Chapter 13: Let the Emperor Judge
There was, Joh thought as he listlessly watched the oncoming Reaper horde as it slowly waded its way across burned and desolate farmlands toward him, an unusual type of beauty in silence. It was subtle, not at all like the soaring tones found within an Ecclesiarchy cathedral, ancient hymns and prayers being sung and chanted by tens of thousands of the faithful, or the bestial roars of a finely-honed chainsword that howled its thirst for blood to the skies. Rather, it was a beauty that could only be found in self-reflection and meditation, and a beauty that was not shattered, but rather amplified when supplanted by the resounding clamor that could only be found in the roar of a bloody and war-torn battlefield.
It was a rare type of beauty as well. Even with his eidetic memory, he could remember only a few times that he had been able to drink in this type of silence. Usually the company deployed into the thick of battle via drop-pods and aerial insertion, with no time to reflect beforehand. It made this moment even more poignant. And despite the sounds of thousands of beings and machines behind him, the silence endured regardless.
"How many do you think are out there?" came a voice from behind him, distorted by helmet speakers. Hrim, given the distinct undertones of bloodthirst and the relishing of an impending challenge, noticeable even through the growling static produced by power armor vox grills. Sergeant Thram was far calmer and collected, as his rank demanded, while Malthus tended to prefer what he could observe himself and would not be asking him such a question.
A slight turn confirmed his thoughts. "I know not," he responded, before casting his eyes back towards the blasphemous forms that lurched ever closer. "Thousands, tens of thousands, what difference does it make?" He shrugged in response to his own question, before continuing. "We have our duty. That is enough for me, as it should be for you. Besides," he nodded once in approval, "we have already drawn first blood. They are no match for us, especially not on open ground like this."
Hrim grunted, before coming to a halt beside him. "This will not be easy," he conceded after a long moment of silence.
"We will win," countered Joh assuredly.
A scoff. "Of course we will. No twisted abominations can stand before us," said Hrim, sounding affronted. "But this would be much simpler if we were not denied our usual orbital support."
Joh bit back a groan, though only barely. None of his Brothers had taken the Alliance's demand that they not commence bombardment upon this world well, young and brash Hrim perhaps least of all. "They have their reasons," he said neutrally, even though he disagreed with them just as much as his Brothers.
"No. No they do not," came the immediate, expected, response. "They lack the will to do what is necessary to win, naively hoping that we will win a clean victory here, allowing them to feel like heroes while still appearing morally pure in the eyes of their xenos allies. That Captain Nemros would bow to their will disgusts me."
"Careful Brother," Joh growled, a note of ferocity simmering just below the surface. "What you speak is dangerously close to treason."
"Yet it is not. It is the truth."
"No," Joh snarled, fully turning around this time. "You speak far too rashly, Brother. I will forgive your folly this time, in light of your relatively short duration as a battle-brother, but do not speak so again."
Hrim, even hidden behind the snarling mask that completed his war-plate, was visibly taken aback. Silence reigned for a long moment as Joh let his words fully sink in, before deigning to continue. "Nemros will not accede to such a request, and you are foolish to think otherwise." A pause, and he let his voice soften slightly. "Have faith in the Captain, Brother. He will see us through this."
There was another stretch of silence as he turned back around to gaze once more upon the encroaching abominations. After a half minute, Hrim drew up next to him to watch as well.
"You are right," he conceded softly. "I was frustrated, and let my emotions speak for me rather than my mind."
Joh sighed gustily, shoulders slackening a fraction. "You are not completely wrong in your assessment, but do not slander your Brothers so. Trust in them completely, or else everything will fall apart."
"I understand."
The pair watched as another line of refugees straggled into the makeshift camp behind them, hearing the shouted commands of the Alliance officers and soldiers as they attempted to maintain some semblance of order. This had been going on for well over a day, with little changing over all. Whoever still lived and could reach here stumbled in, desperate to find a way out of the living hell that their lives had become, and the Alliance forces did their best to provide aid and prevent the camp from collapsing into a miasma of fear and hopelessness. All the while he and his Brothers watched, ever vigilant for the inevitable Reaper onslaught.
"How many do you think?" Hrim asked after a moment of watching the controlled chaos.
He did not ask his Brother to clarify, already knowing what he meant. "No more than two thousand," Joh responded, eyes never leaving the Reapers as they slowly, steadily, inched their way forwards, coming every closer to the fortifications that the Alliance combat engineers were still putting into place. "At the rate at which we are evacuating them, combined with the amount of these disgusting creatures approaching us, I expect that we will only be able to save half of these souls."
"Careful Brother, you are starting to sound like Manswell. Keep that sort of talk up, and we will have to ship you off to Mars and let the tech-priests have their way with you."
There was a note of dull resignation buried underneath his Brother's jest, but he did not deign to chastise him for it. He was no hypocrite.
"It is shameful," he agreed. "If we were at full strength, then there would be no question about our ability to hold them off long enough. As it is…"
"As it is, our Brothers are gone, returned to the Emperor's side, as will be our fate one day," came a voice from behind them. "May we meet our ends with the same dignity as they did."
Turning, they saw the skull-mask and ebony war-plate of an Astartes Chaplain. "Brother Xeras," Joh said respectfully, bowing his head briefly in deferment at the other Astartes' seniority.
Xeras nodded in reply before shifting his gaze past them, taking in the sight of the handfuls of xenos intermingling with the masses of humanity. "Shameful, is it not? To see humans debasing themselves so? One wonders if we are not better served by simply withdrawing to orbit and cleansing this location with holy fire."
"Perhaps," Joh conceded after a moment. Surprisingly, Hrim remained silent. Perhaps he had taken his rebuke to heart.
There was a hiss of escaping air as the Chaplain depressurized his helmet, removing it to look at him with keen, penetrating eyes. "Perhaps, you say Brother?" Xeras asked, an unrecognizable glint in the ice blue chips that were his eyes.
Joh cast a glance at the aliens as well, thankful for the excuse to look away. Space Marines knew no fear, but Xeras' zeal was legendary amongst the Fifth Company, second only to Captain Nemros' in battle. The strength of the other Astartes' will could occasionally be overwhelming, even to one such as him. "The xenos disgust me just as much as they do you, Chaplain," he said carefully. "But these humans, I question how harshly we can judge them in light of their ignorance."
"Entire civilizations burned during the Crusade for the sin of co-existing with the alien, and have been since," Xeras said sternly, hard eyes never leaving him. "Are you saying that an exception should be made for this one? That we should defy the decrees of the Emperor?" Here the other Astartes' tone took a dangerous turn, and beside him Hrim glanced between the two of them nervously.
"No. I say that because those societies stubbornly refused to learn the lessons of Old Night," Joh countered firmly, forcing his voice not to waver in the slightest. "They were shown the perfidy of the alien, lived through their atrocities, and still they shut their eyes to it all. Their willing blindness was a danger to humanity, which was teetering on the brink at the time of the Crusade. But these humans?" he asked, gesturing with a hand sweep towards another wave of transports lifting away from the planet towards the ships awaiting in orbit. "They are still young. Innocent. Residents of an age that is entirely different from ours. Our innocence died millennia even before the Emperor revealed Himself, and the only danger they pose is to themselves."
Xeras stared at him for a long moment, silently judging his thoughts and words. He wondered if he had gone too far, said too much, but such thoughts had been bothering him ever since they had first realized that they were no longer in the time of the Imperium.
"You have given this much thought, I see," the Chaplain said finally.
"I have," he said simply.
"You are not wrong, and Captain Nemros and I agree with you. Such foolishness is appalling, but understandable. Furthermore, it is fixable. The time will come when we will redeem them from their naivety," Xeras said, placing the helmet back over his head. "It is good to know that you think as we do. Your voice will be crucial in convincing the others to follow this course of action."
Whatever he was going to say in reply was lost as the Chaplain suddenly raised his bolt pistol at him and fired once, twice. For a moment he somewhat foolishly wondered if the Chaplain had suddenly decided that what he had spoken was heresy and was punishing him for such treachery. Then he blinked, his mind catching up as he realized that the two shots had sailed over his shoulder past him. He spun around, twin hearts still thundering in his ears, just in time to see a pair of husks fall to the ground headless.
"Stragglers," Xeras sneered in disgust, lowering his pistol. "Their force has no cohesion, and their forward elements must be making initial contact now."
As if on cue, several types of weapons began firing all over the perimeter, only to die down a few seconds later. The battle was upon them, no more than a few minutes away.
"Rejoin your squad," Xeras ordered, pulling his crozius from where it hung at his waist into his hand. "It is time to cleanse our doubts with righteous fury, and make these abominations understand the meaning of pain."
"Understood, Brother," Joh said, motioning for Hrim to follow as he did, and the pair of them made their way past several dashing mortals to reach the distant forms of Thram and Malthus.
"Brother-Captain," came a distant tone to his right, voice echoing off empty buildings and piles of rubble. It was a strong voice, had to be, in order to be heard over the growling of Predator tanks and snarling Rhino APCs as they delved further into the alien hive. One of the Sergeants, no doubt come to deliver his report in person.
Turning, he could see the blood-spattered figure drawing closer, stepping over a pair of Tau corpses in order to reach him, booting aside one of their foul weapons in the process. "Sergeant Nemros," he said in way of greetings. "What is the situation in your sector?"
"The aliens are falling back, deeper into the city, and most of their armor and heavy support has been destroyed," the younger Sentinel said, pointing off down the wide road, past the crumbling wreckage of several buildings. "Their human," here he spat, as if the word was foul in his mouth, "auxiliaries are largely decimated, and what few remain alive are mostly surrendering."
"Good," he nodded contently. "What is the status of your squad?"
"Brother Valim is dead, sadly. Two of their battlesuits caught us in a crossfire and penetrated his armor before we could reach cover. I have tagged his location for gene-seed recovery by the Apothecaries."
"And the rest?"
"Minor injuries, nothing that the Apothecaries need worry over. Brother Thram has acquitted himself well so far, for one so recently promoted from the Scout cadre. There is potential within him, I believe."
"Very good then Sergeant. Link up with Epsilon and Hades squads and support their advance towards the main plaza. The bulk of the remaining resistance is falling back to there, and we must-"
A pause. What was he going to say?
"We must-"
No, this was not right. This was not how it had been. There had been no hesitation, no need for repeating his orders. What was happening?
"Honored Brother."
How could he forget? It had not been that long!
"Honored Brother."
His moments of glories. The great battles that he had fought in. The worlds he had conquered. The worlds he had burned. The citations and honors he had earned. All of them were drifting away, so tantalizingly close to his mind's grasp, yet so far away. He was degrading, becoming little more than a mindless weapon, to be awoken and unleashed before sealed away once more. He was…
"Honored Brother."
Entombed deep within the sarcophagus of his Dreadnought, the half-destroyed body of a Marine, kept alive by amniotic fluid it floated in and the dozens of cables implanted in its withered flesh, blinked, dragged out of the mists of tattered and half-remembered memories by the insistent voice that sounded from his side.
Arathen, that was who he was. Arathen. How could he have forgotten so simple? How much had his recent slumber and awakening damaged him? Arathen, he thought repeatedly, Arathen Arathen Arathen. A desperate mantra chanted within his mind to stave off any further loss.
"Are you alright, Ancient Arathen?" came a monotone voice interspersed with static and blurts of binary to his left.
A whirr as his chassis rotated to face the speaker. Who was this, who wore the red of Mars across his armor and the heraldry of the Chapter on his shoulder? Rothul, who had stood alongside him while they had burned a dozen and a half worlds? No, that could not be. Rothul had fallen on a nameless world, butchered by an Eldar ambush a century ago. He felt as if he knew this Marine's name only a matter of hours ago, only for there to be a resounding gap in his memory now.
"No, Brother Manswell," he said, the name coming back in a flash, memories slowly sliding into place. "No, I am not alright."
"Troubles with your Dreadnought frame?" the techmarine queried, a mechadendrite snaking its way forward from his back and towards Arathen. It split from its solid form into a dozen, smaller tendrils of circuitry, each one bobbing and weaving as they made their way inside his machine body's framework. "State the nature of your problem, we cannot afford difficulties in the upcoming battle."
"No, Brother. Not that kind of problem."
The mechadendrites withdrew, regrouping and reforming back into a whole. "Identify," Manswell said curtly.
"I am forgetting."
And there it was. The unspoken, yet inevitable, fate of all who were forced into a Dreadnought sarcophagus. To slumber through the passage of years until awoken by the Chapter in times of need, the occupants slowly losing more and more of the warriors that they had once been until one day they were awoken and were naught more than mindless brutes, whereupon they would quietly be given the Emperor's peace. Arathen had always known this, but had thought that he would fall in glorious battle, gaping rents torn in his adamantium framework as he spat defiance at the enemies of the Emperor, long before such an event would occur. To forget…the thought filled him with a deep-seated dread and loathing.
He would not die an empty husk, wasted away into nothingness by the barely understood mechanisms within his sarcophagus. He was Arathen, former Brother-Captain of the Iron Sentinels. He had fought in hundreds of battles and dozens of campaigns. Thousands had fallen by his own hands, and much glory had been brought to the Chapter by his command. He would not die ignobly.
Manswell's augmetics clattered away noisily as he reached forward with his mechadendrites once more. "I can attempt to commune with the spirit of your sarcophagus, try to coax its memory banks back into-"
"No," he interrupted. "My time is approaching its end, and I do not fear my doom. If this state is how the Emperor has deemed that I must spend my remaining years, then so it shall be."
The mechadendrites fell. "Very well, if that is what you wish Ancient. Captain Nemros was attempting to contact you, but you were unresponsive to his vox hails. I was sent to ensure that all of your systems were still operating at one hundred percent efficiency"
So that was why the Techmarine had interrupted him. "I see. And what is it that the whelp wants now?"
If the irreverent title fazed Manswell, and he severely doubted that it did, the Marine did not show it. "He requests that your presence be shifted away from this sector, over to the western fortifications. The Reaper strength approaching there is greater than previously anticipated, and he requires you to bolster the mortals stationed there."
Perhaps he would die here then, underneath the teeth and claws of these abominations. It would not be the most glorious ending, but it outshone the alternative by far. "Very well then, if that is what is required then I shall go."
Sergeant Kalios rocketed down to the earth, the thunder of bolt fire echoing all around him as his jump pack screamed its eagerness to enter the fray. Mavril and Arafel slammed down onto the ground beside him, the force of their bodies impacting the dirt unsteadying the Reaper creatures all around them. Kalios took a fraction of a second to observe the blasphemous forms scattered around the trio of Assault Marines that had just landed in their midst.
Ravagers, the Alliance report had called them. Twist and mutated from an insectoid hivemind race known as the Rachni, they carried twin cannons capable of blasting fortifications and vehicles apart under the weight of their sustained fire. Given time, they could even puncture through Astartes war-plate, reaching through to the gene-forged flesh beneath.
And for that, they had to die. Even beyond the sin of their mere existence, the threat that they potentially posed to him and his Brothers was too great to allow them to exist any longer than it took for him to draw his weapon.
His chosen victim let out a chittering, mechanical howl, madness inherent within every decibel as he plunged the tip of his power spear into its bloated body. The power field surrounding the blade burned away corrupted flesh and twisted organs, while the adamantium tip erupted from the opposite in a torrent of black ichor. Beside him, Arafel slammed his chainaxe down upon another one of the creatures, alien flesh easily giving way beneath a hundred churning teeth that hungrily devoured it, while Mavril blasted a cannon clean off his target with his bolt pistol, leaving the beast to scream its hatred impotently at him before his chainsword put it out of its misery.
Kalios snarled in hatred, impaling another Ravager clean through with another thrust of his spear. Despite the large amounts of censoring and data cover-ups on the Alliance document, they had been no match for the skills of a Techmarine, and Manswell had been able to provide them all with an unfiltered look at why these beasts were free to cause such ruin.
Shepard. The very same human that had begged for them to come to the aid of humanity was also the cause for these creatures that stood before him, each one responsible for the deaths of Emperor only knew how many humans. The thought disgusted him, dancing about his mind and taunting him with the knowledge that they were aiding an architect of humanity's woes, forcing him to swallow a gobbet of searing acid that his Betcher's Gland instinctively produced in response to his revulsion. He had known that this humanity had a naïve streak, but the depths this so-called hero sank to was unheard of. Even the champions of the Ruinous Powers had as little to do with xenos as possible.
Should any of these Ravagers be responsible for the death of one of his Brothers, he swore internally as he killed his way through another knot of the beasts, power spear gleaming maliciously as it darted out to impale another creature, then he would hunt Shepard to the edge of the universe and exact his bloody revenge.
The trio of Astartes fought, continuing their rampage through the Reaper forces as more and more creatures rushed into the fray, hoping to drag them down. A Brute charged into their midst, knocking Mavril off his feet, but before it could finish off the fallen Astartes, Kalios and Arafel were there, their weapons tearing it apart.
"My thanks," Mavril grunted as he hauled himself to his feet, blasting a husk apart with his pistol as he did so.
"Of course, Brother," Kalios said before activating his vox-bead. "Captain Nemros," he spoke, knowing that the other Astartes could hear him in orbit. "Objective complete. Beginning search and destroy pattern."
"Negative, Brother. Return to evac zone immediately," came the unexpected reply.
"What?" he blurted out incredulously, jump pack flaring frustratedly as it was denied its chance to soar through the skies once again.
"There's been a perimeter breach," Nemros explained curtly. "Several Brutes managed to breach a section of the Alliance fortifications, and while the majority of the creatures are dead, there are still some killing the refugees. You and your squad must kill them and seal the gap until I can divert reinforcements to your sector."
Kalios groaned. Mortals. "Understood," he voxed reluctantly, destination marker appearing on his helmet's visor as he gestured to his Brothers. Jump packs roared once more as the Astartes were propelled over the raging battlefield and back towards the tiny knot of humanity amongst the tidal wave of corrupted flesh.
Several jumps later, the found themselves amid ruined fortifications and the slain bodies of two dozen Alliance soldiers. They had clearly died well, if the ruined forms of over a hundred Reaper thralls littering the approach to their position were any indication. Kalios gave the unmoving forms a brief, respectful nod before leaving Arafel and Mavril to hold the breach while he hunted down the rampaging creatures.
They were not particularly hard to find, all things considered. The Assault Marine simply followed the trail of broken human and xenos bodies until the trail of carnage came to an end. Most of the creatures were already dead, slain by a handful of defiant Alliance soldiers that had reached them before him, but one last Brute remained standing, tossing several them around as if they were nothing.
The sight made his blood boil in rage. This mindless beast thought it was free to slaughter as it pleased, heedless of the holy human blood it shed underneath its claws? It thought it was worthy of being considered a true threat to the continued survival of mankind? Such arrogance, such twisted, infuriating, arrogance!
He let out a wordless howl, the sound corrupted into a terrifying snarl by his helmet's vox-grill, as his rage bubbled over, capturing the Brute's attention. It turned from the Alliance soldiers, heedless of the fire that they poured into its distracted frame, intent on breaking him just as it had broken the mortals that had stood against it. Kalios never gave it the chance.
He launched himself forward, covering the distance in moments as his power spear gleamed with the light of his fury. He plunged it through the Brute's head, bright blue and deep black fluid gushing from around the weapon's entry point as it rammed through the creature's body without resistance, severing vital cyber connections and delicate organs alike. The Brute mewled piteously, the last remnants of its twisted mind desperately trying to understand how it had been defeated so quickly before giving up, the massive body collapsing to the ground.
Kalios withdrew his spear, disgusted at how easily had died despite the death and suffering it had left in its wake. Part of him wanted to plunge his weapon into its corpse over and over, screaming his hate for it until his voice was hoarse. The rest of him, the sensible part, kept his limbs and throat in check. Instead, he turned to the surviving Alliance soldiers, who looked at him with something akin to awe in their eyes, with the barest shade of resentment behind the emotion. It was understandable to Kalios, as counterintuitive as it might have been. If he had been able to kill the creature so easily, they no doubt thought, then where had he been earlier?
"Who is in command here?" he asked.
That shook them out of their momentary stupor. One of them stepped forward in response. "That Brute killed the Sergeant, so I guess its me now," the man, a corporal if his understanding of the man's insignia was correct.
Turning halfway, Kalios gestured back towards the way he had come. "Take your men and follow me then. We must keep-"
"Brothers," came Nemros' voice over the vox unexpectedly, cutting him off mid-order. "Begin phased withdrawal as per your orders. I will not tolerate any objections. Nemros, out."
"Change of plans," he said grimly after a moment of processing the message.
Nemros watched the strategium's holo-screen in rage, seeing the shapes of dozens of Reapers emerging from the system's edge. According to the projections that were being fed to him by the Shadow's bridge crew, it was still a matter of hours until the abominable intelligences were within weapons range, but the amount of time needed for the Alliance to pull their soldiers off the planet combined with the grim task that was necessary afterwards meant that every last minute was precious.
"Mathias," he spoke into the vox, knowing that the Alliance general was being informed of the arrival of the machines by his own command staff. "It is time, begin staged evacuation of your troops as we planned."
"We still have time," came the mortal's voice in reply, almost desperate in tone. "We can still evacuate more civilians, we just need to hold on a little while longer."
"No, general. At this rate the evacuation zone will be overrun in minutes, and we cannot protect your ships should the Reapers reach us sooner than projected. It is time to leave this planet."
"But-" Mathias attempted once more.
"Now, general," Nemros snarled before forcibly closing the link. He glared at the metallic forms that the holo-screen showed moving towards him and the Alliance fleet, hating them for making him feel so impotent. Had they not been forced to play the role of protector, the Shadow could have defeated them without any true difficulty, and the Reapers undoubtedly knew it.
Alas, then, that he and his Brothers had been forced into such a position. Though it burned him to do so, he opened a vox channel to his Brothers planetside.
"Brothers," he spoke carefully, restraining his fury as he did. "Begin phased withdrawal as per your orders. I will not tolerate any objections. Nemros, out."
With the order sent, he sighed, knowing that now that their forces were retreating, thousands of civilians would be left defenseless. He had not discussed this next part with Mathias, knowing that the man would object vociferously, but Davriel knew and would obey, regardless of any personal feelings.
Mentally, he opened one last vox link to the Shipmaster, mind flashing to thoughts of Arthan Prime, the place where everything had begun to go so wrong.
"Shipmaster," he spoke wearily. His rage had subsided temporarily, and now was the time only for regrettable necessity. "You know what to do."
"Understood," Davriel said, the Shadow shuddering in response to the Shipmaster's words as it moved from its position to one closer to the planet. "Moving into planetary bombardment position now. The Emperor protects."
With that, the strategium was silent once more, the quiet only broken by the soft hum of the cogitators within. "The Emperor protects," whispered Nemros.
Two boys watched from the shadows as Alliance Kodiaks began lifting off to the sky once more, this time not filled to the brim with desperate refugees but with grim-faced soldiers. Around them came the panicked and despairing shouts countless people that the two of them had come to know over the past few days as they had stumbled their way here. There was old man Daniels, who had shared some of his meager food supplies with them when they had been starving, staring at the sky with a forlorn look in his eyes as their last hope left them behind. Near him was Miss Volson, sobbing into her hands as her brother tried to comfort her in vain.
"Why?" asked the second boy to the first, as if he held some sort of secret knowledge as to why they were being left to die by the soldiers who had only a brief time ago been fighting to defend them. "Why are they leaving us?"
"I don't know," said the first boy, shrugging his shoulders, his eyes elsewhere. The second boy turned and looked, following his gaze. A small group of the massive figures that wore the strange black and gray-colored armor were boarding a transport of their own, a massive brick of a thing with short stubby wings.
"C'mon," the first boy said, pulling on the second's elbow as he began making his way forward.
"They won't take us," whined the second as he struggled to keep up. "They're gonna leave us too, just like the soldiers did."
"Then we'll have to just sneak on board," said the first, ignoring the second boy's muted protests and sounds of distress as he continued to move forward.
"How?" a single syllable, laden with desperation and hope.
"I dunno, alright!" snapped the first, uncertainty clear in his voice. "Just follow me, ok? I don't want to stay here any more than you do."
"Ok," whimpered the second in response.
The journey forward was agonizingly slow. For every step they took, another person seemed to come between them and the massive soldiers, between them and freedom. Some they darted around, some they pushed aside as best they could. Eventually they reached the machine just as the soldiers were entering and the ramp was beginning to ascend.
"C'mon! Before they leave!" shouted the first boy over the piercing shriek of the machine's engines.
Practically hauling the other boy with him, he jumped up onto the ramp and dashed as fast as he could into the hold of the machine, only to come face to face with the soldiers who that they had seen before.
"And who," asked one from behind a snarling war-mask of metal, "are you?"
The two of them shrunk back, before the first one managed to screw up a spark of courage and stand up straight. "My name is Thomas, and this is Caleb," he said falteringly.
He went to continue, but found his mouth dry in the presence of the soldiers – no, these gods among men. Thomas had watched them fight, and seen them destroy the Reapers effortlessly. He knew what he and Caleb wanted, and freedom was only part of that.
"We want to be like you," he managed to say before his mouth decided on its own to stop working.
The figure that had spoken to them walked forward, ignoring the jolts and bumps that accompanied the turbulence that the ship was now experience with ease. With a deft motion, he removed his helmet, revealing a hardened face covered in scars. He stared at them for a long moment, as if judging every last aspect of the two boys that had stumbled upon him.
"Perhaps," he rumbled finally, straightening back up in the process. "Perhaps."
A/N: A rather quick update, but I recently re-watched the Helsreach animated series on Youtube again and was inspired. If you have no idea what that is, then drop whatever it is you're doing and go watch it. It's amazing. You can find the prologue here: /watch?v=1D4jr-0_COg
Also, this story hit 100 reviews last chapter, which is pretty damn awesome. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, even if it was only once. I live for those things more than an Emperor's Children lives for his cocaine made from hookers.