Yes I ScK Dicc Fr casH hw Did Yu no?
Forty miles of golden-white beach kissing the open sea, pearlescent blue waves lapping at the shore. Crashing breakers and the smell of distant lands, the lonely horns of tugboats and freighter ships hauling cargo imports. The swearing of dock-masters and merchantmen, salt and sea-life; many-hooked fishing lines casting out into the green-blue deep. The laughter of young children sprinting along the shoreline, ducking in and out of the encroaching and departing tide, small hands clasping pretty shells and sea-glass, clambering up onto busy docks to weave in and out of crowds.
This is the Sodomah sprawl, the single largest series of ports in all of Vacuo, it is also now the only thing that Vacuo has left.
It was once many ports; all spread out and alone along the northeastern stretch of coastline where the desert met the sea. Over time roads, caravan routs, train tracks and highways were carved out to connect the many disparate ports. Homes, markets, workshops and havens were constructed along these many different routs as stations and shelters for travelers to rest without fear of the Grimm or the harsh desert climate. Soon, the Sodomah sprawl became a single entity; watchtowers and walls guarded against desert Grimm incursions.
With the fall of Beacon academy and the Vale CCT, Sodomah port became the lifeblood of Vacuo as a whole. The forested regions of Vacuo are inhospitable; stalking in the shaded groves were the Grimm- millions of them. Ancient Grimm beasts stalked the forests, always multiplying. They came out at night when the sun ceased its hateful glare upon the sands of Vacuo; the Grimm would spill out from their homes, into the desert like a snarling swarm of red eyes in the darkness. They would rip through the settlements of homesteaders looking to harvest the natural bounty of the mountain forests- unprepared for the beasts that spilled out like ants from a disturbed nest.
Yet, in the morning light, the desert- the universal enemy to the inhabitants of Vacuo- became a burning guardian. The Grimm never traveled far from the forests when the sun rose high; the cursed beasts would suffer; only a few of their species could withstand the punishing climate. Those that were unsuited to the intense heat would die of thirst and heatstroke.
Some would always make it across the desert. There were always the lucky ones that found shade or a hidden desert oasis, some would even slaughter isolated settlements and rest there among the butchered. They would sleep during the day and move at night, making there way to the largest concentration of human and Faunus life in Vacuo.
So it came to be, that what Grimm the desert could not kill, the inhabitants of the Sodomah sprawl did. They are fierce individuals who made their living off the bounty of the sea, the only thing crueler than the desert. They were patriots one and all; they knew that with the CCT destroyed in Vale, they were well and truly alone in the world.
Shipments from other nations could not get through; information was sparse, international trade ground to a halt, overland and air travel up through the Vale was impossible. The sea became the only option for Vacuo- its bounty was no longer a commodity; it was the blood of Vacuo's Kingdom.
Food and water were scarce in the Desert. Dust, metal and ores were in plentiful supply but the things required for daily survival were never easy to come by. The people of the Sodomah sprawl had it easier than those in the wastelands, saltwater could be distilled into drink given enough time and energy, and fishing saw to the needs of hunger. So it now came to be that the dock-lords of Sodomah now 'selflessly' provided now for the rest of Vacuo, distributing food and water that the desert cities could not procure otherwise- all for a hefty price, of course.
The roads into the Vacuo desert that the armored caravans of Sodomah traveled were fast becoming the veins and arteries of Vacuo. Sodomah was growing in power- even the Shade Academy was feeling the inadequacy of its standing in the turbulent times. Where they were once the final say in the happenings of Vacuo, they now found their authority dimming. Hunters could not provide food. Hunters could not provide shelter. Hunters were just people who could kill Grimm. The people of Sodomah could also do that- and provide at the same time.
Like they always have, the people of Vacuo would survive.
This, of course, could not be allowed to happen.
If Sodomah had become the heart of an entire nation, then it was only right to skewer it while it was exposed, to burn it to the ground and drive the stake home. It was an open target, one that could not be ignored.
Besides, it had been too long since Wilt and Blush last drew blood.
…
The exoskeleton broke- fractured apart, the immense physical force the Broodlord exerted crushing the insectoid Grimm. The Broodlords foot smashed through its back and out its underside- guts and gore splattering the hot desert sand. The Broodlord pulled, four arms exerting their strength and ripping the wriggling tail of the Death Stalker free and flinging it away- discarded. The Broodlord set to work ripping the legs from the body- still it writhed; pincers snapping fruitlessly as the Broodlord dismantled the Grimm beast in the same manner a bully would pull the limbs off a child's doll- piece by bloody piece.
It was an unnecessarily gruesome kill; it was a showy display of raw power that a Tyranid needn't enact. A Tyranid did not waste energy, a Tyranid did not display its superiority through showy acts of 'valor', a Tyranid did not waste- period. It was a kill that bespoke of a deep-seated discontent- the Grimm beast had not been an opponent, but a tool for the Broodlord to vent its aggression upon.
It would not be inaccurate to say that the Broodlord had grown frustrated. While emotions were the things that plagued lesser creatures, the Tyranid Leader bioform was not devoid of baser empathies- the sensation of fruitlessness among them. All Tyranids were designed for a purpose- a singular drive commanding them onwards in the interests of the Hive Mind.
Move. Devour. Kill. Destroy. Hunt. Die.
These were the drives that pushed the lesser bioforms onwards. For the Broodlord, it was significantly more complex. It held a wide variety of compulsions, but above all, was the desire to Command. It was a Leader beast capable of commanding entire broods to do the bidding of the Hive Mind; it was the focal point for that grand gestalt intelligence from beyond the stars. To not be in contact with it or any form of the collective was immensely unsettling. It missed that feeling of omnipotence that came with commanding the lesser broods, the sensation of being everywhere at once, of total control and supremacy.
So it vented its frustrations on the skittering beasts that plagued this Desert. There was no shortage of them. The Broodlord left thousands of broken corpses in its wake, discarded and ruined along its meandering path.
It was following a trail, and that trail turned was a scent.
The Grimm beasts, the skittering things, they all traveled in one direction- to the East. The smell of waves was not what called them, but what drifted on that smell- the smell of Prey, of Human life. Tyranids existed to consume. Without anything left to direct it that was what the Broodlord decided it would do. It would consume, it would destroy, hunt, kill, and hopefully after it had hunted and destroyed and killed, it would finally be able to die.
It walked. Late into the evening, through the night, and into dawn, it walked. Crushing whatever crawled along its path, ripping Death Stalkers apart, discarding their shattered remains, its eyes glowing hot yellow-white.
It saw the first hints of buildings as it crested a sand dune in the still dark hours of the morning, the sun not yet cresting the far-away mountains. Heavy fogbanks rolled in from a vast ocean. A civilization hugged the eastern coastline from north to south. The keen eyes of the Tyranid Broodlord could make out the shapes of ships skirting out into the waves, trailing drag nets and lines. It was nothing like the settlement it had crushed, its blood still plastered to its carapace- dried on by the hot desert sun.
This port-city was vastly larger, more heavily populated, filled to the brim with the disunited prey-things. It was enough to make the Broodlords stomach churn and hearts throb. It wasn't hate.
It was exasperation.
It was looking at the city, and feeling nothing but the preemptive fatigue of a grinding day of continuous hunting. It flexed its muscles, blood only now starting to churn in its veins- still cold and sluggish without the heat of combat to warm them. Its clawed feet churned the sand underfoot, its tail dragged.
It watched the first of several dozen fireballs erupt from the docks along the waterfront of the city below.
It heard the thunderclap of the explosions seconds later, and then the screaming of Prey things.
The sun was still low. It would have waited until night, procrastinated for as long as it could have.
The scent of cordite in the air.
Heat began to warm its blood.
Blood-scent drifting on the winds.
Its hearts began to truly beat.
This seemed as good a time as any.
…
Draw, cut, reset. Let the blade do the work, don't force it- don't hack, don't slash, let the momentum carry the motion through. Don't push the blade, don't pull it, it possesses its own motion. You carry that motion through its movements, maintain it, you do not alter it aside from giving it that initial tug of direction.
It was not as complicated as it sounded, but it was important to keep in mind, all the same. The bodies hit the ground with that familiar, satisfying meaty thud they always seemed to make once the life left their eyes and the dead weight settled in. A still living person always compensated for falling, trying to lessen the impact. A corpse had no such scruples; it went down in the most expedient way possible.
Adam stepped over the trio of corpses, cleaning the blood from Wilt with his thumb before sheathing it home in Blush. It payed to take care of your weapons, they were more reliable than people, no matter how devoted they were. People had the annoying tendency to not explain the full detail of their plans- such as that fiasco at beacon showed, the 'Goddess' was frustratingly obscure in regaling in full the extent of her operations- a fact that had caused him more than a few soldiers in the end. Support hadn't been in proper positions, objectives changed at the last minute, what should have been a complete takeover of both Beacon and Vale City resulted in only Beacon falling and the City suffering instead of dying.
Quite embarrassing.
He felt that the White Fang more than deserved this off the books operation. It was outside of Salem's jurisdiction, and while the White Fang didn't answer to Salem, Adam was more than aware enough to know who was pulling the strings these days. Everything revolved around Salem; everything went through her one way or another. Such was why they called her 'Queen' or 'Goddess'. At least, that was what Adam liked to believe why they called her so.
Because there was the matter of her relation to the Grimm, her ability to control…
Adam didn't like to think about that. It lead to questions with answers he did not wish to hear.
The Sodomah Sprawl. He'd never been in person before, but he's heard plenty about it, lots of stories, and lots of promise. Too many humans. There were always too many humans. Even when there weren't any humans there was still the stink of them left behind. He's waded through enough human blood that all he could ever smell was their stench; it was like a sickly sweet odor that no amount of bathing could ever get off. The Faunus of Vacuo smelled like Humans, the stench was on them, and it too wouldn't scrub out. It had to be burned off. That started with Sodomah.
The White fang had always been touchy about Vacuo. Some wanted it destroyed- Adam heartily agreed- others wanted it to be left alone, as Vacuo wasn't like the other nations. The Faunus in Vacuo are more or less treated as equals, something that became more and more prominent each passing day. It didn't matter what you were in the desert, so long as you could pull your weight and survive. In all honesty, Vacuo was a success story in the eyes of the early Wight Fang. Humans and Faunus working together in order to make a better living.
The stink. The stink. By all the Maidens and their glory- The Stink.
Adam always had plans for destabilizing Vacuo. They mostly revolved around Shade Academy, the only true power in the deserts. It was too heavily defended- too many hunters. An attack would never work. The long game was the only option. That changed when the CCT fell, and Sodomah rose to power. Despite the well-drilled military force Sodomah possessed, the White Fang was a military organization in its own right nowadays, they had the equipment to topple a city state like Sodomah. If there were any Hunters, well, there was a reason he had come in person.
A few well placed dust bombs, and any hope for an effective counter attack went up in smoke.
So began the slaughter.
Gunfire. Explosions. Screams. The sounds of retribution. Adam let Wilt sing in concert to these sounds, whistling through the air, the hum of it drawing from Blush. When a Human was too far away for his leisurely stroll along the dockside waterfront to catch, he answered with Blush, the recoil sending out his greetings with every squeeze of the trigger.
It's been awhile since he'd honestly smiled. He thinks the last time was with Blake- and so goes his smile.
A few more pulls of the trigger and its back, the memory fading.
He wasn't a fan of sea insertions.
He didn't like water all that much, when you were in the water, you were vulnerable to the creatures that were born in it.
He could tolerate it for enough time, the submersibles had worked out perfectly. Running aground in the shallows, disgorging the White fang soldiers, a complete surprise attack right after the infiltrators set off their explosives. The only objective left was pandemonium. Kill as many as you could, destroy as much as you could. Then go home. There was no simpler plan. Nothing more fools proof. Even if Hunters appeared, they would be far too late to stop what had been set in motion. Even a slight delay in the Caravans would cause untold deaths out in the desert.
He intended to cause far more than just a slight delay. If this worked out, Vacuo would be crippled permanently, picked apart by thirst and starvation, and the Grimm. Although, the people of Vacuo are a sturdy bunch, the White Fang would likely have to help them along their way to final destruction.
There was a hand-crank pump by the docks; it connected to a fuel dump that was looking rip to burst and set alight a string of dockside warehouses. Adam gestured one of his associates over. "Light it," He ordered. "It needs to burn, now." He was answered with the chatter machinegun fire riveting holes into the side of the heavy steel tank- fresh fuel spilling out over the ground and an errant spark catching its edge.
The smell of charring wood and burning fish was as beautiful as the ripple of the newly born explosion. Adam spun on a heel, waving his comrades after him. There was still much work to be done 'fore the days end. There was still killing to do.
…
Bravery and ignorance went hand in hand.
Bravery is recognizing your fear and managing to push it aside, to charge headlong into that primal source of fear and meet it in combat and destroy it. Bravery is the act of making fear your Bitch. Ignorance is bravery even when you should be afraid. It is looking doom in the eye and confronting it head on. Ignorance is the act of denial. Ignoring how out of depth you are and the water is rising. A brave fool is a dead fool.
The Broodlord doesn't contemplate any of this as it smashes its way through a fish market, thorny carapace hide making splinters of wood and clawed feet cracking the ground with every lunging step. Automatic weapons fire brackets it every step of the way, Prey is resisting; desperately throwing everything they have at the monster. A truck skids to a halt just outside of the market plaza, on the back is mounted a heavy machine gun, the operator wipes his brow, charging the weapon with a solid rack of the slide- the belt loads perfectly and he swings the weapon- designed to punch through armored targets- and depresses the firing studs.
Like successive frag-grenades going off, the machine gun throws out heavy caliber rounds at a blistering rate; the operator grits his teeth, fighting to keep the barrel down as smoking shell casings fall into the back of the truck, collecting around his boots. The bullets cut through tarps, tents, signs and rip through freshly caught fish, turning them into red mist before smacking home into the Broodlord.
They do absolutely nothing.
Even at point blank range- as the Broodlord backhands a stall out of its way, the metal jacketed lead rounds crumple against the breastplate of the Broodlord- the Operator is screaming, the driver shifts into reverse, hits the gas, wheels squeal as the truck starts to peel away- a heavy hand with ragged talons grips the front of the technical- claws rip into the armored hood- one pierces the radiator. Rubber begins to burn and smoke as the Broodlord heaves, dragging the entire truck forwards, all four limbs tear into the front hood and it lifts the truck, the weapons operator shouts and tumbles off, his weapon goes silent. He has a moment to stare back up as the monster slams the truck back down onto his head- chassis breaking apart, metal bending, oil leaking, glass shattering- blood leaks from underneath the ruined machine.
The Broodlord steps onto the ruined vehicle, clawed feet smashing down what had not already been flattened. Acidic saliva is dripping from its maw- locked open into a perpetual howl, pink red steam huffs from its back vents, blood lubricates its hands, its barbed and pincered tail sways dangerously behind it. It is a powerful creature, and it radiates its rightful superiority. Its torso heaves with deep steadying breathes- the red-raging abyss is still stirring in the back of its mind, the driving instinct- its desire to kill and render all non-Tyranid life a malignant afterthought. It has always slaughtered on the terms of the Hive Mind, its gestalt psychic intelligence holding its bloodlust in check. Without that commanding presence, it felt its mind beginning to slip into something more basic, something more feral- held back only by the shrewd cunning of its sentience.
The Broodlord cocks its head, the sounds of further gunfire drawing its attention- the killing intent returns at a low simmer. It tramples over the dead that litter the street before it.
…
The Cobalt and Sapphire cross- the emblem of the Port Watch, a symbol that holds more respect in Vacuo then that of the Shade Academy in these dark days. To be a part of the Port Watch is to stand against the hellish landscape of Vacuo, to stand against the Grimm, to stand against the failures of the Hunter Academies, and to stand against the forces that would see civilization in Vacuo come to an end.
The Port Watchmen dealt with corruption, Grimm invasions, illegal trafficking, and crime. They were not so much a Police force as they were a standing Army that held Sodomah to task. They were strict disciplinarians that did not tolerate the failings of others; as they knew that Sodomah walked a thin line between the land and the sea- each holding their own dangers and freely gifting them to the last safe haven in all of Vacuo.
By day, they faced the struggles of enforcing law, slave-gangs and terrorists, Caravan guarding and bandits.
By night, they faced the Grimm; scuttling overland, vast hordes of Death Stalkers came to pick apart the city defenses.
The White Fang were viewed no differently.
When the first bombs went off it just came as another call to action. Body armor was thrown on, rifles grabbed, visors flipped down and precincts raised the alarm.
In short: Sodomah went to war.
Sodomah hit back hard, but the White Fang was hitting even harder.
The Port Watch was working to minimize civilian casualties- trying to get the people of Sodomah to safety, trying to protect what mattered most. The White Fang had no such scruples, they opened fire into crowds, they let the barrel glow red as casings landed steaming in pools of murky blood; they let the magazine run dry and after that they went to work with blades and clubs.
At their head was the Bloody Bull, half mask streaked with crimson, ruby blade hacking through flesh, tearing apart the defenders with unrestrained contempt- he was a beast finally let off the leash, allowed to run rampant through the streets of Sodomah, picking apart the Port Watch one head at a time. He became a nightmare made real and not restrained to the confines of the night, he haunted during the day.
There was a greater and far darker dream in Sodomah this day, however, and it was a fiend among fiends in a universe of nightmares.
…
Adam reloaded Blush. Pinned down behind a shipping crate as he was, he had nothing better to do as the Port Watch machine gun let loose with the full two hundred rounds. The hard calibers punched dents into the steel siding of his crate, some smashing through and tearing up whatever was inside. He slotted home another five rounds- filling the internal magazine well and snapping his weapon back into action, shutting the loading port. The emplaced weapon had caught them off-guard, nestled behind a barricade over-watching a killing field cleared of any cover and guarding several stacked warehouses that led up to this part of the ports precinct. Beside him were his lieutenants, trusted advisors that he knew would follow him into hell after the things they had done together in the name of the White Fang.
"Want me to frag 'em?" One of his soldiers asked, hefting the grenade launcher- a move made impressive knowing the meaty weapons weight when loaded.
Adam shook his head, "Not yet." Again the rounds continued to slam home, he counted down, two seconds before he could finish, he heard the rapid clicking of a pin hitting an empty chamber; the gunner had run dry. "Now, if you may."
"You got it, boss." The Soldier grunted; swinging out from behind the stack of cargo containers, almost at once a barrage of fire returned- Adam recognized the sound of heavy assault rifles- reinforcements. He scowled, doubly so when a bullet struck the grenadier in the shoulder- his shot went wild- and another round punched through his skull, another through his neck on the way down.
"I guess reinforcements have arrived." Adam grunted, loosening Wilt.
"What should we do?" One of his soldiers asked, Adam shook his head; he felt like laughing, this was going to be fun.
"You?" He said, "You won't be doing anything." He stepped out of cover.
Twenty steps
The first shot was always the trickiest in his opinion. After that, it was all down to rhythm-
Eighteen steps
Wilt cleared bloom like always, the sweet sound of release, the ruby edge gleaming in the cresting sun-
Sixteen steps
He could feel the bullet leaving the muzzle, the flash ensuing quickly after-
Fourteen steps
Instinct took over, driving his legs forwards, his blade swinging up, every sense on a needle; the impact was jarring at first-
Twelve steps
The lead round tumbled over his left shoulder- already wilt was moving to deflect the next-
Ten steps
A small squad of Port Watchmen, cobalt body armor over sapphire uniforms, rugged heavy rifles thumping off rounds from behind the barricade-
Eight steps
The gunner was furiously working to load in another belt in to the machine gun that had been the cause of so much trouble-
Six steps
Running low, keeping close to the ground, moving fast- not in a straight line, so many things to keep note of- there was unsafe and then there was something like this-
Four steps
It wasn't a good thing to be the center of attention in situations like this, but he was the only one who could accomplish such a task, Wilt sung again, bullets were turned aside, cut in half-
Four steps
The gunner closes the chamber, the Port Watchmen flick their guns to fully automatic, they pump out the lead, Adam leaps and rolls, his coat catches a spread of bullets but they do not hit him-
Two steps
Wilt flashes crimson again- sparks ignite in the air, he flicks out Blush and pulls the trigger- one of the Watchmen go down but the others intensify their fire, the Gunner racks the slide-
One step
Wilt parts the air, it tears through the jugular of one Watchman, arcing to cut through the gunner before he can depress the firing studs, it all seems to happen in slow motion, it all seems to blend together into one eternally perfect second stretched into the course of several hours- perhaps even days.
It is in this heightened state of awareness, that Adam first sees it in all of its bloodstained gory glory.
Maybe around ten feet in height, four arms, legs with an extra joint ending in clawed feet, an exoskeleton covered in heavy plates of chitin and thorns, that was where anything that made sense ended, and the surreal began.
It turns, several yards away behind the barricade; Adam doesn't even notice his own sword decapitating the gunner.
It took Adam a moment to process what he was seeing. He was almost tempted to take off his mask and look again. He was even reaching for it when it came to a stop, its bulbous head lolling on its broad shoulders to stare in his direction. He can hear his men rushing from cover behind him, stopping at once when they see what their leader is staring at.
There was no describing it, no analogues he can compare it too- his brain hiccups, and he blinks, trying to clear whatever it was that was making him see this thing from his eyes, it remains there: horrific and unearthly.
One of his soldiers screams.
The monstrosity roars.
...
Why is Robo-T Guiloman allowed to have a qt3.14 Eldar GF? It ain fair my niBBa. It just aint fair.