"What is your life?"

The photolenses stared back at me, accusing and ashamed. Like a crown, it was heavy upon my brow. It saw me unfit to bear such a burden, this winged helm whose mere sight commanded the gaze of a thousand brothers. I answered just to spite it.

"What is your fate?"

My hand trembled slightly in attempts to lift it. My sword had similarly damned me. The adamantium blade, the slayer of a thousand foes and a god himself, had seen my actions and judged them unfit of worth. To it, I was a fool, a warrior without honor. The codes I had lived to exemplify were but dead leaves in the wind. I replied just to rile it.

"What is your fear?"

My armor pitied me, but was no kinder. For a thousand years we had served each other, two parts of a beautiful machine. Yet it reared back in disgust at the very mention of my name. It shuddered and froze and quaked with every step I took. It dared for combat, to betray me in the throes of warfare and leave me to slaughter. I returned the oath to mock it.

"What is your reward?"

My pistol cursed me as well. Once a magnificent labor of the forges, it lay dormant at my side. Every useless pull of its trigger drove me to despair. It saw me as a thief, a liar, and a traitor. I was a honorless cad in its gaze. The words I spoke made it holler in anger.

"What is your craft?"

Ever the caring brother, my Bolter had joined my pistol in silent judgement. It no longer accepted the projectiles that gave it life and opted instead to remain silent. Many years before, it would roar with laughter and pride against the enemies of our growing empire. Now it lay dormant at the base of my throne. My reprise gave it a heated pause.

"What is your pledge?"

My brothers...oh Emperor, my brothers. They were my family, my sisters and brothers and cousins and nephews. Our hearts had beat as one and our tongues spoke as legion. I loved them like a father would love his son,a bond unbreakable. Now they looked upon me with uncertainty and fear, contempt and pity. My deafening cry muted even their critiques.

I sighed.

"Brother Pellinore, tell the Astropath to prepare entrance into the Warp. Our destination is Terra."


Light flooded through the cockpit viewports of the Sanctus Inferno. First was the blinding yellow-white from the single sun in the Cadian Sector, followed by the iridescent shades of the Eye of Terror, the massive Warp storm that hung over the Fortress World of Cadia like a vengeful spirit of an enemy. The simile was lost on Damocles. The finer points of literacy had always been Vesuvius' hobby.

Damocles had not been literate when he joined the Chapter. His life in the Demetrius Hive was harried with dangers, so he had little time for learning. At most, he could speak Low Gothic fluently, and read too, but writing was conundrum to Damocles. Upon recruitment into the Chapter and successfully passing the numerous tests and modifications, Brother Vesuvius sought to fix that.

Vesuvius was not an aged astartes, but his battlefield experience made up for his relative youth. On all the parts of his face that weren't covered by tattoos, Ves had enough scars to make even a White Scars veteran blush. As typical of the Excoriators, each battle honor was marked with description detailing where it was earned, when it was achieved, and holy litanies procured by Chaplain Delikon. His sharp, angular features were almost lost in the daze, but his two blue-green eyes still showed vibrantly.

His armor showed similar wear. The cream-colored armor was pock-marked with scorch marks and cuts, and even a bullet hole where a stray Bolt round had pierced the chestplate beneath the Imperial Aquila. The red fist on his left pauldron was slashed diagonally , bisecting the badge in a way that made the Squad Whip chuckle at its sight.

"The Eye of Terror," the elder Astartes began, as if recounting an old fable. "The critical breach in the hull of a Titan. While seemingly miniscule compared to the hulking mass of firepower, a gap such as this can unleash total and utter decimation upon us. It makes me shudder at the thought."

"Ever the paragon of poetry," Damocles replied with mock praise. "Continue like this, and you shall soon find yourself the Master of Rites."

Vesuvius gave a quiet chuckle. "No, I think I am content with being a soldier. Leave the wise old men to the leading and I'll stick with the fighting."

Damocles nodded. He was nowhere near the level of experience as Vesuvius, and it showed. His face was almost bare of honor marks save two scars that ran down beside his right eye. A well-trimmed black goatee concealed his chin and mouth, and similar with the mop of hair on his head. His armor, while not as roughened as his comrade's, was stilled riddled with battle marks. In particular, a large gash ran down the center of the chestplate, bisecting the Imperial Aquila.

It was at that point that it appeared.

The Reaper of Stars lurched into the view of the Thunderhawk. The mass of metal and rock floated aimlessly in space, escorted by hundreds of vessels belonging to Battlefleet Cadia. Set apart from them, a cruiser in green panoply lay motionless in the void. A thought crossed Damocles' mind and was met with a sneer on his face. As he reached for the ivory helm at his waist, Vesuvius raised his eyebrow.

Damocles did not need the question relayed. "We are the Astartes Praeses, Vesuvius," he began with an edge of hostility. "We are the defenders of the Segmentum Obscurus. While I do not scorn our brothers, their presence is unnecessary."

Vesuvius shook his head. "They are our brothers, Damocles. We should be thankful that they were here in our absence."

The Sanctus Inferno had come prepared when news of the Hulk had reached Eschara. Two squads of honored veterans in Terminator plate had been mustered, with Tactical Squad Helion acting as the honor guard for the VIP. The entire strikeforce was shocked to learn their cousins of the First Legion had beat them to the punch.

Damocles did not budge. "I do not know, Vesuvius. Veteran-Sergeant Kaine describes them as shady men, always with their secrets and ulterior motives. That they are here should give us pause."

The elder Astartes lowered. He was familiar with Lyman Kaine: an intelligent and cynical man who headed one of Sanctus Inferno's two Terminator Squads. His outlooks on his fellow Marines were well-known and hard to ignore.

"You must always take Kaine's musings with a pinch of salt, brother. He has always been one for harshness," he stated, more akin to an adult lecturing their child than a discussion between soldiers. "We must learn to put aside our differences for the betterment of the Imperium. Whip Helion would be shocked to learn you harbor such thoughts of your kin.

"Yes I would."

Whip Helion was fully decked in armor, the brilliant ivory leading up to his red helm. His arms, both mechanical prosthetics earned from a particularly spirited daemon in the Gothic War, were crossed over his chest, the crimson of his photolenses bored into Damocles like hot pokers. Just by his silence, the younger Marine could tell his Sergeant was on the brink of spacing him.

"And for your remarks," Helion continued, adding stressed authority and calm to his voice. "You will be the one to tell the Lord Inquisitor that the Unto Darkness has docked with the Space Hulk."

The pokers finally left their mark as Damocles fists clenched. He did not dare assert his case to the Whip, and instead dawned his helm and Bolter and proceeded forward. Vesuvius watched him go with a slight frown. Helion moved aside to let his subordinate pass.

"Damocles is too cynical for his own good," Helion muttered through his vox-grille. He turned to Vesuvius. "How long do you give him?"

The Astartes shrugged. "Three, at the most."

A pause.

"HE WHAT?!"


If the outside of the Hulk was disgusting, it's interior would make even a hardened veteran vomit.

Which was just what Johann was trying to avoid within his respirator.

The Terminator before him (Pontero, if Johann remembered correctly) lowered his massive boot into a bulge of brown-green goop, emitting a sickening squelch that made Johann gag. Nevertheless, he continued forward, Hotshot Lasgun at the ready and breakfast settled to a tolerable level. To be frank, Johann could have had it worse: lugging around a Hellgun pack or stomping about in Terminator plate.

The newly-minted Stormtrooper had long since abandoned the notion of retreat. Once embarked upon the Thunderhawk Unto Darkness, he knew he was on desperate ground. Withdraw was not an option amongst the company of the Adeptus Astartes and the Ordo Hereticus. A quick death via spacing was not exactly Johann's cup of recaf. Neither was it Hal's, who quickly realized the consequences of his folly and acted with an eager if-not stressed bounce to his step.

Johannes only scorned the Guardsman more for this. This entire debacle was of his doing, and Johann had wanted no part of it. He had a long career ahead of him, filled with supplications to the Emperor and great deeds on the battlefield, culminating in finally asking out that techpriestess with the pretty red bow. Then he'd settle down, have a family, get brutalized by Tyranids…

A phantom grin eased itself on Johannes' mouth. Good times.

This thought was quickly purged. Halvdan had ruined it all with his plan. It was enough that the plan itself was treasonous and borderline heretical, but now to get the Inquisition involved? Hal may be entitled to his death wish, but Johannes wanted no part in it.

Though, with more deliberation, Johann found a strange idea come upon him. Every Guardsman of the Imperium possessed some form of innate individualism (Johann could not say the same for the Maccabian Janissaries or the Korpsmen of Krieg, but they were not exactly known for their lively personalities), and Halvdan was certainly not his superior ('Hall Monitor' was not an accepted rank in the Guard, no matter how hard Hal wanted it to be). With all that in mind, why did Johannes join him? Going behind the back of his superior officers and placing himself in mortal danger just to stick by his squadmate?

Johannes scoffed. Credit where credit was due, the fool was a persuasive man.

There was another squish succeeded by the clanging of ceramite plasteel and the faint clicks of Pontero's vox as he chuckled. Johann noticed that this was the norm for the Marine, letting loose a morbid giggle as he treaded over the slowly increasing amount of viscous globs. Having the Sergeant nearby was no better, as the veteran was deadly silent throughout the journey save the similar clicks of her vox as she conversed with her squadmates.

The party continued to trudge forward through the corridors of the Space Hulk. The sizes varied, morphing from thin accessways barely able to fit a single Terminator to grand halls where the entire boarding party could walk abreast. The jagged paths were strewn the bones of various species and the rare hull-scrap of a neighboring vessel. All was silent as the grave, a mausoleum in the depths of space. Then the Space Marines halted.

The Deathwing Sergeant raised her massive gauntlet in pause. The party almost instantly readied their weapons and tensed for an oncoming attack. The Astartes, two in rear and three at the fore, moved to choke the hallways whilst Johann, Halvdan, and the Sisters moved to protect the Inquisitor. Though Johannes was not learned in the operation of the Hotshot Lasgun, he tried his hardest not to look a complete fool. However, the Sergeant did not fancy to train her weapon into the distance, and instead gestured with her Power Fist to a small crevice in the floor plating.

Her voice crackled through the external vox. "Stormtrooper Barishnikov, there is an object within the crevice. Retrieve it for me."

Johannes' heart skipped a beat. He swept his gaze first to Hal (if the Adeptus Mechanicus could weaponize a simple glare, half of the Reaper of Stars would cease to exist), and then to the Lord Inquisitor. Buried amongst the Sororitas, the Inquisitor looked impassive behind his own respirator, but nodded. While he technically outranked the Marines, the Deathwing were experienced in the matters of the Hulks. Only a fool would disregard their council.

With a prayer to the Emperor muttered beneath his breath, Johannes advanced forward, lasgun raised and ready. Though restricted by their gargantuan frames, the Terminators left a small opening in their line large enough for the Guardsman to squeeze through. There was a peculiar sensation as Johann left the safety of the formation. No longer was there a wall of ceramite at his fore, nor a shield of righteous zeal behind him. A line of Storm Bolters was little comfort, for a meagre man was of no importance compared to a hive of Genestealers. The clutch on his lasgun grew stronger.

Johann shook away these thoughts. "'Be vigilant and strong'," he whispered to the darkness. "'The Emperor knows what evil lurks in the vacillation of a weak fool.'"

The darkness before said weak fool seemed to devour the light from his barrel-mounted flashlight. As much as he wanted to keep trained upon the wall of shadow before him, the Guardsman slowly kneeled into place beside the tiny indentation in the hull. With reluctance, he shined his flashlight into the crevice. It was a miniscule thing, barely a centimeter in depth, but covered in what Johann could only assume was dried blood. Against the crimson canvas, the object was not a hard thing to find.

He held it up to his light. It was by no means small, but it could still easily fit within the palm of his hand. Daring not to stay away for long, Johann rose and returned to the formation with haste. Johannes dropped the object into Sergeant Dionysia's outstretched gauntlet and the Astartes raised her powered hand up as far as the armor would allow her. She rolled it around and examined the item thoroughly, leaving Johann to duck past her and back into the defensive line.

"A Bolt casing," she stated simply.

"Ancient, too," added Pontero. "That's not from any modern pattern I'm familiar with, Brother-Sergeant."

The third Terminator in the vanguard, an Assault Cannon-armed Astartes with various engraved skulls dangling from his waist, interjected. "Yet it shows no signs of decay. No rust, no scarring. It is as if it was newly issued."

"It matters not," replied Dionysia. "We must continue the mission. We can examine the casing at a later date."

And so she passed the casing back to Johann, who was tasked with its safety until the end of the mission. The party continued on.

It was not long before they found the bodies.

While the bulkhead itself offered no resistance to Pontero's Chainfist, the Astartes was repulsed by what lay beyond. Looking past, Johann's own courage threatened to betray him. Unlike previous quadrants of the vessel, there was enough power left in the lights to gaze upon the slaughter. Dull yellow lighting fell upon the forgotten cemetery.

One of the Sororitas, a petite Sister who's Flamer seemed slightly oversized for her grip, managed to trip upon one of the erstwhile members of this macabre diorama. She gazed at the obstacle and recoiled. While dark black plate (or so Johann assumed, beneath the thick coats of dried blood) shrouded the figure's main body, the head remained exposed. A skull, still covered with thin strips of decaying flesh, returned her stare with empty sockets.

Such dark figures blanketed the chamber. Piled high in mass graves, these silent guardians lay in pools of dried life fluid. They gripped ancient weapons in their final throes, as if expecting further conflict from beyond death. Bolters of many primeval patterns and Chainswords bearing lavish decor were littered amongst the party.

The Sister Superior went to kneel beside her comrade, and gave the woman a helpful hand in regaining her feet. The senior Sororitas went back and examined the armored corpse. Millennia of battle and weathering has made the armor almost unrecognizable, but any man would know the make of it's armor. "A Space Marine," she stated through the vox. "No identification I can find, My Lord."

The Inquisitor moved to the corpse, kneeling down and brushing a gauntlet across the hulking pauldrons. The rounded armor was pockmarked with gashing and projectile scarring, showing more the grey steel of the armor than the midnight of its decoration. The Inquisitor ran his eyes along the corpse and 'hmm'ed. "This armor is a pre-Heresy pattern. Could be Iron Hands, Raven Guard..."

He spared a glance to the advancing Terminators. "...or Dark Angel."

These mysterious dead were not alone, as was soon found out by the party. Johann had to constantly maneuver past mountainous swells of bone that pockmarked the chamber. There the brutish skulls and haphazard manufacturing of the Orks. The slim builds and intimidating weaponry of the pirate Eldar. Untold numbers of xenos littered the area. It was a mausoleum to the universe.

In his idle musings, Johann made sure to avoid the Tyranid Carnifex's rotting carcass.

Pontero detached from his squad, advancing to the fore. The Astartes began treading upon the alien remains indiscriminately and growled. "The xenos do not deserve the honor to be buried with our brothers. They taint this sanctum with their very essence."

Johann flinched as ceramite connected hard with thick bone. Dust was all that remained of the Ork skull.

"Temper your anger, Brother," the Deathwing Sergeant chided. "Your faith must be a finely-tipped spear with which to defeat our enemies, not a wild animal. We shall purge this Hulk of the xenos in due time. The mission comes first."

Suitably chasted, Pontero agreed to the Sergeant's words and grunted through the vox, a guttural, garbled sound through the grille. Brushing past his comrades and the rest of the boarding party, he headed towards the far end of the chamber, where there lay a massive door. It was at least twice as tall as any Astartes and three times as wide. It was inlaid with gold and silver, detailing great victories in a sort of metal tapestry. On further inspection, Johann had found the entrance to be sealed, welded shut by an ancient force.

"Explosives are out of the question," the Assault Cannon-laden Deathwing stated over the vox. "The structural integrity of the complex is questionable."

Dionysia tramped forward amongst her five brothers, her helm studying the entry. "Then we cut our way through. Brother Pontero, cut away the seals you can reach. Brothers Azermai, Kullman, and Seth will breach."

The Sergeant turned to the Lord Inquisitor. "My Lord," she began, "I recommend we position the Adepta Sororitas to secure this chamber. You and the Stormtroopers shall be our rearguard once the adjacent chamber is breached."

Of course, the Lord Inquisitor agreed, and the Sisters spread out amongst the chamber as the Sister Superior relayed orders over the squad vox. Pontero cut into the gargantuan door, his Chainfist howling as toothed, gyrating metal screeched against ancient decor. The remaining Deathwing lined up behind their brother, followed by the Sergeant, flanked by Johann, Hal, and the Lord Inquisitor.

For several tense moments, Johann tried and failed to control his breathing. His was a place in an important point of history. An almost primeval vessel, perhaps from the ages of the Great Crusade themselves, was about to opened up by the finest of the Imperium. Millennia of ancient technology and history would be recovered from such a find, and a lowly hive-dweller was going to witness every moment of it. It filled Johann with nervous excitement.

Yet, a sense of dread washed over him. A quick glance traveled across the chamber. Dead Astartes lay here, and their killers may still be at large. An Ork Warboss could barge through the doors in a bloodrage, or perhaps a band of Eldar corsairs. Johann felt his will fade as thoughts of the Archenemy consumed his thoughts. He felt the urge to flee, to run through the band of Sisters and into the depths of the Hulk. Anywhere save this massacre.

But it was too late. The Deathwing breacher had finished his craft, and the Terminators stood ready. The Sergeant thundered towards the door, her left arm crackling as the massive Power Fist was activated. Behind her, the other Marines stood, weapons readied and aimed. The Sergeant brought her gauntlet up and back, humming with a hungering power. For a moment, there was silence.

"Breaching!"

The massive fist collided with the door, sending dust and debris flying from the metal. The decor at the impact point imploded and shook violently before the door itself finally gave way. As soon as it burst open, the Dark Angels rushed in at best speed, lights dancing in the darkness and their voxes clicking spastically. The Inquisitor rushed in behind them, and Johann was quick to follow besides Hal. The pair moved in, weapons raised and hunting, and the Inquisitor himself had brandished an ornate, long-barreled hand cannon aimed into the blackness.

Surprisingly, the first feelings were not of excruciating pain heart-killing surprise, but simply cold. Indeed, the chamber was in almost sub-zero temperatures, a bone-biting cold that seeped through even the heavy stormtrooper plate. Ice crystals danced in the air and coated the deck, which itself was covered in discarded weapons and armor, and what looked like a great banner, fallen from its mountings.

The cold was unimportant, however. Johann barely registered stimulus to this new embrace of frost. Rather, he was too numb to react. He did not know if it was out of fear, awe, or both, but he could not move. His Lasgun was locked in his grip mid-presentation, and booted feet bolted in place to the ice-laden floor plating. He simply stared ahead, eyes wide.

And in kind, the dead god stared back with burning eyes.


A/N: You're still reading this?

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaamn.