WARHAMMER DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. MASS EFFECT DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. WHERE'S MY BOLTER? THERE'S SOME HERESY THAT NEEDS A-PURGIN'.
First of all, I am blown away by the sheer amount of support this story has received. I've never had a story grow so fast from just the first chapter. I don't care if most of you probably came here straight from Honor-Bound, I'm still sincerely touched. So, yeah. Thank you.
Oh, so there's something I wanted to address. While I was introduced to 40K back when everyone was the Imperial Guard, Eldar, Dark Eldar, and so on, I will be using the names that Games Workshop uses now. I'm sorry if that bothers you, but I actually like the more original-sounding names, like Astra Militarum.
Anyway, back to Shepard doing what she does best: kicking ass and not knowing what the hell is going on.
Star-Bound
Chapter 2
Uprising
Shepard had always been good at getting people on her side. Sometimes it required her to prove herself, while others just seemed to naturally align with her cause. Other times, people who wanted to use her for their own ends wound up joining her anyway.
The prisoners of the Iron Warriors seemed to fit into all of those categories to some degree. Most of them just wanted freedom from the forces of Chaos, and Shepard had enough drive and energy to entice them into following her. Others were more hesitant, either out of fear or exhaustion, but over several days, but when Shepard covered for them by doing at least part of their work, they pledged their support.
Unfortunately, despite Grem's claims that his people wouldn't break, there were a few slaves who were so afraid of the consequences of a revolt that they threatened to inform the Iron Warriors if they didn't stop. Shepard knew that her uprising would only have one chance of succeeding, and though she hated being so ruthless, she and the more committed of her followers murdered the others in their sleep.
When she wasn't secretly rallying a slave revolt, Shepard was learning what she could about… everything, really. She spoke to Grem about Vigilus, a gateway world that was on one end of a stable route through the scar in space called the Cicatrix Maledictum—otherwise known as the Great Rift—that the forces of the Imperium could use to safely travel.
That explanation opened up several others. Shepard learned what little she could about this Imperium, but most of what Grem told her was rhetoric the man had been force-fed his entire life. What Shepard was certain of was that the Imperium had once been a human-centric empire that had spanned almost the entire galaxy. Nearly two centuries ago—a rough estimate, since the Great Rift and respective ways of measuring time to various systems made such tracking impossible—the galaxy had been split in half by the Cicatrix Maledictum.
On one side, the Imperium was still strong, guided by the light of the Astronomicon, something like a lighthouse that allowed starships to properly navigate through another dimension, known as the Warp. This lighthouse was literally powered by the Emperor's soul; if that was true, and Shepard didn't have enough information to say that it wasn't, then it was no surprise that the Emperor was worshiped as a god. The other side of the galaxy, called Imperium Nihilus, was all but cut off from the Emperor's light, and could only be accessed by certain, stable routes. One of those routes, the Nachmund Gauntlet, had Vigilus as its Nihilus-situated system, was one of the most vital.
Apparently, the forces of Chaos knew this as well, which was why an enormous fleet, and even bigger army, was trying to close it. Grem had no idea how they would do such a thing—"Such thoughts lead to heresy," he'd said, and then spat off to the side—but Shepard assumed it would involve strengthening the part of the Rift immediately around the Nachmund Gauntlet. Basically, a reverse of what she'd done back home.
However it would be done, Chaos had been wreaking havoc all over the planet, and they weren't alone. Aliens had been doing substantial damage to the Imperium's forces before the Chaos invasion. There were alien-human hybrids that appeared from nearly every quarter, mysterious beings known as Aeldari and their cruel counterparts, the Drukhari—from the description, Shepard was reminded of the High Elves and Dark Elves—and the Orks.
Shepard wanted to groan when she heard about the Orks. They'd caused her no small amount of headaches back home, even when the Empire's technology advanced to the point that the greenskins were reduced to a nuisance.
For now, though, Shepard didn't have to worry about alien threats. She had a revolution to start.
…
"All right, we're keeping the objectives simple," Shepard whispered. She was lying on the floor, pretending to sleep, along with the other leaders. They had to be absolutely still, and only spoke in the softest of whispers. A slave near the door of the holding cell would nudge Shepard's foot with his own when he heard a patrol walk by, signaling her to be quiet.
"Step one is to disarm these collars," Shepard went on. Though she'd only been wearing it for a few days, her neck was raw from chafing. "This revolt won't get very far if they can shut us down with a push of a button. I'll need tools, though."
"I go by the cultists' maintenance station often," a woman whispered. "A few small pieces won't be missed."
"Good. Keep them hidden, and I'll see what I can do about keeping the collars from killing us." Shepard fought not to grin; after all, they were barely into the planning phase. Still, despite her situation, she'd missed the energy that came with youth; she hadn't felt so alive in decades! "Step two is making sure that we can actually fight. Those picks we use are plenty strong, so they'll work; the attack will have to be when we start working, so that we have enough energy. Also, when we begin our attack, we'll need to capture as many guns as we can; I don't like the idea of charging a firing line."
"I'll try to get them to distribute more of the picks," Grem offered. "I've been here long enough that the guards think I've broken. They won't suspect anything."
"Awesome. Step three is to contact friendly forces and tell them where to strike. We won't last long if the enemy sends reinforcements." If Shepard was being honest, she didn't know how well a bunch of slaves with mining gear would do against the Iron Warriors, so the sooner they had backup, the better. "Step four is providing them with coordinates for the enemy's artillery, if we can; if it's accurate, counter-batteries will silence them."
"I was a vox-operator in the Vigilant Guard," another man said. "If I can find one that's untainted, I should be able to handle it."
"Fantastic." Shepard was about to say more, but the lookout nudged her foot, and they all fell silent. Shepard waited until she received another nudge, and then she continued. "Listen, if things go bad and we can't get rescued, just head for the Imperial lines as fast as you can. Keep your hands above your heads and scream 'friendly' as loud as possible, and hope you don't get shot."
Shepard had no idea what the situation was like at the Imperial city—cities were called hives in the Imperium, and the one the Iron Warriors was attacking was called Mortwald—but she hoped that there was enough goodwill to give shelter to escaped prisoners.
"Wait, that's your backup plan?" the vox-operator asked.
"We don't have that many options," Shepard said. "However this ends, I'm not staying here any longer than I have to."
Everyone caught the unspoken part of Shepard's statement, and they agreed. They would rather die than be the enemy's prisoners. In a few days, they would all find out just how literal that phrase would be.
…
The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. Several tools were smuggled to Shepard, and a young woman volunteered to let her collar be examined, though Shepard warned her that it was a risk.
During the examination, Shepard came to the realization that while the technology of the Imperium was far more advanced than anything she'd ever seen, some aspects of human-made technology remained consistent. She couldn't quite understand how the collar's small power cell—barely the width of a fingernail—could generate the amount of energy necessary to do the damage it did, she did figure out what part was the receiver for the signal to activate. One removed wire later, and the collar could no longer hurt anyone; after Shepard shared her discovery and the smuggled tools, it took only two days to free the other slaves.
Of course, if an overseer decided to activate a collar anyway, the slaves would have to act out the pain they would have received. In a roundabout way, they were thankful that they had all witnessed someone else writhing in pain from the collars, so they were able to mimic the effect.
Shepard also took the time to do a little intelligence-gathering. She couldn't bring herself to believe that the Iron Warriors were forcing the slaves to dig just because it caused suffering. After asking around, she found her answer—the forces of Chaos were desperately trying to get their hands on a substance known as blackstone. Whatever it was, it was valuable to both sides, though the Imperium was extremely secretive about what it actually did.
In fact, the more Shepard learned about the Imperium, the more disheartened she became. She had never encountered a civilization so oppressive, and it was hard to imagine one like it ever existing. People who even knew about Chaos were often executed, loyal or not. Tolerance and understanding were replaced by hatred and blind dogma. She wished she could sit down with a comprehensive history of the Imperium to figure out how things had become so bad, but from the little she'd heard from Grem, she had a feeling that that history would be extremely edited.
Thinking about such things made her shake her head as she mined. This really isn't the time or place for that kind of analysis. Still, if I get involved with this Imperium, I'd better keep my mouth shut about the way they do things. I don't want to get shot for heresy.
Shepard swung her pick at her section of the wall, and as she did, she noticed something glimmer amidst the stone. Carefully, so as not to alert the guards, Shepard dragged her power pick around the object to carve it free. At first, she thought the small chunk of rock was a piece of obsidian, though how it got there, far away from any volcanic activity, was a mystery. As soon as she picked it up, she felt something, almost like a spark, travel from her hand into the stone.
Well, that's new, Shepard thought, and quickly pocketed the thumb-sized stone before anyone noticed. Going by the color, and the fact that it did something when I picked it up, I'm guessing it's the blackstone.
Grem, who had been hauling stone nearby, gave her a concerned look, but Shepard just shook her head. He hadn't seen the blackstone, and since it had no bearing on the uprising, there was no reason to tell him. Besides, as far as Shepard was concerned, it wasn't important.
In retrospect, she should have known that she'd be wrong about that.
…
Two more days passed, and Shepard felt that they would be as ready as they'd ever be. Unnoticed as they were, as long as they didn't cross the Iron Warriors, the slaves had gathered a great deal of intelligence to work with. By the time they were done, Shepard had been able to draw out a fairly accurate map of the Iron Warriors in the area, and had coordinates for the most important locations in the camp. Critically, they also had the location for the artillery their camp controlled; located at the center of the Iron Warriors' lines, taking out those cannons would help the Imperials drive a wedge in the Chaos forces.
"Remember, no second chances," Shepard said as she and the other slaves gathered up their tools. "It's do or die."
The slaves gripped their weapons nervously, but none of them faltered.
"Hey, you lot!" One of the Iron Warriors' cultists stomped up to Shepard's group. He held up a whip and cracked it over their heads. "Quit stalling and get to work!"
Shepard didn't hesitate; she grabbed the whip, pulled the cultist close, and then buried her power pick into his skull.
"Now!" she shouted, and charged the nearest group of shocked cultists.
"For freedom!" some slaves cried out. "For Vigilus!" others shouted.
Shepard's group only numbered twenty slaves, and the cultists had automatic stubbers, but they had surprise on their side. Shepard tackled one man to the ground and ripped out his throat with her pick, then grabbed his rifle—surprisingly, these solid-shot weapons were no more advanced than the latest ones she'd made for the Empire—and fired a burst into another. The other cultists barely got a shot off before being overwhelmed by desperate prisoners. Throughout the slave quarters, Shepard could hear similar situations playing out as her revolution began.
"If you can use a gun, take one!" Shepard yelled. She paused for a moment when she saw an eight-pointed star hanging from a chain on her appropriated rifle; with a scowl, she scraped it off with her pick.
Around her, other slaves were doing the same; many muttered prayers to protect themselves from Chaos, and a few even threw their captured weapons down in disgust. Shepard didn't have time to debate, and she knew the corrupting powers of items marked by Chaos, but she didn't feel anything herself. She figured that removing the icon had helped.
"Keep going!" she ordered. "Don't lose the momentum!"
Several cultist squads arrived to quash the rebellion, while others frantically tried to activate the slave collars. The slaves converged on these groups, and though dozens were gunned down, the cultists that weren't killed by return fire were overwhelmed by a tide of desperate people who beat them to death with mining tools or simply trampled them.
Most of the slaves weren't soldiers; Shepard was well aware of this, and how her 'army' was more of a mob. As such, she'd put the few real soldiers there in charge of various groups, though none of them were more than grunts. Still, it was better than nothing, and the civilians looked up to them enough to follow their orders—and since Shepard was the one who knew the most about what she was doing, they in turn followed her orders.
Shepard shot the last cultist as he tried to run, then waved her pick over her head to get her group's attention. "Grab as many explosives as you can!"
Grenades and other, less sophisticated explosives were stripped from bodies, and distributed to those who had an idea of how to use them. Further off, Shepard could hear the tell-tale boom as other groups set off their explosives; she just hoped that the more enthusiastic rebels hadn't done something stupid.
"Astartes!" one of her troops screamed, catching her attention. A moment later, there was a deafening bang, and torso of the woman who'd shouted suddenly exploded into a fine red mist. Two more people suffered similar fates before the first's dismembered parts hit the ground.
Shepard traced the shots back to their firer; it was one of the Iron Warriors, and it was one she recognized. Atranix's mutated eye-lens still hadn't completely healed. Shepard remembered the last time she'd left an enemy with a grudge alive, and she didn't want any repeats of Henrietta von Carstein.
"Open fire!" Shepard roared. She took careful aim with her stolen autogun and put a burst right between the Iron Warrior's eyes. Sparks flew as the bullets pinged off his helm, but there was no noticeable damage; the others who'd worked up the courage to actually fire on him had similar results.
Well, fuck, Shepard thought. She grabbed a grenade, primed it and let it cook in her hand for a second, and then hurled it at Atranix's head. He slapped it away with almost casual ease; when it detonated, only a few pieces of shrapnel bounced harmlessly off his shoulder.
Okay, this might be harder than I thought.
When she hadn't been planning her uprising, Shepard had been studying the real threat to the operation—the Iron Warriors themselves. Unfortunately, she had no idea just how their power armor functioned, though she suspected that at least part of it had something to do with Chaos, judging by their mutations. She was aware that they had better senses than normal humans, since they seemed to lock onto her every time she so much as glanced their way. Still, there were some parts of armor that, by design, had to be weaker, such as the joints and neck.
As Shepard charged, she aimed her pick at Atranix's right knee. Like the last time she'd attacked him, he easily stopped her; this time, though, he did it by planting his boot into Shepard's chest. If not for Shepard's Cerberus enhancements, the casual move would have turned her ribs into powder. Regardless, Shepard was on the ground, breathless, with agonizing pressure as Atranix slowly leaned on her.
"This time, I'll make sure you die," the Iron Warrior rasped.
Even if she had the breath to talk, Shepard wouldn't have wasted her time with banter. She was desperate, and she was angry; Atranix was the reason she had been captured, and he'd taken the one memento she had of Gregor.
Shepard's hand desperately groped for her fallen pick, silently praying—to Sigmar or the God-Emperor, she didn't know—that the power field was still on. When she touched the handle of the power pick, she didn't hesitate; she brought it up and drove one point into Atranix's knee with all the force she could muster.
Hydraulic fluid mixed with corrupted blood sprayed out over Shepard's face, blinding her. The pressure on her chest ended as Atranix lost his balance and stumbled off her. Shepard felt a tug as her pick was almost ripped from her hand, but she kept her grip firm as she tried regaining her breath; there was a tearing sound as Atranix left behind more of his leg and part of his armor on the pick.
Shepard wiped her eyes clean and spat out foul liquid. She grinned with bloody teeth when she saw Atranix barely upright, and his left leg was only held together by a gory strand. Scrambling to her feet, she slammed her pick in an upward swing, into the Iron Warrior's armpit. The power field, meant to cut through thick rock and layers of metal, easily punched through the armor. With a grunt of effort, Shepard ripped through a large amount of armor and flesh, leaving Atranix's arm hanging limply at his side.
The Iron Warrior tried to bring his gun around, but with only one functioning leg, Shepard was able to avoid his line of fire. She then buried her pick into his backpack; the ruptured power source sparked and hissed like a living thing—and since it was corrupted by Chaos, it might well have been—before dying. Atranix howled in outrage as his armor stopped functioning, and he collapsed facedown.
Shepard carefully leaned down and rifled through his belt pouches for a moment. With a satisfied nod, she pulled her broken cane free to find it undamaged.
"I was worried for a second," Shepard said, her tone almost conversational as she slid the cane through a belt loop. "If you'd broken this, I wouldn't have done this nearly as cleanly."
Before Atranix could ask what she was talking about, Shepard buried her pick in his skull. She twisted it once, just to make sure he was dead, and then pulled it free.
"Y-you…" she turned to see her surviving followers staring at her in disbelief. One of them, a young man wearing a tattered uniform, but barely out of his teens, pointed at her. "You killed him."
Careful not to show how much pain she was in, Shepard made a show of casually leaning the haft of her pick against her shoulder. "I've killed a lot of people."
"You killed a Traitor Astartes!"
Shepard just shrugged. "And I'll probably kill more before the day is over. Now come on, we have work to do."
As Shepard turned to move back into the fray, no one noticed how her eyes briefly lit up with golden light.
…
Warsmith Kharrack scowled as yet another alert was brought to his attention. His campaign had been going so well, yet at the eleventh hour, it seemed that his siege was falling apart. He'd been able to handle the stubborn Imperial defenders, and was on the verge of completely crushing them, but then a fast-moving Aeldari force had struck his rearguard. No sooner had they vanished, as their kind was wont to do, had a large number of Orks hit the same place, and was now rampaging through his artillery.
"What is it now?" he asked as Kivyin handed him a dataslate.
"Forgive my intrusion, my Lord," the Dark Mechanicum agent said with a bow, "but the slaves in Outpost-Four-Alpha have revolted."
Kharrack's eyes narrowed as he focused on the indicated spot on his maps. "That is Atranix's location. Contact him and tell him to get those worthless mortals under control."
"I have already tried, Lord Warsmith," Kivyin said. "After my sixth attempt, I contacted one of his men. They report that he is dead, and the mortal soldiery there has been overrun. The remaining Astartes there are holding their ground, but I calculate that they will be overwhelmed in less than an hour."
"The slaves have their collars, yes?" Kharrack stood up, his lashing tendrils inches away from Kivyin's head. "Activate them!"
"I have also done that." Those words caused Kharrack to freeze. "There was no change. Either the collars were removed without triggering their explosives, or the signal never reached the receivers."
Kharrack snarled. A slave revolt was the last thing he needed, especially when there was no way to control them.
"Send a detachment to secure the area," he commanded. "I want those slaves dead and the mines manned within the hour!"
Yet another alert arrived at his command center, and he nearly crushed the daemonic servo-skull that delivered it, especially when he read the contents. With the Iron Warriors' artillery lessened, the Imperials were emboldened, and were counterattacking. At the rate things were going, he wouldn't have the numbers to hold them off and recapture the blackstone mine.
"Fine," he growled, and lifted his hammer, "I'll do it myself."
…
"Bombs away!" If Shepard sounded slightly maniacal as she said that, no one commented. After all, her words were followed by dozens of large explosions as mining charges were hurled at the Iron Warriors' position. From the way chunks of charred and bloody armor flew over the barricade, at least one of them had died.
"Um, Miss Shepard?" the young man from before cautiously tapped her elbow to get her attention.
"Yes? What is it, uh…?" Shepard realized that, other than Grem, she didn't know anyone's names. Likely because she was sure that most of them would get killed, and she didn't want to get too attached, but she couldn't just say 'hey, you' all the time.
"Hiral," the boy said. As if remembering that he was still a soldier, he saluted. "Guardsman Hiral Fenn, Ninety-ninth Vigilant Guard. Grem wanted me to tell you that someone made contact with Imperial forces over the vox."
"Please tell me there's some good news with that." She noticed that the boy was still saluting, and wondered if he knew that she wasn't even a soldier in the Imperium. "At ease."
Hiral's arm fell to his side and he shuffled in place. "Some? They just said that they would try to send forces to help us, but they're trying to keep the heretics out of the hive."
Shepard studied the boy. He had dark hair and tan skin that was barely visible under the grime that coated him. He was short, barely coming up to Shepard's shoulder, and he was thin from malnourishment.
She almost laughed; she'd been mentally calling Hiral a boy since meeting him, but she kept forgetting that, physically, she was barely older than he was. He'd started calling her 'Miss Shepard', or 'ma'am', as if she was an older officer; maybe she'd been using that old 'Commander aura', as some of the Normandy crew called it, which she'd used to get soldiers to follow her commands.
She reached out and ruffled his hair. "Just keep your head down and try to stay alive, okay?"
Hiral petulantly swiped at her hand, and then nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Shepard spotted armored figures rising over the barricades. Without a second thought, she tackled Hiral to the ground.
"Down!"
The surviving Iron Warriors fired a withering barrage from their powerful guns. Most of the slaves they shot didn't even have time to scream before they were blown apart, and the survivors were so horrified by the brutal deaths that they almost forgot to return fire. By the time they did, and Shepard got to her feet, she tried to figure out how many people had just died. It was difficult to say, since there were so many pieces on the ground, but her best guess was a little over a hundred casualties in less than six seconds.
Her uprising was coming down to the wire. Where once she'd had over two thousand people at her back, the Iron Warriors' weapons had reduced them to only a few hundred. If their losses continued to mount, Shepard would order them to make a break for the Imperial lines; it meant crossing territory held by the Iron Warriors, but at least they had a chance.
"Shepard!" Grem hurried over to her as fast as his old legs could carry him. "There's a gunship heading for us!"
"Is it on our side?" Shepard asked, though something told her she wasn't that lucky.
Grem shook his head. "It has the enemy's unholy sigils!"
"Damn." Shepard glanced back at the Iron Warriors' barricade, and scowled. "All right, spread the word—we're getting out of here. Everyone needs to head to Mortwald! Now!"
A high-pitched whine was Shepard's first sign of the enemy's reinforcements. The second sign was a trio of missiles that fired into the largest concentration of rebelling slaves. There was a flash of light and heat, and Shepard was sent flying back. She'd been at the outer edge of the blast, but it was still enough to knock her out for what felt like several seconds, but it must have been longer, because a boxy gunship was landing nearby. Its front ramp opened with a hiss, and a dozen Iron Warriors and a familiar hooded figure stepped out.
Shepard recognized Kharrack and Kivyin, but the others were new. Each was heavily armed, and they were covered in mutations and other signs of the Dark Gods' 'favor'. The other Iron Warriors from the barricade linked up with their master, though Kharrack sent one to the ground with a backhanded swipe, likely as punishment for letting the uprising get so far.
Then the killing began in earnest. The closest slaves were cut down with blades or beaten to death with fists, while those further away were obliterated by accurate shots to the head or chest. In moments, the gore-filled camp became soaked with even more blood.
There was no escape. Shepard knew that none of them would make it out alive; the pitiful few who'd survived the missile strike were already being gunned down by the Iron Warriors. She wasn't in any shape to run, either—she was sure at least three of her ribs were broken, and she probably had a concussion.
Running was out. The only thing she could do was fight.
Shepard grabbed her pick, which had somehow landed nearby. If she was going to die, it would be on her feet, with a weapon raised.
Her free hand brushed the top of her broken cane. Maybe I really will see you soon, Gregor.
It was then that Kharrack noticed her. His approach wasn't necessarily urgent, but it was far from casual.
"The slave that Atranix captured," he growled. "I have a feeling that you were the one who started this uprising. It is good that that fool is already dead, or I'd have him suffer a fate a thousand times worse."
"What're you gonna do?" Shepard asked tiredly. "Talk me to death?"
Before she could blink, Kharrack's tendrils lifted her up by the throat and limbs. Shepard struggled, but even her enhanced strength wasn't enough to break free.
"No, I plan to rip you apart," Kharrack said easily, as if he was discussing the weather.
"Get away from her!"
Shepard felt a spike of hope as Hiral raised his stolen autogun, only for it to be dashed when another of Kharrack's tendrils smashed the boy to the ground.
So, this is how I die, Shepard thought. Killed by some Chaos super-soldier while I watch him murder a kid. Really not how I wanted to go out.
NOT YOUR TIME.
Oh, not you again, Shepard complained. I fought, and now I'm about to die. Let me go, already!
THERE IS MORE TO DO. WOULD YOU LET THE DARKNESS PREVAIL?
That wasn't fair, in Shepard's opinion. She wanted so badly to be released from the pain and fear, but she knew, deep down, that she wouldn't stop fighting if there was something that had to be fought, or someone to be protected. As she saw the tendril about to plunge into Hiral's chest, she closed her eyes, and she was reminded of a life she'd left behind.
Eliza, crying in pain and grief, suffering more than anyone had any right to.
David, her baby boy, undead fangs about to pierce his neck.
Not again.
Despite her injuries, Shepard felt a surge of energy, giving new strength to her battered body. More than that, she felt a rage like she'd only felt a few times in her life. That righteous fury fueled this strange power, and in turn, that power fed her anger.
Shepard opened her eyes. There was no white sclera, no bright green iris. Instead, her eyes glowed with golden light, a light that spread until the aura covered her entire body. Kharrack flinched as the light's presence burned him, but the tendrils that held Shepard up didn't just burn—they began to melt.
Shepard looked the Warsmith dead in the eyes, while beautiful wings of golden light sprouted from her back.
"Not. Again." Shepard's words were soft, yet they hit with the force of a cannon, and what remained of the tendrils holding her exploded. Wings outstretched, Shepard floated up until she was a few feet above Kharrack and raised her pick.
The Warsmith swung his hammer in a desperate attempt to kill Shepard first, but she was faster. The pick came down on his shoulder; the weapon, now covered in the same light as Shepard, didn't just pierce the armor plating, but caused it, and the arm it protected, to explode.
No one moved—not the Iron Warriors, nor the surviving slaves. Nobody knew how to react, until an old man, bleeding from a dozen mortal wounds, staggered to his feet.
"She is a saint," Grem wheezed. "A Living Saint!"
And I'm going to be extra evil and end the chapter here. Amazingly, when I was discussing this story a while ago, I don't think anyone thought that Shepard would become a Living Saint. I'd considered other options (Inquisitor, Rogue Trader, even an Imperial Knight), but the more I thought about it, the more this option seemed best. I mean, she had a one-way chat with the Emperor, and considering all the crap that happened to her in Honor-Bound, especially the end… yeah, all hail Saint Shepard, Harbinger of the Emperor's Rage!
Now, there will be more to Shepard's Saint-powers, but they'll be explored later. Obviously, Shepard herself has exactly zero clue what being a Living Saint entails, but she'll find out.
Anyway, like I said at the beginning, I'm so thankful to all of you who are supporting this story. It means a lot!
If you'd like to help me publish chapters even faster, please consider supporting me by buying my book. There's a link to it on my profile, or you can go to Amazon and look up Alpha Sanction, by Josh Gottlieb.
Another way you can support me is donating via P-atreon (also a link in my profile). If I make enough to live on, I'll probably update something on this site at least once a week, if not more! This isn't me holding stories hostage, I'm just trying to find sources of income so that I can afford food, insurance, and not be homeless.
And now, I'd like to take this moment to thank my Patrons:
Serious Muffins: CrazySith87, jafr86, Nimrod009, CowardlyBravette, Anders Lyngbye, Parker Maisterra, Matthias Matanovic, ChaosSpartan575, Alexis Troy, John Collins, Alexander James Baber, Carl Bjorkhall
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Next Chapter: The Saint arises, and her duty becomes clear.
My Muffin proves my worth!
