A/N: Yes, I still live. Been running a Path to Glory with Stormcast Warrior Chamber, buy, build, and paint as I add units, so every week is work, sleep, hours of hobbying. Been a rough month or so for getting writing done. Also painted up about 1000 points of Sisters of Silence. Because what is more fun than creepy MurderHoboettes with topknots for days? And the Inner Circle contest, and family being in town, and me making excuses. Mostly the excuses. All of the excuses.

Right, writing (pun. Inexcusable. I might be half asleep right now).

Reviewers (forgive me if i miss anyone, I have about 5 full pages of reviews intermingled between the past 2 chapters and some new readers. Also, assume general same response for everyone regarding the little note I put in, that ended up getting replaced. We all get it. We're a happy Chaotic family now):
ksgrip- It almost was 3-4 chapters of pure sorrow. But even I have a limit of how much soap opera I can cram into a story. :D
Victorules- well, usually "liberal"equates to "radical" equates to "motherf*****g Heretic"
Brother-Dreadnought Titus- All the Heresy. Look at the Heresy. It's so shiny
Cyclops101- I know, right? After being rage-quitingly angered by all the fluff shite they've been spewing out of Matt Ward's cornhole, they still somehow have come out with a good set of rules/ changes. I am still going to be keeping 7th ed around, but 8th has my thumb's up.
Guest- That would be a very accurate guess, good sir or ma'am.
Guest 2- I have learned that when I try to hint at things, they just never land the right way. Aw well, this one worked itself out.
Razzle Jazzle- How dare you assume Helsing's age. That's Ageist. Rude!
Nox- I get where you are going with the Jaycel thing, since more than a few people got caught up on that. Best answer I have for you is "Hollywood." Sometimes, you just gotta believe to disbelieve. That, or the Inquisition gave Jadus a faulty batch of stormtroopers. Also, I never said how big that step is between the two.
+at this point I realized I had already responded to these reviews when I updated the last chapter to actual story. 'shrugs' +
Guest 3- BLAM. Never mention that atrocity. HERESSSYYYYYYYYYYY
ErnestShippinglane89- ...maaaaayyyybe it was Jadus. Or maybe some Administratum official skimped on the servitors to cut costs and got himself blown up. We will never know. (dramatic sigh).
OnyxIdol- He is definitely run into the ground. As Biblo so eloquently described it "like butter spread over too much bread"
ksgrip- Well, there is Love, and then there is love. The simple non-spoiler answer is that, once all is said and done (as you have figured out), Louk has no happy ending with the witch. Later in his life, he finds companionship with another person. Not at all the same level of LOVE, but it's totally possible to have a "true love" and still consider yourself to be able to "love" other people.
Disciple of Ember- Every time "Love Can Bloom" is brought up by a reviewer, another character is slated for death. Kind of like the plastic Sister of Battle cloc- damn it!
Victorules- Super short synopsis response to your reviews: Louk is a tough SoB (not the kind mentioned just above), Jadus is a douchenozzle, and Louk is too far out of his element to make intelligent informed decisions.
SomeGuyOverHere- ditto above. Yes, he probably should have killed Jadus then and there. Would have made life so much easier. But Warhammer is never easy, sadly.
AllHailLordGaben- No, no positives for Louk. Not without a depressing and/or soulcrushing incident around the corner.

A'ight, kids. Have fun!


Hound's Call

The door to the wing opened with a creaking of abused hydraulics. Clomping armored boots approached, dragging forward with disinterested duty. Several voices rose in greeting and jokes as the new shift replaced the old. The armsmen gathered up their gear and stepped out, turning over the appropriate keys and tools to the newcomers. This was the fifteenth shift since he had been locked up. Figure six hours a shift, thirty hours in the ship's day-cycle.

Three days.

No word from Helsing, of any kind. Penance had led him here, filled out the paperwork, and marched him into the cell without a word his way. The armsmen had badgered him the first day, asking the usual questions, their bored curiosity at play. When it became clear that he would not be talking, they left him alone. For a while. When they brought him food, they demanded answers in exchange for the meal. Louk's stomach had stopped growling the last time he fell asleep.

He knew he was an enigma to them. Most of the other prisoners were recognizable. The scribe of the Astropath, a regular in this cellblock due to his frequent drunken rampages through the libraries. A merchant who had dared make demands of the captain. One of the armsmen in the detachment under Mechanicus supervision who had done something to anger the tech adepts. As little as Miracu cared for the nameless spawn that kept his ship running, he understood the value of his riot controllers. At the first hint of trouble, he would have them scooped up and thrown in the cells to sober up.

To be fair, there were far worse cells to be stuck in. This one was spacious compared to most. Six feet by ten feet, full bed, small sink for washing. Toilet too. Though there was no privacy of any kind, considering that the front-facing wall consisted of bars. There were six cells in this block, all on the one wall. The rest of the room held desks, shelves, and a locked armory filled with shotguns and non-lethals. Four armsmen in the room at any given time. More than was necessary. None of the dangerous criminals went here. No, this was the special spot. The one reserved for political prisoners. More than likely, the number of guards were meant to preserve the safety of the prisoners. A lone armsmen, or maybe even two, could be corrupt. Four could not. Prisoners, yes. But not ones where beatdowns or abuse could be tolerated.

Why he had landed here, that bothered them. It took no sense of perception to realize that the armsmen resented his presence. What could a lowlife nobody like him do to deserve a booth in Miracu's personal cell block? He had no money, no influence, no power. They did not like that. It upset the natural order of things. And armsmen appreciated order. Being the fly in the ointment had earned him constant dark glares and idle muttering, not that he cared. They would not do anything beyond harassing him.

"Hey then, who's this?"

His ears perked ever so slightly at the curious voice as it slid through the bars to reach him. Armored boots clopped to rest just outside his cell.

"Eh, that one? He's new. Part of that freakshow Mechanicus trading crew. You know, the ones with the ogre." That voice he had learned well enough. The Senior-At-Arms of the cells. Answered directly to Miracu's armsmaster. Young for his position, but still grizzled and grayed from years of void combat and patrols. Not Louk's biggest fan.

"Hm…" the curious voice lingered. A shadow crept towards him as the speaker leaned up against the bars. "Rings a bell. You, look at me."

Louk did, if only to get it over with. It had been the same for most of the ogling. Wonder and amusement, followed by irritation when they failed to get anything out of him. Done it twelve times so far. This one wouldn't be much diff-

"Oh," the confusion melted into a saucy grin. It was the young lieutenant he had railed just weeks ago, the one with the little blonde friend. Carli. That was her name. "Fancy meeting you here, handsome."

"You know that wretch" asked one of the others.

"A'course she does," the third shot back. "If there's a cock on this boat, odds are she's bounced on it at least once."

"You're just jealous my standards aren't low enough for you mucksuckers" Carli growled back at them. Her smile returned in an instant, directed at Louk. "How'd you get to be here? Wrong married woman?"

Louk held her gaze for a minute, debating whether or not to speak. No, he hadn't said anything so far. No point in starting now. So he shrugged and let himself sink onto the bed, hands tucked under his head.

"See, Car? He hasn't said a peep since being chucked in here three cycles ago. Must'a done something bad though. That white-haired topknot broad marched his ass in here. You know, that one that's been having talks with the boss. Throne, she's a terrifying sight when she's pissed."

"Haven't met her," came the muttered response. A key scraped against the lock, and the bars creaked as they were dragged open.

"Hey! What are you doing, Car? Get your ass out of his cage. We've got strict orders on that one. Not a scratch on him."

"I won't leave a scratch," she promised, slinking into the corner of Louk's vision as she did. She had forgone the normal bulky armsman armor in favor of the lighter penitentiary garb. Instead of void-sealed carapace armor she wore a smart uniform bulked out by lightweight armor plates. A casual glance revealed the location of her protection, but this was the armor that was worn when danger was not an immediate threat. Officers earned that bit of relaxation on the job. The typical grunts were stuck in the carapace for hours on end. "Well," she added, more to him than the others, "unless you've got an idea on how to pass the shift. And here I was, thinking I would be bored today."

"The hell are you doing, Carli?"

"I'm bored already and I just stepped in this block. Now, I've got a damn good option for passing the time in here, so shut up and let me have some fun."

"You're such a whore."

"Perks of being an officer" came her snicker.

She pushed his leg out of her way and sat down at the foot of his bed, easing out a long breathy sigh at the same time. Turning away, Louk made it clear he wasn't interested. A few catcalls chased into the cell, the male armsmen jeering her on and lamenting the lack of pictrecorders. Her hand played its way up the side of his leg, fingers dancing teasingly along.

"Aw, what's the matter? I could think of much worse ways to pass the time. Besides," Her voice shifted outwards, towards the others. "Nothing on the roster schedule, right?"

"Cleared out" one called back. "And the boss walked through last shift, so we aren't getting any surprise visits either."

"There" Carli stated, as if proving a case. "This is the dead shift. Now, either we can spend the shift sitting on our asses bored out of our minds…" Her fingers found the edge of his belt. Louk blocked further progress with his hand, clasping her by the wrist and firmly pushing her hand away.

"Get out" he muttered, eyes fixed on the blank cell wall.

"Seriously?" Her surprise seemed genuine enough. More incredulous than hurt.

"Get. Out."

Her weight remained on the bed for several seconds, no doubt still while she considered the rebuff and debated how to respond. The armsmen outside laughed, their amusement at her embarrassment clear. A grunt of displeasure slapped at his ears, and she stood with a huff. Storming out of the cell, Carli slammed the bars closed and locked the cell with more than a few choice curses.

"And here we were, all ready for the show" the second armsman said. "What's the matter, Carli? You weren't good enough for a repeat?"

"Take your cock and shove it down my handcannon" she snarled. "It's his loss."

The minutes stretched on, turned into hours. The armsmen grew bored with making fun of the officer and resumed their musing about this and that. Louk did not pay them much attention. For the past few days, only a couple things had held his mind.

How was she?

What would happen to her?

Every time he fell asleep, her worn and pale face ghosted through his dreams, drenched in sweat and groaning in agony. Voices whispered in the background, mixing together and blending in an intangible choir. It was always dark, muted, bathed in shadows. The only other thing he could sense was the faint rumbling in the distance, a dark presence hurrying closer each night. Louk could feel its hunger panting, the blood seeping from its teeth. It was drawing nearer.

It was coming for her.

Two Weeks Later

The armsman slapped the bars with his baton, clinking each one with glee as he stole Louk's attention away from the ceiling. There were few things that entertained the armsmen in this cell, he had learned. Mealtimes were just about one of the only interesting things that occurred here. It brought a few moments of levity and activity in an otherwise entirely uneventful position. This was the one time they could get away with prisoner hazing, as it was. Really it was just making the prisoners beg for their food. The weaker ones, the ones that were supposed to be here, always begged. They were privileged individuals. They could not stand the idea of being deprived, and it played havoc with them. But they were also too proud to complain about their treatment later.

Louk, of course, had thrown a wrench in that. The other prisoners had noted the dour way he composed himself, how he never rose to the ribbing of the armsmen, and how his indifferent dismissal enraged the guards. Taken as rebelliousness, it had crept into the lesser prisoners, all of whom had begun to test the waters of their position, prodding at the lines and seeing how far they could push the guards. It had changed the atmosphere in the cell quite heavily since his arrival. The boredom and coarse jokes of the armsmen had sunk to angry mutters and restlessness. The easy pickings at fat scribes was not so fun when the scribes regained their superior sneering attitudes.

Of course, Louk had made no profit of the changing. If anything, his position had suffered. The armsmen gave up on goading him for a reaction for his food, choosing instead to resort to the old fashioned and much less veiled practice of dumping his meals on the floor. Very medieval, but they knew he had no one to complain to. The rumor wheel had reached the armsmen, and though he did not know what exactly the rumors were, he had realized that their initial standoffish attitudes had vanished. They were not so worried about reprisal with him as they were with the others. Though, for sake of the others, they had yet to do anything. Verbal abuse and teasing could be allowed, but if they actually beat a prisoner in here, and a single one of the other prisoners reported it on release, it could get the whole shift on Miracu's bad side. And while Miracu took pains to maintain his effective armsmen, those that had lost their usefulness or trustworthiness tended to meet bad ends.

"Rise and shine, lout. Got a visitor."

Penance stood in the center of the cell block. Unarmored this time, he noted absently as he lurched to his feet and shuffled to the bars. Unarmored could be a good thing as easily as a bad thing. Her expression betrayed nothing as she waited for permission to approach, hands tucked into the sleeves of her habit, the frayed edges no doubt itching something awful. Not that she ever showed signs of discomfort.

The armsman stepped to the side and gestured. It spoke volumes about the ferocity her severe form exuded that no snarking comments of jokes were made. Like all armsmen everywhere, they were crude brutes with training in the art of killing foes and not much else. Coarseness was their way of life. But not with Penance. Their tongues dried in her presence, humor forgotten in favor of avoiding her particular attentions. Louk wondered what she had been doing on-board to earn that reputation.

It took far too much effort to not grab the bars and press as close as he could. He had so many questions. Things he needed to know. He wanted to hear Penance's answers so terribly badly. But he held his silence. They were the questions he could not ask. Not with so many ears around. To voice them now would be to consign a death sentence. Either to him, or to them, or both. He had little doubt Penance could kill them all in this moment, unarmed as she was.

His desperation showed on his face, because the armsmen behind Penance exchanged glances and made a show of finding work to do. But they were all listening. Paying attention. Their curiosity about him had gone unsated for weeks now. Perhaps here they hoped to find out even a breadcrumb of information.

"Took you long enough to check on me" he mumbled, fighting to hold his tone even. Forcing out a bleak and dishonest chuckle, he tapped the bars. "Did you get lost?"

"The prisoner's health has not changed" Penance voiced, tilting her head ever slightly in the direction of the armsmen, the one in question started guiltily, thinking perhaps he had been too obvious in his observation. Louk's heart sank as the man stumbled through his report. Penance was not listening to the armsmen. Though voiced as a question, her gaze had not left Louk's as she had spoken. The intent of her words were all too clear. To the armsmen, it had been a question. To Louk, it had been an answer. The witch was still suffering. Because of him. Because of what they had done.

"How…" his words failed him for a painfully long stretch. While he struggled to find something to say, some way to find answers without giving anything away, Penance clenched her jaw for a moment. As if her next words were uttered with regret.

"He said you had not learned your lesson. It appears that he was right." The faintest flicker of hesitation arced across her face, smothered in a heartbeat by her stony composure. Turning abruptly on her heel, she bowed her head to the armsmen. "I am finished here."

Louk reached out a hand, stretching through the bars after her, but he failed to find his voice. Just moments after her arrival, and she was leaving him, with more questions than he had before her brief appearance. He wanted to stop her, to ask her something, anything that might keep her here. The longer she was here, the more time he had to come up with a question, something to ask that would give him… anything.

The hatch closed, and the armsmen let out a collective breath. One turned to Louk, daring to wonder if he might receive an explanation. None came, and the quiet grumbling resumed. Louk continued to stare at the closed hatch, willing Penance to return, praying she might come rushing back in to tell him that the witch was recovering. That she would heal. He prayed for good news.

The hatch never opened.

One Week Later

"... not until we land at Saint-Haven. That's what I heard."

"And how does a good-for-nothing scrag like that earn a permanent booth in the cells when these pompous windbags walk in and out like it's a hostel?"

"I heard it's bad luck to ask what goes on with that crew. Been a lot of bodies dropping around them, if you heard what I heard. The Cap' left specific instructions to not bother them, and the boss ain't one to go throwing those orders around lightly. Had to come down from the Trader himself."

The armsmen had been arguing for two hours now, judging by the tolls of the ship's bell. It was a common discussion, usually every other day, as some new armsmen rotated into the shifts. A discussion that Louk had grown so very tired of hearing. The rumors had reached epic proportions now. Some said he had stolen something from the tech adepts, others said that he had bedded Miracu's most recent beau. All wildly off the mark, of course. No one on board had the imagination to conceive what had truly transpired. For that, they were blessed. The simple mind was incapable of imagining the depravity of what he had achieved.

It had been gnawing at him ever since he had been escorted into the cell. What he had done had been wrong, unforgivable. He knew that. He had always known that. What, then, was right? The question had nagged constantly at him. The sermons he had listened to as a child had always had a profound impact on him. Sermons of hatred, or loathing, of absolute loyalty only to the mystic deity called the God-Emperor, a shining beacon of hope amidst a sea of chaos and uncertainty. As he had grown, the image of the God-Emperor had always evolved and adapted to his most current mindset. Sometimes, the figure had struck him as a fierce warrior, one that stepped down from his godly throne to smite the enemies of mankind. Or sometimes he was silent, a watchful father that refused to step in on his children, allowed them to suffer and die in order to weed out the weak from the strong, the unworthy from the righteous. At times, even, he had seen the mysterious figure as a charlatan, a coward that hid in the distant corner of the galaxy where he could safely be praised and venerated without having to set out and prove his godhood.

But never before now, not ever in his life, had Louk thought of the God-Emperor of Mankind as nothing but a craven, wretched old fool. An ancient and dishevelled husk that clung to fears and superstitions, demanding hate and blood for no greater purpose than to satiate his own hunger. What sort of god was that? One that refused to allow peace, that decried any form of acceptance with the alien. A god that willing sent millions upon millions of men to their deaths for no greater reason than to maintain the status quo: that xenos were only to be killed. The more Louk dwelt on the thought, the more bitter it felt on his lips. He rarely prayed. Often only in desperate situations. For the first week or so, he had prayed. Prayed for a way out, prayed for the witch. Prayed for an answer.

The very idea of prayer appalled him now. It seemed like casting stones into the lava and demanding diamonds. The God-Emperor would not hear him. Not when he prayed for peace, for healing, and for a xenos.

If that was the kind of god that mankind worshiped, Louk was not so sure he wanted to continue serving mankind. He owed a lot to Helsing. The Inquisitor had brought him back from an irrecoverable choice, had given him a new life and the power to make his own way. If anything, the Inquisitor had been generous to him, friendly, like a far older and wiser brother might have been. But his colors ran true to the Imperial Creed, in the end. It was not a thing to be surprised by. After all, Helsing had never lied to him. Not truly. Some cleverly contrived half-truths, certainly. But never an outright lie.

So it should not have surprised Louk when he reacted the way he had to the witch's pregnancy.

Thro- gods, the word still sent a shiver along his spine. Louk was fairly certain he had fathered some bastard children at some point in his life. The kind of living he had done, it was almost unavoidable. And he had never stuck in one place long enough to find out. Here, he had. And it was so much more terrifying than he had been told it would be. Her sickness had him restless at night. His uneasy mind had played down a thousand different paths, imagining what could occur to her, to him, to the child. He fervently wished that some good might come to them. A sort of peace or life that could be lived outside the darkness of Imperial might.

A familiar shadow crossed over to the floor of his cell. Carli stood just outside, hands on her hips, serving him with grimace that might have mattered to him months ago. She had a shift in here once a week or so, and every time she would stand outside his cell, watching him, wondering. He was not sure where her thoughts went. But she would remain there for some time upon arrival, perhaps to see if he would take her up the first offer.

Just another damned day.

Four Days Later

It woke Louk from his sleep. The witch's groaning as she twisted and turned felt so real. He could just reach out and touch her, feel the heat burning from her skin, hear the blood pounding through her veins. Wild blue eyes tossed about in her head, searching this way and that, trying to find him, unable to see him even though he was so close to her. Just turn to the right, he wanted to scream. His words pooled in his lungs, but wheezed into nothing as they left his lips. Right here. He was right here with her.

It was coming closer. It had been coming closer. For ages now. For days. Weeks. Hours. Louder and louder, faster, more threatening with each booming step. It charged after her, the endless howl baying from its tooth-filled mouth. The light of it bathed her face in a hellish shadow. The air around her darkened in fear, clouded by the waves of rage and hunger propelled before it. Endlessly advancing. Never resting. Coming closer and closer. Its clawed hand stretching out towards her, talons gleaming with blood gathered in a time that never was. Pounding down the corridors of his mind. Its ravenous greed for her consuming everything in its path. So close now. An eternity of waiting, now drawing to a close. Just a few more steps…

Her eyes finally found him, piercing through the darkness and the smog of dreams. Those dazzling blue orbs glowing like beacons on a foggy night. They found him, they struck him like a bolt of lightning. And the witch screamed.

He leapt from his bed, instincts flaring as the world realigned with a profound sense of wrongness. The instant his bare feet touched the frigid cold of the deck, his mind reset, faculties rushing back, the dream draining from his foremost thoughts as he took stock of the cell. Empty. Just him. Armsmen outside, playing cards around a desk. Everything was fine. Everything was as it should be.

The ship shuddered. Some distant thing happened, too faint for him to have any right to notice, but his bare skin registered the near imperceptible quake that rippled across the cell block. Not even a disturbance in the mug of liquor next to Carli's hand. For the beat of a gnat's wing, the lights overhead flickered. Too quickly for the naked eye to see, a faint burst of light leaping from one to the next in raucous disunity. The taste of roses bled into the air, a cloying scent that filled his nostrils and wisped away too quickly for him to capture the taste of it. It all happened in the most infinitesimal of moments.

But he felt it. And that quiet quake leapt through his toes, along his calves, up his thighs into the small of his back, where it struck the steel embedded around his spine, and the world went black.

When he stood up again, he noticed the lights first. The flashing red alarm lights signalling a ship-wide emergency. Washing the cell block in strobes of bloody smears. Then the alarms. Loud and dolorous tones, the kind that only went off when every single soul on the ship needed to be aware of what was to come. A general evacuation order. Something he had never heard before, but did not need to be told to recognize it.

Confused, he rubbed a hand across his aching forehead. The blood dripped from his palm, smearing across his face, nearly coating his eyes as he rapidly blinked it away and wiped a tattered and gore-soaked sleeve to clear his vision. He wasn't in his cell anymore. He was in the middle of the room, the actual room.

And the dead were everywhere.

Two armsmen nearby, one crushed into a desk that had buckled under the impact, his skull caved in by a blunt object. Most likely the shattered naval shotgun lying at Louk's feet. The other had lost his left arm below the elbow, and several burst patterns of shot had dented and riddled his carapace armor. Some of the shot had gotten through; little trickles of blood down the front of his chest, and the growing pool underneath the corpse, attested to that. The third armsman had fared no better. Something had slammed his face into the edge of a metal desk, neatly cracking the skull in half. Both arms had been broken and twisted into odd angles. All had died painfully, but quickly. Louk could still smell their blood, leaking freshly from their still warm corpses.

Then he looked back at his cell and found Carli. Or, what was left of her. The Warrant Delta had little left of her torso. Two of the bars of his cell had been ripped out of the ceiling and bent at an angle almost like abatis. Whoever had caused this carnage had skewered the woman on both bars, punching holes through her lighter uniform armor with ease. But that wasn't what had killed her. The same beast that had impaled her had ripped her rib cage open, shattering bones and leaving her organs to droop across her legs. Heart was missing, too. Torn away and discarded. Her death mask spoke of indescribable agony and horror. Louk's stomach growled fitfully, and he turned away. Her blood was still on his lips. Must have been spray from when she had died.

The ill-fated prisoners that had shared the cell block had not escaped death. There had only been two. One lay collapsed in the corner of his cell. Louk could hear no heartbeat, could feel no blood. Died of fright, that one had. The second had been dragged through the bars. Or, what had fit had been. One arm lay inside the cell, torn by brute force as the occupant had been, quite literally, ripped into pieces.

They were all dead. All of them. Brutally and without mercy.

What was he still alive?

His chest ached. Louk idly reached down and rubbed it. A metal shot-pellet bumped against his finger. Curious, he plucked it off his puckered skin and inspected it. Still smelled of powder. Freshly fired. A ricochet, then? If it had not even pierced his skin, it must have been. He tossed the shot-pellet aside and felt his chest. He did not remember having scars like this. Faded scars from a shotgun, maybe? Must have been ages ago.

His head hurt, the throbbing growing more insistent with each breath. Disoriented by the pain, Louk tried to remember the breathing techniques Helsing had taught the crew. Slow in, pause, slow out. Repeat. Repeat. Until it worked.

The witch.

The pain subsided, and Louk headed to the way out. He paused only to gather a shotgun and some ammunition, noting with distaste that only options were shot-pellets or non-lethals. Terrible choices all around. But better than nothing. It would take too long to find armor, so he pushed ahead and hoped for the best.

The cells were in full riot. Prisoners fought each other in the commons, armsmen laid down suppressing fire on hordes that charged for the exits. Monstrous sounds rippled through the air, and Louk saw a creature leaping from one body to the next, its three mouths biting down on any flesh it could find, wriggling out terrible lamprey-like bites that sent the victims into frothing fits. Through the press of bodies and anarchy, Louk found a path. He pushed through the prisoners and lone armsmen, dodging the brawls, shooting anyone who got in his path. Grenades erupted all around him as reinforcements arrived, a squad of armsmen armed with shotguns and grenade launchers taking position on the catwalks.

He ignored them. One block of eight armsmen held the primary exit, in two ranks of four, the first holding electrified riot shields, the others dropping prisoners with slugs or grenades. Eight would be impossible to get through. Not something he could take on with just a single shotgun. The carapace armor would deflect the shot-pellets, and non-lethals were useless. He had no way through.

Then the three-mouthed monster landed beside him, rolling across the ground as its many feet spun and tumbled with its momentum, always remaining upright because every side of it had multiple legs to catch itself. For a brief second its mouths turned to face him. He could see the empty, unblinking eyes inside, eyes that burned with the fire of insanity and bloodlust. Louk lifted his shotgun to face it, his only regret being that he would not be able to see the witch again.

With a keening wail, the creatures flipped over and scuttled into the armsmen guarding the exit. It was not particularly fast, but it struck the shieldwall with the force of a battering ram. Electric discharges flashed, putting spots in Louk's eyes as the defensive shields scalded the beast, but it clambered over the shields like an eel, mouths darting forward to the bite and gnaw at the hardened carapace behind. Within moments, the armsmen formation had disintegrated. True to their calling, they refused to give ground. Not one turned to flee as the beast tore into them, killing one after the next, tearing bloody chunks out of the helpless soldiers. The last one fell, and the beast rumbled forward to slam against the exit. Every weapon in the room turned to the beast, shotguns and grenades blasting into its flesh, blowing off limbs punching holes that oozed gelatinous fluids. The armsman in charge could be heard bellowing into the vox to prepare the next room for breach.

The beast ignored their fire. It ignored each stinging blow that reduced it piece by piece. Throwing itself frantically against the hatch, it beat itself into a frenzy as the blast doors began to buckle, then bend. The incoming fire began to slacken as prisoners took guns from the fallen armsmen and began peppering the soldiers with shot. Though poorly aimed and coordinated, the prisoner-fire distracted the armsmen, buying the creature precious seconds to finally bludgeon the blast doors apart, leaving just enough room to squeeze through.

Louk watched in breathless wonder as the beast turned back, one mouth torn and shredded and dangling in strips. The other two snaked forward, its rancid breath tickling his face as it pressed just inches away from him. Then it abruptly sideslid, looping around him to devour a prisoner that strayed too close. Flowing away like the tide, the beast hurled itself back into the melee with gluttonous squeals, rampaging through the room without a hope of being stopped.

Not that he cared. Louk squeezed past the shattered door and rushed onwards. Here and there he found the dead, a checkpoint overrun, where thirty prisoners had been mowed down before overwhelming the three armsmen tasked with holding the point. The Penitentiary barracks, he glanced inside as he rushed past, cloaked in darkness as the lights had all gone out, and from inside came nothing but ghastly screams and moans. Blood dripping from the ceilings. Bloated little creatures, each up to his knee, frolicking about amidst some freshly fallen corpses, snickering and giggling as they played with the frozen limbs of the dead or tried on helmets larger than they were. Those scattered at his approach, hissing fiercely from behind the dead as they cowered and waited for him to pass on.

Outside the Penitentiary Wing, things were no better. Primary lighting was down in most sections he ran though, leaving illumination to the emergency strobes, hardly enough to reveal chamber and certainly not enough to establish a clear view of the anarchy and slaughter. People running in every direction, families crying out in fear as they sought out exits. Whooping maniacs chasing down random targets and attacking with abandon. Gunfire coming from all directions. Sometimes scattered, other times ordered and controlled. Louk avoided the latter. Those were trouble points. Heavy fire meant heavy combat, and he needed to get to her quickly.

No point in going to the elevators. Those would be overcrowded if they even worked, but more likely deathtraps. So he took the back roads, the alleys and ladders that most people did not even know existed. For him, a hive-born, it was second nature. It all came easily to him, and it took him little time at all to find his destination. The way had been blocked. Someone in time past had sealed the ladder access off with a heavy slab of steel. Louk tore it away and continued onwards. It had not been meant to keep him out. And he did not have time to find another way around. He could feel her presence. It burned in his mind like a flame.

Closer. So close now.

His feet landed on the familiar deck, the taste of fear and concern flooded his mind. Accented voices called out soothing commands, orders he had heard many times when serving alongside Helsing's Hounds. The orders of Thracians in battle line.

"Reaper! I did not know you are released." Sergeant Nicolai waved him forward. The Thracians parted shields, allowing him to slip past, most muttering greetings and slapping him on the back or arms as he passed them. He must have looked quite the sight. He could still taste Carli's blood.

"Early parole. Good behavior" he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. There. Her room. They had returned her to that room. Why?

"It is good you arrive. The ship is in chaos."

"What happened?"

"Sabotage" the sergeant spoke gravely. "In engines and geller field. We had rude awakening, da? Ship ejected from Warp, but not before problems. You see… problems?"

"No," he lied.

"Orders are to hold. Inquisitor led team to secure bridge. We hold. He fix problems. You stay?"

"Wouldn't dream of leaving."

Leaving the Guardsmen to the passage, Louk strode directly to her door. The shining runes stung his eyes. He had never noticed them glow this brightly before. They prickled at his skin as he approached, pushing against him as if they meant to keep him out. Gritting his teeth, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Louk had been on a cold planet before. Snow, once. It had been a soft fall of snow, not much more than a wonder to look at. Helsing had told him there was a thing when the storms were so cold that instead of rain, snow fell. And that the temperatures plummeted to inhospitable levels. People could freeze to death and never be found in the heaping mounds of snow.

This must have been what it felt like. The icy cold buffeted him, a frantic chill sweeping over him and through him as he struggled past the runes. The screaming echoed in his ears. Too close. It had come so far. It would not be denied. Just… there. Just past the cold. His feet clung to the ground, refusing to move. Fingers turning blue, breath frosting into mist just out of his mouth. The uncontrollable shivering. Shrinking. Fighting. Step. Step. Bed. Just an arm's reach away. Witch. Need. Witch. Need. Chi-