[I own neither Warhammer 40k nor Fallout new vegas]

Choking...he was Choking...noxious amniotic fluid rushing down his throat as he struggled in the darkness, clawing at the rancid fluid that enveloped him...the cold metal clamps holding his torso squeezed the air from his lungs before the scene changed. No longer Choking, Rylanor found himself almost face to face with his Gene-Father...not the Marionette that he faced on Isstvan III, but the TRUE Fulgrim from the days before the extermination of the laer. uncorrupted, magnificent...

Rylanor tried to call out to him, but found his voice robbed of him. Sputtering and gasping Rylanor ran for his father, his body on autopilot as he sped towards Fulgrim. within a hundred yards of him, Rylanor was flung back by some unseen force. Landing on his back, Rylanor watched as the shattered remains of a dreadnought sarcophagus, HIS sarcophagus, materialized at the feet of his father, clutching the life-eater warhead as an echo of his renouncement grated from the hulk of rusted metal he once relied on. He watched in horror as the warhead detonated but, where there was once those at the ready to contain the life eater's detonation, none made themselves known as the hulking mass of parts melted away and his True father writhed in agony, his flesh turned to gelatinous soup beneath his skin as he reached out to Rylanor, desperately begging for...


Rylanor awoke with a start. His duel Hearts hammering in his chest with a storm bolters pace as he sat up and checked the ruined room for targets...finding none he became less tense leaning back against the wall he elected to rest on due to its sturdiness.

He had found the ruined building after dispatching the wretched Thing that he may have once called brother. And, having seen that the sun was setting, decided to make camp within its ruined walls.

Collecting his bolter from his resting spot he set it and all of his spare magazines onto a ruined countertop. Checking his utility belt, he uncliped a bushel of Krak grenades, a blade, and a bolt pistol from his armor before setting them with the bolter. Taking inventory of everything, he quickly realized that he had enough spare ammo and grenades to last a dozen weeks if used conservatively, half that if launched into a long-term conflict...he needed to find an alternative weapon or else he would have no way of replacing his precious amount of ammo...

Krack! Krack! Krack!

Rylanor ducked below the counter, grabbing his bolt pistol and a magazine just as a burst of rifle rounds slammed into the wall he had rested against as a guttural, childishly brutish voice shouted over wonton gunfire...

Krack! Krack! Krack!

"SHoW YOurSELf PURpPle HeuMAN!"

Krack! Krack! Krack!

Rylanor steadied himself as he slipped the magazine into the bolt pistol, the labored clambering of footsteps moving closer as he broke cover to eliminate the inhuman beast that dared taunt him. When he turned the corner to face his foe, Rylanor honestly believed he had come face to face with some form of Greenskin... the hight, the ramshackle armor, the infantile rage when it laid its putrid eyes on him... before the greenskin could react he brought his pistol to bear and fired, the mass reactive bolt penetrating the Greenskins scrap armor before detonating inside of it, tearing the left side of his opponents torso off in a shower of gore before flinging it to the ground.

"Noo..FaaiR..."

Rylanor drew his blade, He had seen orks survive much worse and intended to finish the strange looking greenskin off before it could...He stopped, the life in his opponents eyes had gone out and it laid still...slowly sheathing his blade he started to examine his fallen enemy.

Rylanor frowned in thought...what laid dead at his feet was no Ork, the usual hunched appearance of most forms of orkoid species was absent...the pointed ears were replaced with divots in each side of the beasts head, He assumed they still functioned as intended, and the most damning evidence was its eyes...no matter the subspecies, All Orkoids had eyes the color of burning embers... the thing at his feet on the other hand had grayish, bloodshot eyes...with his observations he was morbidly reminded of the gene-abominations of the selenar gene cults of luna before their pasification...vat grow brutes addled with chemicals and sent out in resistance to the legions tasked with taking Terra's moon for the burgeoning Imperium's Great Crusade...

He shook the memory from his mind. 'Now is not the time for this...' he stood and collected his equipment from the counter before leaving the shack for the arid dessert road leading towards what appeared to be a small water tower...a passing road sign almost ineligible from the rust and spray paint gave a name to the area...'Goodsprings...'


Greetings, dear reader(s)! Due to my improving mental health I have decided to get back into writing, with that said, I hope you enjoy.