AUTHORS NOTE: This is very late and I'm sorry, I really wanted to make this one three times longer than the first chapter. As always, feedback from more enlightened writers is appreciated, especially if you've got a way of reducing the amount of times I need to say Kurdin and Garrick, reveal to me your secrets!

Kurdin knew Garrick wasn't someone who thought things over; he had something similar to a "shoot first, questions later" attitude that his old squad described more appropriately as a "shoot first, what was the second bit?" attitude. Kurdin of all people understood that Garrick wasn't dumb, just a little slow after he's had breakfast. It was a shame he picked this day to have extra rations, nullifying Kurdin's 'polite' suggestion to think of another plan.

"It's utterly hopeless and a terrible idea"

"You saw that guy looking around! They must have taken some damage to their sensormajiggy guidance whatsits; they're driving blind and ripe for the hijacking"

"It's hopeless and terrible"

"He had a glass eye!"

"How could you tell?"

"The sunlight glinted off it and made a nice shape on the alley wall, looked like a crescent moon"

"Two bottles of sacra, Garrick, I can hear them now. They're telling me you're lying through your boots"

"Deal, so let's shelve idea one for now. What's your big plan?" Garrick put extra emphasis on 'your', trying his hardest to sound mocking but ending up sounding like a sick dog.

"We walk?"

"You want to walk to the monastery, known for its discreet location remotely situated in the middle of trees, bushes and horrific, disease-ridden death marshes?"

"Alright, fair point, I didn't know about that. But regardless, it isn't that far is it?"

"It's on the other side of Ooh-err"

"Ooh-err? You fething idiot, it's pronounced You-ruh. Everyone knows that" The truth was, nobody on Uyrh really knew how to pronounce its name. They just believed the other person did and hoped they would bring it up in conversation before them. Kurdin and Garrick were an exception to this; on multiple occasions. Generally in public or whenever Garrick was talking to an off-worlder.

"We've been over this, it's Ooh-err"

"You've been over this on your own, when I'm not around to tell y-…"

Kurdin had noticed that their conversation had brought them out the alleyway and into the middle of the street. Garrick was staring up at the scarred figure looking down at him from the hatch of a very familiar Leman Russ Battle Tank. Now that he wasn't at the end of an alley and larger than the size of Kurdin's littlest finger (when he was five), they could tell he wasn't a guardsman. And he did indeed have a glass eye; Kurdin could feel those two bottles of sacra being ripped away by Garrick's drunken little paws.

It was a snapshot of the current state of affairs on Uyrh, two reasonably fair people being held at tank-point by a group of renegades, both proceeding to trip on the curb as they attempt to back away slowly, almost rehearsed. Now that the lookout had dismounted the Leman Russ they could see he was related to darker forces in some way, people who smelt of death usually were. His robe was a giveaway too, dyed a dark brown colour, it could have once been red but it probably felt like being brown one fateful morning of unspeakable rituals. It was decorated with small, grubby skull trinkets and various teeth from different sized beasts, apparently in desperate need of a dentist. He had a large scar that started somewhere in his ragged hair (hairdressers didn't make excellent renegades) and ended somewhere in his knotted beard, which made him look more like a very tired Viking than an irate citizen who was fed up with his job making ammunition. Garrick suspected that they weren't rioters.

"The favour of Slaanesh is with us today, he has left us survivors!" the man cheered. Garrick was almost sure they weren't rioters. A voice called from behind the Leman Russ and an armoured man stepped out, his spiked blast-collar and full-face gasmask didn't match his spiked pink shoulder pads or spiked elbow covers. This man was a huge fan of spikes; they were on his boots, his gloves, his back and his waist. His spikes had spikes, or they could have been thorns. It was hard to classify, too thick to be needles but needles generally weren't serrated or dripping with ooze.

"They look tender…" something coughed through the mask. Garrick was positive they weren't rioters. Kurdin leaned over to Garrick as the bearded man turned to see Pinkie-Pincushion, as Garrick assumed their names to be.

"I don't think they're rioters" Kurdin whispered

'That bastard, I was about to say that to him!' Garrick thought to himself. He had no time to reply as the suspected Viking warrior turned back to face them.

"Tell me, morsels… do you know of our work here? In this rancid city?" the man licked his lips at the last comment, almost savouring his own description. Kurdin opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Garrick.

"Nope" Kurdin felt his toes curl up like they were trying to break free and squirm away.

"What?" the bearded man glared at Garrick, he emitted the air of someone feeling insulted; or somewhat irate, it was hard to tell with the beard.

"Can't say I've seen you around the factories, did you just move in?" More of Kurdin's lower body felt like dropping off and finding shelter.

"You putrid grub, I am Jarrod Strattera! I have burned countless homes and lives in the name of the dark gods! I have felt the most depraved, the most vile, the indescribable sensations this cit-"

"You're describing them now" Garrick added helpfully, Kurdin was ready to bid farewell to his collarbone as it joined the rest of his body in making a break for the nearest sewer. His head didn't have a lot of choice or a mode of transport, unless it got someone to give it a kick.

"… Change of plan, we take them with us. I want this one to suffer" Jarrod snarled. Garrick could now feel the gravity of the situation, it threatened to crumple him into a small puddle and steal Jarrod's satisfaction. It was so intense Kurdin could practically feel his shoulder sag as he walked next to him. It came as a shock that Garrick still had his Lasgun on his back and nobody had noticed, not even him. Not one of the renegades drew a weapon unless you count the walking cactus-man, but it was assumed they were armed; similarly to how Kurdin and Garrick were armed. Plots and escape routes unfolded on the road as Kurdin walked, who while taking care not to step on them, failed to realise he was almost tiptoeing at a brisk walking pace, much to the amusement of the now-christened 'Mr Prickly-Pants'. Though the mask made it hard to tell if he was chortling or hacking up a lung, this theme was recurring. It was like he and Jarrod both attended the Bad Enunciators Support Group every other day.

What happened next was very short, at least for Garrick. He remembered having a white blanket being thrown over him and distant ringing noise, he was worried that Kurdin had executed some brilliant plan to escape that he didn't tell Garrick about; which he tended to do. Not because he thought Garrick would screw them up, he just found it amusing to watch him try and decipher them. The white blanket had turned out to be a swift blow to his head, the ringing remained unexplained.

'In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only loud noises and screaming' Garrick mused, the journey was beginning to take its toll on him. The quarters of the Russ were cramped; he couldn't tell where his elbow began and where Kurdin's stopped jabbing him in the side. He had only been awake for half the time and he was already feeling like falling asleep again, but he couldn't. The Russ would occasionally jerk forward after hitting some convenient stone and Garrick would be crushed against the walls by Kurdin, who wasn't really bothered about it. His mind was wrapped in convoluted plans to escape or die in a spectacular fashion; which was his every backup plan. He had told Garrick this once and felt like telling him again, since it seemed relevant.

"Hey, remember what I said about if we ever got caught?"

"Die brilliantly?"

"No, that was when you ripped my trousers"

"Oh, um… take everyone with you in a blaze of enthusiastic self-destruction?"

"And maniacal fervour, that's right. Well, forget that idea. I'm here to make sure we don't die yet"

"Dying wouldn't be nice; I haven't even eaten my cake yet"

"You have one?"

"I'm assuming Elise has got me one"

"I'll assume Elise is your girlfriend at the monastery?"

"You can assume that, but she's not my girlfriend"

Kurdin was going to carry this on but he could feel that it was a losing battle, which was worse when he considered that it was Garrick he was losing to. The notion was shelved alongside Idea One and Garrick's Surprise Party, which was beginning to gather proverbial dust in the grim recesses of Kurdin's calculating mind. One subject Kurdin regularly thought about was his self-image, and how Garrick managed to squeeze in. On the outside, they were a prime example of the Imperium. Weather-beaten clothes that had felt dirt more times than skin, standing to attention by default and an unquestioning loyalty to the God Emperor, unless the question was "Where do I get my gun?". But when it came to how they acted during leave, they were less than stellar. Kurdin was taller than Garrick by about a head (a very large head) and would often appear to be his bigger brother, which could be considered an insult. He was manipulative, cunning, good with children and above all, smart. But Garrick seemed to radiate an aura which made everyone else seem about as dim-witted as he was. Prolonged exposure made this a self-fulfilling prophecy, leaving Garrick often isolated from whatever community he had wandered into. It was this aura that pulled Kurdin toward him, he was so simple that he didn't even need to manipulate him. There was no second-guessing him; he had no secrets to hide and nowhere to hide them.

"Hey, just wondering, how would you describe me?" Garrick asked. This was another thing Kurdin mulled over; he had a tendency to ask frightening questions, like he'd been listening to your thoughts. Possibilities swept over his mind, could Garrick be a psyker? Was he actually an Eldar in disguise? Or the Inquisition, nobody would expect that. Maybe he was just very lucky, which would make sense considering he hadn't been shot yet.

"I'd describe you as… peculiar. Do you ever feel like you're thinking with two heads, like it's someone else's' voice?"

"I've heard Elise's voice in my head before, but it's just memories. Walking around the Monastery, sitting on benches… walking a little more"

"Wait wait, she's talked in your head before?"

"Memories, Kurdin. Just vivid memories"

"But what did she say? Do you remember it ever coming out her mouth?"

"She… told me. She told me something" Garrick somehow managed to bring his hands to his temples in the confined space, rubbing them hard and quick, like he had to warm his brain up.

"She told you what, Garrick?"

"New… shirt? She didn't like my shirt?"

"What shirt was i-… oh for feth's sake, Garrick, she told you she didn't like your new shirt? You've made a big deal about odd socks but this is ridiculous"

"Wait, no. Let me thin-"he was cut off abruptly as a service door below them opened and a pale, bony hand hurriedly beckoned them out before disappearing. They were now aware that the tank had been stopped for some time. A whiny, exasperated plea resonated through the beaten walls.

"Can you get out through the hatch? The doors' stuck!" It could have been worded to sound more commanding, but this was the voice of a tired technician who sounded like he'd been trying to deal with a door built to withstand the devils' sucker punch, nothing would sound commanding. They didn't have the room to shrug, so they climbed out in silence and dragged themselves into the dim light from under the tank. The large Viking man was throttling a scrawny looking man, muttering something about 'sounding more intimidating' under his breath. Kurdin took this as an opportunity to scheme again, surveying his surroundings. There were looming trees blocking out most of the sunlight, bent at funny angles to look even more menacing, or broken. The gravel under his boots was dusty and grimy, everything you'd expect gravel to be; it was almost artificial. His surroundings struck him as odd, like someone had gone through extreme lengths to give this place an isolated feeling. It was too isolated for its' own good; no natural forces could make something this depressing, human interference had to be involved somehow. That was all there was, trees and lots of gravel, 'why would they take us here?' he pondered.

"Why're we here?" Garrick moaned "I thought we were going to the monastery"

Garrick continued to put Kurdin on edge, though it could be coincidence this time. "They're our captors, Garrick. Not our taxi-drivers" he replied. An anxious face appeared from behind the Leman Russ, it was pale like the others but it looked like powder, dribbling away in their sweat and being shaken away to join the stones.

"What's with his face? Fallen in the dirt or something?" Garrick jeered, taking advantage of the fact he was being kept alive until they reached wherever they were going.

"That's Reymont. He's new and the paleness hasn't set in yet so we used flou-"The bodiless voice from behind them was cut off by a loud crack, followed by some whining and a contemptuous mumble.

"Reymont spelt how? Like Raiment or Ray-munt?" Garrick questioned.

"What, does it matter? And anyways, you're dead soon! Quit being such a dunce and start fearing us!" Jarrod bellowed and it was plain to see that he was starting to get annoyed, his pale face starting to flush red with rage, eyes covered in a red mist, veins visibly bulging like they were trying to break out and strangle Garrick. It reminded Kurdin of Garrick's last birthday. He feared the imminent reply, throwing his hands sideways to cover Garrick's mouth, both hands were unnecessary as he found himself clutching Garrick's head in his huge hands. There was a muffled complaint and then a few moments of silence wherein Jarrod was returning to a healthier state of anger. Kurdin felt the blanket of tension slowly find its way off the scene and let go of Garrick. The blanket suddenly rushed back up and scooped everyone into a heap as Garrick spoke.

"I'm hungry"

"I'LL BOIL YOUR SKIN INTO A PASTE!" Jarrod cried out and lunged with a force that moved the entire background with him. Four cultists, Spiked Man included, threw themselves in the way of Garrick, fearing that the bloodlust would render Jarrod six crackpots too insane for the service of Chaos. The mound of dirty brown robes and screaming men was still being propelled towards them by Jarrod's sheer hate, Garrick made the stupid decision of running rather than diving, because' it felt like a good idea at the time' Kurdin could imagine. The ball quickly caught up and took him off his feet, 'Oh gods' he called out in his mind. 'He's PUSHING these people!' The living cannonball was closing the distance between the road and treeline with reckless abandon, its intent all but written in blood; forcefully insert Garrick and any unfortunates inside the thickest tree it could plunge itself into. The three remaining men watched in horror, the largest slowly taking the opportunity to knock the other two out during the anarchy.

'This is it, no chance that tree is gonna budge' thought Garrick; it seemed like a distant echo against the pleas of babbling heretics 'I didn't even get a final meal, this is horrible' he often chose the worst moments to start paying attention. And to stop.

The blanket of tension made its thrilling return, blasting out of the darkness inside Garrick's eyelids and enveloping his mind in a white haze. He could hear buzzing somewhere in the back of his skull, it harmoniously rose above whatever sounds tried to claw into earshot from the world around him and became his centre of attention. The more carefully he listened, the quieter it got. He didn't want to let the horrible noises rise up against the tide of serenity washing over so he let his mind wander, or rather, tread water. After what seemed like a lifetime of keeping afloat, a figure, Elise, drifted past him and the whole world seemed to drain of the little colour it had to begin with. Her long blonde hair clung to the back of her robe as she rose in the now-shallow waters and he watched in awe. Light from a distant star shined off her bare shoulders giving her a magnificent golden aura to stand against the cold monochrome sea. The night leapt out from behind her to douse the radiant sky with a brilliant cover of unyielding abyss, dotted with uncountable orbs of light. A thousand years passed and drained the water away, though Garrick remained floating, the illusion of a universe without gravity becoming a new divine truth in his perfect existence. She turned to face him; which made the beard way too apparent. It was a fierce Viking beard, strong enough to cut through bone. The scar was rather intriguing too, running down from under her hair and finishing somewhere in the tangled mess of manliness. A veteran nose retold the disjointed memories of many drunken scuffles and the eyes had an enraged look, setting fire to the rest of her face.

"Hold on a minute, Elise doesn't have blond hair!" Garrick yelled out. He was like 'a stranger in his own mind' Kurdin always said. Elise turned further, a chain-axe humming quietly in her muscular hands. The stars gradually snuffed out and grew larger as they became large chunks of wood, sharp, splintered, flying toward him. Elise disappeared in a thick burst of gore as they tore through her, an obstacle obstructing Garrick's own demise. 'By the emperor, can't I get a break?' were his concluding thoughts, the buzzing had built up to a roar in the time it took for the last of his entrails to become acquainted with the ground.

There wasn't any sound now; no more screams could be heard penetrating the brush behind him. "They've probably got the poor sod" Kurdin half-sobbed, the tall throngs of grass had stopped rustling under his heavy footfalls as though the world around him was paying respect. He stopped to check how many shots were left in his lasgun clip, three. Something else was jammed into the slot, a small scrap of whiteness stuck out. He tugged it out sharply and brought it to his face, tearing it in the process to see the towering monastery, Elise's subtle grin, Garrick's torn figure hailing a disciplined salute.

"How did this get in here? Was it during the ride? Did you do this, Garrick?"

"No" a muffled voice from beside him replied. Kurdin shrieked and his lasgun flew up as he fell sideways, his monstrous arms sweeping desperately at the air to stop himself falling, inevitably crashing down. The print gently found its way to the mossy floor where Kurdin previously stood, sitting overjoyed with its recent release. It was plucked up again and it wordlessly cursed all photo gazers.

"Who's there?" he yelled, still lying on his back in confusion and pawing around like a wounded turtle. He mustered his strength and brought his head up but nobody was around, the voice still without a body.

"I was there" it replied again, a huge shadow blocked out the beams of light that pierced the canopy high above. He had never surrendered in his life but knowing the kinds of people in the forests of Uyrh, Kurdin made no attempt to get up and decided that it would be tactically unwise. Instead, he tried to analyse the silhouette. 'It's a bloody shadow, what do you expect to learn?' his mind barked before it set upon remembering the voice, as it had recorded a quick sample just before it gave permission to commence the strategic dive to safety. The shadow's unseen eyes scanned over Kurdin, he imagined. Vastly more interesting than the dirt he was in, he hoped.

"Are you Kurdin?"

"It's a priest!" escaped his thoughts. 'Oh damnit, didn't need to let that slip'

"Yes. Wait, no. techpriest, you see?" it coughed, the glowing visual interface and static buzzing was clearer now that Kurdin had gathered his mind into semi-organisation.

"Well, techpriests actually" another autonomous voice joined, he could see its shadow in the corner of his eye.

"Right now yes, but y- oof!" the larger shadow fell back and a metal hand stretched out, offered. Kurdin sighed in relief and took it hastily, pulling the robed figure down to land on him.
"Geez you're heavy!" it complained, the metal was oddly warm and he could feel their damp palm pushing against his chest, though the priest was burly he was like a scrawny child compared to Kurdin.

'Is that a leak or something? Since when did bionic hands get so sticky?' Kurdin puzzled. The priest got to their feet and looked down at him.

"Pull yourself up, my arms are for tinkering, not lifting" the voice hummed, a loud crackling was strangling their robotic voice, he noticed that the priest would jerk his head to the side occasionally. Kurdin raised himself up onto his elbows and sat straight, pushing himself to a stand and looked at the priest, who was surprisingly tall. 'So I don't have to look down at him? Brilliant, I like him already' he cheerfully thought, a hearty smile flashed on his lips for a brief moment. The priest lifted his gaze and the face of Garrick glared at him from behind the breathing mask. The forest was gloomy again as reality hijacked his train of thought.

"Garrick?" he grabbed his shoulders and shook the man, who was noticeably surprised. In a blink, the familiar visage had vanished and the confused techpriest was looking back at him. "Oh… I'm sorry, I just…" he sighed, the amounted fatigue of the day bore down on him now "I thought you were someone else"

"It's alright, I get it all the time" he crackled, chuckling through the interference.

"He does, it's like a gift or something" the other chimed in, trying to join in with the laughing. 'Is he still on the ground behind me? Man, he's clumsy'. The idea of helping him up crossed his mind but he decided against it, the other techpriest got the message (to be precise, he got it about the time he was flat on Kurdin's chest) and went over to lend a hand.

The trio had begun walking in silence some time ago; the priests had offered to take Kurdin to their home where things could be explained properly after the tallest got a chance to repair his voice mechanism. He was called Aisle, which Kurdin thought was a peculiar name even after it was explained that Aisle's parents used a computer to generate his name; the dizzier of the two was known as Cram, a true scholar in nature impaired by his faulty legs and a dented cranial implant from falling over too much. He didn't write because he enjoyed it, he needed it to remember who he was most of the time. Neither possessed the qualities demanded of the Adeptus Mechanicus and yet here they were, probably due to the lack of Omnissiah influence on Uyrh, a planet with a relatively small industrial sector. Kurdin's mind didn't dwell on the details; it was fixed firmly on the events of the past three hours. Garrick was like a little brother to him, an annoying little brother but it came with the job and never bothered Kurdin that much. The loss felt worse than he'd imagined it would feel, rather than just another body in the line of service it was his own body, it was the body he'd talked and laughed with, drank with.

It was the body that took most of him into its grave.