Author's Notes: Apologies for the giant time gap between updates, and the horrific shortness of this chapter. Had too many life things going on and honestly kind of wrote myself into a hole for the next couple chapters. Lots of things I want to get done but having a heck of a time figuring out the exact timing. The first half of this story will take place on two ships (I promise it won't be as long as TWiF's ship arc!), and will be focused mostly on developing character. The second half will be blood and gore galore that will hopefully horrify you readers to the core (props if you catch the reference).
Reviewers:
Disciple of Ember - The best part of writing Helsing is imagining what he's actually thinking when he's projecting smiles and sunshine. A lot of his veneer of 'niceness' is going to be stripped off in this story, and it's going to be glorious. Also, Louk's daughters won't show up in this story, since they'd be about 2 years old at the time of this.
SomeGuyOverHere - Helsing is definitely fighting for humanity, but he's fighting for it like an angry L33T gamer trying to encourage his computer to stop freezing up. "WORK YOU STUPID PIECE OF S**T!" Kairi's all sorts of jacked up and crazy. There's obviously a bit of a time leap between her last appearance in Last Man Standing and now, but getting suckerpunched by a daemon will definitely leave a mark on one's body, mind and soul. And yeah, this Deathwatch team is going to be chock-full of edgelords, and not just because they like to use bladed weapons. :D
ReaperxMars - Glad you like it!
Shakinbake - Honestly your review was the kick in the pants I needed to at least get this out. Can't promise my chapters will come out consistently though.
The Apostle
Planet Exscorcia
The bolter lowered, barrel glowing with the heat of dozens of discharged rounds. Steam wafted up through the frigid air, curling around floating particles of glass-like ice and snowflakes. Like a horde of scurrying animals, they danced and mingled between the icy walls of the corridor, swirling about the enchanting air in a beautiful ballet of light and shadow. Thin beams of light trickled through the glittering ceiling, offering enough light to see, but not enough to pick out details with the unenhanced eye.
His optics pierced through the steaming clouds spreading through the tightly-packed passage, highlighting the cooling bodies of the traitor soldiers splayed out from behind their cover. Each one bore a single gaping hole, an explosive-tipped killing blow. Their guts and blood were spread around them, sizzling against the thick snow and casting up even more steam to join the gentle dance.
Satisfied that none would need an execution shot, he ejected his magazine and replaced it with a fresh one. Similar noises rattled behind him as his two brothers did the same.
"Snow's growing heavier," the one muttered, speaking through the internal vox channel.
He trudged forward, utilizing his ceramite boots to plow through the knee-deep snow piles. To either side, the glittering reflections of their passage painted jagged images of their armor, a deep green unadorned save for the solid white shoulder pauldron on their left side and violet trim on select parts of their armor.
"The Uthreme?"
A moment's pause. "Three kilometers behind."
"Good." He paused beside one of the corpses. It was a young man, or had been. Half his face still showed a childish fatness and piercing blue eyes. The other half had been twisted in a savage mockery of flesh, bearing fangs that sprouted from the jaw and the brow, encasing its face in a vicious cage of warped bone.
It was not worth the bolt shell to crush such a monstrosity. He stomped on its face, splattering its tainted flesh beneath the snow.
"We carry on. I can sense its presence."
The three warriors continued their implacable march forwards. Another ambush emerged from the disorienting ice walls, scores of skittering soldiers armed with lasguns and shotguns. They posed little in the way of a threat, but each bolt shell wasted on their distorted forms was one bolt shell less for the final confrontation. Irritation and disgust rose in his throat with each shrieking body that rose up to his sights. He and his brothers operated with strict fire discipline, calling out their targets and laying them low with single shots. It was a redundant, painfully slow process, but each knew the importance of their task. It was imperative they reach their target with as much ammunition as possible.
"This is a delaying action," one commented as he calmly reloaded his bolter.
"They are buying their masters time," the other agreed.
He had not said as much, but he knew they spoke the truth. There was no other possibility for it. With their uprising crumpling under the weight of loyalist forces, the next decision was to flee. They lacked the power to invoke the Ruinous Powers for aid, and they were too cowardly to fight to the last. Escape. Seeking an option to retreat before they were overrun.
It would not be through the void. The Imperial fleet had orbit locked down, and the few traitor vessels that had not fled the system were now shattered hulks. Any chance of escape relied on other methods. Their intelligence, and experience, informed them that there was one sorcerer among the ranks of the traitors. Where that one had come from, they did not know. But his arrival added a degree of uncertainty to the battlefield, and would require a careful approach.
The floating shards of ice crackled against his armor, sparking and vanishing at the slightest touch. The corpses of the slain traitors hung motionless in the air, floating aimlessly through the air as if they were suddenly in the vacuum of space. He spared a moment to check his auspex, but the readings were normal.
"Witchcraft," one growled. Their bolters swept the corridor, seeking out unseen dangers.
A gently spinning corpse stretched out towards him. He grabbed it by the belt and hurled it aside, sending it cartwheeling through the passage before it smashed against the ice wall in a hundred slivers of meat and bones. Here and there the wandering bodies shattered against each other or the walls, exploding like gory flowers blooming red against the pure white of the passage.
"I can taste it," he muttered. "Increase threat response. Shorten auspex range to close quarters combat. Automatic fire permitted."
They advanced in a wedge, increasing their pace from a determined walk to a slow job. Snow sprayed ahead of them with each powerful kick of their legs, hurling clouds of white that caught in the air only to melt from their path. More lasgun fire reached out to distract them, glancing off the thick armor of their shoulder pauldrons as they rushed past prepared defenses. Their bolters barked out freely, punching those in their way to the ground, ruthlessly cutting down the foes in their most direct path.
The riotous explosion of bolter fire slammed into them as they cleared the final position. A half-dozen armored figures stood at the far end of the cavern. Their once-proud armored forms were twisted with mutation and perversion, ceramite merged with twisted flesh and weapons melded into their hands. They howled and bayed at the three loyalists, spitting curses and challenges.
Behind the traitors, a pulsing sliver of darkness opened like a wound being pulled apart. A solitary figure orchestrated its opening, standing apart from the ret, dragging its hands apart in tune with the writhing darkness. Guttural, unnatural words echoed through the air, rebounded off the ice from a thousand directions, growing louder with each unholy word.
The sub-zero chill of the Immaterium bit through their armor, chilled their bones and froze the blood in their veins. Their movements slowed, grinding against the frost spilling through their skin and organs. He heard one of his brothers cough, his voice thick with blood. Bolter shells exploded against their armor, pounding into them alongside the creeping frost.
He and his brothers replied in kind, spreading out without faltering to limit incoming fire even as they poured return fire into the cluster of figures. The air rippled between them, hardening into a viscous mist that caught their bolt shells midair, freezing their fire in a dazzling curtain of fire and fury.
"Forward! Eliminate the sorcerer!"
He charged through the cloud of frozen shells, teeth rattling with explosive impacts as each bolt shell detonated against his ceramite. His armored form burst through the cloud of slowly-expanding shrapnel with bolter raised. Having pierced the sorcerer's defenses, he placed a single shot into the unprotected head that had half-turned to regard him with a sneer of disdain. The explosion of gore and bone threw a crimson painting across the untouched snow. Headless, the sorcerer's body sunk to its knees, then toppled over with a muffled crunch.
The darkness winked out of existence, and with it the traitorous bastards whose lives they sought. One of them turned back to smirk just as reality healed around the unnatural wound. Black eyes twinkled with infernal glee, and it held up a ceramite-clad glove in mockery of a salute.
And then they were gone, and the air grew still. The unnatural cold faded, replaced by the bone-chilling temperatures he expected from this ice world.
One of his brothers approached cautiously.
"Six." His brother's tone remained disinterested, but there was a seething fury bubbling under the surface of his thoughts. That fury bled through them all. It was a savage emotion, a riotous sense of righteous loathing for yet another failure.
"We will find them again," he told them. 'Status report."
"Bolter ammunition expended. No wounds."
"Acceptable, Daon. Rapoast, what is your status?"
Turning his back on the fallen sorcerer, he inspected his silent comrade-in-arms. Rapoast's corpse lay unmoving in the snow, sunk so deep in the snow piles that only his chest and helmet emerged. A red so dark it neared black spread through the snow, melting the fluffy white pile and tainting its purity with an unholy darkness.
"Resupply your ammunition from Rapoast. Thirty seconds."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Daon thudded off to strip his fallen brother for ammunition. He watched his brother work for a moment, then turned back to the dead sorcerer. It took a mere thought to activate the correct vox channel.
"Consul Brand, this is Sergeant Phyr. Catastrophic mission failure. Targets escaped by passage through the Immaterium… Brother Rapoast joined the honored ancestors… Reclamation status?" He muted the channel for a moment. "Daon, reclamation status?"
Daon rose from the corpse and shook his head. "No good."
He digested the judgement in silence. Suppressing a muttered curse, he unmuted the vox. "Negative reclamation. Recommend field incineration… Acknowledged. We will be ready for the Thunderhawk."
Closing the channel, he closed his eyes and pondered what must happen next. It would be unpleasant; it always was. He had no qualms about completing the task before them, for he had enacted it many times. Far too many times.
"Salvage the equipment," he ordered his brother. "We burn the corpse here."
-v-
Eulogy loooked across the table, her gaze resting on the quiet Cadian with shameless intensity. Ignoring the muted bustle of the others in the converted dining hall, she studied his face and waited. The pair had sat in silence for several minutes now. The nameless mash that formed their meal had cooled. Neither paid the room mind.
While Eulogy stared at the Cadian, the Cadian stared at Louk Shannegh. The Cadian's eyes had not so much as twitched for some time, focused on the dark figure eating silently at the end of the table like a cat watching an oblivious mouse. One of those strange female guardians stood a few paces behind the man, a two-handed sword clutched in her armored gauntlets as if it weighed nothing. Though the silent eater showed no sign of threat, the guardian did not relax. Murderous anticipation of execution radiated out from the woman.
"Why are you staring at him?"
Her blunt question hung in the air for a moment, dissolving into the muted chatter of the dining hall as if it had never been asked. For a moment she wondered if Kane had heard her. Then the Kasrkin huffed, and abandoned his stalker-like vigil.
"He reminds me of someone I killed."
"Killed?" Eulogy frowned at the man's words. True enough, Louk Shannegh had always been a particular kind of scum, and one that blended easily with others of his ilk. It would not surprise her if she asked any random Arbites and they admitted to having put down a man with resemblance to Louk. Before the archaic tattoos had been inscribed all across his flesh, that is. His new appearance, with a spotlessly shaved skull and hexagrammic wards burned into his flesh, spoke of a very different circle of beings.
If those were the kind Kane referred to, she was not sure she wanted to hear the rest of the story.
Ignoring her silent desires, Kane scooped up a spoonful of the unappetizing mush and gestured with it the way an instructor gestured with his pointer stick.
"You ever heard of Cold-fire?"
"Cold fire?" She shook her head.
"Flostak?"
An uncomfortable chill swept suddenly across her body. Eulogy tried to hide it, but her limbs stiffened of their own accord, and the veteran soldier did not miss the discomfort that teased her expression.
"So you have heard of it."
"I am… I was briefed on its history." She avoided lying, though what she said was pretty damn close. "The planet was destroyed over a century ago."
"It was," Kane agreed. "And I was there."
Sensing that he had a full-blown story incoming, Eulogy slid her abandoned platter to the side and settled in for a history lesson. One never turned down a story from a man with as much experience and expertise as Kane. To hear a Kasrkin's story was a rare thing, no matter the subject or the contents.
"Skipping the boring details, I can tell you this about the background of our operation. My company of Kasrkin, or what was left of us, were in service of an Inquisitor Verne, the lady Kairi's mentor. We came to Flostak to investigate unusual dealings made by a sector cartel known as the Junta. The task was a tricky one, because they were the only supplier of a special incense that the Ecclesiarchy of the sector was mad for called Cold-fire. More about that later.
"Soon after arriving on-planet we had a run-in with this hivescum girl. She tried to pick the wrong pocket and we apprehended her when she made a break for it. Lady Kairi identifies the kid as an unregistered psyker and, Throne only knows why, our Inquisitor decided to let her live rather than putting a bolt shell through her skull. 'Hires' the girl, if you can call it that, to be our eyes and ears on the ground."
The man's bold revelation that his Inquisitorial team let an unregistered psyker loose made Eulogy grimace. Psykers were no joke, no matter how weak or strong they were. All it took to destroy a world, destroy a system, was one psyker losing control to the daemon. Her fingers itched at the thought of what she might have done in the same situation. Put a lasbolt through her eyes?
In a heartbeat.
"The girl was a scrawny thing, a typical hiver streetrat. Malnourished, tough as nails, street savvy as hell. Best we could tell she made her living picking pockets and selling her body to anyone that would take her. But…" Kane's gaze grew somber. The Kasrkin gazed down at his spoon for several seconds before shrugging. "She was a good kid. Obnoxious, stubborn, headstrong, but good. Name was Mouline, named herself that on account of being found abandoned amidst a shipment of cameleoline as a baby. And she lived up to her name too, because when she did not want to be seen, you could walk up and put your eyelashes right up to her and you still couldn't see her for shit."
"Your obsession with the young psyker is fascinating," Eulogy interrupted, "but what does that have to do with Louk?"
The Kasrkin gave her a patient look. "Mouline had a kid brother. I call it a kid brother, but that animal wasn't a blood-relative by any means, least as far as we could tell. They were a family born out of convenience, brought together in the shit of the hive and bonded over mutual survival. Mouline was obsessed with the boy. Everything she did was for him. She spent the money she earned selling herself to buy him clothes when she was wearing scraps. She made sure he had enough to eat when her stomach was roaring from being empty too long. She idolized him, adored him with every fiber of her being. She called him her lucky charm, and was always bragging about him and the fancy jobs he would have once they finished growing up.
"I should have shot that bastard between the eyes first time we met him."
"She said he was lucky?"
"So much that it was the name she gave him." Kane glanced back down the table, his attention shifting over to the silent figure staring at his plate. After a few seconds of intense scrutiny, he returned his attention to Eulogy. "Bastard was a sociopathic monster, I can tell you that much. Best damn liar I've ever met. He had Mouline wrapped around his finger and he knew it. Hell, he almost wrapped half of us around his finger too, before everything went to shit.
"See, the Junta cartel, like any criminal empire, was doing real nasty shit under the radar. The Cold-fire they produced, it is- was- the most fucked up thing I've ever seen, much less heard of. You ever heard of the xenos raced called the Eldar?"
"Eldar?" Eulogy nodded. "I have encountered them."
"Then you know they're a race of witches and sorcerers."
"...yes."
The dull throbbing began to bloom inside her skull. Eulogy forced a smile onto her face as she pressed fingers to her temples, fighting to steady the sudden surge of pressure that raced through her mind. It was dizzying, though not quite as bad as the other times.
Either Kane did not notice, or he did not care, because he continued on with his story, his expression growing darker as he spoke.
"Cold-fire was made from the bastards. That's a story for another time, but that Lucky kid was balls deep in it. Served as muscle for the cartel, and we never caught wind of it. Led half of us into a trap that got most of my men killed. In the confusion of everything going sideways he took Mouline and disappeared. We didn't think much of it at first, but Lord Verne got this bad feeling and sent me to go find him.
"Personally," Kane grumbled, "I wanted to bring his head back on my bayonet, but my orders were to take him alive."
"Because he got your men killed?"
"No." The Kasrkin's eyes flashed grimly. "It was a little more personal than that."
Slimy curiosity teased in her belly, but Eulogy refrained from pressing the question. It was clear the man did not want to discuss it further.
"Anyhow, I tracked him down with the help of another Inquisitor that was operating on-planet. Went by the name of… Frankenstein, I think it was. Shifty bastard, he was. Never showed his face and always seemed to know just a little too much about what was going on. Between the two of us we, and I mean he, tracked down that bastard to a cult hideout."
"And that's where you killed him?"
"No." Kane shook his head. "That's where I watched him carve Mouline apart piece by piece. He took a Throne-damned cleaver to her, skinning her alive, harvesting her organs, taking apart her body like a soldier taking apart their lasgun. And she was alive and conscious the entire time. Her screaming…"
The Kasrkin fell silent for a second, his glower growing dark and unsettled. After a long period of silence, the man blinked away his topor and placed a clenched fist beside his platter.
"That thing wasn't human anymore. There was something evil about it, something that went far beyond twisted mortal depravity. Inquisitor Frankenstein and I cleared out the hideout, but only after that Lucky kid got away.
"Didn't find him later until right before the planetcrackers fell. We were scrambling to evacuate, fighting our way through the anarchy of a spaceport being overrun with madness and terror. That bastard appeared then, trying to sneak his way off-planet with Inquisitor Frankenstein hot on his heels. Scuffle broke out, and I put a bolt shell right through his chest. Left his bloody corpse on the runway."
Eulogy waited as several seconds passed in silence.
"So you killed him. He's dead."
"No, ma'am." Kane turned back to glare at Louk Shannegh. "He is not."
Eulogy grimaced, eyeing the silent companion with incredulity. "Louk Shannegh cannot possibly be the same person. He is barely older than I am!"
"That thing is him," Kane insisted. "And I can prove it to you. Bastard looks like he isn't paying any attention to us, but when I mentioned the name Mouline-" Louk's measured breathing hung for a moment, frozen in place for a barely perceptible microsecond "-you can tell he's familiar with it."
"Mouline…" Eulogy wracked her memory for the name. She had never spoken with Louk Shannegh about his past; the life of a disgusting villain such as Louk hardly warranted inspection, but she had gleaned little bits and pieces about his history from osmosis and the conversations of others. That name was not something she recognized, however.
It was silly, of course. Flostak had been destroyed over a century ago, its records purged from nearly every source. The only reason she knew of its existence was due to paper-bound archives in the Schola. For Louk to have come from Flostak meant that he must have endured decades of Warp Travel without having aged at all. She certainly believed that Sergeant Kane had been there, but he had the aged appearance of a man who had spent over a century shuttling between war zones.
Her silent musing shattered in the explosive clang of a heavily laden platter slamming down on the table beside her.
"I heard we had some other Inquisitor's party aboard." The large brute mounted the bench sideways, leaving his body open in her direction, peering at Eulogy's face with his squinty eyes and brick-like face. A muscle-bound hulk, the man wore no shirt and a form-fitting pair of pants that did little to hide his unnatural physique. Her gaze threatened to flicker down there, if only out of morbid curiosity, but she maintained her composure at his overwhelming presence and graced the figure with a nod.
"Miss Jones," Kane grunted, stealing her attention back for a moment. There was something akin to apologetic impatience in his eyes. "This is Porset. Porset, this is Miss Jones. She is a lady, so mind your manners."
"They're all ladies until I've done with them," Porset grunted. He extended a meaty paw the size of an Astartes grenade. Paired with his suggestive leer, the man came on so strongly that Eulogy's stomach threatened to expel its contents in violent protest to his intrusion on her personal space. "Porset, as in 'poor-sit'. You'll have plenty of time to remember it."
"Eulogy, as in the speech one gives over the graves of the foolish." She accepted his hand, shaking it with just enough strength to not be crushed in his dull display of power. Sure, he had an incredible grip strength. A man of his size better have a strong grip or all those muscles were a waste.
The instant his grip slackened she withdrew her hand and nonchalantly wiped her fingers on a napkin.
"I take it you are the muscles of Lady Kairi's party."
"Aye, that I am."
"Porset has the singular advantage of having a skull so thick that we can use him as a battering ram," Kane said dryly. He gestured over the room, pointing out a couple figures in particular amidst the sparsely populated chamber. "That's Indegard over there. She's a statistician. That's Fels. Pilot and smuggler extraordinaire. Last one's Garlic-"
"Garouch" the indignant voice called out.
"As I said, that's Garbage." Kane's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a cruel smile. "He's good at running his mouth."
"A charming band," Eulogy murmured, pointedly ignoring the intense stare emanating from just beside her. Inquisitor Kairi's brute did not even attempt to hide his leering.
"Charming is not the word I would use for it," Kane replied. He gestured for Eulogy to stand, giving her an excuse to vacate Porset's uncomfortable presence, much to the large man's displeasure.
The Kasrkin led her over to the receptacle where they deposited their platters and utensils before heading towards the exit. Almost as an afterthought, Kane stopped at the door and turned back to the table. His lips purse in a shrill whistle, the kind one gave a canine pet.
"Here, doggy."
Kane's acidic words landed squarely on Louk Shannegh's ambivalent shoulders. The rune-scarred figure looked up slowly, dark eyes crossing over the room with the ponderous weight of a cutting bream. Eulogy shivered unconsciously when those eyes passed over her. There was just something inherently wrong about how he looked at things, how he felt. It was more discomforting than when he had been a shameless rogue filled with nothing but thoughts of debauchery and sin.
Slowly, Louk Shannegh rose from his seat and padded over to join them. His silent guardian fell in easy step, leaving just enough distance between them that her greatsword could cleave him in half at a moment's notice.
Eulogy also avoided looking into that one's eyes. It seemed everywhere she turned on this ship were beings both unnatural and unfriendly.
"I'd watch out for Porset," Kane advised her once they were in the safety of the main passage. "He's an animal."
"That was my impression," Eulogy agreed.
"Just… don't let your guard down around my crew. They're not all bad, but they certainly aren't good. I reckon you've seen enough of their types to know what I mean."
"I have, and thank you." To her surprise, she found herself nodding along with genuine gratitude. "But what makes you different?"
"Me?" The man let out a dark, morose chuckle. "I lost interest in the fairer sex years ago. Backstabbing is too much of a hassle, also. No, if I wanted to do you harm, Miss Jones, I'd give you fair warning."
"It is good to hear you have kept your soldier's honor after so long detached from military service."
"Honor?" Kane shook his head. "There is no honor in service to the Inquisition."