Astartes do not usually partake in the act of torture. The art of inflicting suffering was better left to the Inquisition and their lackeys. However, there are circumstances in which such revolting actions must be utilized to guarantee the success of a mission. This was one such situation, thought Darkur as he strode up the stairs three at a time to reach the establishment's upper levels.
Darkur grunted as he crested the final step and saw the twitching unrecognizable mess of the school's headmaster. The man's eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, wheezing whimpers escaping from his mouth. Towering over his prone body was Brother Avarian, the astartes's massive bulk radiating disdain and contempt. The veteran sergeant ignored the blood staining his brother's gauntlets.
"Nothing?" the Death Spectres sergeant inquired.
"Nothing," confirmed Avarian, shaking his head slightly, "the heretic has proven to be most resistant to my questioning. He continues to refuse to acknowledge the whereabouts of the blood suckers."
"Indeed? Then we have underestimated just how much these people have been corrupted by the mutants," snarled Darkur.
"Foul, degenerate beasts!" spat Varken, who had followed his sergeant up the stairway, his hands clenched into tight fists.
"How could this have happened? Was this world not faithful to the Imperial Creed years ago?" Ichsan's questioning tone rang over the vox net.
"Many years ago," corrected Avarian, "It would appear this planet has recently reemerged from a warp storm that has been hiding it for a near millennia. You have not read the briefing slate, brother?"
Darkur chuckled lightly at his fellow veteran's reprimand. Before Avarian's induction into his squad, he was the only marine to have reached a full century of service. The others were freshly turned tactical marines, having just completed their stint in the 9th Company as Devastators. It was considerable work to try and indoctrinate these young astartes in the fluid form of combat that was now expected of them, and Darkur had been more than grateful when the experienced warrior was assigned under his command. The space marine sergeant had immediately granted the new arrival the honor of leading the second of two combat squads should the need to split into smaller combat units arrived.
"I have not," Ichsan admitted guiltily, "I stand chastised, brother."
"You do not. We all have our moments of laxity brother. Just make sure it doesn't happen again," Avarian spoke candidly before he nodded towards Darkur.
The veteran sergeant found his gaze affixed to Avarian's right pauldron. All Death Spectres wore the skull and scythe motif of their chapter on a background of alabaster white. His sub-commander did not. He had painted over the symbol with a coat of black. A sign of atonement. There had been some rumors regarding Avarian's position within the 5th Company, namely him holding a rank of brother sergeant in command of his own squad of men. Darkur had dismissed them, of course, being the pragmatist he was. But, he could not help but wonder about his new co-commander's past.
A sputtering roar tore the Death Spectres sergeant from his thoughts.
Varken lowered his smoking bolter, his armored foot nudging the now lifeless headmaster. He turned to see both his superiors glancing towards his direction.
"Last round in the magazine," the young marine shrugged sheepishly.
Brother Tanrek sighted down the built-in targeting array of his lascannon, growling slightly as he further magnified the view presented. A trio of lightly armored vehicles were headed towards their direction, strange rectangular sirens wailing irritably. The heavy weapons trooper shook his head despondently. Such feeble foes. Tanrek had not participated in the carnage performed by his battle brother in the corridors, deeming the puny heretics as a waste of his precious ammunition. Instead, he had watched Falkius do most of the work, only complimenting his brother when a particularly gruesome death was meted out.
Now, finally a chance had come for him to join in the righteous slaughter, or so he thought. Tanrek sighed as firing reticules flashed intermittently in his visor. It would be a tremendous insult to the lascannon's venerable machine spirit for him to actually use it against such unworthy opponents.
Falkius heard his brother's disappointment. The Death Spectre strode over to Tanrek's position by the exposed window and clasped his friend firmly on the shoulder.
"What troubles you brother?"
The heavy weapons trooper shook his head again.
"The nature of our enemies, brother. They are so… pathetic. There is no glory in killing them," Tanrek replied mournfully.
"Aye. I agree. But, what we do here is duty. And duty is what makes us space marines."
"You are right brother. This is our duty."
An incandescent beam of blue light speared through the three speeding vehicles, shearing through their flimsy frames, and leaving them as gutted, smoking wrecks.