So, first real review I got was a questioning about WTF had I smoked to make the other character work with the Council… It's not an easy answer, but I'll try to convey my thoughts on that. First off, my other OC is someone who has seen so much warfare and death, that the expected zealot view of life is lost to him; such a thing would not be a common occurrence for most other Imperials making the passing from one universe to the other. Also, himself being an agent of order (relative order, subjected to the opinions of each faction, mind you), he would have gladly joined the main leaders of the galaxy if there were humans actively doing good among them, rather than joining a band of genocidal renegades too lost in their own beliefs.
Now, this new character shares some similarities with him, mainly on the part of non-genocidal thoughts, but it's also far younger, so his zealot attitude is mostly unchanged, for now, so he will have a harder time adapting. There is a stronger Imperial presence in this story, yes, but as I implied above, there will be a rift between those irredeemable xenophobes and those more moderate in their approach, who viewed cooperation with xenos somewhat valuable in this new setting, if they were to aid in the rise and glory of humankind. There is also always the touchy subject of the Emperor, who may or may not be present given the recurrent Reaper attacks…
Let's not forget, for us with knowledge of the current happenings in the 40k universe, that since the immediate aftermath of the fall of Cadia, there has been an ongoing alliance between Aeldari (Eldar) and even Drukhari (Dark Eldar) factions with humans, that led to the resurrection of Roboute Guilliman. All of that, in order to properly put a stop to the unrelenting forces of Chaos. So, in fairness, if a bloody Primarch can and will make friends, even uneasy ones, with some aliens, why wouldn't either a half a millennium old OP guy or a [age redacted] slightly not-zealous Storm Trooper?
Then, with further ado, to the Chapter itself.
He was back, unbelievably so. He was back home, it seemed. Standing at the edge of a forest, a familiar valley displayed in front of him, complete with the mountain range in the distance. Light snow drifted downwards, coming to rest over the permafrost so common in the cold taiga he grew up in. He was alone, though, other than the occasional animal sound heard close by. There was no trace of the settlement he called home for the first fifteen years of his life; that seemed a lifetime ago. And all of a sudden, it came to him that it was indeed a lifetime ago, as he recalled the last happenings before finding himself once more on Thalaj. The burning sensation, the desolate sight of a massive spacecraft crashing down over him; he didn't know what was better, dying vaporized by the sheer heat before the impact, or crashed by the impact itself.
Being dead, as it turned out, wasn't half bad. He felt better than ever, and found himself in a place where most of his happiest memories were formed. He might be alone, it seemed, but he could handle some loneliness until he found his way to some other blessed souls. On the other hand, if the Emperor had chosen to gift every loyal servant with their personal heaven in the other life, then it meant he was in nominal control of all around him, to make and create as he pleased; all would be false, but the mind could be tricked easily. He was about to try his control over the beautiful landscape, when a tremor shook him to the core.
In an instant, a pillar of stone rose from his side, and toppled over without giving him a chance to dodge it. He laid there for a moment, taking in the crushing weight now on his form; being unarmored, he had nothing to hold off some of the mass on him, not that he thought he could be wounded in this ethereal realm. Yet, as much as he felt intact, he did feel pain, and suddenly an increase in pressure as the downed pillar tried to rejoin the earth that birthed it. The pain and pressure quickly became unbearable, as he realized he was being effectively squished into the ground moments before he was standing on; he somehow could also feel as atom by atom his entire being was being pushed through the mystical earth. What came next, instead of a second death if it was possible, was even more unbelievable for the luckless medic.
He popped back into existence, a couple of meters above the ground, which closed on him fast. He fell on a mud puddle, obviously, but was thankful for having his helmet still on. Emperor only knew how he died and came back into being fully armored, but at least he didn't have a mouthful of liquid dirt for breakfast; or is it an afternoon snack? He couldn't tell simply by the lightning around him, all he knew was that he was not in the now-certainly demolished Cadia. He rose carefully, noticing his surroundings as his trained body informed him of the weight on him; full Carapace armor, and he still had most medical supplies and some of the additional gear he was carrying when that burning hulk had erased him from the mortal plane. A quick look confirmed he lacked both hellguns and their correspondent power packs, their holsters and pockets empty; he still had his dagger, at least, for whatever defense he could fathom.
He was in a rather large clearing, inside yet another forest, hoping this time around there were no enemies lurking about, ready to drop him. This one was more tropical rather than wintry, with far more shades of green and a good layer of grass around the conveniently placed mud pond. Thermostat on his HUD marked the "mild" temperature of 35° Celsius, so he didn't waste power making a sweep of his surroundings with his heat visor, the ambient heat masking most other creatures' signatures; he could tell, though, he was surrounded, because such a forest would be teeming with fauna, and there was the same eerie silence held by the cold woods in Cadia before the surprise attack on the drop pods. Alas, someone did make an appearance. He had to give it to him, he was well camouflaged.
"Soldier, what in the name of the Emperor are you doing standing there like a scared child! And why are you covered in mud?! Did they not teach you proper cleaning in basic, or are you just that shallow! Now move, give me a hundred, now!" His camo was not the only well-done aspect on his new acquaintance, his performance was almost flawless. Dressed just like a Catachan Fighter, nearly as burly and complete with a whole head taller than himself, Al-Morad found himself looking up at this yelling pretender, who did not falter in his act and kept trying to make him follow undignifying commands. "YOU MAGGOT, ARE YOU REALLY THAT STUPID OR JUST PLAIN DEAF!? I GAVE YOU AN ORDER!"
He stopped focusing on the actor in front of him, glad his helmet hid his scanning eyes and the displeased expression on his face, as he tried and failed to spot whoever was guarding the sod's well-being. Emperor help me, if this man keeps shouting... I have half a mind to give him a double dose of Fury, just to see what he does before his heart explodes. Actually, scratch that, his companions would cut me down before he could maul me to death for being the closest one to him. Still, that throat needs some rearranging... He quieted his murderous thoughts, considering it was not worth it to punish a man for the sole crime of impersonating one of the Emperor finest.
The man in question had fallen silent, finally realizing he was not being believed by the Imperial facing him; he briefly wondered what had failed in his performance, having given his all on making it believable. He even went the extra mile and completely painted his body in the uncomfortable war paint soldiers from time to time used. His doubt showed briefly in his face, before he could hide it once more behind a stone look, but the armor-clad real soldier took notice of this, prompting him to correctly guess the source of the faltering and giving some insight.
"You speak Low Gothic well enough, but your accent is certainly not that of a Catachan; you sound more like a Tallarn Desert Rider. You have the markings of a Sergeant, but failed to notice my markings, myself outranking you; no Sergeant would dare, in their wildest dreams, address a superior officer like that. Thirdly, and more showing yet, was your lack of the distinct Catachan gaze, which is a mixture of perpetual awareness with a tinge of "I shit things bigger than you daily" in it. It's unmistakable if you have seen it once, and speaks of horrors that would make a grown man piss on himself on the spot." Having said that, looking how the man relaxed for a moment before tensing up even more than before, Lt. Badr noticed the poor soul in front of him had paled while eyeing the hilt of his dagger, and the impersonal visage of his helmet. He's terrified now that the jig is up, he expects me to pounce on him or something, so I'm still a threat in their eyes...
Thinking quickly, he came to the unpleasant point where he had to choose between making a final stand, perhaps using the chunky not-Catachan dude as a meat-shield, or taking a more sensible approach. He opted for the latter, surprising the thirty-plus well-armed troopers hidden around him, and the almost-shitting-his-pants actor. As he slowly extended his arms to the sides and took them behind his head, kneeling in the process, he issued a simple but heavy order to the perplexed man eyeing him warily. "Tell your friends to come out from hiding, there will be no fighting today. I surrender."
It as an interesting development, to say the least, given their track record with what they presumed was yet another Imperial Storm Trooper, but they didn't let the intrigue delay them in their task. In unison, most operators showed themselves out of the treeline, one even rising from the tall grass to his right using a ghillie-suit despite its massive bulk. Al-Morad took quick notice of the mixed species unit coming close, recognizing the form of humans on some of them, despite a couple sporting a more unnatural feel to their movements; Eldar, perhaps? Doesn't matter, I'm deep in shit, I just surrendered to a group of heretics and the denizens they call friends.
The bulky one in ghillie, its species unknown to him as much as the rest of clearly non-humans, came to stand between him and the somewhat skillful actor, aiming at his head what he could only assume was the most massive shotgun after the auto-shotguns issued to Ogryns; looking down a barrel wider than a human eye, he scanned the weapon in question and found no magazine in sight. A quick glance to the other machines of war carried by the very-varied group, he spotted no apparent magazine or charging port, besides not recognizing any of the models; a couple resembled lasguns, but then again, most lasguns general models resembled Age of Strife or older designs, regardless of the changed firing systems. He took notice of yet another specimen of the species of the one silently threatening to erase his head from existence, using the distance to compare the size with the human next to it: it reminded him of a Space Marine Scout, therefore a SM without the Power Armor; he figured it was probably just as strong.
Everything on him was removed, barring the armor set, and placed carefully in what looked like reinforced containers, probably to prevent any explosives from surprising the party; the lack of grenades and bombs that came with his missing lasguns sang a different song, but he wouldn't be believed if he told them his packs carried medical and survival supplies only, if they even understood his words to begin with. A lanky xenos came close and took both of his hands from behind his head, and locking them in full-hand-covering metal braces, magnetized to stick together, on his front instead of his back; not that he could move his hands inside those things, but they wanted to see what he was up to, apparently.
He wasn't treated forcefully as he expected, just barely so, and was guided to a number of vehicles in another clearing. The whole way, no less than four weapons at all times aimed at his head, because reasons. The transports in question were of odd design to him, very cubical, elongated, with no wings. They did have some kind of propulsion outings on each corner, but if his physics knowledge didn't fail him, those boxes weren't flight-capable; and if they did manage to get them in the air, a failure or damage on the propulsion meant plummeting back to the ground at neck-breaking speeds, aerodynamics be damned. He was pushed into one of them, noticing it held space for no more than ten people comfortably in the hold; I can't believe I miss the interior of a Valkyrie, at least those were roomier. He was sat on one of the uncomfortable seats and secured in place, and then followed in the same procedure by those joining him in the vessel. Guns raised always, of course.
A thought came to mind, and he subtly (not that it was noticeable) moved all data stored in his helmet and armband gadget into his cerebral cortex implant in a single sweep; he found out why it was ill-advised to do so with large amounts of digital information, as a headache brewed from the back of his head, where it was located. He hoped he wouldn't need any of that information in the foreseeable future, lest he would be forced to revert the action and decompress the intended pieces of data back into a suitable device. Now, his captors would find nothing of note in his gear once they hacked into it, and if it turned out they were getting very excited about dissecting him or anything, he would make sure the non-human Space Marine left nothing usable out of his head. Gruesome way to go, again, but intel was always valuable, no matter how little.
The vehicle, surprisingly, lifted off without much of a struggle despite the weight it carried, and started ascension rapidly. Soon enough, everyone in the cabin were feeling the G-forces pushing them down as the transport kept accelerating to break into orbit; Al-Morad let a smirk slip out under his helmet, as he saw the gargantuan alien aiming at him struggle to keep the weapon leveled. He took another good look at the people and xenos around him, checking out their gear: armor looked lighter than even Flak armor, except for perhaps a couple of large men and the already-mentioned large xeno, yet all sets were more covering than standard imperial armor, if one wasn't issued a full set of it. He theorized that either their weapons were ridiculously under-powered for them to not care that much for armor, or their suits were complemented by some other form of protection; problem was, the only additional protection he could think of were personal shields, something that not even a standard Power Armor could field. Did this people figured out personal shield technology? I need to get my hands on one of those, if that is the case.
The shuttle started slowing down, a few minutes after the normal weightlessness of low-gravity came and went as some form of artificial replacement kicked in. He yearned for a window to gaze at what they were entering; was it a stationary space station, or a mighty warship with a few kilometers of surface to explore? Either way, he would not get to explore anything, as he figured he would be going straight to the brig or an interrogation room. Stepping down from the smaller ship once it touched down, he saw a rather cramped hangar, with sleeker, smaller ships oddly stacked on the walls vertically to save space; interceptors, single-seat combat ships, I presume. He was taken from the hangar into the vowels of the ship, into an empty room not far from where they arrived. There, a human approached him, and spoke in Low Gothic with an atrocious accent.
"Strip from your armor completely, place it on the stand in front of you. You can leave your under-armor garments on. Once you are done, stand in the marked area, shoulder-wide stance with extended arms." Doing as he was told, he was searched once more for any hidden weapons, and once they were satisfied with not finding any, he was taken to another room, also a short walk from there.
The room was a standard interrogation room, minus a see-through mirror on the side, but with cameras at every angle of the cubicle. Only furniture was a table and two opposite-placed chairs, on one of which he was told to sit. The guards promptly linked his handcuffs with the table, and the thick chain ran through the link down towards his now-also-chained up ankles, in turn connected by a short section to the floor. It let him sit comfortably, but severely limited his limbs' independent movement, and he wasn't so sure he could break out of his tie-ins without some cunning plan. Then again, the lack of violence against him up to that point, even when in the hands of heretics, had him completely baffled, intrigued by what would come.
Once secured in place, everyone but a xeno guard filed out of the small room, leaving him to his thoughts. The xeno standing at the door was armed with a firearm that he identified as yet another shotgun, but scaled to his size; he suppressed a grin as he imagined the scrawny bird-like specimen wielding and firing the first, larger shotgun, an action that spelled broken bones and a missed target, at best. He wasn't one to indulge in the suffering of others, human or otherwise, but as most medicine professionals he enjoyed very dark humor at times, and with the protagonist being a xeno, he couldn't feel much guilt about it. Jokes aside, he did indulge himself in analyzing as much as he could the new species he had encountered by chance.
The alien stared back at him, or glared, he wasn't certain by virtue of unfamiliarity, but kept his eyes on him at all times; front-placed eyes, proper of a predator, told an evolutionary history of a carnivorous diet and reliance on speed rather than brawn to take down prey. Talons on hands and feet, and oddly bent lower legs, reminded him of Genestealers, anatomically suited for faster running and longer leaping, and a preference for slashing attacks in close quarters. His face and head were covered by what he could only assume to be some form of hardened skin or bone growth, for protection; he didn't see any indication of an insectoid past, so an exoskeleton was out of the question. He briefly wondered if the thing had teeth inside that oddly-shaped beak formed by the meeting of two pieces of the aforementioned protection tissue. Bipedal, his stance screamed a martial and disciplined upbringing, with perfect form and a regal look to it. Either the entire species was highly militarized or this particular individual was an over-achiever.
His mussing was over the moment the door slid open, a blue, clearly-female and too-anthropomorphic xeno with a scorn in its face, followed by something he did not expect, not that everything had been up to his standards: an Imperial Officer, a Captain, in dress uniform. He looked and moved as a seasoned Guardsman, and had a standard-issue prosthetic eye, something hard to falsify; any doubts were erased from his mind when he spoke, sporting an undoubtedly Valhallan accent.
"Greetings, soldier. I'm Captain Schoja, of the 503rd Valhallan Regiment. As first order of business, identify yourself. State also age and place of origin, for the record, please." A short greeting, to the point, delivered stoically as a proper Valhallan would, all the while the man took a seat in front of him. Lt. Badr was torn between complying with these fellow Imperial, or to curse him to the Chaos Gods for conniving with xenos. He chose the latter, irked by the obvious heretic demanding information out of him.
"Order of business my loyalist ass, heretic scum. You think you can come in here and order me around, when you yourself renounced the Emperor and His teachings? Go ahead and put me down already, you will not get anything from me!" Al-Morad would have been able to mildly tolerate a human willingly working with xenos if said humans were ignorant to the Emperor and the Imperial Creed, as one should not be held responsible for not being up to standards they knew nothing about to begin with; yet, this man was without a shadow of a doubt a born-and-raised Imperial, just like him, so it was unfathomable for Badr to cooperate with someone who had turned his back to everything humanity stood for.
Schoja was not impressed in the slightest by the outburst, fully expecting such a reaction from someone of the apparent standing of this man. He would be a hard nut to crack, to make him see the truths around him and turn to their side. Otherwise, he would face the same fate most other Guardsmen had before him. The valhallan made a gesture to the blue skinned alien, that reminded Badr of a better-looking Tau, and she/it began to circle around him; he expected either a swift execution or the beginning of long torture sessions, but there was little he could do when, standing behind him, he felt two hands on his shoulders and heard a phrase in a foreign language. On instinct, as he felt like he shut down, his mind reacted to this events by relating it to a psyker trying to enter his thoughts, so subconsciously set up the meager barriers every Tempestus was drilled to muster at a moment's notice. That was of little help with what came next.
He was suddenly in a dark void, floating, alone; he could feel in the distance echoes of memories, his memories, so he figured he had somehow retracted into his mind. He thought himself alone, wondering how was this possible and how to revert it, when someone spoke from behind him.
"Impressive, hardly ever have I come across someone who reacted so quickly to the mind-joining. I could only see a blur of your life as it was shielded by a remarkably sturdy wall of thought, to put it simply." The one talking was none other than the female xeno that came with Captain Schoja. Despite the clear and admitted attempt of intrusion into his head, he felt oddly calm about the whole ordeal; probably due to the alien's manipulation.
"So, you are a psyker. Should've guessed that before. Not a very capable one, if you cannot get past that poor excuse of a mind defense." Calm or not, he was still talking inside his head, with a psychically-capable xeno. He had every right, no, duty, to be hostile and snarky.
"You call me a psyker, as other imperials have called members of my species before; know that I, we, asari, are not what you presume. Or perhaps we are, in a way. That is up to you to figure out. Looking at your memories and inner thoughts is not a matter of brute force, is something you give access to, willingly, just as I will give some access to you, to prove my point." In a few minutes he was immersed in childhood and adulthood memories of the xeno, some could be considered happy and sweet, others not so much. He knew better, though, than to let himself be swayed by the words of this alien, this asari, as it called itself.
"Nice memories, for a xeno. If you expect me to share some of mine in kind, you are out of luck. You came into my head, brought me forcefully into my head, to try and take the information I refused to give; you might say is impossible, but I'm certain I can repay you with some or another form of pain, right here and now, without using my physical body-" His threat was cut short by the thing giggling at his reaction. It was insulting, to say the least. He even felt his blood pressure rise at the offense.
"While it is possible to do harm within the mind, cause pain, it requires centuries of training and practice to do so; it is a skill only used by the ruthless, those in charge of torture. I have no interest in developing such a skill, and you simply don't have the time left to learn how to do it. To use your own words, you are out of luck..." She said everything so matter-of-factly that Al-Morad was tempted not to try...but try he did, anyways, to no result or reaction whatsoever. Seeing his efforts meet no reward, he was briefly filled with a frustration unbecoming of a Tempestus Scion.
"You are frustrated, I take it you tried to harm me, to no avail?"
"Stop reading my thoughts, xeno! And get out of my head, or melt it into a puddle already. Come on, get on with it!" It was unnerving, and this intrusion felt like a violation of all that was him.
"I cannot read your thoughts if you don't let me, but your emotions are powerful, raw, indomitable in this realm, free for me to sense. You are wondering why you are so calm about this development, it is because I'm projecting my emotions to you, just as you project yours unknowingly to me. It's one of the pillars of the mind-melding." Badr heaved a heavy sigh and proceeded to rub his temples, a reflexive movement with no real effect on anything, as he was not experiencing a headache, yet. At his reluctant silence, the asari carried on.
"I came here for information, yes, but only what was asked of you; anything else would have been left untouched. "Melting" your mind, destroying it, it is also something doable by a trained asari, yet I'm not interested in learning or using that skill either. Mind-melding is something precious, not to be tarnished by the harming of others." This time, it waited for his response.
"For the sake of my sanity, I have no other choice but take your word for granted. Then again, this invasion is not welcomed, so don't expect me to lower my guard any time soon. I do not believe, either, that you would have learned my identity and leave it at that. There is something in my mind, whatever it is, that you crave, and I'm willing to bet anything that you will not let me go until you get it." With no chances of fighting back in a conventional sense, he was left with nothing else than his brain and his words to ward off the intruder.
"I will not confirm or deny your claims, since you are so set on them. I know now, nevertheless, that you can be spoken to civilly even if I'm an alien, and that you might be open to listening to what we have to-" He cut her off.
"Don't assume things, asari. I consider myself civil enough, but civility only applies to humans, not xenos. The only reason we are talking right now is because I have no other choice, being trapped in my own head until you decide it's time to go back. You know what? You came here for information, so let's exchange information, a trade. To make something out of this botched operation." When violence was not an option and xenos were involved, all what was left was subterfuge and one-sided negotiation.
"Interesting proposal. What are you willing to give up?"
"I will give you whatever information you require, if it's not too compromising, so no war secrets. In exchange I want you to, how to say it, induce my mind to know your language, to understand it, spoken and written." That prompted the asari to laugh once again, this time more genuinely. Al-Morad felt mocked at, but he couldn't know the alien was laughing at the unexpected request, not at him.
"I apologize for that; I was surprised by what you said. I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, mind-melding that is. I appreciate that you are curious enough to want to learn thessian, but that kind of information is intransferable through this medium, and if it were, it would overload your mind. Only way to exchange information is through sharing of thoughts and memories, as a slideshow, perhaps." That brought his machinations to an abrupt halt; what use was this ability, mind-melding, if one couldn't pluck or insert information straight from the source? The way it put it, it sounded more like a recreational and bonding skill, rather than something of real practical use…
"Before we go back, though, I can offer you some other knowledge. It will sound unbelievable at first, but Captain Schoja will confirm my words." A pause, for the words to sink in. "This is not your original universe. You are not the first, and more than likely are not the last, that goes through this transition. This has been going on for a long time, at least half a human century, and has brought imperials, Eldar and Tau into our universe; we still have no clue as to how or why this is happening." The face he was making was indecipherable, stoic and firm, but his emotions betrayed confusion, intrigue, even some fear. She chose not to capitalize on those, and took a more rational path. "I will take us back now; it has merely been a minute since we started. Can I have your word that you will at least listen to all we have to say, and perhaps tell us who you are? We mean you no harm, truly, just as we hope you don't mean any to us…" Its emotions were laid raw for him to experience, and he could feel an uncertainty not unlike his own, coming from it. He also knew, somehow, that it was being completely honest and open to him, at least when it said no harm was meant to him.
His rational side screamed at him not to concede, to consign the asari to whatever hellhole it had crawled from, but his instincts were telling something different, inducing doubt into his heart. So he gave an uneasy nod, if only for the sake of going back to reality.
And like that he was back, with a delightful headache to boost. Nothing changed, nobody had moved, perhaps the asari wasn't lying, it hadn't been really that long since they retreated into his head.
"Found anything?" Schoja was asking the alien, who still had no name for Al-Morad to use, not that he cared that much for it anyway.
"Just his word of a civil conversation. Make good use of it. " She stated in perfect Low Gothic while giving the Storm Trooper a friendly? pat on the shoulder. "I did give him a quick round down of what the situation is right now, was the only way I got him to slightly tune down on the hostility."
"Heretic, the xeno just told me we are no longer in our universe. Is it true? How is it possible?" Lt. Badr cut straight to the point, feeling distress thanks to the new information.
"It is true; this is not our universe. How is it possible, after all these years is still unknown. Only pattern is that the ones that makes the transition die before doing so, but it makes no different whether they actually asked or desired to continue living or not."
"And this has been going on for fifty solar years? What's the year, while we are at it? And what is the fate of all the imperials that come through?" It was becoming difficult to choose in what order to ask all the questions he had, way too many to count. The entire ordeal was extraordinarily confusing and disturbing.
"All imperials that come through are, in a sense, quarantined. Eventually they either remain in custody, or regain their freedom, to join society. A few others are impossible to retrieve, to dangerous and combative to survive first contact. We are currently in year 2240 AC, for reference in our universe the Empire of Man has so far lasted since 30000 AC to 40000 AC. AC stands for "After Christ", "Christ" being Jesus Christ, an extremely influential religious figure around whom one of the largest cult has spawned. As a personal note, one which is shared by many fellow imperials, is that Jesus Christ was in fact one of many Emperor's alter-egos, but is impossible to prove."
"Yes, the Emperor, the one you renounced, remember Him? Are His whereabouts known?"
"No, He is for the moment unfindable, just as He was by this period on history back in our universe. Still, some believe He either never existed or was eliminated in the same Reaper Harvest that wiped out the Protheans." The former imperial officer stopped his ramblings when he realized he was spewing names and relative dates that meant little to the new arrival.
"Reapers? Protheans? Are those more xeno species? And what do you mean with the Emperor being eliminated!? You are more of a fool than what I took you for, if you not only side with aliens but go even further and openly state that He, in all His might, could be taken out by mere xenos. If the Ruinous Powers couldn't get to Him for the eternity He has been alive, a meager alien species wouldn't stand a chance…" Al-Morad never considered himself a fanatic of the Imperial Creed, despite he sounded like one right now; yet, in numerous occasions had his faith been reinforced by small happenings and miracles, to most of which he owes his continued existence.
"It is a hard pill to swallow, I know, but you have to listen to me. The Emperor was birthed in the first place as the final measure against the Chaos Gods, who in turn are spawned by the raw emotions of an insurmountable number of sentient beings across time. The Reapers I mentioned? Were a robotic species created for "order" by an ancient xenos species, predating even the Eldars and Orks; these robots rebelled against their creators, and went on genocidal rampages across eons, every fifty thousand years, targeting specifically the most advanced species of each period. The eternal culling of sentients kept the Immaterium from turmoil, out of which would've come the Ruinous Powers. No turmoil meant no Chaos Gods, no Gods meant no need for the Emperor to be spawned, so never existing. On the other hand, if He did spawn and was targeted as a potentially dangerous individual, it is uncertain He would have survived against the full force of the Reapers without technology to aid Him." Badr was left speechless. Everything the valhallan just said made too much sense to be ignored or dismissed as the ramblings of a misguided heretic, despite actually being a misguided heretic nonetheless. He was left only with the hope that the Emperor was out and about in the galaxy, and also hoping to gain access to history logs to check what was being exposed. He also briefly wished to be a psyker to read their minds and gaze into the Warp, to judge by his own eyes how truthful they were being.
"I see. I guess I have to take your word for it, for now. But, does this mean that Eldar, Orks, Necrons, all of them were exterminated millennia ago?" A ray of hope crossed his mind. If all three of the strongest xeno species were gone, it meant much less of a struggle for humanity to rise…
"Necrons and Orks, there is no trace of them, nothing, thankfully… Eldar are a different matter altogether: this universe original Eldars were all wiped out, yes, but the past half century has brought a large number of their species from our universe, and had managed to thrive in this new galaxy, in peace. So far they haven't proven to be a threat to anyone, if they are unbothered at least." Two out of three was acceptable, not that he would admit it. He had fought with and against Eldar a few times, they could be agreed with, as long as one accepted the universal truth that before long, an Eldar wraithbone blade would spurt out of their chest...
"Wait a moment, I just realized… how do you know all you know about the Emperor's history and Chaos? That kind of knowledge is handled in a strict need-to-know basis, with at times entire regiments signed for execution after facing the latter's denizens, in fear of the most minor corruption." That red flag didn't register immediately in the seasoned quasi-inquisitor in him, born after decades of serving such an occultist institution. Now that his main queries had been at least partially quelled, he could focus on the broader spectrum of things.
"Call it courtesy, from the Eldar. Some of those that crossed are over five millennia old, with enough knowledge and understanding to fill us imperials in with the kind of information our own Imperium kept from us, under the pretense of protecting us and others. It was also them who confirmed the state of the Immaterium, given that none of the humans that came through have a modicum of psychic resonance in the orders needed to attune with the Warp. The Tau, well, you know they are not particularly gifted in that area." Imperials here have gone astray, trusting blindly in the sayings of one if not the most treacherous xeno species known. Al-Morad was trying to come up with ways to bring imperials back to the fold, into the embrace of the Emperor and His Creed, for their own good.
"Not to be rude, bald fella, but we have been answering your questions all this time, while you have given nothing at all. Normally, interrogations go the other way around, not that this is meant to be an interrogation to begin with." The nameless asari decided to interrupt the flow of the conversation, to chirp in with its opinion on the matter. Badr had to concede, it was right, all his questions were being answered, no matter how dissatisfactory they felt. "So, in spirit of…let's call it good sporting, could you give us name, rank, occupation? The basics, what we asked in the beginning." He nodded.
"I'm Lieutenant Badr Al-Morad. I was part of Inquisitorial Storm Trooper Squadron 537, under Lady Inquisitor Sanktra's direct command." He took a short pause, as his interrogator simply raised an eyebrow at him. "I was my unit's Combat Medic, sometimes performing as Chirurgeon as well. I'm 35 solar years old, and I hail from Thalaj, an Agri-World in Segmentus Ultima."
"Then, reports are correct, you truly are a Tempestus Scion. The armor, the attitude, the demeanor, everything checks out." Al-Morad was thoroughly confused by the surprise and intrigue at plain sight in the faces of his interrogators, even the armed guard. He was also half-impressed, half-disturbed by how human were the expressions shown by the aliens present.
"I take, judging by everyone's reaction, that it is not common for a Tempestus to make it through to you?"
"It's more common than you think; what's not common at all, as in, this is a first occurrence, is for a Tempestus o similarly elite combatant of the Imperium to not go berserk on the retrieval team as soon as they cross paths, no matter how outnumbered and outgunned they are. The ferocity is such that all were taken out on-site, as they proved too dangerous and irrational to handle. Sadly, there has always been casualties on our side as well, against all odds." Sadly for you, perhaps. The Emperor would be proud, I'm certain. Badr managed to suppress the feeling of pride at his unnamed comrades, who kept true to their nature and fought to the bitter end. Maybe, he should have done the same…
"Now that we've confirmed your status as a Tempestus, there is something I need to ask of you. Do you happen to know the specifications to build a working lasgun? The higher powers are very interested in that technology, and so far no fellow imperial has been able to explain it successfully; all guardsmen have basic knowledge, merely for maintenance purposes, and most refuse to address the subject in the first place. No one from the Adeptus Mechanicus has come through, so no authorities in the subject can be talked to."
That was all he needed to know, apparently. It dawned on him then, what was the asari after inside his head. Directed energy weaponry was either completely out of their grasp, or in such an infancy that it was non-viable as it was; hence the need for someone with knowledge of a working, portable energy weapon. Had he been speaking to a human-only organization, he might have considered divulging what he knew; thus, with xenos in their midst…
"With all due respect, heretic, I cannot confirm nor deny whether I know or not how to build a lasgun. And let's assume I knew… I wouldn't give it to you, only for it to fall in the grasp of the xenos you work for."
"Call me heretic all you want, Lieutenant, know that all I've done is in the name of Humanity. Things are different here, there is no chance for our species betterment without cooperation with aliens; in time, hopefully, you'll come to understand this, as many others did. Now, given the turn the conversation has taken, I'm forced to cut it short and go straight to the part where I inform you of the fate decided for you." Captain Schoja slipped back into his somber demeanor, to deliver the heavy words he knew would cause revolt in the man sitting in front of him.
"Your position as a Storm Trooper marks you as a dangerous individual, possibly beyond reeducation for society integration. As such, it has been decided you will remain in custody, imprisoned in the most secure location of the known Galaxy: Citadel Security Prison. Complete isolation, to avoid altercations with other inmates. You will have weekly psychiatric treatment, no drugs involved if possible, to keep track of your development, and to try to sway your mind into a more… cooperative view. Other than that, you will be permanently confined to your cell. Don't worry, all your needs will be met, trust me; it might even be better than private quarters in an Imperial Cruiser." The reaction he got for delivering news of potential life-long imprisonment were, for a lack of a better word, underwhelming. Al-Morad, if that was his real name, remained impassive, keeping his eyes leveled with his own, unimpressed by what he heard.
"What, no reaction? No denial, no combativeness? You won't even complain?" The asari prodded. The Tempestus spared a fleeting glance at it, not very concerned with what was being asked.
"Do I have a choice in the matter? Anything I say, will it change the outcome? Is there a way for me, anything in my control, that might keep me from being locked up?" His questions were rhetorical, already knowing the answer, and expecting none either way. "What is the point in fretting over what there is no chance for me to change? You, or your higher-ups, have already made their minds; probably since you realized I am what I am, this entire conversation merely a formality, inconsequential. My only chances at freedom, the only thing in my control, are to fight for it or submit and try to do it your way. Fighting will inevitably end in my early demise, not much more successful than the colleagues before me; so, perhaps I can be of better service to Humankind from behind bars, at first, and then possibly as a free man, "reformed" as you would like to say it."
"I'll admit, I wasn't expecting that response, Lieutenant. You are far more level-headed than most." The valhallan was shocked beyond comprehension.
"I like to use my head more than my muscles, you know? Either way, my duty is to our species, and as wrong as I believe it is for Humanity to be allied with xenos, it is not my place nor within my reach to change their ways; for now, at least, I will do what those above me and with a better understanding of the situation dictate. Peace and loneliness might even be a good change, I'm a bit tired of war anyways. So, let's go, take me to this "Citadel" of yours. I'm actually excited to see how this will unfold."
The two aliens and the other human in the room were beyond themselves with a mixture of feelings and thoughts. This was an unexpected turn of events, for an elite, extremely deadly operative to simply submit to the will of those he saw as denizens and heretics, was unprecedented. They were wary, still, for he might be planning something, a way to escape, or lulling them into a sense of security before rebelling and attacking. They would have to wait and see, and be cautious, until he was out of their hands and into C-Sec's jurisdiction.
There was no struggling, no threat, nothing. He behaved exemplarily, during the entire voyage meditating in the brig; any attempts to make conversation with him were met by cordial yet uninterested responses if the addresser was a human, and aliens being politely ignored, if that was a thing. He had been given a choice: receive an universal translator in the form of a removable item, like a tactical ear-piece, or have it as a subcutaneous implant; being no stranger to foreign objects in his body, he chose the latter, if only to not having to worry about losing it or leaving without it. For his good behavior, Al-Morad was even allowed to look out a view port as the ship sailed into the nebula that normally surrounded the Citadel. Said Citadel turned out to be a massive space station, measuring nearly 45 km long and 13 km in diameter, it being the largest construct in the entire Galaxy… Badr half-hoped they came across a Blackstone Fortress like the one that destroyed Cadia, which in size could pass as a planet's moon; they would freak out, through and through.
The induction into the prison was eventless, straightforward, despite having weapons aimed at him at all times, and being heavily chained until he was left alone in his "room". It was a cubicle, metallic grey in color, with small vents in the roof; two-by-three meters, had a cot, toilet, and shower in the corner. The absolute confinement concept was taken to the extreme here, not even bothering to giving access to the probably-communal showers whenever they were vacant; no, it was expected for him to completely live out his days in this small space. Al-Morad could only think of the word "cozy" as he gazed upon his new residence, but had another, more concerning thought in mind: this place will be left uninhabitable after my first training routine, and even worse, after the first shit I take… Emperor help me, this will be tough.
Despite the bland prison uniform, he was allowed to keep his wristwatch, so as to maintain a sense of passing time. He chose to split his absolutely-free schedule between meditation and training, with pauses to eat whatever he was given as meals; he was even asked at which time he would prefer having dinner, choosing what some considered a late-dinner with an afternoon snack before it. The first time he showered he expected ice-cold water to stab his body, only to find there was actual warm water to use, a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one. If not for the inability to leave, he could almost believe he was in some sort of luxurious hotel, complete with passable meals even. They were trying to butter him up, certainly, but whether it was to have him spill all his secrets or just quell any rioting by means of complacency, he couldn't tell.
Two solar days came and went, with the same self-imposed routine followed minutely for the most part; the timing on meals was spotty at best, with variations in the order of minutes, not that it made a lot of difference. He really had no timetable, he had been given leeway as to what to occupy his days with. But, for the first time, there was a change. He was currently waiting -chained up, mind you- inside a small studio, with comfortable couches, a desk in the corner, some furniture and what caught his attention, a rather large library of books; old-school books, hard cover, paper. He eyed some with curiosity, and managed to remove one from the shelf it was sitting on without manhandling it. Having his hands still completely restrained, he had to be inventive to open the piece of literacy at hand and turn the pages; he was in luck, for he chose what appeared to be a medical or anatomical tome on xeno biology, judging by the pictures supporting the text. He couldn't understand the scripture, naturally, as the tool that would allow that universal translation was not given to him, for some reason.
He spent only minutes with it though, as he was prompted to shut the book closed due to the contents it started displaying. It was a book on asari anatomy, that he could understand through the images, but now he was uncertain about what part of the anatomy it referred to. It opened with basics and generalizations, but in no time started displaying pictures of genitalia, of all things; it looked too human for his liking, all female he noticed, and would've kept browsing the pages if he hadn't realized it spoke about erogenous anatomy, not mere anatomy. Therefore, feeling the blood rush to his face making him beet-red in record time, he carefully closed the book chosen with a mixture of disgust and bewilderment, and wondering just why would anyone publish a book centered around that topic!? And why would a human psychiatrist have a copy in their library!?
"Ah, I see you found my tome on Asari physiology; it makes for an interesting reading, and abstracting its topics allows me to relate them to their general culture and view of life…" Al-Morad turned his head to meet who he assumed was his new therapist. She looked borderline elderly, if he had to guess she was reaching sixty years old, a fair bit shorter than him. Greying hair, intelligent eyes, and a sharp outfit completed her appearance. "I'm Luciana Cardona, your new psychiatrist. First Lieutenant Cardona, if you would rather use my former rank, Lieutenant. Please, take a seat." Her tone wasn't demanding at all, giving him the impression he could choose whether to seat or not, and where; what called more of his attention was the emphasis on her rank.
"Were you a Guardsman as well, ma'am?" He couldn't hide his surprise, and some of the displeasure at meeting yet another corrupted imperial officer.
"I was, an entire lifetime ago. Steel Legion, if you can believe that. I have been around here for nearly forty years now, after three solar decades of service back in Armageddon." She was calm, collected, unbothered by the clearly judgmental face of the man she was expected to sway.
"And how come such a long-service officer came to be a shrink in service of xenos?" He cut straight to the point.
"I'm in service to humanity, not the other species. And not much differently than you, actually. I faced the choice of fighting, and dying, or submitting; I chose the latter. This place differs in so many ways from our own, that the possibilities that opened for me after doing so seemed unfathomable back home. I always had a knack at reading people, and enjoying analyzing their actions and thoughts; here, I was given the chance to become a psychiatrist, once I overcame the indoctrinated hatred hardwired into my mind by forty years in a universe in a permanent state of war. This new place is no stranger to war, let me tell you, but it is not permanent and not so widespread so as to affect so many people as it did where we come from. I felt at peace for the first time in ages here, free to make my own choices. And all that without really giving up on the God-Emperor." She spoke the truth, her truth at least, that much he could tell. Perhaps she was redeemable, or perhaps he was the one in the wrong this time, and he had to figure out if he was worth to be redeemed. He was beginning to doubt.
"Can you tell me, with all your experience, how does one relate and acknowledge xenos as equals or worthy of respect, while not renouncing His teachings? When He himself dismissed them as denizens worth not even the ammunition used to purge them?"
"That is one interpretation of His word, yes. But have you ever reflected upon why He chose to depict them as such to the general populace?" He shook his head, unwilling to lie to the woman in front of him; if she was telling the truth, then there is a chance for him to be free and useful to Humanity once more.
"Perhaps the Emperor painted them as thoughtless beasts and untrustworthy beings just to easily push our people to engage them without much guilt on their souls; He wasn't entirely wrong at doing it: unlike in this universe, in ours every sensible species is constantly vying to be the one on top, or remain there in the Impierum's case, while Chaos, Orks, Tyranids and other predatory beings slowly consume them from the without and within, the ones capable of stopping them are busy destroying each other. In the future, if you read about the Reaper War, you will notice the differences and coincidences with wars of our past lives. I'll spoil something for you: the key of the collective victory over fifty years ago was cooperation and alliance between the species, without any attempts or plans on backstabbing the others. Casualties were extreme on all sides, but on equal parts, so rebuilding was also made in unison and helping one another." Her words had a deep impact on him, she could see. The man in front of her, she concluded, was not a pure-bred Tempestus, not blinded by fanatical views.
"To answer your first question more directly, I found that I could still serve Humanity, and by extension the Emperor, by becoming a productive member of this new and varied society, where working alongside aliens brings far better results than isolation and genocidal war. If I read your file correctly, you answered something on the likes of that when asked about your lack of resistance, did you not?" Again, he was speechless, having way too much to process in his mind. He could not understand how his titanium-strong views were being shaken so easily, thinking that maybe, only maybe, in their universe he was being constantly manipulated and his mind subtly pushed into certain lines of thought. At any case, he felt distressed and somewhat drained already, and she picked up on that right away.
"I see my words had a stronger effect than I thought. Perhaps it would be best if we left this first session at this point, so that you can digest what I just told you, wouldn't you agree?" For his sanity, he silently nodded. "Very well, I will call in the guards so that they escort you back to your current residence. I think we have made some progress today, despite the fugacity of the conversation. Farewell, Lieutenant Al-Morad." He waved him off, as the guards waited for him to approach them at the door.
"Wait, may I request something?" Cardona gave a tentative nod. "May I be given reading material? History, and a rundown of the species and factions in play in this universe, perhaps? I believe learning more about where I'll live the rest of my days might help me progress into change, besides allowing me to pass the time…" The therapist smiled at his request, somewhat expecting something of the like, as his demeanor screamed both dangerous and intellectual.
"I'll see what I can do about that. Anything else?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Medical atlases of all known species. I'm a medic, after all, and to be honest, the variety has peaked my professional curiosity. Just…no tomes going too deep into genitalia, please." He actually managed to get a hearty laugh out of the shrink with the last remark. "See you next week, I suppose."
The past six months went like a breeze, with no notable events taking place. He adjusted his daily routine to add all the material Cardona was sending him; it started with what he had requested, medical atlases and historical texts, but had expanded on so much more. Once, she even called him insatiable in his search for knowledge; he guessed she never had to fill 24 hours a day inside a glorified broom closet with something else other than sleep and reminiscence, but he prided himself in being an avid reader to boost. After finishing the medical atlases, he went beyond and asked for videos of medical procedures practiced on both humans and aliens alike. An odd request, he himself noted, but if he was planning on being recognized as a medic in this universe as well, he had to learn everything that was needed to be learned, even if he couldn't put everything in practice where he was staying.
Naturally, his unconditionally imperial side tried to find compromise so as to not break his mind; he kept repeating himself he was studying the xenos not to lend a hand in the future, but to better know how to exploit their weaknesses. The more he tried to convince himself about it, the less convinced he actually was. Cardona wasn't lying, this universe brought peace to the mind, somehow; he theorized it had to do with an Immaterium not in turmoil. unlike the one back in their original universe. He was far from being fully comfortable around aliens, truly, but a month earlier the therapist had cleared aliens to act as his escorts from and to the prison, as she considered he would not be openly hostile to them anymore. She wasn't wrong, but those trips weren't like the ones shared with the human officers he had come to know during his months in prison.
Imperial or not, they would even crack jokes at times, trying to break the ice; it was clear to Al-Morad they weren't used to highly-dangerous inmates being in a good behavior at all times, so mingling with him must have been refreshing. As a nod to them, and Humanity as a whole, between his reading material he requested interactive classes on the three most spoken human languages, now he knew they were English, Spanish, and Russian; he wasn't a prodigy, but he could now defend himself in all three. Other topics he managed to get writings on were basics on "mass-effect technology", as they called it, which was utterly fascinating to him; it boggled his mind how an element could reduce the mass of an object to almost zero without changing anything else in its constitution. The fact that all asari, and some individuals of every other species, could also wield powers like those was actually frightening, closely reminding him of psykers, but he tried to keep an open mind.
The peaceful spell was broken without much of a warning, in the middle of the "night", as he was sleeping. The light sleeper he was, he immediately woke when he felt the door slide open, with utter silence coming from outside. Badr kept completely still, not giving any sign of being awake, until he was certain nobody was actually around. Dressing himself quickly, he briefly debated with his consciousness whether it was a good idea to take a look outside or it was better to remain put; he chose the first option, the combat medic in him winning over his more cautious side at the prospect of wounded in need of aid. Checking the hallway, he saw no sign of guards or inmates, nothing in either direction. The cell block he was hosted in was one of many high-sec levels, with four sides and a single cell on each side, and an elevator in each corner. Peeking around the edge of the hallway he noticed the cell immediate to the right was already open, and sprinting in a loop around the floor showed both remaining cells were empty as well. Whoever had opened his, had done it last, after the other three had left the vicinity.
He called an elevator, as he still subconsciously checked the hallways on either side, until it arrived. He was met with the grisly sight of a dismembered guard looking at him with empty eyes; he recognized the turian sitting precariously in the elevator, on a pool of his own blood. He opted to share the lift with the corpse, trying not to move or touch it other than to close his eyes. He realized he was feeling nothing at the sight of the dead alien not because he was in fact an alien, but because he had automatically slipped back into the Combat Medic role, sensing danger all around him but trudging forward, cold-blooded resolution in his eyes, towards a luckless soul wanton of aid.
The elevator reached the top of the ride, where the control center for isolation was located. What he saw upon the opening doors was not exactly what he expected to see: a massacre. He was ready for clean firearm impacts aimed at vital areas of the body, mostly headshots, product of the culprit of the alarms blaring and the riot he could hear more clearly; he found instead bodies haphazardly thrown around, mauled or disemboweled, one even missing a head. He knew all the guards by name, even the non-humans. Figuring the cinematic of what unfolded prior to his arrival, at least an hour ago judging by the corpses temperatures, he guessed all or most cells but his were opened without any warning signaling in this control room, allowing for the most dangerous criminals housed in the lower levels to catch unawares the C-Sec officers stationed on guard duty. He could not tell, though, if the rioting in the other wings of the prison had broken out before or after this slaughter.
Not bothering to check for pulses, he found no weapons other than a simple baton, but most importantly he found the first aid kit assigned to the room. It was a light bag, with only basic stuff like that miraculous Medi-Gel he had read so much about; Emperor, how many lives would've been saved in the Imperium had we counted with technology like this... He felt a small surge of pride remembering it was a human foundation which had created the all-purpose salve, as he left the control room to scour the prison for wounded. The hallways were not much better than the elevator or the control room, littered with bodies wearing inmate and guard uniforms alike.
Moving from body to body, he found a predominance of guards over rioters, probably because the former were overwhelmed by sheer numbers by the latter. He also failed to come up with plenty of still-living beings, of any side; most guard's corpses showed signs of death by mauling, viciously so, while most inmates dead were actually trampled over, likely by fellow escapees that had little regard for their temporary colleagues. Those few still breathing were given treatment sparingly, no matter their side in the matter, or their species; Al-Morad knew that many of them would probably be dead in a few hours if proper help didn't arrive in time, but he still gave his best, as always, improvising ways to improve their status at least slightly.
He eventually ran out of supplies, having to resort to tearing both arms of his outfit to use as bandages and a tourniquet; in contrast, he also ran out of bodies to check and patients to give a hand to, the hallways becoming cleaner as he progressed in a particular direction. He could hear there was struggling in the distance, parallel to the direction he was heading, and he considered joining the fray momentarily, only to shut himself down: without medical supplies, he would be only useful as a combatant, and even if he showed up and started fighting other inmates, he would be fell either by them or a stray -or aimed- shot from the anti-riot teams. No, he would try and find a cafeteria or an infirmary, somewhere he was sure to come across more supplies; only then he would approach the main battleground to help anyone wounded.
As chance would have it, he ran into the cafeteria first, with the attached entrance to the kitchens. He headed directly to those doors, certain the kitchen staff must have something to treat themselves in case of an emergency. As he approached the counter were he guessed the food was distributed, he heard a commotion from the inside, so he slowed down his pace and took a peek around the corner, from the doors. He saw someone raiding the pantry, incredibly so, so he chose to stealthily approach the shelves in look for a sharp object, a knife, to defend himself better than only the blunt baton he held. He not only failed at finding what he looked for, he apparently failed at stealth, or the raider was far more keen to sound than he suspected, as the latter rose from were it crouched up to its full height.
He instantly recognized the same species of the ghillie-clad shotgun-wielding beast he saw months ago, when he arrived; both were krogan, a species known in the past for a rebellion that ended with them technically neutered almost to extinction, until it was reversed during the Reaper War, for them to aid in the fight. Since then, they had recovered some long-lost territories, but had kept their word of cooperation and non-aggression with the other species, even turians and salarians. With varying sizes and a tendency to solve their disputes with violence, krogan were seen as a dangerous, yet reasonable species. The specimen in front of him was a male, and given his size he was either a youngling or a runt, not that either made him any less dangerous; this one was still larger than Badr.
"Human, leave. I came here first, this belongs to me now. You can go with your life, or stay, and die." The krogan was defensive. Could it be that he found the imperial a threat? He didn't wait to find out, Al-Morad tried a more diplomatic approach.
"Look, I didn't mean to disturb you. All the food is yours, if you want it. I just came looking for a first aid kit, if there is any." Despite the translators, the krogan could pick up on the accent apparently, for he instantly frowned and went into a combat stance.
"Imperial. Like I would believe a word you said... As soon as I lowered my guard, you would try to beat me with that baton, isn't that right?" The medic was torn between answering the challenge and showing this alien its place, and trying to defuse the situation before any blows were exchanged.
"The baton is for protection against anyone attacking me. I'm just a medic, I'm looking for supplies to help the wounded."
"Just a medic my ass. With an arm like that, you cannot be "just a medic"." Al-Morad couldn't know if the krogan spoke about his bionic arm or his biological one, but didn't care nonetheless.
"Well, perhaps a combat medic is more accurate. Still, I mean no struggle with you, or anyone else for that matter. I am in fact looking for the first aid, as I just told you." He could tell the short fuse on the krogan was running ever shorter, believing every word he uttered a lie. Nothing else came to pass, as both were distracted by yet another commotion outside, coming from the dinner area.
Both current inhabitants of the kitchen took some cover, and tried to peek at the happenings from where they hid.
Corporals Maiza and Yvra were in deep shit, they both knew it. A riot broke out about an hour ago, and it caught them in the locker rooms. They followed orders and remained hidden, as it was a massive break-out and many other guards had fallen already to the attackers; they were hopelessly waiting for the response team to arrive and bring some order to this chaos, as they also knew of the added risk of the confirmed high-sec cells being opened. They were both biotics, but even together would struggle against a horde of disgruntled criminals. Their safe haven nearly became a death-trap as the locked doors began to buckle under the continued strikes of the inmates gathering outside; they could hear them, barely, delighted to have found the female's locker room...
A brief sense of dread coursed through both of them, as they realized what awaited them should the denizens outside gain an entrance. Thinking quickly, they found that no other exit existed, and that trying to block the door in any way would only delay what they refused to believe was inevitable. So, they opted for a full head-on attack; unlocking the door, they let it slide open to the amassed would-be rapists before unleashing a moving barrier that pushed them back with such violence that some flew head-first into walls and split open their heads, literally. Others, not as lucky, were simply squished between an immovable barrier of energy and the equally unmoving walls, everything soft in them spewing in all directions as their bones were pulverized.
Having broken the filed predators, both biotics took out sprinting, looking for a new place to shelter themselves in. They knew themselves being chased by the few survivors of their surprise attack, somehow having killed and maimed a fair number of them, so they quickened the pace to reach the veritable battleground where they could hear the anti-riot force was fighting back on the escapees. They would never make it, as they were joined by a turian agent running in the opposite direction, in turn chased by a number of criminals with murderous intent; being all three in a junction, in unison they took off in the direction of the diner, where perhaps the open space and plenty of blunt objects would serve them well in their own defense.
Finally reaching their chosen destination, they found it thankfully devoid of life, and corpses for that matter. They had only time to see both other exits were on lock-down, for some reason, leaving their entry point the only escape point as well, now being swarmed by around twenty inmates. Those that were outside the locker room looked angrily and hungrily at the women, as the ones chasing the luckless turian were between murderous looks to their first target, and now lustful ones as well, for the female agents. One of them, apparently their leader, felt magnanimous enough to offer them a surrender.
"You have nowhere to go, and you have caused us already too much trouble. Give up now, and we will be gentle." He gave a low, ominous chuckle, as his friends howled and laughed with delight, feeling as if they had already won. "As for you, turian, if you hand yourself over, I promise we will not harm you..." A clear lie, they all knew, but perhaps the barbarians thought themselves smarter than what they actually were.
None of the C-Sec agents bothered to answer, trying to focus in the upcoming fight. All inmates looked even more delighted, knowing they would get to not only maul another guard into the cold hands of death, but they would also satiate themselves with some fine looking ladies, whether they liked it or not. They all charged in unison, after taking a more spread-out, chaotic formation, hoping to overwhelm this three new victims as they did with others. They failed, as both women cast barriers around the three of them, pushing the attackers back and even managing to injure some. However, the prisoners had something up their sleeves: a low-power biotic, freed from an inhibitor collar he was issued when sent to prison, had snuck behind the three guards, and was about to send a stasis attack at them.
He never got the chance, as a full bench ripped straight from its hinges on the floor connected with the side of his head, crushing bones at cranium and the vertebrae at its base, and spilling some brain matter onto the area around it. The barely-started fight came to an abrupt halt as the commotion made everyone look at what was left of the bench-eating bastard, his companions unable to grasp what they were seeing. They were brought out of their stupor as they heard a crunching sound, followed by the beginning of a scream of pain that was promptly silenced by another, wet crunch. Looking at the short-lived beat-down, by the kitchen counter, both parties saw another inmate, holding a guard's baton covered in blood and standing over the unconscious and broken body of one of the turian prisoners. Sporting a sleeveless uniform, and a heavy frown, the newcomer coldly assessed the men gathered in front and around him.
A large man that reminded him of the Catachan pretender tried to land a fist on his head from his left, failing spectacularly as his hand crushed against Al-Morad's bionic one. None had noticed before the black, muscle-looking arm he had instead of his fleshy, left one, and only now they realized just how fucked they were... for perhaps he might have never seen any of them before, being locked up in isolation, but they had heard about the imperial commando imprisoned here, with his otherworldly bionics and his as-of-yet unimaginable fighting prowess. He somehow knew that as well, and as he always aimed to impress, he indeed chose to impress this amalgam of criminals. He swiftly punched the massive thug in the center of his chest, breaking every bone there and causing his heart to stop, while his left arm dropped the offending hand and connected with his chin, dislocating and destroying his lower jaw and half of his teeth, not that he would need them any longer.
Both punches were delivered at an unbelievable speed, the man still standing for a moment before collapsing on his back, devoid of life. The criminals didn't need a much more compelling argument, all but a few took off in a sprint, trying to get as far as possible from the killing machine that chose the side of the guards. Those that couldn't run were the ones wounded, and those that the biotic guards could lock in stasis before they ran away, the leader included.
Seeing that there would be no more fighting in that room, Badr dropped the bloodied baton he still held, and approached the exhausted C-Sec agents and their recaptured prisoners. He took a good look at the three of them, noticing there were only minor bruises and cuts on the turians, the women being unharmed, so he turned his attention to the one criminal whose words had moved him into action, not that he would've allowed such a one-sided battle to take place, to begin with.
"Officers, do you know this man? What is he in here for?" His question was simple enough, but what caused concern on all present was the tone he was using...
"He is Holter, convicted to life imprisonment for rape and murder of a minor." That is all I needed to hear.
"Oh, a rapist? Delightful. No wonder you were suggesting being gentle earlier, when you thought you had any chance at going back to your old habits...Tell me, do you know who I am?"
"I-I have an idea, no name of course." The man was pissing his pants, he could already tell by the smell.
"I am Lieutenant Badr Al-Morad, Tempestus Scion of the Holy Inquisition, Agent of Order in absolute service to the Imperium of Man, hence Humanity itself, in any universe. I am sworn to take swift action in protecting its integrity, from within and from without. And boy, oh boy, you my friend, are not only a threat to said integrity, but a tarnish in our reputation, and a complete offense to everything me, and the Emperor himself, stand for. Therefore, you have way over-extended your mere existence, by about how long you have lived..." He cut his speech there, as he came to a halt behind the convicted rapist. What he did afterwards, would forever be engraved in the minds and nightmares of all present.
Badr Al-Morad took a firm hold of the man's head, from under his jaw, and started pulling backwards and up, as he placed a foot to hold the body down. Holter could only manage a short scream of agony before it turned to a terrifying gurgle of air bubbling with blood, as his head was slowly being torn away. In the end, short seconds later, his lifeless head was being looked at by proud eyes, as his body expelled all his remaining blood from the gaping hole where his neck was. The Storm Trooper then unceremoniously dropped the bag of bones an meat to the floor, and went into the kitchen to rinse himself of the corrupted blood of a man that had been delivered his comeuppance, in the name of the Emperor and Humanity itself.