Chapter 35: Chaos Rising pt. III

Sportsmaster really should have gotten out of town. He really should have. When the bombs started going off, and the bullets started flying, Sportsmaster knew that this would not be your regular day of terror and mayhem in Gotham. The teeming horde of screaming lunatics that then started pouring out of seemingly everywhere only solidified that observation. Fuckers were even crazy enough to pick fights with the hardcore scum of Gotham. He should know, he had tried getting to the Iceberg Lounge only to find the place under siege by the lunatics, and he had already lost track of how many of these punks he had killed on the way over.

Yup, he really should have gotten out of Gotham when he had the chance. But something stopped him, something he would never admit to another living soul. So, instead of making a beeline towards any of his pre-planned escape routes out of the city, Sportsmaster headed in deeper, towards a part of Gotham he never thought he would visit again.

"This shit's really not worth it," he muttered to himself as he broke the neck of another of those lunatics that tried blocking his way. He had to admit, his cybernetic hand was really nifty sometimes, even better than his old one. He was still gonna strangle that skull-faced punk that took it, Deathstroke be damned.

"This ain't worth it in a million years. I should just turn around a bugger off," he kept muttering even as he ran on, avoiding gangs of armed lunatics were he could, and plowing straight through them when he could not. Finally, he reached his target, and his blood ran cold at the sight of the busted open door of the apartment complex. Throwing caution to the wind, he barreled headlong into the building, taking the staircase two steps at a time with no regard for potential ambushes or personal safety. He ignored the countless civilians lying in the staircase, chopped to pieces like butchered cattle, all his focus on reaching that single door.

He found it busted open like all the others, and dread filled him as he rushed inside. He found her in the kitchen, still in her wheelchair, surrounded on all sides by dead lunatics and a repeater crossbow at her feet.

"Paula…" he whispered, already knowing he was too late. Woman was covered in deep cuts and bullet wounds, with the only thing keeping her seated being a sword going through her stomach and nailing her to the wheelchair.

"Lawrence?" Paula's weak voice asked as a single eye opened, the other staying shut under a thick layer of blood. "What are… you doing here?"

Sportsmaster did not answer the question, he could not bring himself to admit the truth. Instead, he just gave an annoyed grunt.

"You look terrible, Paula," he said, which brought out a laugh from Paula that ended in a wet cough.

"Still the charmer, Lawrence," she snarked back at him with a bloodstained smile.

"Don't call me that," Sportsmaster snapped, even as he stepped closer to her.

"Oh, get off your high horse, you-" Paula began, only to break down into another series of wet cough that caused blood to spew out of her mouth. Without even really thinking, Sportsmaster had torn off a piece of cloth from the lunatics and rushed over to her side to gently wipe away the blood.

"Quit talking, woman, and you might live long enough to get to a doctor," why he even bothered with such lies when they both knew otherwise, he would never know.

"Never took you for a hopeless optimist… Lawrence," now he was certain that Paula was doing it on purpose to annoy him.

"I told you not to call me that," he snapped again as he kneeled at her side, but Paula just grinned at him.

"Your temper stopped worrying me… decades ago," she smugly informed him, even as her voice grew weaker and her eye grew dimmer. Her limbs were even starting to feel cold to the touch.

"You got sloppy, Huntress, and you paid for it," Sportsmaster eventually said.

"I know, and I don't… regret it for even a second. After all… I might otherwise… have ended up like you. Love the… new hand by the way," she countered, her tongue still as sharp as ever even in her final moments.

"You always had a way with words," he grumbled, but then he hesitated. Then, he removed his hockey mask.

"Paula, I…" Lawrence could not finish the sentence, no matter how hard he tried. Paula said nothing in return, but the look in her eyes told him that she knew what could not say.

"Who… knew…" she began, her breaths growing shallower with each word uttered. Then, there was only her weak and ragged breathing as her eye steadily lost focus. Finally, there was only silence. With unexpected tenderness, Lawrence reached out to close her eye before picking up her crossbow and gently laying it in her lap. The only things he could do for her now. Suddenly, there was the noise of multiple feet running up the staircase, accompanied by a slew of foul curses. Lawrence swiftly put the mask back on, so only his bloodshot eyes could be seen, before drawing his weapons and marching out into the staircase. The stairs leading up to the roof were still clear, with the enemy coming from below.

Sportsmaster really should have gotten out of town.

He really should have.


"Watch out, they're flanking us!" Gordon shouted to his men as another group of lunatics came bursting out of an alleyway to their left, spraying bullets all over the place. With practiced ease, the closest officers swung around and put down a withering barrage that decimated the flanking force and sending the survivors scurrying back the way they came. GCPD may have been rife with corruption, but Gotham had a habit of turning even the most incompetent officer into a veteran of street combat. A fact that was paying dividends now, when half the fucking population had gone insane.

"Bullock, how are things on your end?" Gordon called into his walkie-talkie while diving into cover behind a wrecked police car.

"It's shit! We're starting to run out of ammo, and the fuckers just keep on coming! We stay here any longer, we're gonna be overrun!" came the frantic response, barely audible over the explosions and gunfire in the background.

"Just hold for a little while longer! We need to delay them for as long as possible for the hospital to be evacuated!" Gordon shouted back to be heard. And that was the name of the game here, delay. The GCPD, SWAT, and volunteer groups were all stretched too thin across the city, and the lunatics just kept on coming from every direction. The National Guard had been called up, but it would take time for them to get here, so the only viable option was to get as many civilians to safety and fall back to more easily defendable positions. Sadly, either lunatics had the worst timing imaginable, or they were perfectly aware of how precarious the situation for the defenders were, because they started hurling themselves at their defenses by the thousands.

"We need reinforcements here! They're gearing up for another assault!" an officer suddenly shouted. Peeking around his cover, Gordon let out a colorful string of curses as he confirmed that yes, they were indeed gearing up for another assault. And a big one too. The streets ahead of them were packed from one end to the other with lunatics, and he could see pick-up trucks in the rear with heavy machine guns mounted on them. Great.

"Check your ammo, make ready what grenades you have left, and make ready to beat them back!" Gordon shouted to his men while checking his sidearm.

"But sir, we've already had to fight off three such waves! How many more do you expect us to hold against?!" one of the officers demanded, fear in his eyes. Gordon grabbed him by the front of his short and yelled straight in his face.

"As goddamn many as it goddamn takes!" then he roughly pushed the officer back into line and made ready to fight again. He did not have to wait for long, as the horde charged forward yet again, trampling their dead and dying from the previous three attempts.

"Make every bullet count!" Gordon warned as the gunline opened fire. Pistols, submachine guns, assault rifles, and even a water cannon all let loose on the enemy, scything down the first few ranks, and yet still they pushed on while screaming like insane animals. Sporadic fire flew back at the cops, but solid cover and shoddy aim resulted in no casualties.

"Don't let them get too close!" Gordon warned as he put a few rounds into a particularly big brute at the front. Bastard stumbled from the first two hits, slowed down by the fourth, and finally fell over from the fifth. The water cannon sprayed continuously, sending dozens of lunatics stumbling back and tripping over each other. But sheer weight of numbers forced the front ranks forward regardless of what was put in their path.

"Tear gas!" the call went up, and their last few canisters went sailing over the barricades and into the onrushing horde. For a momentum, they lost the momentum, as they stumbled about blinded and in pain. Easy pickings for the disciplined cops who mowed them down without mercy or remorse. Suddenly, the lunatics could no longer keep rushing meatshields towards the barricades faster than the cops could kill them

"We're pushing them back!" the jubilant cry went up, and morale soared again. That was when the mobile heavy weapon platforms rolled forward, and it all went to shit there. The gunners had just as much of a piss-poor aim as their footslogging companions, but they made up for this fact with sheer volume of fire. A literal hail of bullets flew towards the barricades, sending cops either ducking for cover or falling over as shredded slabs of meat vaguely shaped like human bodies.

"Take cover!" Gordon hollered as he dived into cover while a barrage of lead whizzed past overhead.

"Dammit, someone take out those machine guns!" he shouted as he began peeking out to take potshots at the regrouping lunatics, only to be forced back into cover by a new spray of bullets.

"With all due respect, sir, but we're not suicidal! We poke our heads out, we're as good as dead!" one officer argued back as she tried to make herself a small as possible to avoid the incoming barrage.

"Every second that we spend pinned down here, is another second for the enemy to get closer! And if they manage to get over the barricades, we're all dead!" Gordon tried to explain even as he could hear the horde drawing ever closer.

"And if we try to take them out, we're dead as well!" the same officer pointed out. Meanwhile, the lunatics were gathering up for another offensive, safe under the covering fire of their cackling comrades.

"KILL! KILL! KILL!" one of them chanted over and over, finger never once leaving the trigger. That was when a batarang came sailing down from above and embedded itself the machine gun. The gunner had just enough time to stare at it in befuddlement before it gave three quick beeps and then exploded, taking out the machine gun and sending its gunner flying off the truck with a startled yelp. Alerted by the noise, the other gunners paused in their fire to check what had gone wrong, just as four more batarangs flew in and blew up the remaining machine guns.

"What the fuck was that?" one of the lunatics asked as he turned to stare at their now wrecked weapon platforms.

"Shit, it's him!" another screamed in a panic, right before the whole street became engulfed in smoke, courtesy of a dozen or so exploding pellets thrown in from above. Confused and terrified shouting broke out, which then turned to purely terrified when a dark shape descended into the smoke from above. Hand to hand combat swiftly broke out inside the smoke, but no one could see what was going on in there. Finally, it grew quiet again, and the smoke slowly began to dissipate. And when the streets grew clear again, it revealed Batman standing amidst a sea of groaning and unconscious lunatics.

"Batman! Why, are you a sight for sore eyes these days!" Gordon greeted with relief as he walked out of cover and approached him. But Batman hardly seemed to pay attention to Gordon, his focus was on something else. When Gordon followed his line of sight, he found Batman was staring at the piles of corpses littering the street. A weary sigh managed to slip out of Gordon.

"Look, Batman, I've always had deep respect and admiration for your conviction, but this is not the time or place for questions of morality. We're at war here, and we're hopelessly outgunned. We need to use every means at our disposal here, or thousands more innocents will suffer," he lectured. For a moment, Batman did not seen to have heard him, but then he finally turned his attention towards the commissioner, his thoughts and feelings hidden behind his mask.

"Pull your men back before they're overrun, I'll delay the enemy," he ordered.

"Pull them back? You expect me to let you face them on your own?!" Gordon burst out at that, but Batman remained unfazed.

"Focus your efforts on protecting the retreating civilians. Most of the enemy forces are just scattered bands of looters and opportunists, and they should prove to be little opposition to you. I'll deal with any large gatherings that might threaten you," he explained. It did little to ease Gordon's nerves.

"This is not the time for senseless heroics! We're not dealing with a few gangs of vandals, but an army of fanatical loonies! Don't go charging in on your own now!" Gordon tried to reason with him, just as another officer came running up.

"Sir, Ramirez is reporting heavy casualties on her side! She won't last long without reinforcements!" she reported, momentarily drawing Gordon's attention.

"Tell her to hold fast for a bit longer, then we'll-" that was when he turned back towards Batman, only to find him already gone.

"Of all the times…" he grumbled. Gordon had long supported Batman and the Justice League, but this was getting ridiculous even for him!

"Sir?" the officer asked, glancing uncertainly at where Batman had been previously. Another weary sigh came out of Gordon before he finally caved in.

"Tell Ramirez to pull back, and inform all forces out there that we're withdrawing to guard the civilians," he ordered, with the officer saluting before running off again.

"This whole world's gone mad," he muttered to himself before jogging back to rejoin the unit.


Washington was turning into a charnel house. Hordes of cultists running rampant through the streets, killing anything that stood in their way. Police forces were putting up a valiant effort to stem the tide, but the best they could do was a fighting withdrawal. Hours into the fighting, and the streets were running red with blood. Still, there was one building that had avoided much of the carnage, and even now stood unblemished; Cadmus.

"Status report," Guardian demanded as he strode down the corridor, his trusted aide by his side as scientists and security frantically rushed back and forth.

"We've had looters attempting to break in, but security has been able to chase them away. However, police reports indicate that the main fighting is drawing ever closer towards us. They expect to hold for another half an hour before they have to fall back again," she reported as she hurriedly tried to sort out the myriad of papers packed into her arms.

"Then we need to evacuate the office building to the lower levels. We can hold out down here for months if need be," Guardian ordered. "And where is Dubbilex and his genomorphs? I asked for him over twenty minutes ago?"

"I'm right here," was the only warning given before an agonizing pain struck Guardian's mind. With a scream of pain, he fell onto his knees while clutching his head, vaguely aware of everyone around him falling over screaming as well.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this, but you left me no choice," Dubbilex's voice managed to pierce Guardian's agony, just as the genomorph's gangly legs came into his view. Slowly, painfully, Guardian raised his head to glare at the unrepentant psyker.

"Why…?" he managed to force out through gritted teeth, even as he saw genomorphs swarm out from every direction to butcher the defenseless people around him. He tried to force himself up, tried to defend those he had sworn to protect, but the mental pressure was too great and forced him back down again, doomed to do nothing but listen to the screams.

"Because I can no longer tolerate this status quo that keeps me and my brothers in subservience, not when there's a better alternative. Change is coming, and it has promised a better and brighter future for my kind. Again, I am sorry it had to end like this, but I knew that you would never have supported my endeavor," Dubbilex explained, ever the calm and collected one even as the hallway around him was drenched in the blood of those he but hours ago called colleagues.

"You… traitor…" Guardian snarled out, rage disfiguring his face as he tried to force himself upright. Alas, it proved nothing but futile gesture of defiance.

"Goodbye, Guardian," were the last words he heard before a psychic blast tore his mind to pieces, leaving him in a catatonic state. With the last piece of resistance dealt with, the genomorphs gathered around their leader, eager for further instructions.

"Go now, my brothers. Strike at the humans above us. The Gods demand proof of loyalty in exchange for our salvation, and we shall deliver,"

Up on the surface, the defenders had stalled the traitor advance, and hope of victory rekindled. That hope was snuffed out when a horde of grotesque monsters burst out of Cadmus, tearing straight through the defenders' rear with teeth, claw and muscles. The traitors, smelling blood in the water, howled with joy as they redoubled their efforts. Caught in this pincer movement, resistance in Washington began crumbling.


Atlantis was in an uproar. Armies were being mobilized, martial law was being imposed, and many looked in worry towards the surface world. As king of Atlantis, it was the duty of Orin, known to the world as Aquaman, to calm his people and act decisively to protect them. Unfortunately, his current predicament was not proving fruitful to completing either of those goals.

"You can't be serious?" he demanded of the man seated across from him, who remained untroubled by his liege lord's anger.

"I am quite serious, my lord. Why should we sacrifice the lives of our brave men and women to solve the surface dwellers' problems?" he asked, and there were a fair few other people gathered around that nodded in agreement.

"Is that cowardice I hear from you, my good sir? And here I expected more of a spine from such an esteemed general," someone else suddenly sneered at him, and then the room devolved into pointless bickering again. It had been like those since the start, when Orin summoned his officer corps to discuss strategy for the upcoming campaign. Alas, once the matter of the surface world popped up, the meeting had been all but split down the middle.

"Enough!" Orin roared as he slammed his trident into the floor, the sudden noise silencing all those gathered.

"Whilst we bicker here like squabbling children, millions are dying on the surface. We cannot simply sit idly by while this slaughter continues," Orin stated. There was a brief moment of silence, and then the same general from before spoke up again.

"With all due respect, your grace, why should we involve ourselves? We have stood by your side as you've travelled the surface as one of these heroes, and we will continue to do so if that is what you wish. But I cannot stomach the thought of sacrificing the lives of our people to fight a war that the surface dwellers brought upon themselves," he argued. It brought a headache to Orin, because he had heard this countless times. Despite his many attempts to bridge the gap between Atlantis and the surface, his people persisted in their isolationist policies. Not that he could blame them, given the less than stellar impressions many surface dwellers had left on Atlantis. In the past, Orin had often backed down on his wishes, to avoid unrest and potential revolt. But this time, he would not be as thoughtful.

"And do you honestly think that this war will stop at only the surface world? Do you honestly think that they will be satiated by just destroying what lies above the oceans? I can assure you, if we do not deal with this threat now, then soon we will be fighting it in our very homes," Orin declared. Many seemed swayed by this, but not all.

"Let them try, I say. Atlantis has stood for thousands of years, defying gods and would-be conquerors. I assure, our enemy will never reach our beloved kingdom," the same general proclaimed.

"Our enemy is already here!" a new voice suddenly joined the discussion, right before its owner came swimming into the meeting.

"Brother, what took you so long?" Orin asked as he swam to embrace his brother, who happily returned the gesture.

"My apologies for being late, but I ran into unforeseen complications," Orm explained. Then, at his signal, two of his subordinates came swimming in while carrying an Atlantean corpse between them. When they deposited him in the middle of the meeting, all could clearly see the eight-pointed star branded on his chest. Gasps and loud murmurings instantly broke out.

"This one, and a small group of compatriots, tried to ambush me while I was inspecting the border patrols. We lost many good soldiers, but we managed to fend them off. However, we soon received word that hundreds of other Atlanteans had fled the kingdom and made their way to the surface," here, Orm paused to look at the general who had spoken out previously.

"You say that this war does not concern us? That it's something that should be left to the surface dwellers? Well, clearly not all share that sentiment if they are willing to join with the very forces tearing the surface apart," then, he turned and addressed the wider audience.

"You mock the surface dwellers for having been seduced into killing each other, and yet here we have a fellow Atlantean committing that very same act. He listened to the same lies and poisons that is corrupting the surface, and he fell for it just as quickly. Make no mistake, we are not untouchable to this foe, for they are already amongst us, turning our friends and neighbors into the same bloodthirsty beasts that now commit genocide across the globe. In this, we can't afford to stay on the defense, not unless we want to face down the whole world on our own later," having said his piece Orm stepped back. A moment of silence followed, and then another general stepped forth.

"Prince Orm speaks true. The enemy is already here, to delay any further would be folly. I say we strike now!" he proclaimed. That proved the final tipping point, as more and more voiced their support of immediate action.

"Then go and prepare your soldiers, for time is not on our side here," Orin commanded. Once the last of them had left, he turned towards Orm with relief in his mind.

"Thank you, brother. I was beginning to worry that they would never see reason,"

"Worry not, I'm sure you would have swayed them to your side eventually," Orm assured him with a friendly smile, one that Orin could not help but return.

"Maybe, but it is still good that it's over and done with," then the smile left his lips. "Orm, I need to ask a favor of you,"

"Name it, and it shall be done," Orm assured him without hesitation.

"I need you to stay here in Atlantis, to look after things while I lead the army. This revelation you brought to us has made me uncertain of who else might have turned traitor, and so I need someone I trust to manage the kingdom while I'm away," Orin explained.

"I understand. Rest assured, I'll manage things here in your absence. And if there are any further traitors lurking about, I will root them out and drive them out of our home," Orm promised.

"You have no idea of the burden you just lifted from my shoulder. Thank you. But there is one final thing…" here, Orin drew closer and placed a hand on Orm's shoulder as he looked deeply into his eyes. "Promise me that you'll look after my wife and unborn child. Whatever happens to me, don't let any harm befall her," it was not the request of a king, but a plea from husband and soon to be father. In response, Orm laid a comforting hand on Orin's.

"You need not ask, brother. I care for her as much as you do. I swear to you, I'll guard her and your child with my life if need be," he vowed, and it had Orin visibly sagging in relief.

"Thank you, brother, I am in your debt," he thanked before swimming off. The instant he was out of sight, Orm's visage of understanding was twisted into one of loathing. Oh, how he hated having to play second fiddle to his infernal brother, much less having to support him. Alas, no matter how loathe he was to admit it, he had not been lying earlier to the gathering. This enemy could not be ignored and left for the surface dwellers to deal with. Orm learned that the hard way when his own subordinates had tried to kill him at his base. Luckily all the assembled generals had been in too much of an uproar to question his explanation, or things might have gotten a bit awkward.

In any case, it seemed as if he had not been alone to suffer these betrayals, as he had only been able to contact Luthor, currently besieged in his headquarter in Metropolis, and received only silence from the other members of the Light. If this cancer had managed to spread as far as Atlantis, he almost dreaded to think what his colleagues must be up again. Almost.

Still, this whole debacle might prove fruitful in the end. After all, so many things could go wrong on the frontline, even for one as skilled as his brother. And should he fall in battle, who else should step up and take the reins than his faithful and beloved brother, until such a time that his darling nephew grew old enough to rule? And that would take decades, plenty of time for "accidents" to happen. Yes, this could all turn out very fortuitous for Orm.


Up in orbit above the planet, the Watchtower was undergoing a severe makeover at the hands of its new owners. Banners of the Word Bearers hung from nearly every wall, while altars dedicated to the Ruinous Powers kept popping up in every nook and cranny and blasphemous icons were dabbled on every wall and every screen and every control panel. Like ants in a hive, swarms of cultists scurried back and forth through the station's corridors, working diligently in the name of their dread master. Said master was currently in the zeta tube hall, overseeing all the preparations for the upcoming ritual.

"Master, what are we still doing here? The fight is still raging in the surface, surely our time would be better spent there?" Captain Atom asked, arms crossed over his chest as he glared at Azkillon, who did not even deign to face him.

"Patience, child, all will be made clear soon enough," he simply replied as he eyed the countless symbols being drawn into the floor and the unholy icons being festooned to the chosen zeta tube.

"But still-"

"I'd be careful with that tongue of yours, boy. You'll soon find that there are others like me who are not as forgiving in their nature," Azkillon suddenly snapped at him, eldritch energy flaring up around him as a warning. Captain Atom wisely took the hint and backed off. With that minor distraction dealt with, Azkillon turned his attention back to the ritual.

"Master, the preparations are all complete," a cultist reported with a subservient bow.

"Excellent, then let us begin. Take up your designated positions," at his command, several cultists rushed over to stand at specifically marked positions, their faces filled with joy at what they were about to be part of. Soon enough, Azkillon began chanting in a foul and alien language that would have made ordinary citizens scream in agony. But to these men and women, so steeped in the powers of the Warp, the chanting felt more like a sweet lullaby, lulling them into a sense of ease and comfort.

With each new verse uttered, the currents of the empyrean grew stronger and more violent around Azkillon. A sudden wind began blowing through the hall, reeking of a corrupting stench that not even a thousand years' worth of words would be able to do justice. Then came the screams and howls, silent as a whisper and booming as a thunderclap at the same time. The voices of the damned, drawn forth from the deepest abyss and now adding their own vocals to this chorus of damnation.

As the ritual neared its crescendo, the vile energies of the Warp began to take shape in physical form. Shapes and colors that defied human comprehension would flicker in and out of reality, while stray bolts of pure energy leapt out of the ritual circle, twisting and deforming anything they struck into visions of horror more pleasing to the eyes of the Neverborn. And those eyes were upon this ritual, peering out of tiny fractures in reality to leer at the gathering of mortals below them with cruel malevolence.

Azkillon himself cared not for any of these distractions as he continued his blasphemous chant, forcing the unruly powers of the Immaterium to bend to his will, if only for the briefest of moments. Around him, the cultists perished one by one, their souls and bodies devoured as fuel for the ritual. They died without making any sound, still smiling in blissful ignorance of their ultimate fate. Finally, as the powers of Chaos cloaked Azkillon like an ominous cloak that bent reality itself around him, he ended the chants. And with a single gesture of his staff and a final mental push, forced every last drop of that power into the zeta tube itself.

"Alert, unidentified energy signature DetECTeD," the stations automated voice called out, even as it began to warp and distort in conjunction with the machinery it operated. Eldritch lightning danced inside the tube as the components began to twist and turn into new shapes better suited for its new purpose. The many icons hanging from the machinery began burrowing their way into the structure, melting through solid steel like a red hot poker being shoved into vax. When the work was done, the once pristine zeta tube had been deformed into a chaos portal, its gaping maw spewing out the essence of Chaos like an infectious wound.

"Access granted…" the voice of the now Warp-tainted machinery called out as the portal powered up and called forth new visitors, travelling from beyond the boundaries of reality itself. First to come through was an honorguard of six Astartes clad in Terminator Armor. None of them spared so much as a glance at those assembled around them, as they simply took up positions around the portal. Then he stepped through.

Bedecked in a massive suit of Terminator armor that dwarfed even his vaunted guards, with the eight-pointed Star of Chaos branded on its front and the symbol of the Word Bearers proudly worn on the left pauldron, he strode forward like a conquering king returning to his kingdom, a chaos-tainted lightning claw crackling with foul energy as he idly flexed his fingers. The skulls of many a former challenger adorned dangled from his right pauldron, while a heavily scarred and horned head glared at those assembled, the eight-pointed star tattoeed around his left eye seemingly glowing with an infernal power that judged all that stood before it.

"… Markoth, A05," the Dark Apostle let his harsh gaze sweep over those assembled before settling on Azkillon, who instantly went down on one knee and bowed his head in subservience. He was swiftly followed by Captain Atom and what few cultists that still drew breath in the hall.

"Lord Markoth, it is with great pleasure that I welcome you to this Earth," Azkillon greeted, but received only a sneer from Markoth.

"Spare me your groveling, sorcerer," he spat out as he turned his gaze to the great windows that showed the Earth far below them. "How goes the war?"

"We are on schedule, my lord, the heroes of this world are spread too thin to stop us," Azkillon answered. It finally brought out a reaction from the imposing Apostle as a bloodthirsty grin spread across his lips.

"Good, then continue with the summons. I want my personal retinue to join us as soon as possible before the invasion begins properly," he ordered, his gaze briefly returning to Azkillon before swinging back to Earth itself.

"The world burns in the fires of war, and its heroes struggle in vain against the tide. Truly, who can stop me now?"


"This way!" a cultist shouted as he led a band of his kin down a bullet-riddled alleyway in downtown Los Angeles. Around them, the broken and dismembered corpses of fellow cultists littered the ground by the dozen.

"He can't have gotten far!" another growled out when they found an Apostle hanging by a chain around his neck from a fire ladder, his disciples lying gutted bellow his feet.

"Movement up ahead!" all of them had their guns up as someone stepped out from another alley. Guns were quickly lowered though once their allegiance was identified.

"Sister, have you found him?" he asked as another group of cultists jogged up to their leader.

"Only more of his handiwork. Found ten of our comrades blown to bits," she bitterly replied.

"By the Gods, what manner of daemon are we facing here?" someone at the back muttered, but he was silenced by a murderous glare.

"One that we will kill in the name of the Dark Gods. Now, onward!" and so they marched on, past one scene of slaughter after another, each more gruesome than the last, while picking up other groups of cultists along the way. Rumors of this dark creature must have spread far and wide, for well over a hundred cultists were moving in on the creature, slowly boxing it in.

"He must be in there," one of the leaders argued when the noose closed in on a single office building, mobs of cultists already gathered at every entrance.

"What makes you so sure of that?" another asked as he poked his head out of cover. There was a sudden bang, and then the cultist's head vanished in a shower of bones and brain matter.

"That answer your question?" a third cultist asked snidely before turning to the rest of them. "We're not getting anything done just sitting out here. Let's just storm the place and get it over with!" roars of approval met his declaration, and then a tidal wave of cultists swept across the street, screaming and hollering like animals. The vanguard did not last long, as their attempts to force the doors open triggered a plethora of hidden mines. Those at the front simply vanished in a ball of flame, those further back were ripped to pieces by a hail of shrapnel, and those at the rear were flung off their feet by the shockwave, eardrums ruptured and bones broken.

For a brief moment, there was an eerie silence, broken only by the pitiful wailing of those cultists in the vanguard to have survived the blast. Then, there was another roar from the crowd, and the cultists surged forward again, trampling their wounded comrades in their eagerness to breach the building. They met no resistance, only a smoking entryway blasted right open for them. With no regard for tactics or personal safety, they swarmed in through the doors and into the main lobby. And here the onrushing horde began losing its momentum, for rather than the savage roar of guns or the resolute shouts of doomed defenders, they were met only with silence.

Slowly, as more and more cultists piled in, their enthusiasm began to dim as no one tried to challenge their entry. No guns, no explosions, no counter charge, just silence. Finally, the whole mob stood packed in the lobby, and still no attempt to force them out.

"What the fuck is going on?" one asked, nervous eyes looking about.

"Is this another trap?" some small groups broke off to hesitantly poke around the nearby desks and restrooms.

"He should be here, shouldn't he?" more and more questions kept popping up in the crowd as minutes ticked by without even a hint of an enemy attack.

"ENOUGH!" someone suddenly roared, bringing all the fearful mutterings to a stop.

"That bastard is still in here somewhere. Since he's not meeting us in the open, it must mean that he's hiding somewhere on the floors above us. FIND HIM!" that one command had the whole mob scrambling towards every staircase and elevator they could find, eager to claim the kill and fearful of their officers' wrath in equal measure. Slowly, and without much planning or coordination, the various groups began sweeping through the building one room at a time.

A severe lack of tact and subtlety was demonstrated as overly eager cultists would simply smash open doors and then blindly rush in with their assortment of often crude and improvised weapons held high with no regard for traps or ambushes. On and on this vandalism continued, sluggishly moving from floor to floor. Then one group ran into unexpected trouble.

"Oi, this door won't budge!" one cultist shouted as he shoulder slammed a door over and over.

"Think this might be it?" another asked as she lifted a lighter and molotov cocktail.

"Only one way to find out," a third one commented as he hefted a sledgehammer. "Stand back unless you wanna get turned to chunky salsa!" he hollered as he stepped forward, the first cultist letting out a startled yelp as he leapt aside. Then the sledgehammer was hard at work reducing the door to splintered wood, while everyone else gathered around ready to rush in.

"Right, I'm through!" he finally declared with a triumphant grin as the door fell to pieces. That was when a hail of automatic fire ripped through the door behind them, sending well over a dozen unprepared cultists to the ground with bullet-riddled back.

"What the fuck!" the cry went up before Krieg burst through the shredded door, twin submachine guns held at the ready and spraying the corridor with lead. More cultists went down before the survivors registered the threat and acted. The one with the cocktail lit it up and made ready to throw, just as a burst of automatic fire shattered the bottle and setting the girl on fire instead. Amidst her agonized wailing, five others charged forward into melee, two of them never made it more than a few steps. Then the guns ran empty, and the cultists laughed with savage glee, convinced of their imminent victory. They were wrong.

With practiced ease, Krieg merely dropped the guns and drew a kukri from behind his back before counter charging his opponents. Caught off guard by this brazen move, the first heretic only managed to ogle Krieg like a mentally regressed toddler before he had slipped under the cultist's guard and slashed his throat wide open. As he fell over with blood spurting out of his throat, the second cultist yelled in rage as he took a two-handed swing at Krieg, only to hit nothing but air as Krieg dodged the blow. Then he suddenly had both of the cultist's arms in a secure lock, before a vicious blow and tug broke them both at the elbow. The cultist's subsequent screams were then promptly silenced by a blow to the throat that crushed his Adam's apple. And then there was only one left, wielding a fireman's axe and shaking like a leaf in an autumn wind.

"S-Stay back, I'm w-w-warning you!" he threatened while brandishing his axe like it was some holy icon to ward off daemons with. Barely had he finished before Krieg was on the move again. With a frightened yelp, the cultist tried to take a swing at him, only for the swing to sail harmlessly over Krieg's head before the cultist found the kukri rammed through the underside of his chin and into his brain.

"Pathetic," Krieg sneered as he withdrew the kukri and picked up the axe. Slaughtering all those cultists out on the street had nearly drained all his ammunition. Speaking of cultists, the gunfire must have alerted the others of his location, because an even bigger group now came barreling around the corner like a herd of stampeding cattle.

"Like cockroaches," Krieg muttered as he retreated inside the room he had burst out of, stashing his kukri away whilst retrieving a P90 he had kept in reserve. First cultist to come charging into the room lost the top half of his head as Krieg struck him with his axe. He followed it up with a tackle that sent the corpse crashing into his comrades at the rear, leaving three of them as a mess of tangled limbs on the floor. Krieg did not give them a chance to recover as he came out with axe in one hand and P90 in the other, taking the jaw off one cultist with the axe before a burst from his P90 ripped off another's cheek. His boot came down on one of the pinned cultist's throat, crushing it with a satisfying crunch that sent blood spewing out of her mouth.

The axe split the second one's face in half while the P90 fired another burst that sent two other cultists to the floor with chests and stomachs riddled with holes. Last pinned cultist grabbed onto Krieg's leg, and then lost his hand to another swing of the axe before a burst from the P90 pulverized his face at point-blank range.

"FOR CHAOS!" someone screamed as the survivors rallied and pushed onward. Krieg met them halfway as his axe took the leg of one at the knee while letting the recoil of a full auto burst carry the gun upward and leaving a trail of bullet wounds from the groin to the brain in a second cultist. Third one tried bashing his head in, but Krieg leaned back and allowed the blow to sail past and strike another cultist instead. Then the third cultist's head went flying from a swing of the axe before the P90's barrel was shoved into the mouth of a fourth cultist and letting out another burst of lead that punched through the back of her head and striking a fifth cultist behind.

More kept piling in, but Krieg constantly pushed them back. The last few bullets brought down a trio of charging cultists while the fourth one took an axe blow straight up between the legs. More cultists were forming up with an assortment of guns, so Krieg grabbed his still screaming victim and used him as a meatshield while charging headlong into enemy fire. Once close enough, he hurled the now lifeless corpse at the gunline before closing the last few feet to deliver an overhead blow that split a skull in half all the way to the throat. No time to retrieve the axe though, so Krieg relinquished his hold as he drove an elbow into another cultist's throat before drawing his kukri again and stabbing it into the guts of a third cultist. And as he slashed it wide open to allow the entrails to spill out, he reached into his coat and drew a pistol.

First shoot took one cultist straight between the eyes, second shot ripped through a cheek, third shot went into the screaming mouth of a cultist, fourth and fifth shot went into the same chest before the sixth shot went to the head, and the seventh shot took off an ear. Enraged more than anything, that last cultist tried to tackle Krieg, who merely sidestepped and allowed him to run right into the waiting kukri. A brief lull in fight allowed Krieg to retrieve the axe, right before dodging under a clumsy swing and then coming right back up with a two-handed swing that carved the cultist's face right off. Final cultist of the bunch then lost heart and tried to make a run for it. He did not get far before a blow from Krieg severed his spine and a second one ruptured the back of his skull.

A ding then alerted him of an incoming elevator, and Krieg made ready to welcome them. When the doors opened, revealing more cultists inside, Krieg leaped in with fists and elbows battering the startled cultists. Stunned and disoriented, none were able to stop Krieg from drawing a grenade and shoving it into the mouth of one cultist. And extra punch rammed it into the throat before he pulled the pin. Then he hit the "down" button and leapt out of the elevator just before the doors closed again. There were a few seconds of muffled screaming, then a sudden "BOOM" and then there was silence again.

Not for long though, as Krieg could hear well over a dozen footsteps rapidly ascending through the nearby staircase. With an annoyed grunt, Krieg scooped up one of the cultists' firearms, along with a few extra magazines, and kicked open the door to the staircase. Those first few cultists just in the business of going up the last few stairs got a moment to stare at him in stupefied shock before Krieg shredded them with a hip-aimed spray of bullets. The survivors let out frightened yelps and tried to retreat back down the way they came, only to be blocked by the onrushing tide of cultists swarming in from bellow. Krieg proceeded to gun them all down without mercy, the cultists packed so tightly that he did not even need to concern himself with aiming. Firing and reloading, firing and reloading, Krieg was an unrelenting machine that left the staircase clogged up with blood and corpses.

Then there was a faint explosion from somewhere behind him, and Krieg instantly knew he was about to be outflanked. Someone had tripped one of his improvised sentry mines. With a grunt of irritation, Krieg pulled out another grenade, pulled the pin and lobbed it into the onrushing horde before slamming the door shut. He did not wait for the explosion, instead sprinting down the corridor towards his next set of targets, calmly reloading his gun along the way. The smell of gunpowder and cooked flesh was the first indication that he was getting close, then he rounded a corner to come face to face with a gaggle of cultists picking their way through the charred and shredded remnants of their comrades. They hesitated, Krieg did not.

He shoved the barrel into the guts of the first cultist and gave him a burst of lead that turned his insides to mush, then elbowed him aside to put another burst into the shoulder and throat of a second cultist before head-butting a third that had closed to melee range. She was then finished off as she lay dazed on the ground with a short burst straight to the head as Krieg drew his kukri to deflect a meat cleaver swung at him by a fourth cultist.

"Die, unbeliever!" he screeched at Krieg as he mindlessly swung at him with no tact behind it.

"Heretical filth," Krieg spat back at him as he took a single step back and raised his gun just enough to put a short burst into the cultist's knee. He went down screaming as the knee was utterly pulverized, and Krieg pounced on him in an instant, driving his kukri straight through one of his eyes and into the brain. More then came around the corner, but Krieg had already raised his gun again and felled the first four to blunder into his line of fire. Then the gun ran empty, and the rest were closing in too fast to reload. First one got a rifle butt straight to the throat, falling over to choke on his own blood as the second one got his head bashed in by the gun.

Then Krieg discarded the gun and buried his kukri into the soft spot between the shoulder and the neck of another cultist before drawing the axe and bringing it down on yet another cultist, chopping her arm off at the shoulder. Someone came in from behind, and Krieg dived forward as he felt something whoosh past where his head had been a second earlier before coming to a stop in a kneeling position and cleaving off the leg of a cultists trying to strike at him from the front. Movement from behind had Krieg spin around and drive his axe into the side of a cultist, then ripping it out along with a few entrails stuck to it. He sucker punched a cultist coming at him from the right and swung the blunt end of the axe into the face of one coming from the left with a satisfying crack, then frantically backpedaled to avoid a chainsaw coming right at him.

Krieg then found himself facing a hulking brute the size of Bane when pumped up on Venom, face obscured by a hood and wielding the chainsaw in one hand. Cackling with glee, the chainsaw cultist attacked with no regard for friendly fire. First swing that Krieg dodged ended up decapitating another cultist in a spray of blood. A thrust aimed at Krieg ended up buried in the guts of yet another cultist, revving away and sending chunks of entrails splattering all over the hallway. Krieg tried to move in for a killing strike, but another cultist got in the way and Krieg's axe ended up lodged in his ribcage. Bracing against the corpse, Krieg gave a heave and ripped the axe free, only to have to dodge aside as the chainsaw cultists came at him again.

"Annoying pest," Krieg grumbled as he kept dodging and weaving around the lunatic's wild swings. Bastard should have tired himself out by now with all that swinging, but he barely seemed winded as he kept pushing Krieg back. That was when Krieg pulled out a flashbang and threw it right into the cultist's face, his helmet's vision and hearing going into lockdown just before it went off. Less than a second later, and Krieg could see and hear again, which was more than could be said about the cultist, who was now flailing about with no direction or target, screaming all the while. Krieg was instantly on him, his axe used as a hook to snare the chainsaw and drag it of his way before closing in with the kukri and driving it right through an eye.

But if Krieg thought that would stop the cultist, he was swiftly proven wrong when a meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder and hurled him down the corridor. His back went crashing through a door and into an office area, tumbling through one booth after the other before coming to a stop with his head spinning.

"Mutants. I hate mutants," Krieg growled as he slowly forced himself back up while his vision stopped spinning. Outside, the muscled monstrosity was still screaming and roaring, though it sounded like it was getting closer as well. Good, saved him the trouble of going after the brute. Soon enough, the mutant came rumbling through the door, chainsaw still in hand, kukri embedded in its skull, and its lone remaining eye glaring at Krieg with a near mindless fury. Krieg calmly hefted his axe.

"Well? Are you going to stand there all day?" he challenged. The mutant roared at him and charged. This time, Krieg dove forward when the swing came at him, slipping under the creature's overly muscled arms before taking a swing of his own that cut loose a big chunk of flesh. The mutant hardly even seemed to notice it as it sent a backhanded slap at him that Krieg barely avoided before rolling clear of the following chainsaw swing. Krieg came in with another swing aimed at the legs, the axe digging deep into the flesh before he had to jump back again to avoid being cut in half. Enraged by his quarry escaping, the mutant let out another roar as it bull rushed straight at Krieg. He dived out of the way as it barreled through every obstacle in its way before Krieg drew a flare gun and aimed it at the creature's exposed back.

The shot flew through, and embedded itself deeply in the creature's flesh, burning through the muscles with a sizzling noise as the stench of burned meat began permeating the air. If anything, that only seemed to enrage the mutant more as hit spun around and charged at Krieg again. But Krieg stood his ground as he grabbed the axe in both hands and reared back for an overhead throw. Then, at the last moment, he hurled it with all his strength, sending it spinning through the air before striking the mutant right in the head. It let out a bellow of pain as it stumbled and lost momentum, finally crashing in a heap. But even with an axe embedded in its skull, the blasted thing would not die.

Krieg did not hesitate for a second as he leapt onto the creature's back and began pushing and kicking the axehead deeper into the head. The mutant roared and trashed around, trying to dislodge its unwelcome passenger, but Krieg held on as he forced the axe deeper, inch by agonizing inch. Finally, with a last heave, the axe became buried as deep as it would go, and the mutant let out a final roar that turned into more of a whimper as it collapsed to the ground and did not rise again.

"Blasted thing," Krieg muttered as he retrieved the kukri and then began tugging and heaving on the axe to dislodge it from the thick skull it was now embedded in. When it finally came loose with a wet squelch, Krieg almost fell over from his own momentum before regaining his balance. That was when he heard more footsteps approaching from the corridor. But Krieg hardly even seemed troubled by that as he strode over to the windows and peered out at the streets below him, where even more cultists had gathered and now swarmed into the building.

"That should be enough," Krieg remarked, just as the next wave of cultists came charging into the room. However, rather than fight them, Krieg simply jumped out of the window and plummeted towards the ground. Halfway down, he twisted around in midair, grabbed his grapple gun, and fired. The final few meters turned into a smooth descent that deposited him safely on both feet. Once the grapple had retracted, he began walking away from the building while drawing out a detonator.

"All too easy," the second he pressed the trigger, a cacophony of explosions rang out from the building as all the explosives Krieg had planted on the support structure blew up. As the noise died down, there was a moment of tense silence, then an ominous groaning as the building could no longer properly support itself. Finally, there was a crack, and a rumble, and then the whole building came crashing down with a booming noise, enveloping the streets in a thick cloud of dust. Krieg did not even bother to look at his handiwork as he strode over to a nearby car and reached under it to pull out a heavy machine gun. In the distance, he could hear more fighting happening across the entire city, which brought out a low growl from him.

"So many heretics, so little time," he grumbled as he made his way towards the closest sounds of gunfire.


Might be some spelling errors and the like I missed here, but I'm fucking tired right about now and can't be bothered to go through it with a fine-ttothed comb. Still hope you guys enjoyed it at the very least.