A New Post
The stars: humanity's salvation and most deadly foe. It's airless wastes are home to the jewels of the Imperium's colonies, the ground her fortresses place their foundations, and the fields that it's crops are planted in. In the shadows cast by the gracefully dancing planetary bodies...that is where the danger lies. Those spinning chunks of rock and various metals man named asteroids after the very stars that they orbit conceal the sharks of the endless ocean. Jagged, dagger-like, propelled on streams of ionized gas these leviathans ply their paths in silence. Graceful and as gilded as a cathedral, the Iron Heart slides from the shadow of the crater ridden moon.
The Firestorm-class frigate powers forward on its oversized engines. The massive Lance mounted in the heavily armored prow gleams in the light of the not so distant star. The massive golden eagle catches the light and seems to catch fire...as does the crimson Inquisitorial rosette painted beneath it. The bridge sits in the tallest tower of the command spires, the captain reclines in his massive throne. He sighs deeply as the MIU feeds him data from his beloved ship's various systems. He can feel the sensors as they track each and every one of the thousands of crewmen and armsmen through the life-support cogitators. He pays no special attention to the newest addition of his master's entourage where he hides in his private berthing.
Hunter doesn't know what exactly to think yet. His mind replays the images that he was shown in that final moment of the battle as the Inquisitor plunged his blade into the mutant leader's skull. The images of demons, twisted realities and desires clashing together in a miasma of colors, the laughing of four dark gods beyond anything that the UNSC had ever encountered…
"This was not covered in basic…" he mutters to himself as he scrubs away at his pistol's internal components. His hands carry out the mindless exercise while his eyes stare at the far wall. The plates of his SPI armor are attached to the mannequin set against the back wall leaving him in his loaned fatigues. The uniform lacks any sort of regimental badge like the others do, and is made in an archaic camouflage pattern, but it makes him feel more comfortable than walking around in just his undersuit would have.
The rest of the stormtroopers, soldiers who he has rapidly equated with the ODSTs of his "universe", have kept their distance. Not that he blames them. After all, his abilities hardly qualify him as anything below exceptional and many would say inhuman and as such are off-putting to those who are more... normal. And from what he has been able to gather about the Imperium in whose service he now finds himself in they are anything but tolerant. Oh they thanked him for his service and admired his skills. He was even thanked by the flamethrower wielding woman after the fighting had died down for having her back in the scrum. But he could see it. The suspicion, the distrust, and in some cases the utter hostility that they all treat him with.
The Inquisitor seems to be the only one to trust him and that suits him just fine. After all he was used to being out of place except among other Spartans. With a sigh he reassembles his pistol and reaches for his BR55. The rugged weapon remains silent as the "tech-priest" forges more ammunition for the powerful slug-thrower. While the laser weapons used by his new colleagues intrigue him he has yet to be accustomed to them as he is with his own weapons. So like they say, it's best to stick with what he knows. The rifle is swiftly broken down on the cloth covered desk pushed against the far wall.
Experienced hands go over each part scrubbing each component down with solvent acquired from the ship's stores to clean them of the grime accumulated during firing. A rifleman is only as dangerous as his tools and his skills: and both need maintenance. The supersoldier carefully tends to his weapon before reassembling it and dry firing to be sure of its function and setting it aside. Now...he reaches for something new. While not as renowned a marksman as the Spartan-II Linda-058, he is a fair hand with a sniper rifle. And the Inquisitor is in need of a marksman's touch in his line of work.
The weapon is long, but not as long as the sniper rifles he was used to dealing with on a regular basis. An advanced optic sits on a rail mounted along the rifle's spine, miniature Aquilas stamped in silver on the turrets. The barrel is thick with the focusing crystals and acceleration coils needed to propel its charge. The needler's combination magazine-power cells sit on the bed in a neat row. The deadly needles made of a crystalized toxin gleam in the light coming from the two globes in the overhead. He knows, intellectually, that the weapon is dangerous. With it's two-stage way of firing a laser on a non-visible spectrum melts through armor leaving the needle fired a split second later to find flesh and deliver it's deadly load.
However, the weapon feels so...insubstantial in his hands. It's far lighter than it has any right to be in his opinion, almost feeling fragile. The old SRS99C-S2 AM he was used to weighed far more than this rifle, and had more punch for its kick. This thing has no recoil whatsoever, hardly even vibrating when the trigger breaks. Cautiously he begins breaking the weapon down, taking care to remember where every piece goes. The parts are all new: focusing crystals, magnetic coils, numerous different mechanisms to control the feeding of the crystal in such a way that it won't shatter prematurely, and of course the micro-capacitors used to control the flow of power.
Through it all he occupies the rest of his thoughts thinking on what he left behind. If this is indeed the future that he has been sent to...then that means they beat the Covenant back. His brothers and sisters had made a difference after all. But...what a future they secured for man. Superstition, treachery, assault on all sides from all quarters including within. This is what they bled for? He sighs and painstakingly assembles the rifle in his hands.
"What is left for me?"
The galley. The one place that Navy and infantry mix on a ship or on land. And unfortunately for Hunter, the only place that he can acquire food. But in a strange twist of fate no one spares him a glance as he steps into the line. Despite towering over even the largest man present the Spartan is ignored. None of the men and women at the table look at him as he sits down either. He wordlessly shovels the tasteless slop into his mouth at the same rate that every soldier and sailor learns to, mentally making a note of the fact that this crap has literally no flavor.
Not even the unappealing taste of MREs is present in the grey sludge that the automated dispensers dropped on his plate. He hardly reacts as a group of women take their places around him. What he does however notice is that every pair of eyes is suddenly drilling into him. He glances up from his food as he swallows another tasteless morsel. His cold grey eyes meet the fiery chocolate of the woman across from him. Her almost perfect face is marred only by a small scar running across her jaw.
Dark hair is cut into a bob and her body is clothed in what appear to be armored robes. He looks back down at his food seeing nothing of interest until she clears her throat pointedly. With a near silent sigh he returns his gaze to the woman who stares at him expectantly.
"Yes?" he prompts knowing now that she wants more than just a seat at a table. She scowls at his plain speech and her inability to place the accent. She obviously doesn't like things she doesn't know like so many others in the Inquisitor's service.
"You are the one that the Inquisitor picked up on the last world? The one who tried to kill the mutant cult leader?" she asks, spitting the word cult with as much venom as he would Covenant. He nods and spoons another mouthful of slop past his lips. She purses her lips and shares a glance with the rest of the women. Her eyes narrow as if trying to see past some veil concealing his hidden intentions. Inwardly he sighs having had to deal with the same looks from a hundred thousand different pairs of eyes in the past. His youth, his size, his scars all attract unwanted attention to him. This is just another day in the life.
"Thank you for saving my sister." His eyes jerk back up to regard her in confusion. Gratitude? That is not something that he has ever been given. Just a protocol heavy "well done, hit the showers" before the next mission briefing. Being thanked for anything that he did feels… strange.
"You're welcome," he states and returns to eating thinking the conversation done. The woman has a different idea altogether.
"I've never seen a normal man, outside of the Astartes, move in the way that you do."
"I'm not normal. I'm a Spartan, albeit a lesser form of one." This explanation draws a few curious looks from the gathered women and the men that happen to be sitting near enough to catch the conversation.
"What is a Spartan?"
"A genetically modified supersoldier designed to protect humanity." Again the flat explanation draws more confusion.
"We already have the Astartes to protect the Imperium. Why would somebody create something which, beg your pardon, seems to be less than them?"
"The same reason Spartan-IIIs were created after the IIs had so much more success: we are able to be made faster and cheaper. Though the project has been cancelled, probably because Astartes were considered worth the time it takes to create them," he replies sticking to the cover story he was given by the Inquisitor and using his typical toneless inflection to keep it intact. Luckily for him they seem to buy it, likely preferring ignorance of some dastardly experiment of the evilly educated and twisted members of the Mechanicus. He finishes the rest of his meal in silence and returns to his room.
The Navy ratings pay him little attention as they conduct the various maintenance procedures needed to keep a ship like this working. Unfortunately for him...the scowling face of the Inquisitor's acolyte, or trainee as he had it translated into normal person speech, is attached to her body and rapidly approaching him.
"What are you doing here?" she demands, accusation heavy in her tone. Again he takes no offence here: soldiers are often blamed for things over which they have no control.
"I was getting chow ma'am. This is the quickest way from the barracks to the galley." Her eyes narrow suspiciously before she simply huffs and tries to push past him. Only to slam into a mountain of muscle plodding around the other side. The great hulking form of Gud, the Ogryn that the Inquisitor uses most often as a bodyguard, doesn't shift a millimeter when the well-built woman smacks into his front. Anger flashes in her eyes as she glares up at the much taller abhuman.
"Move aside beast," she hisses, one hand reaching for the hilt of her sword at her hip. The Spartan's hand moves to fast for the eye to see and pins the sword in its sheath.
"Not a good idea ma'am. He'll move, he's just a bit slow."
"Kind of like you," he thinks to himself snidely. Her glare immediately shifts to him and he can see her jaw clench a little harder. The Ogryn moves aside with a blank look on his admittedly ugly face. There is nothing about an Ogryn that could be considered attractive to the everyday man. The Inquisitor's protege glares at the Spartan for a moment longer before smacking his hand from her blade and storming past. A passing stormtrooper with the stripes of a sergeant watches the whole exchange with weary eyes, having long recognized that when the lords and ladies play the little people beneath them are the ones that suffer.
Hunter resumes his trek back to his bunk without a second thought, distantly aware of the hulking form of Gud plodding along behind him. A glance over his shoulder finds the abhuman's face stretched in an innocent, if grotesque, grin and tiny eyes shining in admiration. Hunter merely shakes his head and continues on. Completely ignorant to the fact that he just gained the loyalty of the most faithful creature on the entire ship with a few simple words and actions.
Inquisitor Reymose sits quietly at his desk in his somewhat lavishly decorated room. The bare metal floor is covered in a soft carpet that deadens footfalls, the walls are decorated with pictures of Saints from millenium past, a small alcove in the corner holds a silver Aquila and a few incense burners trailing smoke from his earlier prayers. A pair of tall and wide bookshelves are heavily laden with old tomes containing history and knowledge on every subject that could possibly pertain to his work. A mannequin in the corner is covered in his, ironically, light carapace armor. Compared to the suit of Power Armor he has in storage it would be considered light in both weight and protection. The data-slate in his hand glows softly in the equally soft lighting feeding him information about the latest happenings in the sub-sector.
The Inquisition is as wide reaching as the Imperium itself and just as diverse in how they achieve their objectives. Some Inquisitors like to have a personal army at their beck-and-call so that they may commence mass purges of whole cities if the spread of taint is deep enough, wiping the underhives clean of mutants and the other unsavory characters in orgies of violence and flame. Others are precise using a small team of skilled individuals to deal crippling blows to a cul or a Xenos' plans for greatness in His light. Reymose prefers a mix of those: using the tools he has at his disposal while also taking advantage of whatever assets just happen to be laying around at the time.
Without meaning to his mind turns to the newest addition to his not-so-small entourage: the Spartan. The young man, for he could barely be a day over eighteen years old, is a familiar scenario. Robbed of his family at a young age and fueled only by a hate of the things that did it to him. A story that so many who enter the Schola Progenium share. But the difference is that he was given so much more. Advanced arms and armor yes but they also improved on the human form, improved it. As fast and strong as a Space Marine neophyte and more experienced in the ways of war. A weapon in human form.
A weapon he has now secured for his own hand to wield. During his dip into the man's mind he saw many things: Artificial Intelligence serving loyally alongside their creators, an alien enemy that pushes Humanity to the very brink of extinction, and pain. So much pain. He pities the Spartan, but that won't stop him from using him to the fullest. Pity and morals have no place in this line of work. The weak die, and the strong live. It's so simple. A soft knock on the door drags him from his reverie with a muttered curse.
"My Lord, the Astropaths have decoded a message meant for your eyes only," one of his aides calls out his voice muffled by the door. The inquisitor thanks him for the message and sends him on his way, eyes already scanning the message wafer. Those same eyes widen in shock and a slight glimmer of fear.
"Throne almighty…"