Technophiles and Militarists

by thelordofdarkreunion

The Reaper invasion is nigh. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Citadel must turn to two new, dangerous allies for salvation: the Adeptus Mechanicus and Imperium of Man.

22. Doom

I am back! The final battle begins.

I must thank you all for your reviews. They were very helpful and very enlightening. Many of you had very good points. I only wished you'd given me your opinions sooner, because I could have made the story that much better. As it is, this is the final battle, and there isn't much I can do to change what has happened. I do thank you for all your wonderful input, which I shall keep in mind in all my writings in the future! I have incorporated it as much as I can in this chapter. I hope you all enjoy, and I must say thank you all for reading my story. Both it and I wouldn't be where I am today without you, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and hope you leave a review telling me what you think!

Zoltan-Atreyu: There will be more Ordo Sinister. They are a favorite of both mine and the fans. I hope you like the chapter!

hunter 139: You are very correct. I myself stated that this is a crossover and should be written as such. It seems I neglected to take my own advice. As for Liara, I would have liked to include both her, EDI, Jack, and more of some of the other Mass Effect characters, but I simply don't have enough time and there are already enough things to write about, so as much as I'd love to write them and as much as I'd love to show you what's going on there, I can't. Sorry. Perhaps I'll have an additiona excerpts story in the future for them.

Dezagstin: The final battle is here, and I hope you like it!

Fernix13: Thank you. Hopefully I'm able to do the same in this chapter, and touch up on Irae's death both here and the next one. If not... well, I'm sure you'll let me know. Thank you for your review. I appreciate it.

lucho406: Indeed. The theme continues. Also, I think you might like what's to come...

Dragon Blaze-X: Indeed He does. May the Emperor protect the souls of the fallen...

valhalan guardsmen: Thanks for your input. I hope I've done enough with the characterizations in addition to the battles here to fulfill it.

BonesofSmite: The Kaban Machine was indeed something that Lukas Chrom created during the Heresy and was killed by the Knights of Taranis. It was created using a Dark Age AI and fought in a few battles during the Schism of Mars. As for this chapter, I hope you enjoy. Thank you for yor review.

Anatheras: You are very correct with everything. I have added a Citadel scene as you and a few others have pointed out. Unfortunately, I cannot answer all your questions, but I shall endeavor to do so before the story comes to an end.

Austin: I'm glad you liked Ordo Sinister! As for nulls, I would say if it's magic, then yes. If the power is based on something scientific/natural elements, like biotics with element zero, then probably not. I shall provide an epilogue as well as what everyone's favorite necron is doing...

Chronus1326: Thanks for your input and review! shall take your considerations into effect, especially in the coming chapters. I hope you like them!

RememberReach312: We'll have more Sinister coming up! F for Princeps Fierach and Imperator Bellum. Thank you for your review, and I hope you like the coming chapter!

oOo

Doom

"We are all exhausted, and the ammunition is running out. But there will be no retreat and no surrender. Tonight we die." -Stanislaw Maczek, commander of the 1st Polish Armored during the Battle of Hill 262

"I looked, and there was a pale green horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades accompanied him. They were given authority over a quarter of the earth, to kill with sword, famine, and plague, and by means of the beasts of the earth." -Revelation 6:8

oOo

"Turian and Imperial forces are being pushed back on Palaven by the Reapers. The Imperial Navy contingent above Palaven has recently fallen under attack by enemy forces, though Naval commanders were unavailable for comment. Primarch Fedorian and Praetor Vakarian have ordered any and all Turians of military age to the Trebia system in order to bolster Hierarchy numbers and try to throw back the Reapers to the Hierarchy's original offensive positions…"

Beneath the droning of the reporter on the vid screen, countless refugees of dozens of species huddled in the Citadel's docks and wards. Some ate or talked quietly, huddling in blankets and squirreling away what little food they could get their hands on. Most sat against walls, hollow-eyed, staring off into memories that would never be again.

"In Salarian space, Reaper attacks on colonies have been mounting, though Sur'Kesh itself has remained unharmed. No new Dalatrass has been elected at the present moment. Instead, the STG has seized control of the government and implanted emergency measures in the defense of the Union. When asked about this move, an STG representative has stated there is no threat to democracy in the Salarian Union, and has suggested that the war is a much bigger focus. Now, for expert opinion on the subject…"

C-Sec agents, what little had not been drafted or joined their various species' militaries, patrolled in full battle gear, ready to suppress any instance of violence by the countless multitudes of refugees on the Citadel. The Imperial patrols had long gone; the Guard always needed more men for the front, and they could not be wasted keeping the peace on the Citadel.

With the Imperials had gone some semblance of order. The Citadel was one of the few safe havens left in the galaxy: Thessia had been destroyed, the Turians and humans were under attack, and the homes of the other races were either falling under assault or coming under martial law. The Reapers would come soon to all of them: the people only hoped that the Citadel would hold long enough for victory.

Crime had risen, C-Sec numbers had lowered. The number of mouths to feed had increased, the amount of food to feed them with decreased. There had been riots and protests, and increased violence by desperate people with little left to lose.

The war was going poorly, the Council was being outshadowed by Hackett, Fedorian, and the Imperial commanders, supply lines were failing, and there was little anyone could do but hope a victory could be bought in blood before it was too late.

"On Earth, the battle has continued to sway. An enemy flagship, rumored to be called the Olympus Mons, has broken the Imperial and Alliance Navy blockade of the planet. Luckily, allied forces were able to pull back with minimal loss of life. Unconfirmed reports suggest that the enemy has been pushed back by the Space Marines, and that an enemy Titan Legion has been engaged and forced into retreat. However, what little we do know about the ground war is inconclusive, as reports from the planet are being blocked by the enemy. What we do know is based upon Naval testimony. Admiral Hackett and Admiral Festius have declined to comment…"

"Continuing on, a moment of silence for all the victims of Thessia. Know that the Alliance stands with the Asari-"

"Even though they didn't fuckin' stand with us," muttered a human refugee watching below.

"Good riddance to bad garbage," snorted another. "Got what they deserved."

"How can you say that?" interjected another one, sitting down nearby. "Their planet got destroyed! Everything they knew: their culture, their species, their home… gone. All gone. How would you like it if they nuked Earth?" The other refugees shuffled uncomfortably. Yes, the Asari didn't help… but did they deserve that?

"Imperial commander could not be reached for comment on the precise happenings behind the destruction of Thessia, though representative Vell assures us that the Imperium will do all they can to prevent enemy super-weapons from firing in the future."

Groups of Asari huddled amongst themselves, headless to the endless newsreels playing throughout the Citadel. Some cried. Others simply whispered among themselves, looking out fearfully at the other races.

Thessia was gone. The homeworld of the founders of the Citadel was no more. The beauty of ten thousand years down the drain in a single act.

Turians were leaving the Citadel, going back to Palaven for emergency induction into the Hierarchy's military. The Asari were numbed, their world gone. The humans, under siege since the beginning, were on their last legs. Their refugees on the Citadel were getting restless and hopeless. The Salarians were preparing for attack.

Throughout it all, the Reaper armada and the Dark Mechanicum remained as powerful as ever. No setback seemed to affect them; no battle ever seemed to lessen their number.

This was war: endless, terrifying, destructive war where casualties were counted in the billions and planets were spent like currency. The only question was if the war would spend the lives of everyone present.

oOo

"What?" demanded Councilor Tevos, slamming her fist down on the table in a very un-Asari-like move. Frankly, she didn't care about culture or diplomacy or being proper at the present moment. The galaxy was far beyond it, anyway.

In front of her, the blue-purple Asari raised a soothing hand. She wasn't even a diplomat or a Matriarch; merely a messenger.

"Now, I understand that you're upset, but-"

"Upset?" Tevos laughed bitingly as she ran a hand over her head. "Why would I ever be upset? You're replacing me! For no good reason! And I'm to stand trial!" The other Asari, Sariy, if Tevos remembered correctly, sighed and reached out a reassuring hand.

"I didn't say that," she reminded. "I said it's a possibility. The new council has only just convened, and-"

"The Council of Matriarchs would never stand for this sort of thing," interrupted Tevos venomously. Not to mention the fact they were the ones who put her in the Councilorship in the first place…

"The Council of Matriarch is dead!" burst out Sariy suddenly. "They're all dead! They were all on Thessia, every single one of them! They're dead!" The two Asari stared at each other a moment, taking deep breaths. "The current Council is made up of anyone high-ranking that's left." Sariy's expression softened. "They're overcome by grief and rage, and they blame you because you're the only one left to blame."

"For what?" demanded Tevos mournfully, the pain of losing her home (everything) finally bearing its full weight on her shoulders.

"For not getting the Imperium there sooner or in greater numbers; for not advocating the Reapers existed, for not advocating for the defense or evacuation of the planet." Tevos's mouth opened, ready to protest that she was just following orders, that the previous Council of Matriarchs ordered her to do so, but closed when Sariy held out a placating hand. "Like I said, they're not thinking rationally, and you're one of the only ones of the old government still left alive. There might be a trial, but they can't find you guilty. They wouldn't know what to charge you for."

"You'd be surprised," snorted Tevos derisively. She looked around her office, the office she would probably never see again, reminiscing in its beauty. (One of the few places of Asari beauty left, whispered a treacherous part of her mind.) She turned back to Sariy bearing a look of that most glorious yet painful of emotions: nostalgia. "I remember when I first came here. I… I remember when everything was peaceful… okay. I remember when we were the most prominent race of the Citadel…" The centuries-old memory of an Asari was both a gift and a curse beyond comparison. All Asari knew it, but never had it hit this hard.

This was the end of an era. This was the death of a race; they weren't all dead, but their culture, their planet, everything that made them them was gone, never to return.

"I remember before the war," whispered Tevos. There were tears streaking down her face now. She didn't care that the graceful and beautiful and diplomatic Asari never cried. "I remember…" She choked back a sob and slumped into her chair. Sariy moved next to her, a stricken and heartbroken expression on her face.

The beauty of the Asari would never grace the galaxy again. The culture that shaped their universe for tens of thousands of years was no more. Even if the Reapers lost, the grace, the peace, the prosperity, love, and wonder of the Asari would be replaced with the power, glory, and fanatical, terrible power of the Imperium. Their race was gone.

"Goddess damn this war. And…" Sayir was right. She should be on trial. "Goddess damn me for not listening to Shepard; for not doing anything at all to help prepare."

oOo

"Zero-five-four, reposition the guns. Shift fire to grid coordinate 3121." As Angela Krytos hobbled into the 117th Artillery's command post, panting and wheezing, she was met by the incessant noise of vox chatter and dull murmuring of countless voices. Soldiers in the gas masks and heavy tan greatcoats of the Legion bustled about, relaying messages and carrying out orders.

Angela swallowed involuntarily behind her mask, throat suddenly dry. This was the precipice of something new and different; walking into a group of people she'd never seen fulfilling a role she'd never fulfilled before.

She had no authority: she was a slum-born orphan of Armageddon, and now she was supposed to deliver messages from the Commissar to a Colonel to save her battalion? For a person who had never been placed nor given any sort of authority or heavy responsibility before, it was something of a bizarre and daunting prospect.

A blow pushed her over, staggering her. Another Steel Legionnaire that had bumped into her muttered a quick apology as he hustled past her. She looked around at the dozens of identical forms, trying to pick out an officer. Failing that, a Commissar would do, but she didn't see any red sashes or black greatcoats among the drab tan of the Legionnaires.

After a moment, she decided that she wasn't doing any good simply standing in the doorway, and stepped forward. She picked out a lieutenant standing to one side, stepped next to him, and saluted.

"Sir, message from Commissar Savron to the commander of the 117th," she said sharply, holding out the small scrap of paper. The lieutenant turned around, expression behind his gas mask unreadable.

"Colonel Ularius is over there," he responded after a moment, voice muffled. A gloved finger pointed to yet another masked and coated man in the center of the room, indistinguishable from the rest at a distance. Angela nodded.

"Thank you," she replied. Saluting, she turned away and walked towards the artillery colonel. "Sir, message from Commissar Savron to you," she said as she approached him, saluting and holding out the paper. Ularius, unmasked with gray hair and tired eyes, took the paper. Reading it, he sighed.

"Turn the guns around," ordered Ularius tiredly. The other officers in the room looked over, confused. "Position them on our left side at fifty degrees."

"Yes, sir," replied an officer. The man quickly went over to the vox operator and started barking out commands. The other officers started to scramble around the bunker.

"Reposition the guns to support our left flank, then prepare a fire support mission to grid coordinates 4231."

"Whatever weaponry we can spare goes to 3121, but 4231 is closer." The vox chatter surrounded Angela as much as the tan coats of the Legionnaires. She felt lost. Alone. This wasn't her regiment. Hell, her regiment wasn't her regiment.

What was she doing?

Better yet, why was she thinking like this? She mentally cursed herself. Why, why, think of dumb things like these at a moment like this?

"Colonel, we have Aeronautica Imperialis watcher-143 on the vox." A vox operator's sudden cry interrupted Angela from her thoughts. Colonel Ularius turned around, shoulders sagging. It seemed that Angela's regiment was not the only one suffering. "He says…" The vox operator trailed off with a gulp. "He says that they've spotted engines headed our way." The room went dead silent. Ularius's mouth worked spasmodically for a moment before settling into a hard line.

"How long do we have?" he asked crisply. The rest of the Legionnaires waited with bated breath. The vox operator relayed the question, then held his hand out for silence as the answer came.

"Their estimations are… half an hour," he replied.

"Dammit," swore Ularius. He turned back to the rest of his officers with a sigh. "Belay that order to turn the guns left. New orders: pack everything up and move out ASAP. Emergency drill." Everyone was frozen for a moment, unable to process what was most likely their certain doom. "Well, what are you standing here for?" demanded the Colonel, fire suddenly entering his voice. "Get moving!" The regiment scrambled, officers and sergeants barking out orders. Ularius turned back to the vox operator. "Do we have anything else coming our way? Anything to stop them?"

"Uh, yes, sir, we do," replied the vox operator. "Legio Pallidus Mor has sent one of their last engines, Ode to Death, to intercept. It'll probably arrive just as or shortly after the Tempestor engines do."

"Throne bless Pallidus Mor," replied Ularius softly. Around him, the other members of his regiment scrambled around, trying to pack everything up and leave as quickly as possible. He looked around morosely until his gaze settled upon a still shocked and still Angela. "What about you?" he asked. "Where are you going?"

"I…" To be honest, Angela had no idea what she should be doing right now. "I should probably get back to my regiment…" Ularius frowned.

"Do they know Tempestor is sending engines to our sector?" he asked. Angela mutely shook her head.

"No. Our comms are out." A thought struck her. "In fact, that's probably why our comms are out in the first place…" Dammit, of course! That was the reason for all of this in the first place. The enemy was softening up its attack point: her regiment. Her regiment…

"Most likely that is precisely the reason," deduced Ularius. He sighed again and ran his gloved hand through the hair. "You can come with us, if you want," he offered. "I'll give you a pass; our Commissar will approve it. There's no sense in going back to your regiment if all you'll do is die there," he said softly, comfortingly.

In that moment, Angela felt a feeling she'd never felt before: the utter decisiveness of knowing what needed to be done.

"I need to return to my regiment, sir," she said politely. Ularius sighed again and nodded.

"Yes, I rather thought you might," he said to no one in particular. He nodded. "Good luck to you, Private."

"Thank you, sir." With a salute, Angela spun around and walked towards the exit, brushing past scurrying artillerymen. Everything was chaos. Tempestor, the corrupted sons of Mars were coming. Pallidus Mor was sending one of the last remaining Titans in the Legio to fight. Angela had to avoid any enemies and move kilometers to get back to where she needed to be.

And yet, through it all, Angela's thoughts could not help but drift to a certain Turian with black plates and red markings. Her thoughts were not on the regiment, nor the artillerymen, nor the engines. She didn't even spare a moment for herself.

Nictus, where are you? Please, oh please, be alright.

Strange, then, how she could not get him off her mind. It was stupid, it was heresy… But was it really? He said he would be loyal, and she knew enough of him to realize he was telling the truth. He would be…

And she hadn't talked to him since that terrible day. Indeed, she was the one who had avoided him before then as well. It was her. She was the one who ran, who never spoke, who hid. Yes, he was a xeno…

But for some reason she was terrified that she would never get to speak with him again; to see his strange, curled-mandible smile and hear him laugh. Hopefully, wherever he was, he would be alright.

oOo

Garrus Vakarian cursed as he fumbled for another heat sink. In front of him, a monstrous skitarii, putrid and frothy oil dripping for its gaping maw, roared and reared back, claws ready to rend and shred.

Scrambling backwards, he fell over, desperately trying to insert the heat sink into his rifle. Dammit! Why, oh why did he have to fumble now of all times? Dammit, dammit, dammit!

A burst of fire stitched along the skitarii's huge neck. The beast roared and turned towards Garrus's savior, his previous prey forgotten.

Another Turian soldier, wielding a Phaeston rifle, unleashed another round of mass accelerated shells into the skitarii. Garrus's hands finally closed around the heat sink he so desperately needed. With a swift gesture practiced over countless years of combat, he inserted the heat sink into his rifle. Rolling away from the skitarii and drawing the weapon to his shoulder, he took careful aim.

The Turian soldier stood his ground, blasting away even as the skitarii charged with an earth-shaking roar. Rounds sliced through the skitarii's monstrous fanged face, drawing flecks of black blood that slid down to intermix with the beast's spittle. There was no fear in the Turian's face even as he stared his rapidly-approaching doom eye-to-eye.

Crack!

Garrus's rifle rang out. The shot took the skitarii directly in the eye. Corrupted blood geysered high. The beast roared and reared back its head. Even in death, the momentum of its charge carried its huge body forward, driving deep into Palaven's earth.

The Turian soldier in front of it neatly side-stepped the charge as the skitarii face planted into the dirt. Running around the fallen behemoth's body, the Turian soldier unleashed the rest of his heat sink into the skitarii's face. It never hurt to be sure, and the Turians had learned from bitter experience that the skitarii of the Dark Mechanicum died hard.

Garrus released a breath he'd been holding since inserting the heat sink and looked over to the other soldier. With a thankful nod, they acknowledged saving each other, then immediately got back to work. Garrus desperately wanted to simply flop on the ground in sheer exhaustion, but he couldn't. He couldn't even properly thank the man who saved him. He didn't even know the other soldier's name.

Garrus was holed up with a mixed group of Hierarchy personnel… somewhere. Even having grown up on Palaven, Garrus didn't know precisely where they were at the present moment. To be fair, his memory was of a planet of cities and parks, of smiling faces and laughing families, of grand military parades and proud buildings, not one of crumbling ruins and empty dust.

At least his family was safe. Or, at least still alive and as safe as they could be in the present situation. His mother was on Adas, still alive even through her wasting disease under the care and protection of Fabricator General Natrius. They had made a deal, seemingly so long ago, that he would recommend Imperial intervention in the war in exchange for his mother's care. It had seemed like a deal with the devil at the time, but Garrus simply shook his head with an ironic laugh as he shot down a Marauder charging the lines. It hadn't mattered at all; the result would have been the same with or without him.

His father was on the Citadel, trying to do what he could to help with the war or the refugee situation. Garrus hadn't spoke to him in weeks. Now, despite all their differences, what he wanted was to make amends, to speak to him just one last time… But it wouldn't happen.

He would most likely die here.

Solana was with John and Tali. Hopefully they would be safe, hopefully the Normandy's luck would hold out through years of insane suicide missions and they would all pull through. He knew they would be devastated if he died… But he didn't see any options here.

The Hierarchy's high command had reached its last safe zone. There was nowhere else to run, no where else to go. Legio Tempestor and the forces of the Dark Mechanicum had pushed the allies back all the way. From what few scrambled reports he heard before his desperate battle for survival began, the Naval blockade above the planet was suddenly engaged by a Dark Mechanicum fleet. Garrus snorted. Most likely to prevent the navy from doing anything to help with the ground war.

Around him, the Turian High Command fought off another seemingly endless sea of Reaper and Dark Mechanicum abominations. It was like the time when the Normandy's crew and Hawk Lord Terminators had saved them, reflected Garrus, only there were more Reaper forces, more open ground, and no one coming to help. It was do or die here, and the Hierarchy forces simply did not have enough men or firepower to see the battle through.

Fedorian was somewhere behind them, his bodyguard forcing their Primarch into perhaps the last safe Turian bunker on the planet. The rest of the generals were slightly more expendable; all were on the field. Most of them were dead.

Protocus still had his heavy bolter, picked up from the first time he was in this situation. He was presently blasting away at anything that moved not wearing Hierarchy armor. Bolter shells threw columns of Husk limbs in the air and blasted crater-like holes into Marauders, Brutes, and skitarii. At least they had one heavy support weapon, though Protocus was running low on Imperial bolter ammunition. Soon he would be out, and join the lines with a Pheaston or some other weapon he could scavenge from the fallen soldiers around them.

Camivia was to Garrus's right. A tempest of biotic power swirled around her, smashing through and picking up Husk and Brute alike as if they were nothing more than pieces of paper. Waves of ethereal dark-blue power washed over the enemy hordes, throwing them away from the Turian lines, giving the Hierarchy soldiers precious seconds in which to gun them down.

Garrus's mandibles quirked up in a smile as he watched her fight. She was more graceful than a dancer; to him more graceful than Miranda or Jack or even Samara (though he would never say it to any of them). She was so beautiful when she fought. She was beautiful all the time, even when they weren't facing imminent disembowelment at the hands of twisted cybernetic experiments.

He fired his rifle again, bringing down a Brute, then looked back at her. She turned as she unleashed a singularity, and their eyes met. She smiled: a genuine, warm smile she reserved just for him.

Despite the death going on around him, despite the fact that the majority of the Hierarchy's High Command, those he had become friends with over the years were mostly gone, Garrus smiled. He loved her. He couldn't get the stupid phrase out of his head. At least they would die together.

Another rush of skitarii made him turn back. His rifle sang out, dropping charging enemies like clay pigeons. More came on. The Turian line could barely check them. It did not matter that they were the elite of a species known for its military: the enemy numbers were too many, their terrible and twisted corruptions too powerful. But Garrus fought on all the same.

He'd previously thought of himself as a bad Turian, even told it to John and Tali as a joke. His father always regarded him as one for his whole life. His sister, though she loved and supported him without question, would often joke about it. His intended was a biotic; something frowned upon by good Turians.

Yet here he would die, on the homeworld, in defense of the Primarch, as Praetor of the Hierarchy. Perhaps he was a good Turian after all.

The thoughts came and went between the rush of screeching skitarii and the thrum of the rifle on his shoulder. The world became a series of motions: reload, sight, drop, reload, sight, drop. The rhythm was comfortable and familiar. His thoughts were foggy from exhaustion and the constant repetition, yet the same words echoed throughout his brain over and over again like a twisted but comforting mantra.

He would die here. He would die on Palaven.

As the human expression went, at least they were going to go down swinging.

oOo

As the combined forces of the Normandy, Iotan Dragons, and Kasrkin advanced, the steady boom of bolter fire in the distance grew. John Shepard looked around him with a frown.

The dust of the Chihuahuan Desert kicked up around him lazily, coating his armor a fine brown instead of its normal sleek black. Around him, the Kasrkins' drab olive green looked simply more mottled, more scene appropriate for a desert while the Iotans' blue simply looked strange, nearly garish in the dust.

The various members of his team looked as they always did: Zaeed in his dull, decades-old mercenary armor, Tali in her (incredibly beautiful) violet enviro-suit, Solana in her smart Hierarchy armor, Robert in the typical Alliance gray-blue, Kasumi in her hooded thief's garb, and Kevral in his ominous black Stormtrooper carapace.

It felt odd that he was going into a major battle without his crew. Of course, this was his crew, but it still felt… off. It felt like it was but a tiny group of people whom he did not fully know.

That was his curse, it seemed. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, eventually his team, his friends, his family would be taken away. Perhaps it was through circumstance, perhaps it was because they simply moved to their own jobs or drifted away, perhaps it was because they died, died under his watch, but they would all leave sooner or later.

They said the Normandy was home, that they were all family, that their crew was the luckiest in existence, but that wasn't the truth. The truth was that everyone who stepped foot on it would bond, then they would be ripped apart time after time again. Such was the brutal truth of war.

His first crew was gone. They had drifted their own separate ways. The Normandy was destroyed shortly thereafter, killing most of the crew. Even Shepard himself had not been spared; he died choking in the cold vacuum of space. There were still some nights, all these years later, where he would wake up screaming to a concerned Tali.

He had been resurrected, of course, and gotten a new Normandy with a new crew. That crew had mostly been Cerberus (and most of the now ex-Cerberus crew had since stayed), alongside an eclectic group of both new and old faces. Tali and Garrus were there, of course, forming the backbone as they always did. There was Kasumi, Kelly and Zaeed who had stayed, and Samara and Grunt and Mordin who were all now dead and Thane who was dying and… And…

Dammit. They were his friends. After he lost the first crew, his first friends and family, they had been replaced by the second. The members of the second crew had all gone their own separate ways after the Collector mission. They were subsequently replaced by the third crew.

Dimitri the Ruststalker was dead. Though he had never been a man (or cyborg, rather) of many words, Shepard still missed him. Garrus, Protocus, and Camivia were recalled to Palaven.

Right now, his squad felt tiny. The Stormtroopers surrounding them outnumbered them. He felt tiny; alone.

There was a small bump at his shoulder as Tali nudged him. Snapped out of his thoughts, he grinned down at her. After so many years of seeing her, and due to the quite expressive Quarian body language, he could tell what she was thinking without her having to say a word.

Are you okay? asked the tilt of her shoulders and concerned cock of her head.

Yes, he nodded back in response with a smile behind his helmet. He knew she could see it. Reaching out, he squeezed her hand, careful to make sure none of the surrounding Stormtroopers were looking. He let it go a second later, but the message was clear. You're here. Of course I'm okay.

There were ruins up ahead- of what Shepard did not know, for they were far too destroyed to make out their original purpose. Gunfire and horrifying animal screams sliced through the air. The Stormtroopers and Normandy crew advanced carefully, weapons up and at the ready. Boots made soft brushing sounds in the swirling dust. A tumbleweed went by, and Shepard watched it, fascinated. He'd never seen one before.

Brushing the thought off, he raised his hellgun and advanced beside the Imperials and his friends into whatever might come up ahead.

The Stormtrooper platoons fanned out, sweeping the area in a huge semi-circle. A few hellgun shots zipped through the air; Shepard could not tell what they were fired at. The Normandy's crew and the heart of the Kasrkin formation brought up the center. The sound of bolter fire got louder.

As Shepard and his team moved forward, weapons at the ready, they stumbled into a scene of utter carnage.

Bodies lay everywhere. Black blood coated what had once been streets, flowing in rivers inches high. Dead skitarii were piled up as high as four meters in places, slaughtered in every way imaginable. Crushed, mangled, shot, blown apart, sliced into ribbons of corrupted flesh and cybernetics… Every single form of death imaginable was shown upon the bodies of the slain creatures.

But what was even more disturbing than the seemingly thousands of mangled Dark skitarii corpses were the red-armored bodies of Blood Angels Marines sprawled throughout the ruins. Shepard had never seen so many Marine bodies; in fact, he'd only seen a few throughout the war. Realistically, all mortals of both the Imperium and Citadel knew that Marines could die, but they were so ridiculously large and powerful that it seemed like a distant figment of the imagination rather than a cold, hard truth of reality.

But Marines could die. That much was true; the extent of that truth lay all around the shocked soldiers.

The Blood Angels corpses were piled in droves. They numbered in the dozens upon dozens, coating the ground in the spaces between the fallen Dark skitarii, their armor shredded to bits by razor-sharp teeth and claws. Shepard knew they were here to support Fifth Company; this seemed to be whatever was left of them. Thanks to Kevral, he knew a Marine company to be one hundred men. He gave up counting the corpses after he reached fifty.

Never, never in his life had he seen such pure slaughter. He had been at the Skyllian Blitz. He had fought mercenaries with Garrus on Omega. He'd seen the horrors of the Dawn War, the Collector Base, and had been on Earth, in Vancouver, when the Reaper invasion first started. The death toll there was higher, of nearly unimaginable proportions, but somehow this seemed more real, more visceral. The fact that brutally massacred bodies were stacked stories high and there were literally rivers of blood running through the streets didn't seem to help matters.

Finally, as the now-deafening noise of bolter fire sounded, the Stormtroopers and Normandy crewmen reached the fight.

There were about a dozen Blood Angels left from what Shepard could tell. A strange gnawing feeling grew in his gut. If the Angels had ended up like this, then what hope did they have?

The Stormtroopers spread out, sprinting to positions to unleash hell upon the thrashing skitarii. With a gesture, Shepard ordered his own crew forward. He stepped next to the Angels, hellgun whining.

The zipping, hissing noise of hellgun fire added to the furious din of bolter shots. As Shepard fired, he was sure he could hear the hum of chainsword teeth and the horrible gurgling, crunching noise as the signature Imperial melee weapon dug into flesh.

Shepard was sure they fought for dozens of minutes on end, but the fight only seemed to last seconds. Perhaps it was the strange, nearly eerie feel of the battlefield with its dim swirling dust and mountains of corpses. Perhaps it was the fact that he, his crew and the Stormtroopers didn't do anything besides form up in a huge line and unleash magazine after magazine of fire into the charging skitarii ranks.

Regardless, the fight was over in what seemed to be an inordinately small period of time. Somehow, suddenly the chittering, awful screams of the skitarii died away and Shepard found himself standing among the bodies to a strange noise: complete silence.

His crew were already checking their weapons to make certain everything was alright. The Stormtrooper commanders were barking out orders as their men ran around to secure the perimeter. Shepard glanced around and walked to the Marines, curious about the situation.

He did a double take as he saw the commander of the Marine force. Blinking hard, he looked again. Yes, indeed, his eyes were not lying: the Marine commander, a lieutenant, was missing his left arm. His pauldron was still there; the arm beneath had been neatly severed. Despite this, the super-soldier was wielding a very bloody chainsword in his right hand and walking around as if a missing limb was even a minor setback.

"Uh… lieutenant?" asked Shepard hesitantly, approaching the man. "We're here to assist your company. What's the situation?" Perhaps it wasn't proper to ask a Space Marine officer for a tactical update, but if he was to be of any use, Shepard needed to know what was going on. They were supposed to support the Blood Angels, not arrive to find them nearly dead to a man.

The lieutenant turned away from four more battered and bloody Marines to regard Shepard. Around them, what few Blood Angels were left began to set up new defensive positions. Several of them began to urgently drag the bodies of their fallen brothers back, far behind the lines. For the first time, Shepard noticed a few hideously wounded Marines, with limbs gone and chests shattered into gaping wounds, laying on the ground. They still retained their pistols, though, and despite their agonizing injuries seemed to still be cognisant.

"This situation, commander Shepard, is that Fifth Company is all but destroyed," replied the Marine, deep voice growling. "The captain is dead. I am the only remaining officer. There are less than twenty of us remaining. We were ordered to hold the flank, and hold it we did, but the enemy numbers proved far greater than anything we anticipated. As of now, we have withstood the enemy assault and thrown them back with great casualties. But, mark my words," the lieutenant's crimson eye lenses burrowed into Shepard's soul, "They will return. And we must hold." So saying, he turned and went back to directing his few remaining Marines.

Shepard glanced around. The Stormtroopers seemed to be in place. His crew was huddled together. Kevral was speaking with one of the Kasrkin; about what, Shepard did not know. Most likely the current situation.

The Iotan and Cadian officers advanced, dust and blood coating their armor. Coming next to Shepard and in front of the Blood Angels lieutenant, they saluted sharply.

"Sir, the 43rd Iotan Dragons stand ready to assist you at your command," said Lieutenant Abrigal politely. The Blood Angels officer turned back to face the newcomers.

"As do the Kasrkin," intoned Lieutenant Gidius, inclining his head. Shepard could tell the Blood Angels officer was frowning behind his helmet.

"Very well," he said eventually. "In this circumstance, I welcome all the help we can get." He gave a stiff nod towards the humans surrounding him. "We must stay here and set up a defensive perimeter." He drew another breath to say more, but Shepard stepped forward and beat him to it.

"Sir, wouldn't it be wiser to fall back? Perhaps to a better defensive position or to wait for reinforcements." The Stormtroopers glanced around as if they were thinking the same thing but didn't dare say it aloud. Indeed, it was the correct tactical decision.

"We cannot fall back," snapped the Marine lieutenant. He gestured around with the chainsword held in his one good arm. "My brothers lay dead at my feet. I know perhaps you are not accustomed to Marines or know how we work, but the bodies of the fallen must remain undesecrated. They must be administered to by a Sanguinary Priest. Under no circumstances can they be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy." He looked at the human officers sharply. "I will not allow the gene-seed of the company to fall under my watch. Our Priest is dead, and we cannot move so many in such a short time. Thus, we remain here to defend the fallen… at any cost." The words were filled with fire and righteous zeal. Shepard felt another knot forming in his gut. This was not good. A sudden memory of Kevral talking on the Normandy filled his head.

To create new Marines, the Progenoid must be harvested by apothecaries from dead Marines. Each Marine chapter takes the Progenoids of its own fallen to ensure the future of the chapter. Therefore, Marine dead are treated as extremely high priority. Should a Marine fall in battle near you while you are on the ground, it is imperative that you defend the body. The Marines see this as an extremely high form of heroism because it is necessary to their continued survival.

Ah. Of course. He should have known.

Things just got a lot more interesting.

"Your platoons are to spread out in a defensive formation through the ruins. We cannot risk enemies getting behind us or flanking us," continued the Marine lieutenant, instructing the Stormtrooper officers. "As for you," he turned his gaze to Shepard, "You may do as you see fit. The Blood Angels shall take the center. Your group is the smallest, and you shall act as a reserve or to help wherever you may." Shepard nodded. He was touched actually, for the lieutenant's words were Marine speak for we trust you enough not to get yourself killed, or worse, get in our way. Do as you please. Apparently his reputation was spreading even amongst the Astartes.

"I shall," he replied.

"Sir!" came the deep bass voice of another Marine. The officers whirled around. At the very front of the line, one of the red-armored Angels pointed into the north. "They're coming." The Marine lieutenant nodded.

"Very good." He turned back to the human officers. "To your positions." With sharp salutes, they spun and ran to their own men.

"Well, what's happening?" asked Kasumi as Shepard reached them. Tali came to stand next to him. The rest of his crew, Kevral included, waited patiently, weapons neatly cradled in their arms.

"There's a new wave of skitarii coming. We're staying," he replied. Zaeed cocked his head and looked like he was about to say something unsavory in reply before Shepard held out a hand. "As Kevral has told us before, the Marines must protect their fallen for the continuation of their chapter. From what I gather, this is quite the conundrum because there are simply so many dead Marines. They need to stay otherwise they are going to have some serious problems in the future. We're staying with them, because orders are orders, and we're helping our allies in a very meaningful way." He grinned. "Besides, where else would we go?" At least he got a few chuckles out of that. Solana rolled her eyes.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a nice paradise planet. Sit out the war," she drawled. That got a few laughs. Maybe their collective sense of humor was shot by the sense of massive impending violence.

"Well, as much as I'd like to, we're not," replied Shepard easily. He looked around. The Stormtroopers and Marines were already moving to their positions. In the distance, he could hear the screams of Dark skitarii echoing through the desert. "Right, so here's what we're going to do. Solana, Kevral, Robert, you take the center-left through those buildings over there and provide support for the Angels and Iotans." He pointed to a series of ruins a few streets away from the Blood Angels' center. "The rest of us will stay here and provide support for the Angels. I have a feeling there won't be any good spots for this, but maybe we'll get lucky. Good luck everyone, and I'll see you shortly." He grinned Robert flashed him a thumbs-up and Solana winked as they made their way to their assigned spot.

Turning back to Tali, Kasumi, and Zaeed, he nodded.

"Let's do this," he said. In the distance, there was a muted click-click as the Marines cocked their bolters as one. For some reason, the knot in Shepard's gut wouldn't go away. However, looking down, he smiled at Tali.

She was here. She was with him. Everything would be alright.

oOo

Archmagos Belisarius Cawl muttered to himself as he skittered across the ruins of Brussels upon his multitudes of spindly legs. Next to him, Alpha Primus, his ever-loyal shadow, trudged by his side.

Their savior pods had crash-landed in Belgium, of all places, which was unfortunately behind enemy lines. Well, considering precisely how much of this planet was made of water, Cawl should have been thankful that they actually hit dry land. However, he was still rather upset over the destruction of his flagship.

How, how did it go so poorly? What had he done? What could have he done better? The thoughts flowed unbidden through his augmented mind.

Omnissiah damn it! If only he had been more rational, if only he had been more calm, then maybe, just maybe, the Serendipity would still be alive and Hal just might have been forced into retreat. Maybe if he had fired the nova cannon sooner, or perhaps later, or if he had just…

It's not your fault, Master, came the mental voice of Alpha Primus. The Olympus is too powerful. There was nothing anyone could have done.

Cawl kept walking even as Primus tried to comfort him. The rational, Tech-Priest part of his brain told him that Primus was right, that there wasn't much anyone could do against a thirty-five kilometer long super-dreadnought infused with dark technologies from the Vaults of Moravec.

However, the loss of his flagship still stung. The wound in his pride hurt even more.

The Archmagos did not respond to Primus, either verbally or mentally. His longtime subordinate, used to his moods, left him alone, only projecting a comforting psychic presence should his Master wish to speak with him. Though Cawl would never, ever tell him, he truly did appreciate it.

At the present moment, they were wandering around the streets of Brussels while Cawl tried to find a way out of the city and back to friendly lines. Reaper constructs and Dark skitarii prowled the streets, looking for something to kill.

They weren't really a problem for Cawl and Primus. The Archamgos and modified Marine continued on their journey, killing the occasional creature that tried to stop it. Eradication rays, blotter shells, and blasts of psychic lightning shredded through skitarii, Brutes, Cannibals, Husks and Marauders, dropping them into the dust with little fanfare.

At one point, a nearby building, strained by the constant destruction around it, buckled and collapsed. With a great moan and screech of falling brick and steel, it toppled forward to crush the miniscule forms of the Tech-Priest and Marine beneath it.

Cawl looked up, startled out of his thoughts. Above him, the crumbling ruins, at least twenty stories high, bore down upon the street he stood on. Cawl's eyes widened. There was nowhere to run; even his augmented legs couldn't carry him far enough away to avoid a horrific crushing death.

Yet, as the ruins of steel and stone came crashing down… They stopped.

Hovering in midair, suspended by a glimmering shield of translucent blue, the entirety of the building was held aloft by Alpha Primus. Cawl looked over to his bodyguard in shock. He had always known Primus to be a strong biotic from his inception, yet this was a feat even he was impressed by. Primus stood, his form glowing with psychic power, arms aloft, palms up as if he were holding a great weight above his head.

Straining, the energy around him flickering, Primus gave a great growl of effort and threw the building forward. It didn't go far, only far enough to avoid hitting Cawl and himself, yet it was still a feat of astounding strength. As the crash of breaking glass, brick, and steel echoed through the streets around them, Cawl turned to Primus, panting with exertion.

"My thanks, AlphaPrimus," said Cawl with a sincere bow.

"It was no trouble, Master," replied Primus, straightening.

"Still, I thank you nevertheless," replied Cawl. He turned back to the streets around them. He should probably be paying more attention to what was going on around him. Primus was right, as he often was: Cawl had to forget the Serendipity and anything that happened in the battle above Earth and focus on the here and now.

So Cawl and Primus made their way through the streets, fighting off whatever Reaper or Dark Mechanicum forces they came across. All the while, the Tech-Priest fiddled with his internal workings and tried to get a stable read on the noosphere to tell what was going on around them.

As Primus's bolter rang out, silencing an errant skitarii, Cawl felt his connection to the noosphere fizzle. Through his augmetics, a new and twisted presence made itself known. He growled as the message connection came online; he knew this individual.

"Sota-Nul," hissed Cawl. In his mind, the laughing voice of the ex-Fabricator General's emissary replied.

"Ah, Archmagos Cawl. So good to hear from you for the first time, though we have met before. I must admit, I admire your work," replied Sota-Nul. Nearby, Primus titled his head, sensing the long-distance conversation that was going on between them.

"What do you want, creature?" growled Cawl. Sota-Nul laughed; a terrible, unnatural, twittering noise like a thousand out-of-tune violins that grated on the nerves.

"Tsk, tsk, Archmagos. Name calling is rude." Nul paused for another laugh. Her voice then dropped, becoming deadly serious. "I am contacting you, Archmagos, " and this time the word was devoid of scorn, "Because both myself and Lord Hal are in agreement. You've had ten thousand years to think, Archmagos Cawl. We made you an offer in the Trisolian System so long ago, one that we hoped you'd take up. At the time, our viewpoints may have differed, for you were always one of those who believed in the more human form, but after all this time, you've changed, and changed for the better."

As Nul continued to speak, Cawl motioned Primus to keep moving. Whatever her game was, they would not be caught in any trap. Besides, Primus's psychic abilities would sense any incoming threat before it manifested.

"You are one of the few of the Mechanicus," the word was invested with a sneer, "Who are not bound by idiotic, stagnant, and false religious dogma. You invent for the sake of invention, seek power for the sake of seeking power. You abide by the true way of the Mechanicum and its teachings. And so, as Emissary of Lord Hal, I offer you a place by his side." Cawl actually laughed at this.

"Why?" he replied. "Why would you? You know I deceived you and ran once. You know I killed my mistress, whom you seduced with the promises of dark power. Why should you trust me? Why should I trust you? Why would I ever show up just so you can kill me?" Sota-Nul scoffed.

"This is a legitimate offer. Do you not think we've heard of you, the great Archmagos Cawl? Do you not think we wouldn't want you to join us? You are perhaps the greatest Tech-Priest of the last ten thousand years, the greatest Tech-Priest behind Chrom, Malevolus, Protos, myself, and of course, Lord Hal. You could become more. You could have anything. You could do anything, away from the prying eyes of Mars and the ridiculous dogma of the Mechanicus. Name your price, in this galaxy or the next, and Lord Hal will pay it. We do not want you to trick you, we want you because you are great, Archmagos Cawl."

"And why contact me now?" asked Cawl in response. Around him, the streets of Brussels continued ever-onward. Primus frowned by his side, concerned for his Master. Though the Marine knew Cawl would never turn, who knew what tricks the Dark Mechanicum would get up to?

"Because this is your last chance, Archmagos Cawl," replied Sota-Nul urgently. She gave another twisted laugh. "Lord Hal has come to Vancouver. When he arrives, he will take personal command over the war effort. You know what happened to Mars. You know what he can do. If you join us, you will be safe. If not…" She trailed off for a moment. "You will die. It's that simple."

"Pathetic," snorted Cawl. "Even if you think-"

"This is your last chance, Archmagos," interrupted Sota-Nul. "Think about it, but don't take too long, for there isn't much time left for the servants of the Corpse Emperor on this world." So saying, she cut the connection.

Cawl whirled around to Primus. In his mind, the connection to anything else on the planet was gone, blocked by Hal's power.

"We need to move," he said urgently. "We need to warn someone about this before it's too late."

"What's happening, Master?" replied Primus as he started into a jog, then a run.

"I cannot be certain, Alpha Primus, but if I'm correct…" As they ran, Cawl's hooded face turned to look over at the Marine. "Well, it will mostly likely secure Hal's dominion."

oOo

As they always did, the skitarii came in endless waves. Their black forms coated the desert floor like ants. Corrupted blood, pus, and oil leaked into the once-pristine sand. Their howling chitters echoed for miles.

On and on they came, all seeking to destroy the last remnants of the Blood Angels flank. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught there would be devoured or slashed to ribbons. Bodies piled higher, the stacked mounds of skitarii corpses growing by the second.

Within the allied lines, Solana Vakarian cursed and scrambled for a new heat sink for her Phaeston. Quickly finding it, she fumbled for a moment, the small piece slipping through her two-fingered hands. With another curse, she slammed the fresh heat sink home and shouldered her rifle.

In front of her, the skitarii continued their charge. Robert blasted away, his Alliance standard-issue weapon dropping one, then another of the horrible, frothing, black-cloaked monsters. A grenade, thrown by Kevral, exploded amongst the skitarii, throwing fountains of corrupted blood and rent flesh high in the air. Solana sighted a skitarii and dropped it with a massive burst of fully-automatic fire.

She could hear the zip and whine of hellgun fire sound through the ruins, testament of the Stormtroopers at work. Farther away, the fainter boom of boltgun fire and whir of chainswords meant that the Blood Angels were still standing. Hopefully the rest of the Normandy's crew behind them would be too.

The skitarii in front of Solana's position split, some going to the left and right to engage the Stormtroopers and Blood Angels. However, some continued directly onward, storming Solana, Robert, and Kevral's small fortified position.

Their job was not to form the brunt of the defensive line, but to pick off skitarii from a secured position and make certain that no surprises came through. Shepard had chosen well; their spot was amid rubble that would break up any massed skitarii charge.

The few monstrosities that continued onward to them leaped over the wall in great bounds. Another of Kevral's grenades went off, shredding one of the skitarii. It screamed as it died, shrapnel slicing through its hardened flesh like tissue paper.

Solana killed another, pumping it full of mass accelerator fire. Robert managed to take one down a spare explosive followed by a healthy amount of accelerated slugs.

Kevral dropped one, crimson death smashing through its head. He turned, elegantly, fluidly, and fired another burst. A skitarii, making its way towards Robert, died.

The Inquisitorial Stormtrooper fought magnificently. Even Solana, trained from her teens to be a soldier as all Turians were, was astounded. Even though she had seen him and the Kasrkin in action before, the feeling remained. He was a machine, as graceful and lethal in combat as any normal human could possibly be.

Thus it took Solana by surprise when a monstrous, dog-like skitarii leapt over the ruins and tackled Kevral to the ground, biting and clawing at his armor as the Stormtrooper thrashed beneath it. Solana spun even as Robert opened up on more advancing skitarii. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

Kevral reached for the knife at his hip.

Solana opened fire.

Mass accelerated rounds punched into the skitarii's side.

Skitarii claws and teeth slashed and ground. Red human blood spurted high.

A knife entered the skitarii's throat. Solana's fire didn't let up.

The skitarii died, slumping over with a mournful howl. Kevral feebly tried to drag his way from beneath the monster's bloated corpse. Solana's eyes went wide and she shouted.

"Kevral!" Sprinting to him, she slid next to the dead skitarii's body and used all her strength to throw it off the Stormtrooper.

His once-proud black carapace armor was in tatters. Blood coated the Inquisitorial sigil and the golden aquilas mounted on his shoulders and chest. The Stormtrooper's chest was a bloody mess, gore and blood visible beneath the shredded armor. Ragged claw marks adorned his arms and legs, testament to the skitarii's terrible assault. Solana nearly gagged as she saw the full extent of his injuries.

"Robert! Kevral's down! We need a medic and we need you to hold them off!" she shouted at her other human compatriot. Robert nodded and immediately began shouting for a medic and reinforcements over the comms.

Looking down, she saw Kevral's armored hands come up to his neck. Weakly, they fiddled with the clasp of his helmet. It remained intact, though it was streaked with blood, but in his current state the Stormtrooper couldn't manage to take it off.

Reaching down, Solana gently moved her own two-fingered hands beneath Kevral's carapace helm and gently undid the clasps. They were strange and foreign in her hands, not designed for alien talons, yet they undid easily. Continuing, she helped Kevral slowly take off his helmet.

Beneath, the Stormtrooper's broad and powerful face was deathly pale. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, pink foam bubbling at his lips. Though Solana did not know much about human anatomy, she knew that was certainly not a good sign.

Then again, his chest was a gaping mess, so she really shouldn't have expected anything else.

Solana's eyes fluttered back down as Kevral shakily moved his hands to his collar. His breath was strained and horribly raspy. She put her hands on his shoulder and attempted to lay him down from where he had struggled to a sitting position.

"Shh," she said calmingly. "Save your strength. There's a medic coming, and they'll patch you right up." Kevral gave a weak laugh as his hands struggled with something beneath his collar.

"I… know there's no hope for me," he rasped. His words caused bits of pink spittle to fly from his mouth. Blood dribbled down his chin. "No sense in lying." Solana attempted to say something back, but was stopped as Kevral gave a small triumphant ha as he finally got his hands on whatever he was looking for.

With a sharp tug, causing him to wince and nearly fall over, he pulled a golden chain from his armor. Grabbing Solana's hand, he forced her unresisting palm open as the Turian above him cocked her head, confused.

Solana felt the press of a small, metallic object in her hand. Looking down, she saw a golden aquila pendant necklace resting in her hand. Weakly, Kevral forced her hand to close around the object as a horrible shuddering cough wracked his body.

"Why…" Solana was at a loss for words. She knew enough of Imperial culture to be confused over his actions and the sheer import of them. "Why would you give this to me?" Kevral weakly spat out a gob of blood as he replied.

"Have to… Give it to… someone…" he rasped. "No sense… in it… laying with me. No point." Another cough shook his frame as more blood dribbled from his mouth. "You… are… honorable… friendly… enough." Black armored gauntlets closed about her hands.

"Kevral…" If Turians could cry, there would be tears threatening to spill down Solana's cheeks. "I…" Something took hold of her, and she didn't know why she said the next words. "You should know… Maybe I'm not what you think I am. Me and Kelly, you see… I… We… hid it from you… because we were afraid of the Imperial repercussions…" Kevral snorted as he stared back at her.

"I knew," he said simply. "I… always… knew. Shepard and Tali… you and Kelly." More blood came down his chin. "I am no fool… despite what you might take me as." A small measure of Imperial fire showed through; the last dying embers of the life that had lived it.

"What… then… why?" choked Solana. "Why didn't you…?" She trailed off, confused and emotional and unable to continue.

"I… didn't… know…" replied Kevral. His words were becoming weaker. Somewhere in the background, Solana could hear more gunfire and pounding feet. "I… don't… know… what to think. I waited to see… if…" If what? Solana waited, wanting to know, but a strained smile appeared on his face. "And waited… too… long." With a last huge, horrible, shuddering, choking heave, Kevral's eyes went glassy. His now-limp body slumped into the dust, a mere meter away from his killer.

Standing up, Solana tucked the aquila pendant into a pocket in her chest. Kevral's body, her friend's body, lay beneath her, the power and wisdom and fire he brought now extinguished forever. Distantly, she heard thudding boots behind her.

"Is he…?" A Kasrkin medic, flanked by another green-armored trooper, looked from Kevral's mangled body to the Turian that stood above it. Solana nodded wordlessly. The medic looked back to Kevral's body, then up to Solana again. "Well," he sighed, "Nothing we can do but get back to the fight. So saying, he gestured for the other trooper to join Solana and Robert to take Kevral's place as he raced back to treat more Stormtrooper wounded.

Just like that, they were back on the frontlines. No fanfare, no time to mourn… nothing. Solana fired and reloaded mechanically, still trying to process Kevral's words and death. Next to her, the Kasrkin, Kevral's replacement (as if anyone could replace him) fired away, though he didn't seem nearly as elegant or powerful as the Inquisitorial Stormtrooper.

oOo

"Welcome, Lord Hal," said the Dark Tech-Priest, bowing low. The twisted machine-man straightened, showing multitudes of fleshy tentacles growing from his back as dozens of eyes grew from beneath his hood. "It is a great honor to have you here in Vancouver."

"It is good to be here," replied Hal, glancing at their surroundings. They were in what had once been a massive factory, now repurposed for the Dark Mehcanicum's use. Everything was now dripping and corrupted, flowing with black oil and blood. Stalactites and stalagmites grew from random locations as Dark Mechanicum Tech-Priests wandered around, tending to their creations.

This place would be Kelbor-Hal's headquarters on Earth. Already, from the Olympus, he had the greater parts of his cogitator banks and other parts of his larger, immobile body being transported down. This would be his seat of power, his palace of rule, at least until he won the war and could take his rightful throne in the Martian mountains once more.

"Is everything set up according to my specifications?" demanded Hal. The other Tech-Priest moved to respond, but was beaten to it by a new voice.

"It is, my lord," replied Sota-Nul, walking forward on her dozens of massive spider-like legs. Her body, once humanoid, now looked distinctly arachnid in appearance; the ruinous power of Chaos flowing through her entire form. She did not have a face, at least not one that was recognizable as anything close to human, and as she bowed low on her long legs dozens of eyes blinked and flickered. "Everything has been done according to your will and command."

"Excellent," said Hal, nodding approvingly. He turned to the first Tech-Priest. "You are dismissed."

"My lord," replied the Tech-Priest with a bow. He turned and wandered away. Hal looked back at Sota-Nul and made a motion for her to walk with him.

"Have you sent my offer to Cawl?" he asked as they made their way through the corrupted factory. Nearby, thousands of humans screamed as they were converted to skitarii with no thought of their pain. Indeed, pain was a necessary part of the procedure; and offering to the Dark Gods and joyous noise to the Priests of the Dark Mechanicum.

"I have, my lord," replied Sota-Nul, long legs clicking eerily on the floor.

"And?"

"He declined, as you said he would," said Nul with a frown. Keblor-Hal made a rasping, phlegmy hum of disapproval in the back of his throat.

"Tskhh. Too bad," he said with a frown of his own.

"My lord, if I may ask, why?" Sota-Nul sounded confused. "Why would you offer Cawl a place at your side, when he has served the Corpse Emperor all his life? Why would you ask him to join us when he has refused us and fought us all his life?" Hal laughed, and though to a mortal it would have been a terrible, gut-churning sound, to Nul it was a friendly noise.

"My emissary, Archmagos Cawl is a man of principle and great intellect," said the Fabricator General. "He is free-thinking, much as we are, and though he has opposed us in the past, he would be a great boon to have on our side. As it is…" Hal trailed off with a sigh. "He has refused, and so he must die with the rest of the servants of the False Emperor. A pity."

There was silence between them for a moment as Nul processed her master's words. Eventually, that silence was broken by the Fabricator General.

"And what of Legio Mortis?" he asked. "I have heard they are in disarray, in retreat, and that Princeps Turnet was slain at the hands of Legio Ignatum." The last words were invested with hate. Legio Ignatum, the Legion that would not turn to the Truth that was Chaos and the power that was Hal. A perpetual thorn in his side.

"That is… correct, my lord," said Sota-Nul hesitantly. Ignatum was a touchy subject. "The engines of Ignatum were able to slay Dies Irae. They were forced into retreat at Irae's death, and by a contingent that they reported to be psi-Titans."

"Psi-Titans?" asked Hal, confused. "Wherever would the Imperium get those?"

"We're looking into the matter," replied Sota-Nul. "At the present moment, all we know from Mortis is that Ignatum has taken terrible losses but is still unbowed. Unfortunately, due to the psi-Titans, they have not been able to press their attack and have instead been forced into retreat."

"A pity," said Hal with a half-sigh, half-growl. It was, too. Princeps Turnet had been one of the few dependable and thoroughly reliable allies he had. Only Ardim Protos, Lukas Chrom, Sota-Nul, the now-deceased Warmaster Horus, and perhaps the Death Lord (though, considering Terra, perhaps not) could be counted among that number. The rest, Primarch or soldier alike, were all sniveling or ineffectual morons. Turnet was always reliable, always loyal, and could be constantly counted on to complete his mission, no matter how difficult the task. He would be missed.

The psi-Titans, though, were a concern. However, in the end, even psi-Titans would be negligible compared to Hal's power.

They walked through open factory berths, through corridors and hallways dripping with rotted blood and poking stalagmites, through half-a-dozen massive metal double doors before finally reaching the inner sanctum of the citadel. As they got there, Kelbor-Hal looked around approvingly.

"Excellent work, my emissary," he said to a grateful Sota-Nul. The other Priest bowed low at the compliment. "Now, leave me," he instructed. With another bow, Nul turned and left the sanctum, closing the huge secured door behind her with a massive screech.

Inside, Hal took a deep breath of stagnant, corrupted air. Finally, he was here. Finally, the war could be won.

Stepping forward, he took a deep breath and pulled a file from his memory banks. Shivering with its power, he smiled behind his hood as he let the code flow through him. Ah, yes, this would do.

This was a code, a power, of terrifying prowess. In fact, it wasn't a code, it was the code. This was the code that Regulus had brought to Mars under the orders of the Warmaster. This was the code that had finalized Hal's descent into darkness. This was the code that opened the Vaults of Moravec. This was the code that Hal had unleashed on Mars to cause the Death of Innocence.

And it was now the code that would bring Earth to its knees.

However, the code itself was now even more powerful than it had ever been during the days of the Horus Heresy. Over the course of ten thousand years, steeped in the power of Chaos, Kelbor-Hal had modified the code. He was the master of technology, and with ten millennia of gathering secrets and powers that would destroy the minds of mortal men, his Dark Code was more powerful than anyone could possibly imagine. Hal smiled at the thought. Even the Primarchs would be astounded, their Legions brought low by his mastery. But that would have to wait.

As Kelbor-Hal raised his hands high, the code flew through him and into the noosphere. Flying through the planet at speeds faster than light, it touched every single iota of technology within. Hal smiled.

He had just won.

oOo

Commander Shepard gritted his teeth as he blasted away with his hellgun. Aim didn't matter, for there were so many skitarii in front of him that he simply couldn't miss.

The Blood Angels in front of him took the brunt of the skitarii assault. They fought magnificently; the grace and power of warrior kings. The blood of their gene-father flowed through them, granting them power and ferocity beyond human comprehension. There was no shortage of bolter shells, for the Marines simply picked up the ammunition of the fallen. The boom of the huge weapons sounded incessantly, the explosive shells throwing the incoming skitarii back in gouts of corrupted blood.

Even the lieutenant fought like an officer and son of Sanguinius should. The fact that he was missing one arm didn't even seem to slow him down. His chainsword whirred and danced, slicing through leperous flesh only to come back and block thrashing claws. His feet moved like a fencer as the chainsword flew around his form. It seemed to have no weight in his hands, darting back and forth with lightning speed to whirl and chop and slash.

However, even as they fought, the Marine numbers dwindled. A skitarii leaped through the defensive line atop one of the Marines. Its jaws closed around the Marine's throat, slicing through neck armor and causing rich red blood to spurt high. The Marine thrashed and died before one of his brothers turned and put a bolt shell through the skitarii, silencing it. Shepard winced as he saw, unable to do anything to help. Every Marine death hit hard.

As he fired away on full automatic, Shepard glanced around him. Tali's combat drone, lovingly named Chatika, was flying around, harassing skitarii. A moment's hesitation on their part was enough for Shepard, Zaeed, or Kasumi to put a bullet or las round through their heads.

Tali added her shotgun to her technical distractions, punching massive holes in any skitarii that was foolish enough to get close. She was supported by the firepower of John and Zaeed's hellguns. Occasionally, the old mercenary would throw out one of his many, many grenades. Skitarii would be blown to bits or incinerated in a wash of flame.

Kasumi distracted, flickering in and out of sight with the aid of her tactical cloak. All the while, she peppered the skitarii with her submachine gun, disappearing before they could get a bead on her.

It was a desperate, terrible fight, with more death, blood, and slaughter than any Shepard had ever seen. The stench of death and corrupted blood lay everywhere, permeating even through the filters in his helmet. He was foot-deep in blood and gore. This was a battle from hell; a fight to the death more terrifying than any he had been in over his long career. This was war the Imperial way: desperate and bloody.

Already, Kevral had died. Shepard heard the status update over his comms and swore viciously. The Stormtrooper was one of his crew, and despite his Imperial origins, John considered the man as much a friend as any other member of the Normandy.

Solana and Robert were still alive and fighting alongside Kevral's replacement Kasrkin. They were fine for the moment, and Shepard desperately hoped they would stay that way.

As for himself, the world had been reduced to a series of motions: fire, fire, fire again and reload. His wife and crew were alongside him, their comradery pulling through as always. The Angels of Death stood before them, smashing through all comers with sword and bolter alike.

It was indeed a desperate and horrifically bloody battle, but Shepard hoped they could still pull through. There was a chance to win.

"Tali, how are you holding up?" he shouted over the constant din of laser and bolter fire.

"Fine, Shepard!" came the reply in Tali's cheerful, accented voice. The Commander grinned. It was always good to hear her voice, even in times such as this.

"Zaeed? Kasumi? What about you?" he asked as he unleashed another round of fire into the incoming skitarii hordes.

"Just fine, Commander!" came Kasmui's equally-cherry reply. The thief always strove to make light of even the most dark situations. Her jokes were always welcome.

"Zaeed?" He only got a series of muffled curses form the mercenary, which made him grin. That was Zaeed's way of telling him he was still in the fight.

Kasmui popped back into reality, reloading her weapon with a cheery smile under her hood.

"You know, Commander, if-" She died mid-sentence, shot directly through the head by a skitarii wielding some sort of las weapon. Shepard's mouth gaped open as her body fell to the ground, lifeless. There was no warning, no drawn out last words; Kasumi just died, quickly and brutally.

Next to him, Tali gasped and Zaeed let loose with another string of curses. Shepard swore himself. He was losing people. Kasumi had always been with him; though she wasn't on the originally Normandy, she was on the second and had been loyal every second since. She was a longtime friend of Tali's, always encouraging the Quarian even before she and John were together. The thief had always brought lighthearted cheer, and now she was just dead, and there was nothing anyone could do.

Shepard gritted his teeth and continued to fire. Net to him, Tali continued on autopilot, stunned. Zaeed fought as grimly as ever. They had to win; had to pull through. For Kasumi and Kevral.

However, even as they fought, Shepard felt a strange sensation creep up on him. He looked down, startled, as his omni-tool suddenly activated. What was this?

oOo

All across the planet, vox operators screamed in agony as their sets went haywire. They threw down their headsets and bolted away as a terrible, mind-bending echoing scream punctuated through every channel on the planet. Several destroyed their own voxes. Some went insane at the Chaos-corrupted noise and were subsequently gunned down by Commissars or watching officers.

Alliance personnel watched in horror as their omni-tools suddenly activated with no input on their part. Around them, their kinetic barriers and tech armor glowed brighter. Their weapons went offline. They tried to take a step back, tried to move in horror, but they were suddenly stopped by the force and weight of their own armor.

A horrible, filthy, oily black slowly crept through their kinetic barriers and omni-tools, replacing the once-proud orange holographic light. They stood, rooting in place, every part of their combat gear corrupted by the scrap code boiling from Vancouver.

Those that were on the frontlines were ripped apart by envigored skitarii and Reaper forces, unable to fight back. Throughout the planet, the allied forces were pushed back or ripped apart as Hal's code took its terrible hold on every form of technology on Earth.

oOo

Master Vargus Oriel of the Consecrators winced and growled as he struggled against the weight of his own power armor. What had once been a boon was now a hindrance, especially considering the weight of Cataphractii plate.

Nearby, the other Deathwing Terminators were struggling, their movements slowed by the strange scrap code that infested their armor and vox communications. Oriel swung The Death of Worlds at a skitarii, bisecting the foul creature. Even though the strike was slowed by the strange power coursing through his armor, the terrible power invested in Oriel's sword managed to cleave the monstrosity in two.

Oriel was only glad that the Ironwing Techmarines had been able to hit the kill-switches for the Excidio Battle-Automata mere seconds before they went offline. The terrible shackled A.I.s exploded in balls of atomic fire, destroyed by their keepers before the awful code could take hold and give them their full power back. Oriel shuddered to think what might have happened if the Ironwing Marines were even a heartbeat too late.

The Master of the Consecrators's Deathwing winced again as the shields on his Cataphractii armor went offline, corrupted by the code. Around him, the skitarii seemed even more boldened, even more powerful. The Consecrators become slower, their armor and weapons malfunction at critical moments.

This wasn't good.

oOo

Kayvaan Shrike's mind raced as his movements slowed. What had been a blur of claws and pistols a moment ago was now fighting at speeds slow enough for the skitarii around him to catch up to. Oh, this wasn't good.

The Shadow Master of the Raven Guard could feel some sort of strange scrap code infest his armor. His vox was down, though his brothers around him were communicating in hand signals. They were still holding the enemy back, but if the present situation continued, they would begin to have immense problems.

Suddenly, the jump pack on his back sputtered and died. Shrike raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. How was a scrap code able to do that?

oOo

As the god-engines of Legio Ignatum advanced, they felt a strange scrap code overcome them. Nearby, the unknown, unmarked psi-Titans continued to press Legio Mortis back, turbo lasers firing and psychic powers churning.

Ignatum had taken grievous casualties during the Titan battle, but were still unbroken. Indeed, they were winning. Dies Irae was slain, the traitor Turnet was dead, and Mortis had been broken and forced into retreat.

The personnel of Legio Ignatum had no idea who or what these strange psi-Titans were or where they came from. However, they knew better than to ask questions about such things. Indeed, who cared where the reinforcements came from, so long as they were helpful and on the same side? Why complain when it was these three psi-Titans that helped crush Ignatum's oldest and most hated enemy? No Princeps of Ignatum was complaining.

A Mortis Warhound, hobbled by Ignatum's guns, was subsequently deleted from existence by the ominous dark energy fired from a psi-Titan's left arm. Missiles and plasma shots, combined with churning tempests of psychic lightning, forced Mortis ever-northward.

However, as the strange code took hold of Ignatum's systems, outside inputs fizzled and died. The vox and inter-Titan communications went offline. Sensory systems fizzled.

The scrap code could not take control of a Titan's mighty machine spirit nor corrupt its MIU, but what it could do was rob the Titan of its mechanical senses. All across Ignatum's line, Princepses frowned or cursed as the targeting information on Mortis flickered and died. Nearby, the psi-Titans of Ordo Sinister continued on, unaffected.

Though the code could hamper Ignatum's efforts, it would not halt their vengeance. Princeps flipped to navigating and firing by window sight alone. It would not be nearly as effective, but the push must continue. Mortis must die.

And though the allied forces on the ground died in the hundreds of thousands as the dark code hampered them, the god-engines strode onward to victory or death; for vengeance in the name of Mars and Terra.

The only question was if three psi-Titans and a half of a bloodied Legion could take on the entirety of all Dark Mechanicum and Reaper forces on the planet.

oOo

The Tech-Priests and soldiers of the Mechanicus suffered worst of all. Connected to the noosphere and drawn by Hal's ire, they screamed in agony, over and over again, dropping to the ground and convulsing. Mechadendrites twitched spasmodically. Skitarii fell to the ground, trying to tear their own eyes out. What few Legio Cybernetica automatons that did not run on hard-wired data wafers turned on their masters, slaughtering them in fits of berserk rage.

Imperial Guard and Alliance personnel watched in horror as skitarii, servitor, and Tech-Priest alike clawed at their augmetics, trying to remove them. All the while, the screamed, and there was nothing anyone could do to help them.

In Brussels, Belisarius Cawl felt Hal's code come upon him the moment it was released from Vancouver. He tried to shut down every single system that might connect him from the outside, but there were too many and Hal's almighty, terrible, oh-so powerful dark code was too quick.

Cawl collapsed on the ground, cybernetics failing as Hal's code took over. Alpha Primus whirled around.

"Master!" he cried out, rushing to Cawl's side. He grabbed the Tech-Priest as he fell and quickly threw his own helmet to the ground. There was panic on his scarred visage, and as Cawl looked up at his faithful bodyguard, he saw something he'd never seen in Primus's face before: fear. "Master, are you alright?" asked Primus urgently.

Cawl tried to say something, tried to speak, but his augmetics were shutting down around him and there was just so much pain. He could feel everything going offline; he could feel the dark code coursing through his very being, corrupting and strangling. His body, the systems that had kept him alive for ten thousand years were slowly dying. Everything was failing around him, and he desperately tried to reach out to Primus, to somebody for help, but there was none forthcoming.

Cawl could sense Primus's fear even as the Marine clutched his body close to his chest. It washed over him in waves. He tried to say something again, tried to comfort Primus that everything would be alright, but he couldn't speak. His vocalizers weren't working. Through his body, he felt Hal's code taking over. Soon everything would shut down and he would die.

"Master…" Primus's voice trailed off. Cawl was certain his vision was going offline when he thought he saw a tear streaking down the Marine's scarred face. Everything was getting dim and fuzzy. It was harder to think.

Cawl's augmetics seized up as Primus hugged him close to his chest.

"Father… no… please no…"

oOo

Shepard gritted his teeth as his omni-tool locked up and his kinetic barriers died. In front of him, another Blood Angel died, the Marine's movements slowed by whatever hideous spell infected them all. The sounds of mass accelerated and las fire slowed.

John could hear Zaeed cursing up a storm as the mercenary's own omni-tool and weapons froze up. Nearby, Tali swore in Quarian as she tried to reboot her oni-tool to no avail. Her drone, Chatika, lay dead and sparking.

Around them, the Stormtroopers were dying in droves. The body of Kasumi lay nearby; Kevral somewhere over to Shepard's left. He cursed frustratedly. His crew and allies were dying, and there was nothing he could do; nothing any of them could do.

It was over. They had lost. Hal had won. There was nothing anyone could do against the code. Not even Archmagos Cawl nor the full might of the Mechanicus could contend with Kelbor-Hal's power. It was not like a Reaper; it could not be fought. The gene-forged might of Marines meant nothing against it.

You could not fight your own weapons, your own armor, your own shields and cybernetics. It was hopeless. Shepard had heard that the Olympus had defeated the fleet above Earth. This must be the power and work of Kelbor-Hal, the leader of the Dark Mechanicum and what the Imperials and Mechanicus called the "Arch Heretek". He gave a disgusted and resigned sigh.

This was it. There was no more hope. Hal had won, and the galaxy was doomed.

Another Blood Angel died. Shepard could do nothing. As the terrible dark corruption slid up his omni-tool and corrupted his kinetic barrier, he stumbled forward. Falling to his knees in front of Tali, he grunted in pain and reached his hand out.

"John…" She struggled towards him and took it. His arms wrapped around her body. For one last time, he could feel her. For one last time, he could hold her. This was it. They would die here. There was no respite; they could not fight and the Blood Angels were dying even as they spoke.

So Shepard held her, because he did not care if anyone saw. They would die together, and, honestly, there were worse things that could happen.

As the filthy black of the Dark Mechanicum crept ever forward, slowly replacing the orange light of his omni-tool, Shepard watched in fascinated horror. He wondered what would happen when it finally took the entire thing. He probably didn't want to know. Instead, he touched Tali's masked head to his own helmet. Movement was getting harder. His breathing stilled as he felt the familiar comfort of her.

At least they would die together.

As the darkness of Hal's code reached the final vestiges of the omni-tool and Shepard shields, covering nearly all of their holographic light… It stopped. A mighty voice seemed to echo throughout his mind, through the very atmosphere around them.

My Will Be Done

As Tali gasped and Shepard watched, bewildered, the black light receded. The feeling of movement returned to his limbs as the technology surrounding him whirred back to life.

However, instead of the typical orange that normally made up his omni-tool, or the blood red of the Mechanicus, the device on his wrist glowed a strange, pale green.

oOo

On the main battlefield in North America, on the plains of the southern and southwest United States and northern Mexico, the soldiers of the Alliance, Harakoni Warhawks, Cadian Shock Troopers and Legiones Skitarii looked around, baffled, as the effects of the dark code suddenly dissipated.

The Blood Angels on the front lines redoubled their efforts, finally free from Hal's terrible effects. Many let slip the Red Thirst, drowning themselves in their gene curse, pulling every iota of power and fury they could in reply to the assault that had so nearly overwhelmed them. They cared not what had happened; they were Marines, and there was a battle to be won.

However, the soldiers of the Alliance, Guard, and Mechanicus were confused. What had just happened? How had something so powerful as that scrap code been stopped?

What was that voice?

Directly in the center of the battlefield, where the skitarii had almost broken through, the air rent. With a flash of the same pale green that the Alliance's omni-tools glowed, a line of strange beings stepped through a glowing, spitting wound in time-space. They were made of shining silver metal, all skeletal in appearance. Each was tall, their faces elongated, their metallic bones long. In their hands, each held an under-barreled weapon glowing with eerie green light.

Rank after rank stepped through the portal, coming in tightly-packed phalanx formation. Additional portals opened throughout the battlefield, each spitting out legions of the strange robotic soldiers.

Another portal opened in the center of the newcomers' formation. From it came the same beings, though these ones were far more ornate. Their bodies were heavily armored and decorated with gold, jade, and turquoise. They held massive void-black shields and heavy chopping swords, all glowing with the same green light that seemed to pervade through the battlefield.

More and more came on: legions of the footsoldiers on the flanks, marching in perfect formation through the portals as strange, individualized newcomers came behind the heavily armored, shield-wielding soldiers. These ones glowed and hissed with strange power, holding staffs and staves as plasma and liquid fire dripped across their fingers.

Then, from the center portal stepped a singular being. It wielded a strange bronze-gold staff topped with a glowing orb of green. Upon its back was a cloak of interlocking metallic scales, and a strange metallic hood folded over the top of its head. Several of the nearby skeletal robots bowed low at the newcomer's arrival.

"I will not let this galaxy die while there is still so much left to collect!" announced Trazyn the Infinite grandly, his voice projecting powerfully over the battlefield.

In front of him, the lychguard lowered their shields as one. In their center stood Lych-Captain Ashkut, the Royal Warden. He bellowed a challenge aloud so that these Chaos-corrupted creatures might hear it and feel fear in whatever small parts of their brain perceived such a thing.

"Kalath hutt!"

The lychguard lowered their dispersion shields as one and hammered the pommels of their phase swords upon their black bulwarks. Once. Twice. The sound rang through the air.

"Kalath hutt!"

Bang, bang. Another line of necron foot soldiers stepped through a tear in reality, their gauss blasters at the ready.

"Kalath sep!" The line of lychguard spun their swords back into place, ready for battle. Not a single one made a sound. They stood silent, unmoving, intimidating. The watching humans simply stared in amazement and confusion, unwilling or unable to process what was happening in front of them.

"Nihilakh ascendent!" cried the Royal Warden.

"Nihilakh ascendent!" roared back every necron in the formation, Trazyn included. The Archaeovist of Solemnace raised his staff high.

The humans simply watched in awe as the Undying Legions of Solemnace advanced, taking the fight to the Dark Mechanicum.

oOo

There we have it! Next chapter... things get interesting. I shall say nothing, though I believe you'll enjoy everything that is to come. Again, I thank everyone who left a review, and I thank all of you that have read my story. I hope it's worthy of you spending your time here, and I thank all of you from the bottom of my heart. It really means a lot. Again, as always, I welcome any comments, criticisms, questions, concerns, and reviews! Please, if you've got something or anything to say, please tell me! I love to hear from all of you!