Yang groaned, the bright light shining down on her demanding that sleep gives way to consciousness. She grumbled, snuggling deeper into her blanket, begrudgingly determined to steal a few more minutes of rest. But the light didn't abate, and with a growl she gave up and opened her eyes. The harsh beam greeted her, swinging back and forth as it continued to glare right into her eyes. She blinked, adjusting to the glow, before sitting up.
Looking around she saw she was in a small nook, more a closet than a room. The walls were bare, flat gray steel, while the ceiling was visible with pipes and machinery exposed to the world. The single swinging light hung down, hanging by a loose wire. Her 'bed' was a handful of crates laid side by side with a sad, pathetically thin mat tossed on top. And her blanket was-
The door opened with a stuttering hiss, revealing Blake with a sack swung over her shoulder. The cat faunus let out a breath when she spotted Yang, slumping against the wall as she put down the sack.
"You're up," she said, relieved, "How are you feeling?"
"A bit sore, but fine," Yang replied, letting out a satisfied grunt as she got up and stretched, "Thanks for the blanket, I- what the?" The blonde grew confused as she twisted her arm again, only for the limb to remain unresponsive.
"The hell?" she growled, "my arm's not working!"
Blake winced, swiftly gathering up her coat from the bed and putting it back on, "Yeah, about that. There's something you need to see."
Yang stopped fiddling with her arm and turned to her, confused, "What is it?"
Blake opened the door and stepped out, glancing back at Yang.
"This way," she said, gesturing for her to follow.
Yang stepped out after her, glancing around suspiciously, but kept pace with the raven-haired faunus.
They went through several corridors and what seemed to be maintenance halls before Blake stopped in front of a door. It was dark, the few lights that had power flickered randomly, and in the distance an ever-present thum filled the air.
"Through here," she said, lifting the unpowered door with a grind.
With a glance Yang ducked under, emerging to find themselves in a sort of observation room. It was empty and filled only with dust, no one obviously having been here for a very long time. None of that registered to Yang though, whose eyes were glued to the observation port itself, where through it only the inky black void of space was visible.
"We're… in?" she sputtered, mind unwilling to accept what her eyes told her.
"Space," Blake confirmed, voice grim, "We're on a spaceship."
Yang was quiet for a moment, before glancing at her still unresponsive arm.
"Well fuck."
"They were shoving people off the transports, then herding them to the sidelines as quick as possible. No organization, just making sure they're out of the way for the next transport."
The two were back in their room, conversing in whispers as Blake explained what'd happened since they passed out. Yang had detached her arm and had it strapped to her back, as there was no way she was going to let it out of her sight.
"So they just plopped us on the side of the hangar and left us?"
"I think so," Blake confirmed, "It's how I woke up at least."
"And then you brought me… over here?" Yang asked confusedly.
"The soldiers were too busy to notice," Blake explained, "but some of the civilians were starting to stare at my ears. Decided it was best we didn't stick around, didn't want to take any chances."
"Fair enough. And how'd you find this little nook?"
She shrugged, "Lucky I guess. Just went the opposite way whenever I saw someone."
Yang hummed at that, before gesturing at the little sack Blake had brought when she first woke.
"What's in there?"
With a slight frown Blake reached over and pulled it open, revealing a bunch of small, pale slabs of some unidentifiable material.
"Food, I think." she said skeptically, "it was laid out for the civilians in the hangar, though they didn't seem all that eager to eat it."
Yang took one and sniffed it, her noise crinkling in response. She hadn't eaten anything since Atlas, almost two days by her guess, but that smelled really bad.
"Yeah," she said, visibly disgusted, "Can't say I'm too eager either. Let's see if we can find something else. Anything else."
The two would spend the rest of the day scouting the area around their little home, trying to find what they could about the ship. They quickly found where most of the civilian refugees were staying, a vast cavernous room deep in the ship, filled with what seemed to be cargo containers now converted into makeshift shelters. They left pretty quickly once some refugees started throwing rocks at Blake, sticking around only long enough to yank an abandoned cloak to help hide Blake's ears before continuing onwards.
The deeper they went into the ship, the more of those massive holds they found, further validating their unspoken suspicion that this gargantuan vessel was a cargo ship. They soon further located a mess hall (though all it was serving were those pale slabs), a few workshops, a gym, and even a small library (which Blake grabbed a few children's books from, all the better to learn the local language she argued), and then, as they grew tired and hungry finally headed home.
The pale slabs tasted as bad as they smelled.
Three weeks later…
"Enos, the servitors are acting up again, get down there!"
Merek's shout proved startling to Caspiel Enos, causing the wrench he was using to slip from his grip with the bolt it was attached to shooting away in a burst of fumes. He jerked back, coughing as he frantically reached for a near-by strip of cloth.
"Enos! You hear me?!"
"Yeah, yeah! Got it boss!" he shouted back, quickly shoving the cloth into the open gasket. He paused to make sure no fumes leaked out, seeing some but deeming it good enough anyway and hurriedly got on his way.
Jokh was a grox-shit boss, so giving him an excuse was the last thing Enos wanted to do.
Entering an elevator that probably hadn't been serviced since his grandparents were working down here, he slapped the button for the lower levels and held on as it creaked and cranked the entire way down. Muttering a prayer to the emperor as it ground to a halt he hastily opened the doors and got out.
Safe from death by unplanned descent, he soon calmed down and began making his way through the winding corridors. He didn't come to this area often, but with the servitors acting up he had recently been forced down here more than once. Approaching the local maintenance hub he suddenly paused in confusion.
There were voices ahead.
Frowning, he moved in. It was probably just some refugees poking around where they shouldn't. However, he quickly realized that wasn't right as he grew closer. The language they spoke might be some variant of Low Gothic, but it definitely wasn't Kolernian. Some of the guard then? Nah, it was first shift, they should all be in training right now.
Whatever. If they weren't part of the crew then they had no reason to be down here.
Turning the corner he easily spotted the culprit, quite literally catching her in the act as the young woman poked at one of the servitors.
"Hey you! What in throne's name are you doing? Leave that thing alone would ya!"
The girl turned to him, blonde hair framing crimson eyes that bore into his. His eyes widened and he jerked back, but had barely begun to turn and flee before a figure dropped behind him and a blade pressed to his throat. He stilled as the blade pricked his flesh, a small amount of blood leaking down.
"Don't move," the figure, another girl judging by the voice, ordered.
"Not moving, not moving." he hastily confirmed, aborting a nod as the blade dug a little deeper.
The blonde grabbed the servitor she'd been poking at, hefting the man/machine as if it was a bag of potatoes and strode over to him, a missing arm failing to make her any less intimidating. His eye widened in terror as he saw flames sparking off her hair, eyes burning into his.
"Psyker," he whispered, horrified.
"What the fuck is this?" she snarled, slamming the servitor down in front of him.
"Please desist obstructing this unit," the servitor dutifully intoned, utterly emotionless as normal, "You are impeding this unit's function."
"I- I, um-,"
The blonde reached out and grabbed his collar, yanking him loose from her companion's hold and pulling him mere inches away from her, the heat coming off her singeing his beard. He whimpered, and the smell of burning hair almost obscured the smell of him pissing himself.
The girl wrinkled her nose in disgust and threw him to the ground.
"Gods, you're pathetic. Just answer the question buddy and this'll be over."
He whimpered in fright, "You-you'll let me go?"
She glanced at the servitor.
"Depends on what your answer is. Now, what is it?"
Her companion, a raven-haired girl walked into view, idly twirling her sword. He glanced between the two of them, finding not a hint of mercy in either.
"I- its, it's a servitor!" he gasped desperately.
"It's a person," the raven-haired girl accused.
"Who were they?" the blonde demanded, "Why are they like this?"
"I- I- I," he sputtered.
She growled, reaching down to grab him and then slamming him up against the servitor.
"Who were they!?"
"I don't know!" he cried, "We purchase them from Actinaeum Beta all the time! Bulk orders!"
He was roughly yanked away and tossed back onto the floor.
"Bulk orders?" the blonde snarled, the flames in her hair burning ever harsher.
"Yes! We only see them in person once they're delivered, I swear!"
Her fist closed around his throat and he was lifted off the ground, his legs kicking weakly.
"WHY?!" she roared.
"Punish-gaa-ment! They- criminals. Worst of- un, worst!"
"Criminals?" the raven-haired girl interjected, voice far quieter then the blonde, but no less cold, "Guilty of what? Resisting slavery?"
"I don't -hgg know!" the fist closed tighter, "Murderers, traitors, -hak heretics! Horrible people! This or sentenced to -gaa death! Monsters!" 'Like you,' he didn't add.
Right as black began to creep into the edges of his vision the pressure around his throat abruptly vanished, and he tumbled to the ground hacking and coughing.
The blonde glared at him, before turning and gesturing for the other girl to follow. They walked only a few feet away, just far enough to whisper to each other without being overheard. Groaning, he tried to crawl away, only to drop in terror as a bullet pinged off the ground in front of him, the shot echoing through the room. Twisting back he saw the raven-haired girl lowering her weapon, the sword somehow having shifted into a gun. Meeting his eyes she wagged her finger, a clear warning, before turning back to her conversation with the blonde.
Caught between muttering prayers to the Emperor and whimpering in terror, Enos stayed curled in a ball as he waited for the two to finish their discussion.
Finally, after almost ten minutes of hushed and heated debate, the room fell silent and the two walked over to him. Reaching down, the blonde picked him up and sat him down against the wall, kneeling to meet his tear-streaked face.
"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," he continuously whimpered, eyes screwed shut.
"Hey," the blonde said, gently shaking his shoulder, "hey buddy, can look at me?"
Shakenly, he opened his eyes, blinking away tears as he was greeted by soft lilac.
"There you go. What's your name pal?"
"Enos, m'lady. Caspiel Enos."
"Well Caspiel, I need you to listen to me, ok? We just have a few more questions for you, then you can go. All right?"
He gave a slow and unsteady nod.
"Good, now first, and this one's important. Do you have anything to do with these servitors?"
He was instantly shaking his head, fast enough to nearly be snapping in motion.
"No m'lady," he croaked, "I'm just a labor engineer. I… I fix holes for a living!"
"Alright," she said soothingly, "Next question, the servitors, can they feel pain?"
"I uh, I don't think they feel much of anything m'lady. They're just extra arms."
"Are you sure?" her voice had gone somewhat hard at that answer.
"I-," his eyes flicked between the two of them, "I think so. You'd have to ask one of the techpriests to be sure. They'd know, I swear, please!"
"Shhh," the blonde calmed him, "You're doing great, Caspiel. Last question. Do you need the servitors to run the ship?"
"I… uh, Yes? No? I think so? They're just extra arms."
The blonde frowned at him, looking disappointed, "But you can run the ship without them?"
"Um… It'd be a lot harder? A uh, whole lot harder?"
"Yes or no, Caspiel," the raven-haired girl cut in, her voice far harder than the blonde.
"Yes! We can, we can, we can! My grandparents say they used to, back when the ship first launched!"
The two leaned back at that answer, looking… sad? The two glanced at each other before exchanging a slow, forlorn nod. Turning back to him, the blonde smiled.
"Thank you Caspiel. Now, we're going to let you go, and when you get back to your buddies, what are you going to tell them?"
"Nothing!" he shouted desperately, "I tell them nothing! The servitors just got stuck on a junction is all, no problem whatsoever!"
The blonde gave a slow nod, "I'm glad we understand each other, Caspiel. No need to alarm anyone else."
"Nope! No need, no need at all!"
"Good! Now…." she stepped aside, gesturing towards the door, "off you go."
Enos eyed them in shocked disbelief for a second, before frantically scrambling to his feet and sprinting for the exit. He didn't stop running even as he rounded the corner and the two left his sight, practically throwing himself into the elevator that had, up until a few minutes ago, been the most dangerous thing in his life.
The elevator was just beginning its climb up when he heard the gunshot, and the clang of what sounded like a man-sized piece of metal falling to the ground. He whimpered, clutching the railing with white knuckles.
Screw Jokh, he wanted nothing to do with this section ever again!
In the void above a world of sea and storm, lightning struck, and the Chain of Garos withered.
The mighty lunar-class cruiser had taken nearly a decade to construct, the forge-yards of Actinaeum Beta laboring unending days and nights to complete the vessel, with hundreds of trillions of thrones spent to bring it to life. It had served the imperial navy for over six hundred years, bringing the enemies of man to heel beneath the weight of its mighty guns. It had served another two hundred for a far more selfish cause, bringing ruin to those it once protected for the sake of glinting thrones. It had shattered continents, challenged orbital battlestations, decimated alien fleets, humbled arrogant nobles, terrorized worlds, and commanded tribute from entire systems.
Today it died.
Particle whips tore gaping wounds into its hull, lightning arcs seared crippling gashes deep into its armor, and unending terror paralyzed its crew as their ship disintegrated around them. Its opponent, a black-hued construct of dread and misery, tore it apart with savage precision, utterly uncaring of the ineffectual blows received in return.
One by one, the guns on the now-pitiful warship fell silent, lights flickered and faded, and the last dredges of resistance died bleeding plasma and flame. Now reduced to a broken wreck, its opponent ceased their barrage and spared only seconds as its sensors scanned the dead ship.
Target located, a single, last shot rang out, an emerald beam tearing deep into the few remaining reactors that still leaked life. The subsequent detonation could be seen from the other side of the system, shattering the warship's husk and reducing it to a million broken pieces. Over the course of the next few weeks, much of those pieces would rain down on the planet below, their radioactive nature causing cancer rates in the native species to rise almost thirty percent and creating barren dead zones dozens of kilometers wide.
This was utterly irrelevant to the battle's victor, the necron tombship proceeding towards their objective, now that the sole obstacle in their path had been removed.
It unerringly surged forward, completely neglecting to slow down as it entered the planet's orbit and hurled itself towards the surface at speeds that would be the death of living being onboard. Mere seconds later, its impact with the ocean's surface produced enough force that the resulting shockwave would circle the planet dozens of times over the next few days, while tsunamis hundreds of meters tall would absolutely ravage what few islands poked through the waves.
The tombship didn't care. Even as environmental devastation raged beyond its hull, the vessel continued deeper into the depths, regal and unbowed. It sent forth signals, demands for explanations, and the surface was soon awash with them.
The tombworld answered. The crust of the planet itself shuddered, towers of black stone rumbled and groaned, matrices stirred and flickered to life, and the glow of undeath returned to billions of waiting constructs. Once empty halls quickly swarmed with canoptek scarabs and tomb stalkers, warriors emerged from their crypts by the hundreds of millions, and ancient engines of war had their shackles forcefully unlocked. The tombworld sluggishly woke, nodal commands mercilessly bypassed to the highest tier, gold-level authority established and acted upon.
As all this occurred, the tombship continued its advance, now heeded and thus unworried. Mere milliseconds from impacting ocean's floor, it finally saw fit to act on its seemingly imminent destruction. In an instant, a flash of viridian light enveloped the tombship, momentarily illuminating the depths of the ocean for the first time in recorded history. Though this was not to be for long, as the glow faded near-instantaneously. In its place, the tombship had completely vanished, seemingly without a trace.
Exactly six hundred kilometers below, in a cavern dug over sixty million years ago, Anrakep re-emerged from the spatial corridor in an equally-blinding flash of emerald light. The vessel was at standstill, the near-incalculable momentum of its advance checked by its builder's technology. Around it, the glow of the waking tombworld unveiled the other occupants of the cavern. An entire fleet's worth of black warships, their forms inert but intact.
And this was only one of numerous such caverns, each bearing the armadas of the Khethis Dynasty.
As sudden as Anrakep's arrival, swarms of Doom Scythes emerged from the Scythe-class and spread throughout the cavern, at their heart formations of Phalanx Monoliths prepared to deliver an army where-ever the need arose. Throughout the surrounding structure immortals and warriors alike teleported into preplanned positions, guarding the dozens of critical systems and junctions that would otherwise be vulnerable during their awakening. Onboard the command throne of Anrakep, Nemesor Agakhet observed the display matrices before him.
His forces had occupied all critical locations and the tombworld was now fast awakening, its flaw, (a simple logic error subsequently looped and cascaded all the way to nodal command) was quickly remedied with his arrival, and even the primitive pirates which greeted them had proven more a nuisance than an obstacle.
Seeing no further threats to the Dynasty's purpose, potential or otherwise, he beckoned one of his subordinate command lords to attend him.
"Contact Phaerakh Intetka," he ordered, voice betraying nothing of the satisfaction he felt, "Inform her that her Crownworld awaits her arrival."