Well, another week comes another update. Hope you all enjoy, the next one will be out soon. As always, please review.


A Thunderhawk was a fine steed for any Space Marine, and Pilate felt completely in his element inside his Thunderhawk. He is the first pilot for the wild infant machine spirit as he was assigned to the Thunderhawk immediately after it's commission into the Deathwatch. Named Shield of Macragge, he had memorized every nook and cranny of the Thunderhawk for the past five years of service.

Ordinarily, he would be accompanied by three other battle-brothers but given the scarcity and value of the Marines seconded into the Deathwatch, he was given three serfs with the necessary skills and training to shore up the co-pilot, gunner, and navigator portions of the Thunderhawk. Initially, he was offended by the idea. He had piloted the Ultramarine's Thunderhawks for the better part of his hundred years of service, and each time he had his Brothers at his side. He simply refused the idea that three humans could survive not only the physical but also mental demands. When told by Watch Captain Kora of the Black Templars to accept them as his crew or face censure, he accepted them. In their first engagement against the Hive Fleet, he considered them as comrades in arms.

Over time, he would gather bits and pieces of their past. All of them were members of the Planetary Defense Force of the doomed world of Hope's Autumn. Saved by a kill team who came to the planet to save a Magos Biologist with pertinent information on the Hive Fleet's biological make up. The kill team managed to extract the tech-priest and a whole platoon of the PDF, who were seconded into the Inquisition so that they may continue their service to the Golden Throne. Only in death does a soldier's duty end, his primarch had made it so.

He was drawn out of his dream like revival as he returned to the task at hand. With the planet wide jam of their vox-net, the Alpha legion seized control of the communication net and were redirecting their guns to aim at the loyalists. Pilate immediately volunteered to take the message to the four ships in orbit. He knew this would not be an easy mission, but he had to do so regardless of the costs.

Just then, the navigator Marcus spun on his chair to face Pilate. "My Liege, incoming heat signatures. Two of them off the starboard side."

Pilate gave the nod and the others began to get ready for combat. "Missiles?" he asked back to the serf as he turned the war machine to where Marcus directed him.

"Negative, too much heat residual to be a missile. Both of them appear to be light fighters of some sorts. Speeds are roughly two thousand kilometers an hour." Pilate nodded and primed the weapons. He would take the double barreled lascannon, while co-pilot Uriel would have six Hellstrike missiles to use if Pilate saw fit, and gunner Alger took the turbo-laser and the eight heavy bolters.

As he turned, Pilate saw the incoming foe. Hell Blade fighters. Horrors from the warp, corrupted servitors took command of these nimble killing machines. Two twin-linked autocannons were their armaments, but their primary weapon was the Emperor awful wail they gave as the sored through the air.

Both of the fighters passed over Pilate, and the wail ruptured the hull. It was a soul shattering scream as if an infant was being twain in half, but much louder. He blink-ordered his helmet to drown out the noise, which reduced it to a faint cry. They would circle around in a few moments, so with the weapons primed, the fighters would regret their target choice.

Range. The word flashed across his view port and he pressed the firing stud. A shot of combined lascannon fire blasted in the open air, leaving a blinding trail in it's wake, yet ultimately it was a miss. Alger used the heavy bolters in an attempt to knock them out of the sky, but the insane maneuverability of the enemy craft dodged the onslaught of heavy bolter shells. Those few that did hit the Hell Blades were deflected from the armor, leaving little more then damaged paint.

Pilate swore as he tried to get Shield of Macragge to adjust it's maneuverability. Despite all of the benefits that came along with using a Thunderhawk, there were still many disadvantages that came along with it. Maneuverability was a major one. It was an armored and armed transport, not an agile fighter. Stormravens were more agile, but compensated armor and carrying capacity for speed. He didn't have a Stormraven, and he would have to work with what he had.

He tried to recall the tactical genius of Roboute Guilliman, the esteemed Primarch of the Ultramarines and his gene-father. He mentally tried to remember the excerpts of Thunderhawk combat in the Codex. "Gunner, keep fire on those Hell Blades. Marcus, get Uriel a lock for those Hellstrike missiles." A chorus of ayes and affirmatives met his ears as he circled around. As he did so, they came around again and he lined up a shot with the lascannons again. When one was in his sight, he fired.

The las energy hit the target with a titanic force, obliterating one of them in a could a fire and smoke. Pilate felt the blood surge though his veins in excitement as he spun to one side to avoid the incoming autocannon shells. He could hear the clicking as the targeting servitor tried to get a targeting solution through the constant shifting of variables.

In an instant, that would not be needed as the Hell Blade slammed itself into the port side of the Thunderhawk. The transference of kinetic energy was enough to send Pilate slamming his head against his communication panel and the Thunderhawk began to spin out of control. The other members of his cockpit were unconscious from the impact and he fought against the pull of the gravity well. "Come on, come on." He repeated as if the machine spirit would aid him in this. He kept on spinning around with the sheer G's pressed against his body. His crew would be dead if they were not wearing their void suits and even in his he was getting a massive headache.

As he spun closer and closer to the planet below, Pilate tried everything he could. He then remembered a trick his mentor taught him. It was suicidal but it was the only chance he had. He threw the engine silent and just allowed the Thunderhawk's dead weight to hasten the fall. His bolt pistol came out of his holster and slammed against the ceiling as they fell to the boiling oceans.

Once they got around two kilometers from sea level, the boiling oceans providing the oxygen right air Pilate wanted. He slammed the activation rune, igniting the engines and the neighboring oxygen. The fire ignited and they gained a quick momentum that sent them flying forward out of the gravity well. Now that their ship was stabilized for the moment, Pilate caught his bolt pistol as if fell and slammed it into his holster while he changed the gyroscopes to balance out the ship.

Two enemy fliers were out of the sky, but he had lost valuable time. He needed to silence those guns.


"To me, Brothers!" Goremann bellowed at the top of his vox amplifiers and charged at the front of the combined might of the Imperial Fists and Deathwatch combatants. The two Imperial Fists Dreadnoughts, Venerable Jutland and and Ancient Darnak, stood by him. Three scions of Dorn fought in their holy Dreadnought armor side by side. "Jutland, entrenched infantry to the left. Darnak, take out that Chimera! It has armor piercing missiles." Jutland turned one one of his massive legs and spun his body ninety degrees. Opening fire with his assault cannon, he laid down a massive amount of bullets. The rounds tore through the rubble the chaos heretics erected to stop the advancing Space Marines.

The rest of the Deathwatch moved up, Ha'sen taking position behind some of the rubble with a fully topped off multi-melta canister. Darnak was right next to him, powering up his own plasma cannon when an armored troop carrier came to deploy more fallen storm troopers. The storm troopers were difficult opponents. Their hotshot lasguns could easily rupture power armor and wound the Astarte inside of them. The armored transport was a bigger threat as of the moment, with a jury rigged hunter killer missile launcher attached to the top of it. The whine of it priming took all of the attention of the two heavy weapon wielders.

Darnak fired a burst of superheated hydrogen, which found it's mark on the hull of the armored carrier, but it did not destroy the vehicle or the antitank missile that was now free of of its holding. The missile screamed through the air, before it found its mark on Jutlan's heavily armored side. The blast ruptured his ammunition belt for his assault cannon and the barrels screeched to a damaged whine. The tratior elites fired off their hellguns at the wounded Dreadnought, but realizing their weapons were useless, the Hunter killer missile launcher attempted to fire another shot. Ha'sen was upon them in an instant, and pushed the firing mechanism on his multi-melta.

The superheated molecules ate away at the tank's armor, igniting the stored ammunition and artillery that was stored inside. The explosion sent shrapnel flying in all of the directions. Ha'sen ducked behind some cover as the the remaining traitors fired in his direction. Capitan Felross was not far behind him and with his weapons to bear, charged the traitor lines.

The Imperial Fist commander was an ancient man, tempered in the crucible of war. His power axe in his hand and the storm shield in the other, he was in the lines of ranged traitors. Butchering them with swings and deft cuts with his power weapon, he sliced through their carapace armor as a hot knife would go through salted cream. Ivan, his jump pack repaired and an Imperial fist chainsword in hand, was not far behind the commander. Though he would have used his bone blades, he prefer to use them together. And since one was damaged in the initial traitor attack, he needed to use another melee weapon along with his plasma pistol. He still had his functional one extended out of his armor for quick jabs, but not as his primary weapon.

Cain and Brand were not far behind, shoring up the Imperial Fists with their marksmanship at eliminating the fallen that took their positions on top of the ruined buildings in the Ecclesiarchy district. Cathedrals and churches that were razed in devotion to the God Emperor of mankind were now devoted to battlefields. Where hymns of veneration were sung, not the boom of bolters and crackling of power weapons raised their praise to Him on Earth through the slaughter of the fallen.

"Through the destruction of our enemies will we earn our salvation!" Capitan Felross bellowed as he cut a bloody swath through the fallen. The civilians who called this district home were running all around, trying to avoid the Angels of Death. This added to the distractions that were already present and restrained the Devastators and Dreadnoughts from using their heavy weapon so they don't cause unacceptable amounts of static casualties. They may not care for the civilian populace, but they were not about to go to whole sale slaughter.

With in moments, many of the traitors were either laying dead or were routed into the swarm of civilians. Felross wished he could follow after them and cut them down, but they were already lost in the sea of Imperial citizens. He gave a curt hand gesture to the rest of the squads to cease engagement on the retreating traitors. They would be back, and when they did, they would not escape their holy wrath again.

While the rest of the Space Marines killed off the remaining traitors, and as squads began to clear the buildings for the remaining fallen, he noticed that there were two heretics, their bodies covered in their comrade's blood. They were still alive, in fact unharmed. They were drying to feign death in the vein attempt that he would overlook them. Such a woeful mistake.

The good commander, his speed belied the sheer bulk he had, rushed forward and was upon the two in an instant. He grabbed one by the throat and brought his boot down on the prone one's foot, shattering bones to dust. He cried out in pain, for the moment he ignored it and focused on the one he had in his gauntlet. "Your life still have value to me, traitor. I need information and you have it."

"Don't tell him a damned thing! Remember your oaths." The one beneath his boot told the one in his spoke to the one in the Imperial Fist's gauntlet. Felross closed his fist and snapped the neck of the traitor in his hands and tossed the body aside. He reached down and picked the other one up.

"Your comrade died quickly, but you will die slowly!" He gripped the hand tight, but not to the point of the breaking. "I have the strength and tactics to make Space Marines cry out for mercy. You will not last long."

The man squirmed in his embrace. "I don't want to die!" He screamed weakly, and out of the corner of his eyes, Felross saw Ha'sen watching on beneath his black armored helm.

"It's too late for that. You only need to decide how you die. Tell me all that you know of this uprising." Felross said evenly.

"If I tell you, will you give me a quick death?" With a curt nod from the commander, he toppled to the ground and began to blubber up all that he knew. "We... we came twelve days ago. A group of fallen space marines, Alpha Legion they said, were in need of our numbers. We came to this world to create another front in the war that would turn to the favor of Chaos."

Ha'sen stepped forward, bolt pistol in his hand. "Where are your masters now?"

The traitor shook his head. "The Granite Spire, top level. Where exactly I do not know, all I know is that there is an entire army in between there and here. There. I told you all I know." Ha'sen raised his bolt pistol to deliver a killing shot when Felross slammed his fist into the ribcage of the fallen human, shattering thirty bones and rupturing lungs and heart. The man flopped on the ground, downing in his own blood. He looked back at Felross with an accusing look in his eyes.

"Promises to traitors have no value. Die in pain!" he turned away and was about to regroup with his brothers when he heard a whine in the air. He turned back to see that the traitor had expired and there was an ear piece that was in fallen. He reached down and pulled it out and put it next to his own. "Your assassins have failed you."

There was some static before it gave way to a new voice. A voice that was crackling with otherworldly powers. "I do not wish to speak to you... spawn of a bitch's hindquarters. Give me the one who hails from Nocturne."

Felross was half tempted to shatter the device in his hands, but instead brought Ha'sen over and gave him the ear piece. The Salamander plugged it in to one of the jacks in his armor and spoke. "Herald you have found me. Deliver your message."

The voice spoke again. "Ha'sen of the Salamander's First Company... long have I wished to hear your voice again." The blood froze in Ha'sen's veins as he recognized the voice, but he made no vocal reactions. "I can sense your surprise, do not try to hide it. I don't think someone does yet." He head the scared heavy breathing of Keeley in the background and felt the cold blood begin to boil in blistering rage. "Don't worry, your pet is fine for the moment."

Thala'ki, the Arsonist of Malay and a mighty Bloodletter of Khorne, paused for a moment. "You know where I am at, and every hour you keep me from my battle-" There as the sound of breaking bone followed by an equally painful noise of hearing Keeley scream in the back. "I break a few bones. I hope I can see you on the field of battle once again. And oh, Ha'sen... I am counting on it."

The line went dead and the rage boiled over in Ha'sen's veins as he tore the ear piece out and tossed it against a wall. The thing shattered to innumerable pieces as he bellowed in rage. Twice he had almost slain the daemon and twice he had escaped. Ha'sen went to find the rest of the kill team. He didn't know how much longer his patience would last.


Astrid felt the blood mixed with sweat as it tumbled down her forehead. Her mouth tasted with the salty iron of her life fluid as she coughed more up on the ground. The runes faded from her body as the Thousand Son sorcerer whisked them away with nothing more then a thought. How long was she here: days or hours? Time lost its meaning and all that mattered was that she survived these sessions. Every once in a while, she would black out from the pain, but would awake in the paranormal frost covered interrogation chamber.

Now, she was unbound and the Sorcerer stood over her with a goblet of water and a platter of bread for her. She took the massive goblet and drank the contents, ignoring the stream of it that fell down her chin or the taste of blood as she swallowed the contents which slated her dehydrated throat. "The soul is strong, but the body is weak." The Thousand son spoke as he turned his back to her and went back to his chair. "So long as your soul endures, we need to preserve the flesh."

She tore off a piece of bread and chewed it numbly. She looked back to the blue armored Space Marine, as he sat hunched over a table with a regicide board in front of him. Several pieces faded in and out of this world of existence as he played against her self, but the pieces seemed to move on their own will. She didn't know weather he was doing this to spite her or because he decided to give himself some rest as he was to her. She knew not where Keeley was, or what kind of torture she was going through. All she knew right now was of herself and her interrogator. She shouldn't squander the opportunity as it was presented.

"What was it like?" She asked as she chewed on another piece of bread. The Thousand Son looked up from his game to her, the helmet not giving away the feelings of occupant. "Turning from the Imperium, what did it feel like at first when you turned traitor?"

He looked to her with his helmet and she heard a small sigh escape his lips. "Arguing with Inquisitors is just as productive as giving medicine to a long dead cadaver. You have already formed your opinion based on the facts of Imperial history. Yet there is whole branch of your bureaucrats who devote their very existence to changing the history so it reflects better on the Imperium of Man. The beginning days of what you call the Heresy were a massive confusion for us all. Details, both pertinent and trivial, fell through the cracks on both sides. It is something neither you or I will know the truth of the matter."

"That still doesn't answer my question." Astrid responded flatly.

"That's as close to one as you will get, loyalist." The Thousand Son responded and resumed his game of regicide. "But I sense that is the first in a long line of questions. I have time, something you have very little of." The offhanded comment made Astrid shiver as her fate was once again made verbal.

She swallowed hard. "Then tell me why you turned away from the Emperor's light?"

The Thousand Son laughed. "An Inquisitor doesn't know why the Great Legions turned against each other? I guess one would attempt to whitewash such details of history as an entire sector of your administrators and book keepers revise your history." He continued to play his game as he spoke to Astrid. "In fact, we were to ones who tried to warn your corpse of a god about Horus' betrayal. Yet the Emperor, in all of his arrogance, could not believe his favored gene-spawn could ever betray him. She sent his hounds, who call themselves wolves, to destroy those who were actually loyal to him."

Astrid felt a laugh escape her lips. "And yet you find yourselves as the pawns of the dark gods. I believe that is what grown ups say is the taste of the purest irony." The Thousand Son growled under his helm and raised his hand.

The runes formed around her neck ad she felt the air escape her lungs as she began to float above the ground. She struggled for air and could find none. Her arms began to spasm as if she was being hanged by an invisible noose. The Thousand Son chuckled as she struggled for the air that would never come. "And yet here you are. Off you high horse and bound to my will." He began to move his index and ring finger back and forth, either lessening the strength of the spell or increasing it tenfold. "I can kill you by so much as moving my fingers and I could boil the blood out of your veins with nothing more then a thought. Where is your misbegotten faith and technology compared to that?"

He relinquished his spell and she fell down to the frost covered metal, coughing and spitting up more blood. The Sorcerer returned to his game, unmolested for the next hour until he would begin his questioning of the Inquisitor.


Keeley called forth more of her psyker abilities to shield her mind from the torment the daemon's lackeys played on her. In the true spirit of Chaos Undevided, four henchmen who each belonged to one of the different gods began their abuse on her. All they needed was her soul, her body was completely up to what they wanted to do with her.

While the follower of the Lord of Change tries to pry away her sanity, the lackey of the blood god slammed his cudgel into her spine, while pestilence and pleasure watched on, both of them already having their fill with her for the time being. She felt tears escape her blindfolded eyes as she didn't know how much more of the abuse she could take. As the emotions built up inside of her, the room began to bend in, causing the metal to creak and whine. When they she could take no more, the psychic energy in her exploded.

Pure kinetic energy pulverized the abusers into blood red mist and the entire building shook for but a instant. Keeley felt her body cry out in agony, but she would not show weakness. Not here, not now. Removing her blindfold, she felt her 'blind' eyes adjust to the darkness. Her purplish irises that she was born with came out from the milky white of the rest of her eyes. Blinking a few times, she stood up and readjusted her robe. She knew that there would be new lackeys on the way to check out the noises so she had to make her self scarce.

Finding a ventilation shaft, she used her gift to pry it open and began to crawl through it. The screws inside cut her flesh and robes but it was better then her soul being broken just as her body would be. Sealing it behind her with her gifts, she began the long and painful crawl she had ahead of her