BOOK THREE: TERMINAL
VOLUME TWO: IMPACT (I)
8th of the Fifth Umbral Moon, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(October 8th, 2657 Galactic Standard)
Already strapped into his combat armour, Saren found there was little in the way of preparations he needed to carry out. Even so, the ritual was comforting in and of itself. Once he'd left Benyamin and Katherine, he returned to his room, opened the armoury panel and began checking his equipment again.
This is your fault, Saren. This is entirely, one-hundred percent your fault. Congratulations! You've fucked up First Contact before a year's time. Well done. Entire packets of shotgun shells vanished into spatially-compressed hoppers attached to the front of his chest rigging. A quick check of his blade before returning it to its scabbard and strapping the extension rod to his back. A field stripping of his rifle to ensure all was in order. The crowning achievement of your career. Single-handedly caused a demonic invasion of Gaia.
The roaring silence of his room was, for now, dulled into nothing by the endless flurry of metallic, mechanical noises generated as he finished the last of his checks.
Casualties within acceptable limits? There wouldn't be any casualties if you'd just killed the bastard instead of gloating. You were gloating. Of course you were. First aid kits tucked into the backplate of his armour. Ration bars, hydration gels, alchemical restoratives. A packet of combat drugs in case of emergencies. His black cloak-coat, removed, folded, and stuffed into a nearby drawer. Even if you survive this, you get to explain to the galaxy why you let your arrogance get the-
"-Saren? Are you in there?" Benyamin's voice came over the intercom, his tone holding near-steady.
Saren took in several deep breaths and let the anticipation of combat flood his veins with chilling calm. "Just finishing up."
He reattached his rifle and triple-barreled automatic shotgun to his back, clipped both his helmet and his scabbard to his belt and emerged from his room to find Benyamin fully-garbed in a dull-grey set of Inquisitorial armour leaning against a nearby wall. Benyamin's wargear was larger and bulkier than his own, but far from the powered, almost knightly plate he'd seen the warriors of the Church of the Slayer wear; a chainsword and pistol hung from his belt, and an enormous, single-barreled shotgun with a chainsaw-bayonet was clamped to his back.
"Are you alright, Saren?" Benyamin laid a gauntleted hand upon Saren's shoulder. "I mean that sincerely. These are - I mean to say - you understand what I mean."
Saren shot the man a small smirk. "I'm not happy about the circumstances. But fighting and killing the enemy - I've always been good at that."
Benyamind nodded soberly. "We can be miserable some other time - on that matter, I am of like mind. Let us fetch Katherine and be on our way, then."
Jogging together, they wound their way through the Martyrium past crowds of Inquisitors - some armed and armoured, some garbed in only uniform - and made their way over to the housing section reserved for the Acolytes; Benyamin led Saren over to a doorway marked with K. Shepard on the door, and slapped the intercom button next to the handle.
Benyamin leaned towards the door. "Katherine? Are you prepared?"
The intercom flashed green in response; and the door swung open; within was a room more or less identical to Saren's own, if a bit smaller. Katherine - wearing armour almost identical to Benyamin's, only a band of green cloth tied around her waist marking her rank - knelt in the corner of her room before an austere shrine she'd installed herself, little more than a steel figure of the Doom Slayer surrounded by a handful of votive candles. Both armoured hands clasped to her forehead, whatever prayers she made were quiet enough that Saren could not hear them, and she remained kneeling in outward silence for nearly a minute.
At last, she got to her feet, and turned to face the two men. "Lord Arterius. Lord Hislop. I am as ready as I shall ever be." She gestured towards the shrine, then to the weapons laid out upon her workbench - a chainsword and pistol, as she'd worn earlier in the day, joined now by a long, slender rifle with which Saren was unfamiliar. "Forgive my tardiness. I am armed and I am armoured - both in person and, now, in spirit." Katherine made the sign of the Slayer. "Blessed be His name, lords. He shall protect us as He sees fit."
Benyamin copied the gesture as Saren respectfully inclined his head. "Blessed be His name. Let us be away, Katherine."
By the time the trio arrived in the motor pool Patriarch Harper had mentioned, crowded with a smattering of armoured personnel carriers and their accompanying troops, the assembled convoy of warmages, soldiers and engineers they would be accompanying had already begun laying out an impromptu debriefing station; Saren and the others were about to make a beeline for the six Inquisitors standing around the central lectern when he recognized not one, but several familiar faces - all people hailing from Citadel Space.
"Ah, over here!" The voice - unmistakable - was Mordin Solus', who was himself garbed in a crimson-hooded shawl layered over a strange black undersuit whose texture resembled knotted muscle. The man waved at Saren from the rear of one of the armoured transports parked in the garage.
Benyamin made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "I am sure you will have a minute or so before the debriefing begins, Saren. Speak with your friend. It will do your soul good."
I'm not sure we're necessarily friends, but he's not wrong. Saren nodded in reply. "Thanks. Won't be long." He left Benyamin and Katherine to their own devices, and jogged over to Mordin; standing amongst a crowd of Slayer warriors, each one towering above Saren - to say nothing of the shorter salarian - in their enormous, dull-green powered plate and carrying gargantuan blades and heavy weapons, Mordin seemed utterly out of place in his cloth cloak and alien, cord-bundle armour.
"Oh, great. Just what we need. A turian spook," one of the armoured figures next to Mordin rumbled; the shape of its armour was vaguely krogan, and the voice that spoke sparked a vague sense of familiarity. "And I'd just gotten used to having a salarian for a friend."
Mordin glanced up at the man and smirked. "Strange times, strange friends. Saren Arterius, Urdnot Wrex."
"Saren?" The faceplate of the krogan's helmet hissed slightly as it slid apart, revealing an ageing, scarred face. "You're…a Spectre, aren't you?"
"That's correct," Saren answered, his tone professional. "Your reputation as a skilled mercenary precedes you - it's reassuring to know a warrior with your experience and skill is assisting in today's operations."
"Never worked with a Spectre before," Wrex grumbled; he folded his arms, eliciting a hearty series of mechanical clicks and rattles from his armour as he did so.
Saren offered an arm. "Looking forward to working with you. I'd be happy to see the infamous Urdnot Wrex in action."
Wrex stared at Saren, then at Mordin, then back at Saren. "You want me to clasp your arm."
"Generally speaking, clasping offered arm the point of the gesture," Mordin pointed out. "Failing to return gesture a sign of cultural ignorance. Or an insult."
Wrex - slowly - clasped Saren's arm, then sealed his helmet. "Fine," was his only reply, before the krogan lumbered off elsewhere.
"Ah, nothing to fear. Not the talkative type when his guard is up." Mordin's eyes flitted about as he took in Saren's armour and weapons, and the salarian nodded as he began pacing back and forth. "Interesting. Very interesting. Your own armour. Penance automatic shotgun, Phaeston rifle. And the sword. No, not sword - extension rod on your back? - hastatius, yes!" Mordin knelt down to examine the blade Saren had forged, one hand stroking his chin. "Turian ritual rings? Verux, Ring of Fire. Obvious choice for soldier. These ones - Calucinia, befitting Spectre. Odd," Mordin said as he stood up, gazing at Saren with an expression he couldn't quite place. "Didn't strike me as the religious type."
Saren shook his head. "I'm not."
"Faith, in the Exitium. When in Cipritine, do as the Cipritines do." Mordin nodded eagerly. "Gone native. In no position to judge," Mordin offered, gesturing at his own garb; Saren noted that Mordin wore no visible weapons. "Fully-fledged Inquisitor?"
"Not quite," Saren said, managing to keep his tone flat, somehow. "Probationary."
Mordin gazed into Saren's eyes. "You're well?"
"Well enough," Saren answered.
They stared at one another.
"Your eyes, Spectre Arterius. When this is over, speak to me," Mordin muttered after a painful round of silence. "Whatever happened - sure I can commiserate. Two men and their failures."
"I - that would be nice," Saren admitted. "And you? Last we spoke you were off to learn magic, and to do some soul-searching." He gestured vaguely at Mordin's person. "And what the hells are you wearing? Never seen anything like that."
"Never much liked heavy armour - not favoured by salarians in any case - own design. Marriage of Task Group combat doctrine and Exitium material design. Cable pattern - like nanotubes and musculature, combined. Light as Exitium armour could be. Mobile, flexible. Covers for physical weakness and boosts magic output - enchantments on each layer of nano-lattice, woven-"
"-I understand the idea," Saren interjected. "You're a warmage now?"
"Yes," Mordin noted, gesturing at the tiny six-winged sigil on the clasp of his shawl. "Time also spent with Church of the Wretch. Magic healing, magic fighting, magic engineering." Mordin shrugged. "Finding myself…almost. Very close. Know steps required to reach my goal. Inner peace in sight." Mordin shut his eyes, took a deep breath, then grinned. "Very refreshing."
There was a sudden upswell in the already noisey din of the motor pool as a large holographic map suddenly popped into existence at the front of the debriefing area; Saren quickly clasped arms with Mordin. "That's my cue. See you on the other side."
Mordin, in return, simply nodded.
Saren took his place near the front of the debriefing area next to Katherine and Benyamin as a man in Slayer-patterned power-plate marched over to the control lectern; he unsealed his single-eyed helmet, revealing an ageing, dark-skinned man beneath whose eyes were as kind as they were calculating.
"Everyone! The debriefing begins now! For those of you unaware of my person, I am Bishop-Captain David Anderson," the man thundered in a smooth, rich voice. "This operation is a joint one, being conducted by the Churches of the Inquisition, Slayer, Wretch and Seraphim. I have operational command of all forces besides those fielded by our Inquisitorial brethren - they are led by Inquisitors Saren Arterius, and Benyamin Hislop. Our goal is this!" He gestured with an armoured hand towards the map projection. "The Inquisitorial Command and Control Centre located on stack one-hundred is a vital strongpoint which we will use, once it is cleansed, to launch further operations into the lowest stacks of the city."
Saren examined the projection; the building was only three stories high, laid out in a series of connecting halls, offices, and warehouses which centred around an enormous, circular chamber nearly a kilometre wide.
"The chamber at the centre is part of the low-stack Rapid Deployment Network," David continued, "and is linked directly to a number of staging points up-stack. The transit tube has been sealed, and so while we need not fear demons travelling up the network, at this time our comrades who sit idly by with armour, heavy weapons teams and so forth cannot directly transit into the C&C building."
Benyamin took a step forward. "What about survivors, Bishop-Captain?"
David scowled. "Before communications went down, we did receive word of a few dozen survivors who barricaded themselves within one of the warehouses at the far end of the building. Unfortunately, lacking any serious armaments, they have been unable to punch through the foul creatures who have taken up residence in the C&C. Two squads of Acolyte Slayers were also in the area, and have taken up defensive positions around the building in an attempt to ensure demons remain trapped within the combat zone."
"In other words," Saren noted, "our mission is simple - clear the building, search for survivors, cleanse the demonic taint and establish a link between the C&C and the Rapid Deployment Network?"
"Precisely! There are four entrances to the building - three in the main courtyard, and a fourth via a maintenance and engineering shaft at the rear. I propose that our main force assaults the building from the front," the Bishop-Captain offered, "while a smaller group led by the Inquisitorial detachment enters the rear to find any survivors and strike the demons from a second front."
Saren and Benyamin both looked at the map for several moments, then shared a knowing glance. "We have no objections, Bishop-Captain Anderson," Benyamin said a moment later. "We are ready to make war, as you please."
"DISCIPLES OF THE DOOM SLAYER," David roared, "YOUR MISSION IS SIMPLE! FIND THE DEMON, PURGE ITS TAINT AND SLAY THE UNHOLY FILTH THAT HAS DARED TO DEFILE OUR CITY!" He thumped his chestplate and, in reply, the gathered Slayers - but only a handful of the others present, Saren noted with some amusement - returned the gesture. "MOUNT YOUR VEHICLES!"
he Inquisitors - nine, counting Saren, Benyamin and Katherine - watched in sombre silence as their armoured transport barrelled through the skies of Indomitable; following behind the main bulk of the convoy, whose more heavily-armed vehicles were chewing a path through the few flying demons foolish enough to attack their group, there was little to do but wait. They stayed quiet, watching as they flew past hundreds of images rendered into still frames by their speed: skirmishes between civilians and a handful of demons, all-out assaults by Slayer heavy infantry, and even a pitched battle between a swarm of gargantuan arachnotrons and a combined-arms force of tanks and artillery mages.
All the carnage that surrounded them was rendered into little more than muffled thumping by the thick plating and magic barriers of their craft, and so there was nothing to keep Saren and the other companies besides their breathing - and, every few moments, a series of short clicks, as Katherine absently fiddled with her pistol.
Five minutes into the drive - five minutes punctuated by the soft click-click-clicking noises coming from the seat across from his, Saren decided to stop the issue from getting out of hand. "Acolyte Shepard," Saren said, injecting a formal edge into his tone, "what are you doing with your sidearm?"
Katherine glanced up sharply, quickly shoving her pistol back into her belt holster. "N-nothing, Lord."
"It is alright if you are nervous, Acolyte," one of the other Inquisitors noted; he was a middle-aged man with greying, slicked-back hair who bore marks of stroggification in the form of metallic, circuit-like implants which were spread across his face. "This is your first combat against the unholy?"
Katherine nodded glumly. "It is, Lord…ah-"
"Randall Enzo," the man replied. He reached across another Inquisitor and pat Katherine on the shoulder with a gentle hand.
"I am unbloodied," Katherine continued, "Lord Enzo. I - doubt eats at me, telling me I should not be here, amongst you who are warriors of a calibre entirely unlike mine. Will I not simply be an obstruction as you make the art of war?"
"I haven't faced any real demons," Saren offered. "It's not just you who's new to this."
Katherine shook her head. "You came to the Exitium already as a warrior, Lord Arterius. And we have spoken earlier today on your being at home in the fires of darkness. Of your iron will."
All of those present, save for Katherine, glanced at one another with knowing looks; Benyamin shot the young woman a small smile. "Are you afraid, Katherine?"
"I am," the Acolyte admitted softly after a long pause.
"Of what, then? Speak to us, Katherine. We would hear your worries," Benyamin replied.
"Of failing you, my seniors. That I might break, despite all my training, at the sight of the great enemy." A longer pause, this time; Katherine rubbed the grip of her pistol idly. "Of dying."
"You're going to die, Acolyte," Saren said, gaze boring into Katherine's. "Everyone does. Gunfight or melee. From a demon, or in an accident. Maybe of old age. The only difference is what you do before it happens. So there's nothing to fear there. Fear of letting others down? That's more fair," Saren continued, letting the cold ice of his tactical mind cut off the wave of nausea he knew would come if he stopped to open himself to the flood beyond. "Let that fear pass over you. Let it ride through your body and breathe it out. Don't let it turn you into a paranoid wreck - let it sharpen your instincts, drive your body, fuel your will. You are afraid, not fear itself."
There was a silence that lasted several heartbeats - and then Katherine let out a long, incredulous laugh. "If you will permit me to say so, Lord Arterius, that was a horrible attempt at bolstering my morale." Even so, her posture straightened in a manner which exuded focus, not terror, and she let out a small sigh. "But I do understand your point."
"She is not wrong, Lord Arterius," Randall added with a smirk. "A wonderful speech, made with entirely the wrong words. I would not quit your duties to become an orator."
"I'll just steal the words of my own mentor, then. Think. Calculate. Kill. That's all you need to do," Saren grumbled. "And when it comes to demons, if your people have taught me anything, there isn't much to worry about. Demons, for all their might, seem pretty simple to me. Problem," he stated, gesturing out the windows, then patted his sword's hilt. "Solution."
Benyamin clapped Saren on the shoulder. "Better, Saren. Much better. Fear not," he said, turning his attention to Katherine. "There ought to be no heretics or conniving, treacherous Zentholics down there - just demons. Recall your training, slay the demon. We will be with you in the bloodletting."
Katherine dipped her head. "T-thank you, Lords," she muttered. "Your words bring me comfort."
"There is no need for thanks," Randall noted, "for it is our du-"
"-WARRIORS OF THE EXITIUM," Anderson boomed over an open channel, eliciting winces from everyone in the vehicle, "WE APPROACH OUR DESTINATION! CAN YOU SMELL IT? THE STENCH OF OUR UNHOLY FOE?"
"Oh, Slayer," Benyamin groaned as the speakers from the transport's cockpit blared out a hearty round of raucous screaming from the contingent of Slayers which made up the bulk of their convoy. "Here we go."
"I SMELL IT TOO! NOT JUST THE REEK OF THE DEMON, BUT THE RAPTUROUS SCENT OF WAR! OF OFFERING! OF HONOUR, AWAITING US! TODAY WE MARCH INTO BATTLE, AND MAKE SACRIFICE TO DOOM SLAYER, BLESSED IS HIS NAME!"
"IN THE FIRST AGE," the warriors screamed in response, "IN THE FIRST BATTLE, WHEN THE ARMIES OF THE HEAVENS COULD NOT CONTAIN THE UNCLEAN TIDES, ONE STOOD!"
"HIS NAME IS SACROSANCT AND HIS CAUSE IS RIGHTEOUS," David bellowed, beginning what Saren assumed was some sort of pre-battle ritual. "BLESSED IS HIS NAME!"
"FORGED IN THE FIRES OF HELL, HIS SOUL TEMPERED BY THE DEATHS OF EVERY DEMON, HIS GODHOOD BLAZING FOR ALL TO SEE!"
"HE CHOSE THE PATH OF PERPETUAL LIGHT! BLESSED IS HIS NAME!"
"IN HIS HOLY HATRED HE FOUND THE PATH TO PEACE; AND WITH BLAZING BLOOD HE SCOURED THE DEPTHS OF THE INFERNAL PLANES, INFLICTING JUDGEMENT UPON THE DARK LORDS WHOSE EXISTENCE SULLIES REALITY!"
"HE WHO WIELDS TEN THOUSAND GUNS AND WEARS TEN THOUSAND CROWNS! BLESSED IS HIS NAME!"
"Slayer protect," Randall groaned. "Yes, we all know the tales. Next time, let us request that our most gracious Patriarch assemble a force which omits the Church of the Slayer."
"THOSE WHO SHELTERED BENEATH HIS TEN THOUSAND FISTS-"
"-WORSHIP HIM ON HIGH! HIS NAME RINGS TRUE, FOR HE IS THE DOOM SLAYER! BLESSED IS HIS NAME!"
Saren found some comfort in the fact that the other Inquisitors seemed as annoyed as he did by the ruckus; their driver even lowered the volume coming from the speakers, though for a moment he glanced at Katherine, and saw in her gleaming eyes a righteous, shining fire there that filled him with a feeling he couldn't place.
"HIS WILL! HIS STRENGTH! HIS SHIELD! HIS POWER! SHOUT SO ALL THE HEAVENS ABOVE AND THE HELLS BELOW," the warriors roared in unison as they began thumping the interiors of their vehicles, "HEAR THE TIME OF HIS COMING! STOMP SO ALL THE DEMONS UNSLAIN HEAR HIS FOOTSTEPS! OUR HEARTS BEAT AS ONE, OUR VOICES CRY OUT TOGETHER! WE OBEY THE COMMAND! THE DOOM SLAYER PROTECTS, AND IN HIS NAME WE RIP AND TEAR! UNTIL IT IS DONE!"
Their convoy landed just outside the Command and Control building - a nondescript, three-storey complex which would have been entirely indistinguishable from any other of the hundreds of other structures in the surrounding area save for the enormous Rapid Transit Network tube which rose out of its centre and continued straight into the stack above.
"And just like that," Saren muttered as he and the other Inquisitors piled out of the transport and began taking up defensive positions behind it, "their fire goes out."
With no small amount of amusement, Saren and the other Inquisitors watched as the Slayers leading the assault poured out of their vehicles, weapons at the ready, only to run straight into a makeshift defensive line already set up by a small group of battered-looking soldiers who were watching the perimeter of the building. With visible frustration, the group stopped in their tracks, apparently remembering the assault was meant to wait for the Inquisitorial team to get into position, and began settling into defensive posture.
"Let us be on our way," Benyamin shouted, gesturing at the far end of the building, "lest we face the ire of our comrades!"
In short order the nine Inquisitors made their way over to the rear of the building, stacking up in front of a reinforced maintenance hatch sealed with dozens of emergency locks.
"We are entering the complex," Benyamin noted over comms. "Forward team, you may begin your assault."
The response was a bellowing warcry that could be heard even from the rear of the building, followed by a series of explosions which shook the ground.
"That is our cue, then," Benyamin said on the Inquisitorial channel. "He protects us. Let us do His will. Randall, with me."
Benyamin and Randall - who was carrying an enormous single-barrelled shotgun identical to Benyamin's own - took point, and unsealed the locks, moving in together with their weapons raised. The chamber beyond - little more than a receiving room, bare save for the ramp the team was descending - was empty save for a pair of black-skinned, red-eyed imps which were fighting over what appeared to be a small pile of corpses. Two booming shots rang out from Ben and Randall's weapons; both imps were sent to the ground by each incendiary shot, gaping, flaming wounds scattered across their bodies.
It was not enough, however, to slay the beasts; already, one was scrambling to its feet, making ready to run further in to the building, while the other stretched its claws out, a rippling, black-on-black mass of seething, unholy fire forming into a bolt between its hands.
Neither demon achieved their goals; Saren and the others immediately unloaded a hailstorm of well-aimed fire into the two creatures, and both creatures crumpled into the ground, reduced to flaming gobbets of bone and flesh.
"Purged," Benyamin sounded out as the Inquisitors fanned out to check the corners of the rooms; he gestured at the three exits from the room. "Warehouse one to the east, two and three southeast and southwest. Split?"
"Agreed," Randall noted; the Inquisitors split up into three teams of three. Benyamin and Katherine joined Saren at the southwest doorway, labelled Storage Complex Sector E, and with Saren taking point, kicked in the door to proceed onwards. The map in Saren's HUD displayed a winding, almost labyrinthine series of corridors which snaked southwards; soon they were walking into a long central tunnel lit only by the dim red of emergency glowstrips. They proceeded slowly until they hit the first offshoot - the first of six side-corridors leading to a warehouse - and crept against the walls, stacking up on the corner-
-and a flurry of claws and teeth sprang into Saren's vision. Three of the thirteen pips in Saren's HUD flashed red as the runes of protection slotted into his shielding unit shattered under the onslaught; undaunted, Saren reflexively dropped his rifle, letting it clamp onto his chestplate, and, both hands raised, forced a wave of magi-biotic power outwards, blasting whatever had attacked him into the wall. Without even waiting for his conscious mind to recognize what was in front of him, he sprang forward, landed a biotic punch into what he assumed would be the centre mass of the demon, drew his blade and, with a reverse-grip draw, slashed straight above where he'd landed his strike. The sword struck true, carving the demon in half as it screeched in pain, and as the demon - some sort of imp variant rendered a dark-purple beneath the red lights - landed he crushed its skull with a heavy stomp.
There was no time to think - even before he'd finished off the demon its allies who'd been waiting to ambush the trio were pouring out of the shadows; the tide of creatures, silent only moments before, were now a flood of screaming, ravenous shapes, their forms nearly indistinguishable as they blurred together into a howling mass. With his right hand he wielded his blade almost entirely on instinct, parrying oncoming blows and counter-attacking with pinpoint dexterity; with his left, Saren cycled between short bursts of chained lightning to stun those out of range of his blade, ice shards to pin foes whose angles worked against him in the tight confines of the corridors and solid walls of aetheric light to create a labyrinthe of tiny choke-points around him.
At some point - Saren didn't have the focus to even check his HUD's clock - he ran an imp through with his sword, kicked it away and sprung forward to face the next foe only to run smack-dab into Katherine. The young woman had lost her sidearm in the melee and was now wielding her chainsword with both hands, and while her technique lacked Saren's perfect precision or Benyamin's almost dance-like artistry, she was making up for it with raw strength and sheer rage, cleaving imps in two with singular, powerful swings and sawing apart any other beasts that survived her first strikes.
"Good?" Saren barked as he twirled around her back; an incoming four-legged demon, its face almost entirely composed of a snarling, toothy maw lumbered through its kin, sending imps flying and crushing them underneath as it shot towards Saren. He blunted its charge with a magi-biotic punch to its face, and as it recoiled from the force he drove his blade straight through its skull and sent a surge of lightning through the blade, blasting apart the pinky in a shower of gore.
"Fine! I am fine," Katherine replied, her tone frantic as the hacking, roaring sound of her chainsword ripping through flesh and bone echoed over and over from behind Saren. "Inq - Ben!"
"Still up," Benyamin shouted over comms, a cacophony of gunfire and the telltale sounds of a revving chainblade in the background; Saren parried a fireball, dropped into a crouch and let a flood of aether pour through his veins - and, with a mighty roar, he slammed the ground with his free hand, sending a dome of blinding light out from around his and Katherine's position. "Help would be appreciated!"
Okay. Lightwall buys me a second or two. Saren consulted his HUD - two runes left, three almost finished recharging. Benyamin is…two corridors down? How the hells did we get separated that fast? - and took in a precious lungful of filtered air through his helmet. "We're coming! Katherine, stay close!"
Back-to-back, the two waded through the demonic horde, blades flashing in the dim red light, cutting their way - slowly, so slowly - towards a warehouse that was, by the map's account, only thirty metres away.
Though his waking mind did not understand - Saren was far too preoccupied with the mechanical means by which he attacked, defended, counter-attacked, and pressed forward another step - he felt a strange calm wash over him.
Claw swipe, front-left, fireball behind, pinky charge four demons behind.
Another step forward.
Parry swipe. Chain lightning - four jumps. Enemies stunned. Grab attacking imp by neck, block fireball with body, stab through skull.
Another step forward.
Pinky charge imminent. Magi-biotic charge into incoming force. Pinky stunned. Backhand swing, spin blade, thrust, cleave.
It was not the cool focus of battlefield adrenaline. That was a cold, frosty chill which cleared the mind and sharpened the senses; it slowed time, counted enemy rounds, predicted possible arcs for enemy explosives, chose cover best suited for good firing angles.
Vilefire, six daggers. Create opening, levinhail, double strength. Spacing opened, two metres. Throw blade - impact into imp on ceiling. Leap - catch - downwards slash, three strikes.
Another kill.
This was a pleasing, thrumming fire which hummed in his stomach and smoothed everything, like a vial of cheap Minagen; the combat was a blur, but somehow without becoming unreadable or overwhelming.
Calm.
Warmth.
It was soothing.
Simple.
Righteous.
As though he had entered a trance where his every action was not tactically decided upon, but guided, as if all he needed to do were follow the instruc-
"-SAREN!" He whirled around and saw Katherine on her knees, a deep gash cut through one of her gauntlets; her chainsword chugged and sputtered, rattling as its teeth sparked against the bladed arms of an enormous, serpentine creature; Saren leapt back, planting his blade through its torso, and hauled Katherine to her feet.
"UP! Stay up! Keep moving!"
They were closing in on Benyamin's position now; bright flashes of neon-blue magic and the bark of his shotgun could be heard over the din of battle now, and with a furious shout he flooded his body with aether and charged forwards, the entire corridor stretching as he propelled himself forward, sending the entire crowd of demons before him flying. There, ahead, was the warehouse Benyamin had ended up in; standing atop a stack of shipping containers, the Inquisitor was wielding his massive shotgun and its screeching chainsaw-bayonet like a battlestaff, sawing into enemies, blasting them at point-blank range and dancing around the swarms of demons clambering up towards him.
In unison, Saren and Katherine leapt up to join him, and with their combined efforts cleared just enough space and time to breathe for a moment.
Benyamin fired at a steady, rhythmic pace, sending walls of flaming buckshot down into the horde below. "Katherine - gun?"
"Lost it," she replied, kicking a trio of imps off the ledge of their container.
"Take mine." Saren sent the command to his armour to release the clamps on his automatic shotgun; Katherine grabbed it, let its intention-sensors adjust the pull of the stock and the position of its angled foregrip to her smaller frame, and began pumping rounds from each barrel into the demonic mass. In turn, Saren - finally - sheathed his blade, unclamped his rifle from his chestplate, shouldered it, and let loose with a rare application of fully-automatic fire.
Benyamin and Saren had trained for countless, endless hours in the simulators of the Martyrium, and covered each others angles with the practised ease of well-drilled warriors; Katherine, for her part, simply remained between the two, picking off any foes who managed to slip past the barrage of fire being put out by her seniors.
And then it was over.
Silence.
"Up and ready," Benyamin said in between laboured breaths into the sudden silence; shotgun still shouldered, he peered down at the warehouse below, itself filled with enough demonic corpses that the entrance to the sector seemed to be knee-deep in shattered, twitching bodies.
"Up and ready," Saren grunted, checking his rifle - twenty-two thousand rounds remaining - before quickly popping open its magazine, swapping the rune-inscribed ammunition brick out and slamming a fresh brick in.
"I am injured, but it is fine," Katherine noted, trying to wipe sweat from her helmet before realising her armour was in the way.
"Tend to her - I shall raise our comrades," Benyamin said, staring down at the corpse-choked entrance. "Enzo! Flores! Condition!"
"We are - wait." Inquisitor Enzo paused mid-report as a gunshot rang out in the background, then growled something unintelligible under his breath. "Area purged. Our group entered the first warehouse and was ambushed shortly after. No casualties, no survivors found."
"Our group was ambushed as well," a woman said over the comms, sounding nearly out-of-breath. "We see no personnel in need of rescue either. Rawlings down - he died well."
"The Slayer keep him," Benyamin muttered, signing the Slayer's sigil with his free hand; he glanced over at Saren and Katherine - both of whom were kneeling - cocking his helmeted head. "What is wrong?"
Saren glared at the deep rent in Katherine's left gauntlet and the gash below; despite all his straining, despite his deep, unshakable understanding that the wound, which seethed with the black mist of unholy magic, did not exist and that Katherine was whole, he simply could not seal the wound, only hold the bleeding back.
"Can't do it," Saren spat. "Just about failed the theurgy part of my training - still can't do it."
"It is alright, Lord," Katherine muttered. "I can restore myself." She knelt down, setting the shotgun she'd borrowed from Saren on the shipping container, and twisted her right hand through a series of quick signs; she winced audibly as a wave of green light washed over her hand, purging the mist and knitting her flesh back together after a moment.
"We have," Benyamin sighed, "to get that examined, Saren. I have seen schoolchildren figure out theurgic healing, in a pinch."
Saren stretched his arms, and helped Katherine to her feet. "Some other time. What's our next move?"
The answer came seconds later. The Inquisitors, discussing matters via their comms, found that, like them, the Slayers assaulting the building were facing stiff resistance, and were now simply forcing their way forward towards the transit chamber; all three parties agreed that, since neither they nor the Wretch-Engineers stationed outside the Command and Control building had been able to find any signs of survivors or detect any such signs of life, that their next best bet was to assault the demonic hordes from the 'rear' and link up with the Slayer contingent.
Once Saren and Benyamin had cleared the corpse-choked entrance to the warehouse, they began wading through the slain demons lining the tunnels; though distant echoes of gunfire rattled through the corridors, no demons appeared to assault them until they had reached the last connecting tunnel which would bring them directly to the transit chamber.
"There," Benyamin noted as they, once again, crept up on a corner of wall; he peered around the side, and swore viciously. "Look!"
A quick transmission via their helmets revealed a long, straight tunnel lined with two dozen open-topped cargo-hauling carts, each one about the size of an aircar-
-and every single one bore a foul, meat-and-bone shrine whose very sight filled Saren with a deep, piercing disgust.
"Gore nests? Something's wrong," Saren noted, readying himself for the inevitable ambush. "No demons coming out of them."
"With me. And stay guarded," Benyamin growled, his shotgun raised and ready. "This explains the lack of survivors and the ambush earlier - but not why the nests seem dormant."
They advanced slowly, weapons raised as they walked the distance of the tunnel; the crimson aura of the nests, combined with the emergency lighting, formed a hazy, bloody mist which hung in the air and, despite his helmet, reeked of a decay and rot so potent Saren had to marshal himself to flee in search of fresh air. They approached the first pair of nests gingerly; Benyamin and Katherine drew small, golden knives from their belts inscribed with thousands of holy runes, while Saren drew his sword.
"They seem…diseased," Katherine muttered, inching towards the first nest behind Benyamin and Saren. "They do not beat and pulse with unlife as I recall from my lessons."
Benyamin growled something incoherent and shook his head. "It is of no consequence. A gore nest is a gore nest. Watch over me. I shall purge the first." With a great leap forward, Benyamin stabbed his rune-knife into the nest - and yet, unlike the holos Saren had watched, there was no arterial spray of blood, no unholy screech of rage from the blasphemous shrine.
"What," Benyamin spat, "in His name is this nonsense?"
The nest - once Benyamin yanked his knife out of the gore nest - simply died, its flesh greying and then collapsing into a slurry of rotting meat, while the bones which formed its structure faded into dust.
Katherine only tightened her grip on the shotgun she'd taken from Saren. "Lords? Is this natural?"
"No. No, it is not," Benyamin admitted. "Hislop to Inquisitors - we have encountered a hall lined with gore nests, but they are…not functioning as they should. Rune-knives seem to purge them all the same."
"We have found two of like kind," Randall replied a moment later, his tone grim. "What foul sorcery this portends, I do not know. We…have just purged both."
"Our group," the female Inquisitor from earlier noted sourly, "has not encountered any such thing. We are continuing to our destination. Do you require aid?"
"Not yet. We shall keep you informed." Benyamin cut the connection, and glanced back at Saren and Katherine. "Let us cleanse this place - I will not suffer these defilements to live."
Proceeding at a methodical pace, the three Inquisitors marched forward, purging each of the malfunctioning gore nests. Saren himself, mere minutes later, thrust his enchanted blade into the final nest, withdrew it, and watched as it collapsed, letting out a deep exhale of relief. "The job is done," he said, "at least in this area. Inquisitor Arterius to Slayers," he continued over comms, "how's the assault going?"
"EXCELLENT," Bishop-Captain Anderson roared over the sound of all-consuming gunfire and chainblades. "WE HAVE SIGHTED THE TRANSIT CHAMBER ENTRANCE! IT IS WITHIN REACH! FORWARD! IN HIS NAME! KILL!"
"Come on. Let's get in position," Saren sighed.
By the time all three Inquisitorial team were at their respective entry points - Saren, Benyamin and Katherine were stacked up against an enormous, sealed hatch locked with a series of terminals - the contingent of Slayer warriors were within earshot. Their heavy weaponry, even through the heavy metal doors, boomed and thundered in an endless symphony of destruction, and Saren took a deep breath.
"Okay. Inquisitorial team one, ready," he messaged over their shared comms as Benyamin and Katherine both nodded at him.
"Team two, ready," Randall said a moment later.
"Team three-"
"-BLESSED BE HIS NAME! OFFER THEIR BLOOD FOR HIM! FIRE THE BREACHING CANNON!" David screeched-
-followed by an earth-shaking KRAK-THOOM which sent shockwaves through the entire complex. Saren, Benyamin and Katherine all nearly fell to the ground, cursing all the while.
"Slayer…damned…fools," Benyamin spat, hastily unlocking the hatch. "FORWARD! STAY CLOSE!"
The hatch raised, revealing a scene of absolute, near-indecipherable madness: in an instant Saren, Katherine and Benyamin were separated, swarmed by a flood of demons, Slayer warriors and the odd Seraph warmage thrown in for good measure. It was all Saren could do to weave an endless chain of spells, blasting apart demon after demon after demon while blocking the near-endless onslaught of incoming elemental bolts, claws and teeth. What followed was a whirling blur of violence: still image after still image of charging pinkies, leaping imps and soaring cacodemons.
Saren lived in microseconds and half-breaths: weaving in between Slayers roaring in glee as they hosed down the hordes within the chamber with automatic shotguns, gauss chainguns and holy plasma-throwers; covering Seraphs as they wove walls of elemental death, healed injuries and even accelerated the restoration of Saren's own runes of protection. Like a missile with its guidance system broken, Saren flung himself around the chamber, thinking not of the tactical situation - what good were tactics, when the kilometre-wide chamber was a seething mass of bodies, both friendly and unholy?
Some time later - he had no idea how long, for it felt like years - Saren could feel his magic circuits screaming in agony from overuse, and while his enhanced muscles were still going strong it was his mind, of all things, which was beginning to flag, unable to comprehend the sheer, overwhelming flood of foes which, somehow, had been silently awaiting the arrival of the Exitium's warriors.
We're doing good, though, Saren told himself as he ignored the impact of a fireball which shattered the last of his protective runes, hurled himself into the air and rammed his sword into the eye of a cacodemon. Could barely even see the transit tube at the centre of the chamber before. Now it's…slightly visible. He dropped to his feet, landing next to a slim, strange-looking figure, and slammed into it back-to-back, letting off a salvo of shining aetheric blades even as he felt blood pouring from his mouth and nose from the sheer weight of the strain his magic circuits were taking.
"Saren! Duck!" Without thinking he did, barely tucking his head beneath the oncoming swipe of a serpentine prowler; the figure next to him - Mordin - reared back and, as a surge of neon-blue surged through the knotted muscle-weave, landed a single punch which blew apart the entire demon in a shower of gore. "Here! Many demons left - more energy for you!"
Mordin laid a hand on Saren's chestplate, and this time a surge of greenish-yellow energy snaked out from the salarian's armour; it flowed into Saren's armour, then into his body, and with a shuddering gasp Saren felt his magic circuits flood with blessed, cooling relief. In return, an angry flood of black-on-black tendrils surged into Mordin's outstretched hand - and the comparatively tiny salarian twisted his left hand through a series of complex signs, weaving a blade-shaped void out of - what, precisely, Saren was unsure.
"Thanks," he grunted, getting to his feet and letting fresh aether flood his body as he prepared another round of vilefire.
"No time for thanks! Onward!" Side-by-side, they surged again into the fray; Mordin, one hand wielding the blade of what Saren could only imagine as aetheric feedback made manifest, the other weaving shields around any ally they came across, seemed like nothing more than a rocket-powered blender, carving his way through the oncoming hordes with such precision and ease that he seemed entirely in his element. Not to be outdone, with his body and his magic restored, Saren charged into the enemy, blade flashing and walls of fire blazing ahead as he and Mordin carved a bloody swathe through every demon before them.
At some point, Saren dimly realised, the demonic horde was thinning; without the weight of numbers to sustain their defence of the chamber, each standing warrior was faced with fewer and fewer foes-
-and then it was over.
"AREA PURGED," David roared, this time not over comms, but aloud; a raucous cheer of exaltation rippled through the chamber. "HE PROTECTS! SECURE THE CHAMBER! ASSIST THE WOUNDED! MARK THE DEAD FOR RITES! OUR WORK NEVER ENDS!"
Heart pounding, Saren felt as though time was now moving too slowly; he snapped his around, head searching for his friend and his charge through the crowds of Inquisitors, Slayers, and Seraphs-
"-Saren! Saren, oh, you're alive," Benyamin gasped, limping over to clap him on the back. The man's helmet was shattered, revealing the bottom of his face; with a grunt of exertion he tore the thing off, and shot Saren an exhausted grin. "Good. It would be a shame to have to bury you today."
"Katherine?" Saren managed in between heaving lungfuls of air. "Where?"
"Here, Lord," Katherine muttered, walking over to them; she was assisted by a Seraph healer, who was, even as they brought the Acolyte over to their little group, casting wave after wave of restorative magic on the young woman's body. Her armour was mostly intact, but now in addition to her gauntlet she bore several deep gashes across her legs and torso; with the magic, though, the skin beneath was knitting itself into good health, and she signed the Slayer's sigil to the Seraph. "Thank you, good mage. His blessings upon you."
The mage nodded, then stumbled off to find their next patient; Mordin, for his part, seemingly unexhausted by the melee, grinned happily at the trio. "Hello! Mordin Solus, no Church affiliation. Friend - I hope - of Spectre, Inquisitor, Lord Arterius."
"How in the hells," Saren growled as he slumped to the floor, "are you so chatty?"
"Actually very tired," Mordin noted with a shrug. "Ah! Look. All clear sounded. Excellent news," he continued, gesturing to several squads of Slayer warriors who were setting down communications beacons and ushering in a team of Wretch-Engineers from the massive hole they'd blown into the transit chamber. "Suit compensates for weakness, as previously noted. Lack of issues regarding artificial intelligence in Exitium? Very, very useful," Mordin babbled, gesturing at his bizarre suit of armour. "Direct Neural Interface. Salarians previously experimented with synchronisation technology, shunned, exiled, hunted down. A shame."
"You," Saren said slowly, "put an AI. Into your head."
Katherine, still clearly near-deliriousness from the fight, stumbled forward and touched one of Mordin's arms with a curious stroke. "Are your people all so…muscular? I imagine the Dukes of the Lambda Calculus would feel great jealousy at seeing your form."
Benyamin coughed out a choking laugh, and slumped down next to Saren. "Forgive the Acolyte, Sir Solus. She is weary, as are we all."
"No, no, no need. Curiosity, even when so drained and taxed - an excellent sign, Acolyte!" Mordin took in a deep breath-
-and Saren nearly shot to his feet in alarm, or disgust, he wasn't really sure which as the armour around Mordin's hands seemed to dissolve back into Mordin's flesh.
"Exitium maginanotechnology very flexible, especially when combined with strogg AI modules and, of course, if you permit, my own intellect," Mordin proudly babbled. "No compunction about body modification also helps. Nanoweave lattice, micro-runic enhancements and engravings sandwich-"
-a noise.
Screeching.
Howling.
A noise like no other reverberated through the entire chamber.
Saren wept, every higher function of his mind utterly failing him as all his instincts, for one eternal second, simply accepted that he would die, and that it was his lot in life now to simply curl up and await death.
Beside him, Benyamin and Mordin were both covering their ears, screaming in agony - perhaps they were, the unholy wail drowned all else out - and Katherine vomited a torrent of bile upon herself.
The doors to the transit chamber opened, unleashing a flood of searing, rotting heat; bright flashes of hellish red seared Saren's eyes, blinding him.
When he opened them, the animal part of his brain told him to close his eyes-
-but, roaring with fury, he got to his feet as he beheld it.
Ten feet of pure, seething wrongness.
A long, full-body cloak of bloodstained red, trimmed in shining gold and emblazoned with sigils and crests to foul to gaze upon.
A squat face, flaring, smoking nostrils belching crimson fury; wide, beady eyes, and from its raised hood, a pair of side-curving horns.
Tyrant, Saren's inner self cried out. Get up! Get up and fight!
"I COME TO MY HUNTING GROUND," the thing bellowed so loudly that, even with his helmet's aural dampeners active, the noise still sent shooting pain into his skull, "TO FIND YOU HAVE SLAIN MY SLAVES. THIS, I ACCEPT. IT WILL ONLY MAKE MY FEASTING ALL THE MORE ENGAGING."
All around the chamber, the warriors of the Exitium were stumbling to their feet, recovering from the arrival of the Tyrant as they readied their weapons for battle once more; a few - Saren felt shame knowing he was not one of them - were even already firing their heavy weapons, which all seemed to do nothing but tear miniscule rips in the disgusting behemoth's cloak.
Get up, get up, GET UP!
"OH. OH, INDEED, THIS DAY IS KIND TO ME. I AM BLESSED, O DARK ONES. WHAT SOULS ARE THESE, NEW TO MY PALETTE?"
The thing looked at Saren.
THE THING LOOKED AT SAREN.
"ATEN TEOPS," the Tyrant whispered in a murmur that rocked the entire building; Saren was up, now, hauling Benyamin and Mordin to their feet and standing in front of Katherine, one hand casting a barrier in front of the Acolyte and the other firing his rifle one-handed at the beast-
-a foul thing, a staff, twenty feet long, wreathed in rotting wraps of skin and faces stretched into mocking ribbons, sank from nothing into the Tyrant's hands-
"SAREN! LOOK OU-"
-and the ribbons shot out, wrapping themselves around his face.
He struggled, fighting against the suffocating weight of death and decay and corruption-