of a smashed reception desk, the fire has already spread across eight levels and is slowly burning trough the floor ahead.

I leave the building just in time to avoid getting roasted along with everything else, but on my way out, I notice a warning sign on the floor I did not see when I came in.

By decree of the governor, this structure is hereby requisitioned for storage of Planetary Defense Forces supply, trespassers will be shot on sight.

That doesn't sound good… I hurry to my cloaked Vulture hoverbike –Karen figured I'd need some additional mobility- and hit the gas without further hesitation, going from zero to two hundred kph in a second.

0

0

0

Irena's victorious squeal caused both Worst and Khalia to jump in surprise from where they stood, near the slowly forming galaxy map.

"What's up?" Karen asked, getting tired of the eccentric pilot's weird behavior.

"I just cracked the encryption algorithms; we have full access to the ship's system and its control adjutant." The pride in the pilot's voice was palpable, yet the only reaction she received were stares. That made her go back to her console mumbling.

Suddenly, from the wall at the back of the bridge, right next to the wall, emerged a green-colored robotic woman, fused to something close to a chair and with cables sticking from across her metallic body.

"Adeptus Mechanicus on this ship?" Khalia marveled before realizing her mistake. This thing was not alive, it was not even made of living tissues, an Abominable Intelligence.

The Navigator remained calm. She had expected such shocks and the ease with which Karen approached the thing helped as well.

Still, if a Magos ever got on this ship, he would blow a fuse… Literally.

"Adjutant, do you have access to the ship's newest addons?" Was Worst's first question.

"Unknown origin offensive and defensive devices detected. Control codes… Confirmed. Control established. Warning, Warp drive anomalies detected." The thing sounded dumb, almost like a servitor.

"The Warp engine was replaced by a newest model," Karen explained, "Can you tell me the ship's cryo manifest?"

The machine looked around the room for a few seconds, not really seeing it.

"Manifest, complete. Do you require individual information?"

The machine's blue eyes were unsettling, wide open, never blinking and looking at everyone with insistence.

"No, just give me a breakdown by occupation…"

"Affirmative. Marine Corps Recruits: Four Hundred.

Doctors, Ph.D: Six.

Doctors, Ed.D: Twelve.

Technicians, Mechanic: Nine.

Technicians, Medical: Thirty.

Drivers, Space Construction Vehicle: Forty.

Do you require further information?"

Karen marveled at the variety of people her former employers would lock away. Khalia, across the room, was just waiting for someone to explain to her just why the Lieutenant was speaking with an Abominable Intelligence like it was a pet and Irena wondered where that third Imperial cruiser could have come from.

Worst sat in the captain's chair, contemplating and Irena walked up to her, wondering just what the Ghost would do next. "Good, now, do we have neural resocialization tanks aboard?" An idea was dawning inside Worst's brain, an idea that would ensure they didn't become slaves to that wannabe evil empire…

"Affirmative; four hundred Resoc Tanks available in Cargo Hold four."

"Transfer the frozen recruits to the tanks and change their loyalty from the Terran Dominion to…" She thought for a while about the best possible name for their new force, but decided it was not her call to make, "Hold that thought, get me in contact with the Protoss ship…"

The Adjutant tried its best to obey, steam rising from its frame because of the effort, but finally gave up, head hung low in shame.

"Could not establish transmission, please state frequency."

"Unknown Error." Karen laughed. Someone had obviously programmed some personality in that Adjutant… Maybe she could ask Sven to make it smarter trough technopathy once the Spectre came back.

Shaanis soon appeared at the usual spot on the right side of the room, a shimmer of green against a black curtain.

"You address me?"

She nodded once, "I need your opinion on something."

Shaanis' eyes widened in mild surprise, "It is good to see you trust our judgement so easily."

This earned him a suspicious frown, "Hold your horses, I just need to know how we should call ourselves."

The protoss nodded slowly, deep in thought, "Hmm... You intend to use these... Mind shackling devices of yours? For recruitment, yes?"

He seemed less than thrilled by the idea, so Karen downplayed it a bit, "Only on people we can't reason with. You saw how the Imperium treats its citizens, they're brainwashed all the same."

Shaanis nodded again, his eyes narrowing, "Peace through order..." He mused, adding nothing for a moment, then, with finality, offering, "Khaskhar, Peace and Order. It is the best I can offer."

With a glance around, looking for signs that her crew had better suggestions, Karen nodded back. "Fair enough, Khaskhar it is."