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.

7. The Emperor's Angels

Here we go! Big chapter inbound. This is the one you've all been waiting for, whether you realized it or not. As promised, the Emperor's Angels go to war. I should mention that this chapter is one of the reasons why I chose the Blood Angels and Raven Guard. While they both get overshadowed by the Salamanders, they are actually two of the nicest Marine chapters in the Imperium. I'm sure you'll all love what I've got in store. So, without further ado, let's get to it! However, reviews first, and I must thank you for them all, for they were many and wonderful.

The Disquieting One: Yes he is. I doubt Shepard would want to talk to Kevral about it, because he's on thin enough ice with Dante, and Kevral is Inquisition. I'm glad you liked the Dreadnaughts. I think I'll keep the villains to Reapers and Dark Mechanicum. I've got enough to deal with as is.

Clare Prime of Ultra: I'm glad you liked everything. I didn't include Cain because I didn't think he'd fit, and I have enough major characters to write as is. I'm also glad I could inspire you to look up some new groups. Find anything interesting you like?

themadnimrod: Glad you liked it!

BonesofSmite: Glad you liked it. The animation was called the Lord Inquisitor, and I listened to the soundtrack while writing. It put me in the right mood for the scene. If you like the Dark Angels, then I'm sure you'll love what's in store. You just have to wait, but it'll be worth it.

Hunter19941: Next one is here! Hope you like it.

That FarknGuy09: Love the prayer. Might use it in the story, with your permission. Ave Imperator.

Doc43Souls: I'm glad you liked it, and I'm sure you'll like this chapter.

valhalan guardsman: Oh, well. Plenty of other joked will be there, don't you worry.

LezGo35: I'm glad you like it! Hope it's much of the same for this chapter.

Guest: Good point. I have made it so Hal is off chasing other things while leaving his very capable and scary assistants on the planet to fight the ground war. You are correct, and I have briefly touched on it in this chapter. They are monitering where the Olympus is to make sure it doesn't come back quickly.

Ghostly: Maybe and yes.

powerhendler: I'm glad you liked it. Shepard has Mortarior (Death Guard) geneseed, which may or may not come in to play in the future. I haven't decided yet.

ADeter: Very true.

OscuroSignore-51: The ecclesiarchy got muscled out by their rivals, the Mechanicus. As for the Salamanders and being humane, well, read the note above and the chapter. I'm sure you'll like it. I will also consider a comedy talk show. That's a pretty good idea.

gods-own: You're welcome. Thank you for reading!

Pathreader: Thank you. Good note about the Hrafnkel.

Anatheras: Yep. Sparatus is just like that. Though, that scene was a set up and will come in handy later.

joshuamuller08: I was just comparing Imperial cities, which are often referred to as hives, to Citadel cities. I know that not all planets in either universe are cities. Sorry for any confusion.

PaladinSans: I like the idea, but I think we have enough conflicts as is.

mememan2012: The Raven Guard are my favorites too. I hope I did them justice here. That is very true about Shepard and Guilliman.

Cringyusername SBSVQQ: Yes. Possibly.

fahriuchiha: Yep. I'm glad you liked it.

Imhappy0126: That is very true.

Spacemonkey777: I'm glad you liked it!

Ghostly: Thank you for the recommendations. As for Shepard and Tali... we'll see.

oOo

The Emperor's Angels

"They shall be my finest warriors, these men who give themselves to me. Like clay I shall mold them, and in the furnace of war forge them. They will be of iron will and steely muscle. In great armor I shall clad them and with the mightiest guns will they be armed. They will be untouched by plague or disease, no sickness will blight them. They will have tactics, strategies, and machines so that no foe can best them in battle. They are my bulwark against the Terror. They are the Defenders of Humanity. They are my Space Marines, and they shall know no fear." -The Emperor of Mankind, on the creation of the Space Marines

"The First Axiom of Victory is to be other than where the enemy desires you to be. The First Axiom of Stealth is to be other than where the enemy believes you to be. The First Axiom of Freedom is that justice without force is powerless; force without justice is tyranny." -Corvus Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard

"In the Time of Ending, we will see the final flight of the Dead Angel's Host. They rise above us on howling wings. They fall upon us in a celestial storm. At their vanguard flies the Last Archangel. To the Neverborn, he will be Death-that-Soars. To you and I, he will be a mortal man bearing the immortal face of his fallen father. To the Imperium of Man he will be hope. A warrior of infinite courage. A soldier of infinite sorrows. Beware the mask that forever stares and never smiles, weeping tears of frozen gold." -Excerpt from The Mourners Prophecies by Sargon Eregesh, Storm Oracle of the Black Legion

oOo

Winnipeg, Canada

Olivia Mariston turned and shivered in the cool dawn air. Around her, barbed wire palisades seemed to rise to infinity, covering the horizon itself. It was ironic, so very ironic, that simply days ago she had been on the other side of such things, peacefully watching cattle come and go; watching them graze and move as they wished.

Now, she was the cattle, along with everyone else inside along with her. She snorted softly to herself. Yes, that was precisely what they were. Cattle. Let alone to wander, to do as they wished, but eventually they would all be led to the slaughter. Sooner or later it would happen, she knew. How could it not? Olivia Mariston was a farmer, but she knew history. There was no other purpose for a place like this.

Around her were the barbed wire fences, held by simple but huge wooden poles. There were three layers of fences between Olivia and freedom, all impassible. Between the fences were coiled layers of barbed wire put on the ground. Olivia smiled cynically to herself. Even if someone was able to climb the fence, they would fall into the wire between fences.

Unlike the stereotypical imagery of P.O.W. camps, gulags, or concentration camps, there were no huge wooden guard towers, complete with machine guns and searchlights, interspersed on the wire walls of the prison. The Reapers and their more powerful, even darker (if such a thing was possible) allies had no need for such things.

Instead, patrolling the perimeter of the camp were things. Things of such horror, of such anathema to normal biological life that Oliva shuddered in revulsion whenever any of them passed. Neither Olivia nor any of her friends, old or newfound, ever looked at any of the things too closely. She didn't want to vomit up any of the precious food she could get in her stomach. That certainly wouldn't do.

The things were some Cannibals patrolling through the camp and along its perimeter. Or, at least that was what everyone called the abominations. They seemed to be a fusion of Batarian and human carcases, bloated and grotesque, humming with biotic power. They lived up to their names, too: every so often, a Cannibal would devour one of the prisoners. Dead or alive, it didn't matter. After seeing a screaming man vanish into a Cannibal's maw, Olivia vowed to stay as far away from them as possible.

The alternatives weren't that much better. In fact, in Olivia's opinion, they were far worse. Far worse.

The Dark Mechanicum Tech-Priest overlords of the camp called them "skitarii". Olivia nearly laughed at such a descriptor. Those things were not skitarii. Much like many other Citadel residents, she'd known the dreaded soldiers of the Adeptus Mechanicus. She's seen the grainy pictures of them in action, taken from a dozen battlegrounds where the Mechanicus's elite were deployed.

Skitarii were soldiers. She'd also heard the Mechanicus propaganda: skitarii were the elite, those transhuman servants of the Omnissiah whose devotion was as unmatched as their combat prowess. They looked like normal humans with cybernetic enhancements: two arms, two legs, a head, and a torso. True, they were mostly made of metal. Emotionless, mechanical… but still human-like.

These… skitarii (Olivia had taken to calling them monsters instead) were almost the complete opposite of the soldiers of the Mechanicus. It appeared those who ran the camp were some sort of twisted offshoot of the Mechanicus; they did call themselves the Dark Mechanicum, after all. Much like their name, symbol, and general appearance, the soldiers and Priests of the Dark Mechanicum were twisted, evil, and dark versions of their counterparts in the Adeptus Mechanicus.

They were nothing like humans. In fact, unlike even the Cannibals or Husks, no two were alike. Some were spiders, with spindly metallic limbs attached to bloated bodies. Some looked and moved like centipedes: those ones gave Olivia the creeps. Some had human limbs grafted on places where no limbs should ever be. Some were hulking monstrosities. Some were thin and practically slithered across the muddy grounds, even weaving up and down the buildings and fences.

All had twisted messes of cybernetic and organic components. Unlike the Reapers, whose soldiers were smooth and metallic no matter how horrific they got, the monstrosities of the Dark Mechanicum were unfinished and knobby. Limbs and cybernetic machines rose uncomfortably from random places. Hands, arms, and strange organic tentacles were grafted on by dark sciences. Blood, pus, oil, rust, and rot leaked from each creature, spreading a trail of foulness wherever they went. The biological hazards alone were good reasons to stay away from the horrible creations of the Mechanicus's twisted counterparts.

Currently, Olivia peered longingly through three layers of barbed wire fences. She sighed, turning back to the mud and ramshackle buildings of what had been unimaginatively named Camp NA-1.

The Reaper and Dark Mechanicum forces had landed throughout the entirety of the planet Earth. There was no escape. No resistance. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Many, far too many, had been killed outright in the shock of the sudden assault. Casualties ranged in the billions. There had been no greater death toll ever, in any war in human history. In fact, the deaths caused by the Reapers probably outdid all wars throughout the entirety of human history. Combined.

Those that were not killed outright suffered a far worse fate: imprisonment by the Dark Mechanicum. Everyone who lived, be they frightened citizens cowering in the shattered ruins of cities, or confused folk living in the countryside, perhaps ignorant of the sudden assault, were dragged off by the soldiers of the dark allies and shipped off to camps.

The Dark Mechanicum had established Vancouver as their center of operations in the Americas. The greatest comings and goings of any starships to the landmass was in the shambles of what had been the headquarters of the Systems Alliance defense council. There were further rumors of dark tidings coming from the once-great city: strange noises, bloated starships taking off and landing, and, of course, the shipment trains full of people from NA-1 headed into the city.

NA-1 itself had been put in Winnipeg due to its central location in the country of Canada and its close proximity to Vancouver. There was a NA (North America)-2, located somewhere in southern Mexico. Or perhaps farther south? In another country? Farther north? Olivia didn't know for certain.

What she did know was that the Dark Mechanicum found shipping everyone from both the United States, Canada, and parts of Mexico rather annoying. Moving millions upon millions of people from the entire northern half of a continent was not easy. However, the camp had to be both centrally located and near Vancouver. Winnipeg was chosen as the ideal location.

NA-1 itself was a massive, sprawling compound with multiple different sub-locations added on as new prisoners swept in. The ground was mud, the grass worn away within the first few days. Countless feet churned the ground further into deeper and much more vivacious liquid. The prisoners themselves were housed in barracks made of all sorts of different materials and designs. Some were in a warehouse that had been here once, others in metal prefabrications, still others in crude wooden or concrete fabrications, hastily thrown up to house so many.

Olivia sighed and paced, feet churning the mud. Near her, her friends and fellow barracks-members stood or walked, desperate for something to do. Many worried. Why were they here? The Dark Mechanicum picked them all up… then left them. Why?

NA-1 was not a labor camp. It was not a death camp. No one worked. There were no mass executions. Oh, yes, the Cannibal or monster skitarii guards would occasionally kill or eat someone, but the Tech-Priest overlords in the central command building seemed to disapprove of that. Why? If the Dark Mechanicum wanted them dead, then they would be dead. Olivia and her fellow prisoners weren't being used as a source of cheap labor as many in her terrible position had been in the past wars of human history.

Whatever their purpose, it was probably far more dark, far more sinister. Whispers told Olivia that there could be no other explanation. Why else would the Dark Mechanicum go to all the trouble of capturing them?

Of course, it could just be because they didn't want to fight stragglers. It could just be because the Mechanicum knew where everyone was, and they were just starving the human prisoners to death, saving the expense of bullets or Reaper forces hunting down stragglers.

It could be just that simple, but something deep in her gut told Olivia Mariston that there was a far more sinister, far more terrible purpose to NA-1.

oOo

Adept Theorin Mavrius of the Dark Mechanicum clasped his hands behind his dark robe as he looked down upon the sprawling works of camp NA-1. Beneath him, hundreds of thousands of miserable humans huddled in the mud, trying to find something to do. Boredom, combined with empty stomachs, did interesting things to people.

Unfortunately for Adept Mavrius, most of them seemed to be united. There was no infighting over lack of food; no bickering over escape attempts. Yet. He knew it would come in time.

Or perhaps it wouldn't. Lords Protos and Chrom were ever-hungry for fresh bodies. Already, new tracks were being laid from NA-1, just outside of Winnipeg, to ship prisoners to Vancouver. Their demands would ever-increase as the war dragged on, until there were no prisoners left. The continents of Earth would be drained of their greatest resource: people.

Adept Mavrius was in a good yet still somewhat bad and unstable position. Out of all the camps throughout this world, NA-1 was perhaps the most important. His position was one of the highest on the planet, right after Lord Chrom, Lord Protos, and Princeps Turnet. Indeed, it was his job to keep resources flowing into their central command area.

But still, the Lords were finicky. Perhaps slightly unstable, though no-one would ever tell them that to their faces. Mavrius's position was one of high risk, high stress, but still high reward. If he kept the prisoners flowing in and out, kept his bands hunting for resources occupied, and kept Vancouver satiated, then his status would go up.

Oh, yes, there were other camp commanders throughout the world. There were two camps in most continents; Asia, for its great bulk, had four, whereas Australia had but one. There was a camp (E-1) in France to feed prisoners from Western Europe to London, and one near Hanoi (AS-4) to feed prisoners to Singapore. NA-1, E-1, and AS-4 were by far the most important camps on Earth, and those who ruled over them were some of the most powerful individuals upon the planet. Adept Mavrius counted himself lucky to command such a place.

Sighing, he turned away from the windows in the place that he called an office. It was technically the top floor of the newly poured concrete central command center in the middle of NA-1. Still, Mavrius called it his 'office'.

The building was built to his liking: strong and sturdy, though perhaps rather unimaginative. The exterior was a plain white-gray. Inside was more of a mess, looking like something of a cross between a messy machine shop, a butcher shop, and the laboratory of a mad scientist. Marvius had to do something when not lording over the camp. Besides, there were so very many prisoners. Vancouver couldn't use all of them, could they?

Everything was dark inside, suiting the levels of light Marvius was used to. If any normal human stepped inside, they would find the place incredibly gruesome and creepy. To the Adept of the Dark Mechanicum, it was rather homely. It was his workspace, and workspaces were supposed to be comfortable, were they not?

Sighing, slightly bored, Marvius turned back to the upper areas of his workshop. It was here that he slept, and kept most of his highly-important projects and data. The Adept picked up a circuit board, twisted and listed, corrupted by the Warp, when he stood up and frowned.

There was a weapon servitor not responding two levels below him in the central command building. It was completely offline. How odd. Of course, malfunctions happened, especially without the Warp being as strong in this reality-

Theorin Mavrius never felt the keen edge of the blade that killed him.

The Raven Guard Marine, midnight armor blending into darkness around him, re-sheathed his combat knife. Adept Marvius slumped over, a neat, nearly surgical incision near his brain stem. He had been killed instantly, expertly, caught completely by surprise by an enemy who had no right to be there.

"Lay low the oppressor," whispered the Raven at Marvius's corpse, voice sounding remarkably soft in the darkened interior of the building. Another Raven Guard appeared at the first's side, melting into the room from the shadows that permuted throughout. Both wore sleek Mk. VI armor, beak-like helmets painted clean white in contrast to the deep black of the rest of their heavy armor. Both moved in near-complete silence despite their massive size and bulk. If anyone was to see them operate, they would be astounded. There was no explanation to why something that large, in that armor, should be able to move that quietly. Yet the Ravens still did so.

"Let us begin," said the second Marine softly, looking out the windows of Marvius's office at the multitudes of prisoners huddled below. His blood boiled at the sight. Corvus Corax was the Deliverer. The Liberator. Slayer of tyrants and unjust kings. Indeed, the Raven Lord took over his home moon and planet by leading a slave revolt. That blood flowed through all his sons. This was everything they fought against. Humanity being enslaved by the unjust.

But neither Marine showed their thoughts, or their rage. The Raven Guard needed no righteous fury, no grandiose speeches like their cousins. Rage blinded. Observation, patience, always won the day. Impatient brothers were nicked in training matches. Impatient hunters did not eat. Impatient soldiers lost wars. Patience was a virtue, just as much as justice.

Now that patience would pay off.

"Agreed," replied the first Marine. "It is long past due. Lay low the oppressor. Victorus aut Mortis."

oOo

Olivia Mariston was looking the wrong way when it happened. She was staring at the wooden huts in the distance, so crude and ramshackle in appearance. Already, lice, rats, and other creatures were beginning to show up in camp. Olivia knew it would only get worse.

She had been wondering if they would feed the prisoners today. Food was a rather intermittent thing; the Dark Mechanicum didn't seem to particularly care for the prisoners. It wasn't a dislike, per say, but rather more complete and total apathy for their existence. If they died, well, then they died. If they lived, then they lived. Food was a contrivance. If the Mechanicum could get their hands on some, it would be delivered to the camp. If they could not… so be it.

It was only about a week or so since they'd come here (Olivia was already starting to lose track of time), so the food wasn't as bad as it could have been. Or probably would be. Some prisoners had wisely brought along what they could; others were able to scavenge some meager sustenance from inside the camp's hard wire fences.

Olivia had been worried about food, and her fate, and her farm, and the fate of her friends and family. All of that had been shattered in an instant.

With absolutely no warning, echoing heavy cracks of gunfire slashed through the previously still air of the camp. The monstrous skitarii died, shrieking in horrible half-mechanical, half-organic distress. Cannibals keeled over, dead. Olivia and the other prisoners whirled around in shock, trying to figure out what was going on as surprised Mechanicum horrors did much the same.

Black armored forms appeared as if from nowhere; mirages forming from the slightest hints of shadow or uneven ground. Some were even inside the camp, in places where she knew could not hide anything so large. Olivia couldn't help but gasp at the sight of these soldiers. They were all about eight feet in height, armored in glorious midnight splendor. Each was a giant. They were not simply tall humans, but individuals whose form fit their height.

Their armor was heavy and seemed to be bulky, yet these new soldiers moved with perfect ease. Olivia's sharp eyes picked up two variations in the armor. Some were bulkier, with rounded helms and grilles covering the mouth, whereas the other set was slightly lighter, with the helmet in the shape of a beak. All the sets were black and white, some with gold trim. Upon the pauldrons of each soldier was a simple symbol: a white bird of prey, wings outstretched.

They moved forward as one, huge blocky guns firing in a deafening crescendo, slicing down twisted abominations with practiced ease. Olivia felt a presence at her back. Turning, she yelped as a twisted skitarii lunged forward, only to be brought down in mid-stride by the black-armored soldiers' guns.

There was a shrieking roar as dozens upon dozens of transports slashed across the sky, flashing low above the camp. Some were bulky and black, bearing the white bird of prey of the soldiers on the ground. Some were smaller, more sleek, more normal-looking, emblazoned with a double-headed golden eagle. They all came in for landings, touching down in what parts of the camp were devoid of people or buildings.

The prisoners looked around in shock, trying to process this sudden turn of events. The Reaper and Dark Mechanicum guards were dead, all slain in minutes by the calculated ferocity of the black armored soldiers. Said soldiers all moved up and into the camp, heavy footfalls throwing up sprays of mud upon perfect black paint. The prisoners all made way for the giants. As one moved past Olivia, she reached up towards it, desperate questions on her mind.

"Who are you?" she asked. She had meant it to be a question in a strong voice, trying to show no fear in the face of the black soldiers. It came out as more of a guttural, fearful whisper.

The giant turned down towards Olivia calmly, red helmet lenses glowing in the dawn air. It was not an unkind expression, but Olivia still shivered beneath it.

"We are the sons of Corax the Liberator, and we are here to give you your freedom in the name of humanity and the Emperor." He reached out a massive black gauntlet to Olivia. "Come now. Transport awaits. There is no need to stay in this place any further." Olivia took the hand and the salvation it promised with hesitant yet undisguised glee.

Freedom at last.

oOo

Moscow, Russia

Raisa Demidov clutched her child closer to her breast as she stumbled over loose piles of rubble. Brown hair flapped wildly around her face as she ran, boots twisting over unstable brick and masonry. She looked around wildly, panting, trying to see anyone, or perhaps more accurately, anything was behind her. Nothing. But was that a shriek? A howl? Some loose movement in the rubble? No. Probably not. Just her mind. But still… she had to keep moving.

Looking down, Raisa's expression changed from hyperventilating panic to calm warmth. Snuggled to her side was Georgy, wrapped tightly in whatever semi-clean clothing she could find for him. Caring for an infant son was not easy in the remnants of a war-torn city; it was made all the more difficult by the fact that this particular war-torn city was occupied by the enemy. Then again, there weren't any cities on Earth that weren't war-torn or occupied by the enemy. Raisa would take what miniscule blessings she could in such times. Being strong in the face of hardships was the most important skill in life, a lesson passed down through generations of her family.

It was too bad Georgy would grow up upon a devastated planet. It was too bad that he would never know his father. Raisa tried to force down tears at the thought. Leo, her husband, had been a policeman working for the city. When the Reapers came, descending from on high like evil gods, he and his comrades had done what they could to try and stop them. Failing that, they had tried to save as many others as humanly possible.

It did no good. The Reapers were too strong. Their forces were too many. The Moscow Police Department, as brave as they were, had too few officers and not enough equipment. The Alliance Marines themselves, with all their weapons, all their fancy armor, all their elite training, couldn't hold off the Reapers. What chance did a policeman with a sidearm have?

Yet Leo and the others had still tried. It was their duty. Nothing more, nothing less.

Leo had kissed Raisa, told her he loved both her and Georgy, and hurriedly gave them every scrap of knowledge he had on the city of Moscow. Where to run. Where to hide. Which buildings were the most secure. Where newcomers never looked. Where the police never looked. After he finished, he gave them one last, tearful kiss, then strode resolutely to his death against the Reapers.

Raisa wanted to believe he was still alive. Oh, she desperately wanted to believe Leo, her brave, strong, sometimes foolhardy Leo was still alive. Yet in her heart of hearts, she knew it was not true. Call it a wife knowing her husband, call it gut instinct, call it a connection between souls or simply being logical, Raisa knew Leo was dead.

But some parts of Leo Demidov still lingered. The knowledge of the city, the knowledge only someone in the police force could have, saved both his wife and infant child many times over.

Raisa was a survivor. Always had been, even before meeting Leo. She remembered her grandfather nodding knowingly at some of her ideas when she was a child. He was a survivor. Her mother was a survivor. It ran in her blood. Raisa was no fool, and her instincts, combined with Leo's knowledge, led to Georgy's safety. Well, as far as a child could be safe in such an environment.

At least, up until today.

They had been hiding in a small concrete basement; some storage facility, sparsely used. It was a good place to be. Warm, dry, sturdy, and with a few lingering cans of food. As far as spaces in the rubble of Moscow went, it was top quality. Both Georgy and his mother had been comfortable there for the time being, but only Raisa knew the good situation could not last amongst the horror of the Reaper assault.

Alas, her fears were proven correct. About an hour ago, Raisa heard the terrible rumbling, crashing noises of battle reverberating through the thick concrete walls of their hideaway. She knew what that meant: they would have to move. A hiding place was only safe so long that it was secret. If one stayed in a single place for too long, they would be found. It was a risk to move, of course, but that couldn't be helped. It was even more of a risk to stay in one location for too long. Raisa, ever the survivor, knew this deep in her bones.

So, taking Georgy to her breast, she silently slipped out of the basement. The brightness of the day made her squint involuntarily. The noise of battle, far closer than she thought it would be, made her wince. No longer dulled by soil and concrete, Raisa could now tell where the sound came from. She tried her best to avoid it.

However, as good as she was, as wonderful as her skills were, as helpful as Leo's information had been, she couldn't avoid everything. This was a city at war. Precisely who was at war, Raisa didn't know and didn't care to find out. She knew that curiosity was the most deadly of emotions. It didn't matter if there were Alliance or Citadel soldiers here, either: Georgy and her could easily be slain unnoticed in the crossfire.

Raisa thus went as far away from the din of battle as fast as she could. She twisted through alleyways, over the broken rubble of small stores and skyscrapers alike, always seeking to protect her son. That was what mattered. Georgy's safety. If there was a way to get him out, if she had the chance to sacrifice herself so that he might live, she would take it in a heartbeat. However, if she died, Georgy would follow. An infant wouldn't survive in this environment without a parent.

On her way, she had seen glimpses of Reaper forces. There was a Cannibal here, a group of Husks there. Many seemed to be moving towards the battle. Most likely they were moving towards any excitement, any noise, any chance at bloodshed rather than being directed as part of a strategy. Raisa would have laughed if she was not on the ground with them. Instead, she kept silent and kept moving.

Far more terrible than the minions of the Reapers were the strange creatures, black, twisted, and foul, that crawled the city streets. She didn't know what they were called; no one had named them before Moscow's fall. However, she avoided them at any cost. These… things… terrible in appearance, were all ungangly, with far too many limbs and weapons grafted onto their bodies. Some were more biological than cybernetic, others vice-versa. They all leaked pus, ooze, rust and rot into the once-clean city streets, soiling the planet beneath them wherever they walked.

Raisa avoided these at all costs. Apart from being utterly horrifying, they also looked to be incomparably deadly.

Mother and child were closer to the southern side of the broken city, trying desperately to make the outskirts before nightfall, when one of the hideous beasts seemed to pick up their scent. Raisa could hear it speak, if one could call it that: a grotesque mixture of inhuman howls, maniacal cackling, and corrupted machine-code. She realized she was close, far too close, to the monster.

Without sacrificing stealth, she moved as quickly as possible across the rubble of the ruined city, trying to get away from the monster. It seemed to hear her nevertheless, and a spike of cold fear entered Raisa's heart as she heard the beast move closer towards her position.

She had put all her skill to the test, using all her strength to carry her son to safety. She slipped across rubble and clear road alike, flitted through ruins and stepped over broken brick and glass. Raisa did everything she could to put whatever she could between her, her son, and the monster that was chasing them.

Thankfully it seemed to have worked. She could not hear nor otherwise sense the beast. Somewhere along the line, Raisa lost it. Perhaps it was confused. Perhaps she had gone through places it could not fit. Perhaps it grew bored and more interested in something else.

Whatever the reason, Raisa was thankful. She could be on the side of the city, safe, and away from the fighting. Perhaps the fighting, too, was a blessing in disguise. There seemed to be far fewer Reaper abominations prowling the streets today.

Looking down at her son (who, blessedly, remained quiet throughout the affair), Raisa realized just how tired she was. She had run for probably kilometers. Even though she wasn't an athlete, she was able to do it. She felt no pain. The only things she felt was fear of the creature and her love for Georgy. It seemed she was able to do the impossible with those two emotions combined. She gave a brief, silent laugh as she fussed over her son's now-squirming form. Yes, oh yes, they would survive yet.

It was then she heard it again. A grotesque mixture of inhuman howls, maniacal cackling, and corrupted machine-code. Turning, her heart and muscles seizing with fear, she saw the monster again. It prowled like a dog, masses of sewn bodies moving on four legs. Its head looked canine: a metal faceplate and elongated jaw, rusting and dripping with oozing black blood. Raisa clutched Georgy closer as the beast advanced.

It seemed to smile in animal glee, chortling to itself between hissing coughs. Raisa backed away slowly, looking for an opening. She knew it was likely she'd die here, eaten alive or mauled to death by the monster. However, she would take any chance given to her.

Without any sort of warning, the beast went into full sprint from a stopping standstill. Raisa might have screamed in fear: she did not know for certain. Her only instinct was to run, to run as fast and as far away as humanly possible.

As the beast got closer, its loping strides far outpacing Raisa's own, she smelt its foul odor. She could feel its rumbling, hear its excited howling. She closed her eyes, tears finally making their way past stubborn lids. It just wasn't fair. She'd gotten so far! Had Leo died for nothing? Was Georgy not to live? It just wasn't fair.

A moment before the monster's huge canine jaws closed around their two forms, the breath was knocked from Raisa by a massive impact. She screamed aloud, not in pain, but at the sudden unexpectedness of the feeling. She was embraced by metal; it was not hard or unkind, but seemed to pick her up. She could hear the beast somewhere behind her howling in outrage that its prey had been taken. The noise faded with spectacular sudeness. Raisa realized she was moving, whizzing through the air. Her senses, dulled by the panic, seemed to come back to her. She clutched a now-crying Georgy closer and opened her eyes.

She was indeed flying. Moscow receded far below her, the beast just a speckled black on the white-gray of the ruined streets. She held Georgy even tighter and looked around, desperate to get away from the dizzying sensation.

With a start, she realized she was being held in turn. She was in the arms of a giant man, wearing a suit of massive heavy armor. It was painted blood red with gold trim, and shone in the late day sun. The roar of jets sounded in her ears past the whistling of the wind, and Raisa realized the crimson-armored man had some sort of jetpack on his back. And… and… he was carrying them to safety, far away from the battle's din.

Raisa had no idea who this giant was. She'd neither seen nor heard of anyone like him. There was nothing in this universe that looked like… well, this. Craning her head to look up, she noticed his helmet was painted gold, and shone like a mirror beneath the brilliant blue sky. The giant turned down, still flying and keeping Raisa and Georgy secure in his arms. Red helmet lenses met Raisa's hazel eyes. Raisa wanted to speak, wanted to ask who he was, and opened her mouth to do so. The giant beat her to the punch.

"Know no fear, mortal," he said, a deep bass voice rumbling through the speakers of his helmet. "For today, you fly with the Angels."

oOo

Minsk, Belarus

"Dammit!" swore Cristina as she ducked back in to cover. She flipped a heat sink from her assault rifle. It fell, hissing, on the ground. Struggling and swearing, she inserted a new one in her weapon. Next to her, David kneeled and took aim above a jagged pile of broken rubble. Despite the gash in his arm, running red with blood, he still moved perfectly. It was the adrenaline, Christina knew. She was fairly certain she'd pulled something in her thighs or buttocks a while back, but couldn't feel anything but a dull ache in the region for now. Tomorrow would be a bitch, she was sure. If, of course, they survived 'till tomorrow.

David's rifle sang out, blasting away an advance party of Husks that had gotten too far ahead of the Reaper main assault. The Marine ducked back into cover, assessing his ammunition. Farther towards Christina's left, past David and hiding in a crater in the road, were Noah and Mido. Both wore their gray-blue Marine armor, same as her and David.

Unfortunately, neither of them could join the fight in full capacity. Noah was down; he'd taken a gunshot to the abdomen. The small Marine squad had to use what tiny amounts of medi-gel they had available to stabilize the wound. Mido dragged him to this new position, both of them moving in an awkward hobbling walk while Christina and David covered them. Noah had protested, saying they should get out, but the problem was there wasn't any out and they needed all the firepower they could get.

So Noah was sitting in the crater, wound better but still leaking blood, rifle and pistol next to him in case the Reapers shoulder overrun the frontal positions. Mido sat next to him, trying to work whatever engineering magic he could on his omni-tool. Christina doubted it would help. The Reapers and their strange dark allies had better technology than the Alliance.

They couldn't be hacked. There were rarely barriers to disable or override. Indeed, sometimes omni-tools and/or engineers were a liability rather than an asset. The Reapers and whoever their strange, powerful, dark and twisted allies were could track Alliance technological signals. Mido was trying his best to get out some sort of distress signal, but he had to go through dozens of steps to properly mask it. They might not have enough time.

Indeed, the enemy tracking their technological signatures was precisely how they ended up in this mess of a situation in the first place. The resistance on Earth, led by the legendary Anderson, had to jump from place to place, always staying out of the Reapers' reach. Anderson himself had fled Vancouver after Commander Shepard left Earth to get word to the Council. He went to New York for a moment, then to Libson, then to Hamburg, then Minsk, ever going east, trying to get away from the Reapers across continental landmasses.

What Alliance soldiers were still left alive on Earth joined him. Christina and her squad belonged to one such group. They were the usual multinational group of stereotypical Alliance Marines stationed on Earth. Their original posting had been Warsaw, but when Anderson moved to Minsk they moved with him. Though there was the old saying about eggs and baskets, many of the resistance members tried to stick somewhat close together; at least in the same country or region. There was another old saying about strength in numbers, and that was the one they subscribed to. The Reapers and their dark allies could overrun individuals. Large groups could fight them off long enough to escape to a new location.

However, the Reapers were canny, and had been able to track down the temporary resistance headquarters in Minsk. Anderson was out safely, thank God, and headed to Russia. Where precisely Christina did not know and did not need to know.

However, some Alliance forces had been embroiled in a confused melee in the ruins of the city streets. Christina's squad had been silently patrolling the streets, keeping a look out for Reaper forces, and were now unfortunately stuck. Plus minus a few members. Christina tried not to think about them. That would only keep her mind off the battle, and that wouldn't do. Their infiltrator, Maddie, could possibly be still alive (she was quite skilled) and coming for help. Hopefully. Yes, there were still further resistance fighters here, and yes, they could theoretically still get out, but that most likely wouldn't be happening. This was a normal fight against overwhelming odds, and it didn't look good.

"Here they come!" warned David, snapping Christina out of her thoughts. Both soldiers raised their standard-issue rifles to their shoulders and began firing.

The Reaper forces came up the street, their grotesque bodies slithering and slurring and making a mess of the once-pristine streets of Minsk. Christina spun right, laying down a burst of mass-accelerator fire. It smashed through a Husk, downing it. She adjusted and put a tight stitching through the next one in line.

They kept coming. Dodging, ducking, reloading, firing, spinning… that was Christina's world, senses blurred by the frantic pace of combat. Mido sat on his omni-tool while Noah struggled to get up, twisting and trying to make sense of the battle.

Christina hissed in silent frustration as a Husk ducked back into a building. Her shot chipped concrete inches from the creature's face. A miss was still a miss, though. With their dwindling supplies, every shot counted.

Unfortunately, the Reaper forces actually seemed to have brains this time. They didn't come in mindless waves, seeking only to batter down the Marines with superior numbers. Instead, they were flanking, covering each other, firing-and-maneuvering, and generally acted with a semblance of tactical sense. Dammit! Why? They usually didn't do that. Christina let loose with a string of profanity. Why did this have to happen to her?

"Eleven o'clock, four building up!" called out David. Christina blasted through a Cannibal and risked a glance towards his side of the street. She caught a glimpse of a black-robed figure huddled in the doorway there. Before she could swing her rifle and put a bullet in the thing's face, it moved, slipping behind a pile of rubble.

"What's that?" yelled Christina over the din of battle, still putting mass-accelerated rounds down the street. Shit, down to eight thermal clips. Far too few.

"Don't know," called back David. He didn't let up his fire either. To do so meant death. "But it seems to be controlling the other ones." Christina didn't know how he came to that conclusion, but she trusted David. Hell, she trusted her whole squad more than she trusted her own brother. They were all stuck on post-apocalyptic Earth fighting mechanical squid monsters. If she couldn't trust them with her life, she'd be dead by now. It was as simple as that.

"Makes sense," she replied. "Haven't seen 'em before, and they seem smart this time. Could be black guy back there making 'em that way." She only received a grunt in response as David ducked a Cannibal shot.

"Try and kill it if you can!" called out Mido from the crater, apparently overhearing their conversation.

"Will do," replied Christina. Made sense. Kill the black-robed creature, the Reapers became easier to deal with.

The black-robed being seemed to have other ideas. It only poked out of the rubble pile for brief moments to assess the battle, then went back into cover. Neither Christina nor David had the time to shoot at it. They were pressed hard enough as it was. Christina was fairly certain black-robe back there was directing more Reaper forces to flank them.

This was getting to be a worse situation by the moment. She sighed. Oh, well. She resigned herself to her fate. It was only luck they'd survived so far. At least she could take some down with her.

As Christina and David fired at the encroaching Husks and Cannibals, the black-robed being in the back, truly a low-ranking Dark Mechanicus Adept, poked his head from above the rubble pile.

Christina winced as a strange crackling hiss sounded through the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the black-robed being fall backwards as its head was blown off. A perfect shot, taken in the briefest fraction of a second. She took the risk to glance behind her, but was interrupted by a shout from Noah.

"David!" came the alerting cry. David spun left, only to see three Husks flanking his position. Noah, ever-dependant Noah, put a heavy pistol round in the first Husk's head, dropping it instantly. Before either Marine could react, they were interrupted.

Hiss-crack! Hiss-crack!

Both Husks fell, their heads blown off. David's mouth fell open for a microsecond before he remembered where he was and turned back to the battle. Noah slumped over, relieved, and clutched his side with a wince. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement.

"Christina!" he warned. There was more panic in his voice. Christina spun right, heeding his warning, wary of being outflanked, only to find a Husk already there, already lunging, and there was no way she could dodge, she would die here, right now-

Hiss-crack!

The Husk's body was thrown across the rubble barricade in front of Christina by the force of the sniper's bullet. She fell down in shock, muscles protesting against the terror of the Husk's sudden appearance and strain of battle. How? How was that possible? Whoever shot the black-robed creature, whoever shot the Husks next to David had proven to be at a nearly ungodly level of good. He (or maybe she; one of the best shots Christina ever met was a she) had shot a lunging Husk in mid-stride within literally inches of Christina with zero room for error. What's more, Christina realized whoever it was wouldn't have taken the shot unless they knew it wouldn't hit her.

Fumbling over her shock, Christina stood, muscles protesting, and rejoined the battle. David was right: the Reaper forces were acting as they usually did, coming in waves with the death of the black-robed thing in the back. Well, that was at least one good thing.

"Heads up! We've got sniper support!" called David. Christina layed down a carpet of fire, not even caring about using up heat sinks. There were Husks right in front of her, shambling forward towards the barricade, making good use of her momentary distractions. She got two, then three, mangling their bodies and shredding their heads, but there were two more too close and she had to reload-

Hiss-crack! Hiss-crack!

Both Husks dropped. Christina didn't even register it, only jamming the heatsink from her gun and replacing it with a new one. She hadn't caught a glimpse of the mysterious sniper and couldn't tell where he (or she) was firing from. Their weapon seemed to have some sort of suppressor; there was no boom or bang from behind her, only the hiss of the bullet whizzing past her head and the crack of its impact.

"Where's our sniper?" howled Christina over the fully-automatic fire of her rifle. She really wanted to know who this was. She owed them a drink. Or five.

"Don't know!" called back David. "Can't see anything when I look back!" That made sense. First rule of being a sniper was picking the perfect spot. If their shooting was this good, the sniper's cover skills must have been of equal quality.

"Mido?" she asked. She could feel their tech-specialist's characteristic shrug from her position.

"Don't know!" he replied. "Whoever they are, they aren't contacting us!" Christina frowned. She was all for secrecy and stealth, but it would have been better if they got the sniper on their comms channel to coordinate a strategy.

However, it seemed the sniper didn't actually need to verbally coordinate anything. They fell in a comfortable rhythm with the squad, picking off targets that were too dangerous or too close. If anyone had an oh, shit moment where a Husk got too close, it was instantly blown away. If a Cannibal took aim at David or Christina caught in the open, the pudgy, foul creature would drop. If anything came from the sides, it would instantly die.

Christina felt so safe under this strange sniper's protection that she didn't actually bother checking her flanks. Not the best of ideas, but she had to focus on the Reaper forces moving up the street. Just as she trusted David to handle his side, she now trusted the sniper to cover her back.

They didn't disappoint. Every bullet struck with perfect accuracy. No one in the squad knew where the shots came from. No one knew who the sniper was. But they all trusted whoever it was with their lives, as another member of the squad, and the sniper did not let them down.

Eventually, finally, extraordinarily, the Reaper forces stopped coming. Christina unloaded her last heatsink, now spent, from her rifle. Thank God they had been just enough. She had to use them past what they were supposed to go, but it all worked out in the end. Damaged rifles could be replaced. Lives could not.

In the sudden silence, Christina and David both limped over to Mido and Noah's crater and slumped, exhausted, on the sides. Christina took off her helmet and brushed a lock of sweaty hair from her face.

"Well?" she asked Mido. "Now what?" Mido opened his mouth, but never got the chance to reply. His omni-tool seized up with an incoming call. A voice broadcasted throughout all the squad's helmets. It was a deep, almost unnatural baritone, yet still soft and calm.

"Safehouse one kilometer due north. If you need help, just call out. We'll be there. Victorus aut Mortis." The call ended abruptly. The squad just stared at each other. What was there to say?

oOo

Beijing, China

Brother Rafen Turico of the Blood Angels turned and gazed through the ruins of Beijing. This was no new experience for a Space Marine. Indeed, to the Astartes and other servants of His Majesty the sight of ruined cities was nearly commonplace. Ruined cities, ruined buildings, dead bodies, blasted military emplacements… all of it was nothing new.

However, this was Holy Terra. This wasn't just some backwater world that some marauding xenos group had taken a fancy to. This wasn't even a world like Cadia or Armageddon, whose importance could not be understated but whose soil was invaded with dogged regularity. No. This was Terra. Birthplace of the human race. Seat of humanity's government. This planet, though it may not be the Holy Terra where His Majesty sat upon the Golden Throne, was still Holy Terra.

The sight of humanity's homeworld in ruins, destroyed by the perfidy of foul xenos, made Rafen's twin hearts beat faster in rage. He felt his acidic saliva build up in the back of his throat and resisted the urge to take off his helmet and spit. Such an action would be undignified for a Son of the Great Angel.

The Blood Angels strike forces had deployed in drop pods to Beijing after the battle barge Angel's Wings had destroyed a Reaper patrolling the center of the city from orbit. A Raven Guard team had gone before them to clear the way of any nuisances to the main force, then disappeared into the surrounding countryside to hunt down any more threats to the city. Rafen had respect for the Ravens: while other chapters might grumble that they weren't first on the ground, he was perfectly fine with having both chapters work their strengths to better slay the enemies of the Emperor.

The Raven Guard and Blood Angels did not have a history. While many First Founding chapters had a tangled web of ancient alliances and brotherly rivalries, the Ninth and Nineteenth Legions never met each other. They were deployed in different sections of the galaxy in both the Great Crusade and Horus Heresy. They never took part in any major campaigns together after they were broken down into chapters.

Still, the two Marine groups fell into a comfortable rhythm. The Raven Guard infiltrated, supported, and paved the way for the Blood Angel's shock-and-awe tactics. Their strengths supported each other. Neither held any animosity for the other. Besides, fighting together on Terra strengthened their resolve. Rafen had the feeling it was the beginnings of a rather grand alliance.

The Imperial combined fleet arrived over Earth earlier in the day. The Dark Mechanicum was being led by Kelbor-Hal; all loyal sons of the Throne were eager to slay that most despicable of traitors. From what Rafen could gather, Hal's flagship was an enormous abomination, nearly thirty five kilometers long. Such a ship could carve its way through the combined fleet like a chainsword through a gretchin.

From what meager intelligence a line-brother could get, Rafen knew the ship was not here. Apparently, the Mechanicus and their… xenos allies (the Citadel, though Rafen was loath to call them that) were monitoring Hal's ship. For whatever reason, it was in the far fringes of the galaxy. Why, Rafen did not know. He did not care to know. Such questions were left to his betters.

Either way, the combined fleet was on high alert, ready to jump the moment Hal's ship returned to the Sol System. It would leave the forces on the ground unsupported, but Rafen was confident. Were they not the Emperor's Angels? Were Lords Dante and Shrike not personally on the ground with them? Had they not all been in worse situations before? It was of no consequence. The sons of the Raven Lord and Great Angel would sweep away these vile monstrosities with the help of their Guard and Mechanicus allies.

As of right now, Rafen's squad was tasked with clearing Beijing. The major battle was over, with Guard reinforcements on the way to help take back the continent. It would not do to have any straggling remnants of Reaper forces linger and attack or otherwise delay the landings.

It was not the most prestigious of tasks. They should be out elsewhere, bringing the fight to the Reapers. However, orders were orders. It was not even a question to disobey them.

Rafel moved through the streets, past the charred corpses of half a dozen Husks. His brothers were in a loose formation in his general vicinity; there was hardly anything here that could threaten a Marine, but they were still close enough together to come to each other's aid.

There was a faint prick of Rafen's attuned senses. His helmet twitched ever so slightly as he regarded the faintest, tiniest, most miniscule but still unmistakably human noise coming from a nearby building. Astartes senses were good for a reason. Hefting his bolter and checking his ammunition, he cautiously moved forward into the building. While a stray Reaper soldier or two could hardly even dent his power armor, it still paid to be careful. He'd heard stories of careless Marines being brought down by less.

The building itself was still mostly intact. Perhaps rather surprising, but Rafen gave no thought to it. It was still ruined. Just less so than the buildings around it.

The door was somewhat stuck; Rafen merely pushed, his armor doing the work, and it came free with barely a sound. He stepped inside noiselessly. If a mortal were to watch him, they would be surprised over how quiet his movements were. Rafen snorted at the thought. Just because something was large did not mean it was incapable of silence.

The interior of the building was covered in a thick layer of broken plaster. Dust floated everywhere, dancing off rays of light coming through cracks in the walls. Part of the ceiling had caved in, and Rafen could see the outstretched limbs of a squashed body beneath it. The odor of stagnant blood filtered through his helmet. He swallowed, trying his best to ignore the smell.

The sound became clear once Rafen entered the room. It was a very faint, muffled crying. The crying of a child.

Sitting against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest and arms huddled around his face was a small boy, no more than seven years old. Rafen couldn't see much of the boy's face, but the Marine's keen eyes caught the glistening of tears past the child's drawn-up arms.

"Dad…" A muffled whisper sounded through the air as the child glanced up at the man crushed by the falling ceiling. Rafen didn't quite know how to react. In his grief, the child had yet to notice him. So, like any good Marine, he called it in.

"I have a survivor. A child," reported Rafen to his sergeant. All Astartes vox communications were scrambled and muted. To any outsider, it sounded like a faint series of clicks coming from the speaking Marine's helm.

However, the faint clicks were apparently loud enough to finally alert the boy to Rafen's presence. He started backwards with a gasp, hiccuping with the mixture of startled fear and tearful grief. Fresh tears came to his eyes as he shrank away from Rafen's massive armor-clad form.

Rafen glanced down. Ah. The boy was afraid. Astartes had that reaction on many people, even those who had seen them before. The Blood Angel stepped forward and crouched down to the boy's height. The child shrank back even further, feet kicking, pushing himself further against the wall. Reaching up (an action which made the boy flinch), Rafen's hands gently went to his helmet. The seals broke with a faint hiss of pressurized air. For the first time today, Rafen's face became exposed to the clear Terran air.

The child's crying started to die down as he regarded Rafen's distinctly human features. He had been afraid of the Marine's size, his heavy armor, his air of calculated and deadly inhumanness. But… this wasn't some monster. This was a man. A human soldier, fighting for the Alliance!

"Who…?" The boy swallowed, still nervous but no longer afraid. "Who… are you?" he asked, voice a whisper.

"I am Brother Rafel, little one," replied Rafel. The child's eyes traced his features. His face looked like that of his gene-father: pale skin, higher cheekbones, and a thinner face and lips. Unlike his face, his hair was much different. It was a light brown instead of the typical blonde of his Primarch and brothers, and cut to a reasonable length. (There had been many a good-natured argument over that in the Blood Angels' messes; Rafel was of the belief that shorter hair was more practical.)

The boy seemed to be mesmerized by the large-ness and newness of his face. Rafel smiled down in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"Come," replied Rafel. His sergeant had ordered him to bring any survivors to a central area. The boy looked over at the crushed body.

"Dad…" There were no more words to be said. Rafel stretched out his left hand.

"He is gone, child. There is nothing left for you here. Come." Hesitantly, the boy took Rafel's hand. Rafel locked his helmet to his side and scooped up the child, depositing him on his massive shoulder pauldron. Despite the current situation, the boy seemed rather delighted by this new turn of events. To Rafel, it was less about comforting the child and more about practicality. He didn't want to be slowed down by a mortal child's slow pace.

As they reached the central area (really a cleared out square with a Sanguinary Priest and some vox-gear set up), the child looked around in awe. He had a very good view, perched on a Space Marine's huge shoulder pauldron. A few other Marines mingled about, bolters clutched in their massive gauntlets. Sergeant Antriar was there, busy on the vox, relaying orders and information from the ground to the chapter fleet in orbit. Brother Petrar, the Sanguinary Priest, stood next to a crate of medical equipment, absently idly examining his Narthecium. Both looked up as Rafen entered the square. Sergeant Antriar went back to the vox, while Petrar stepped forward.

On Rafel's shoulder, the child shrank back from the Priest, only comfortable with the Marine that saved him. Rafel gently stroked his back, then handed the boy off to the apothecary, who in turn put him on his shoulder. The child turned back to Rafel with a whimper.

"What is your name, young one?" asked Rafel, trying to get the boy's attention on him.

"Haoyu," sniffled the boy as Petrar checked him over. The Priest moved up Haoyu's shirtsleeve, revealing a scrape on his arm.

"Little sting," warned Petrar as he ran a disinfecting wipe over the scrape. Haoyu whimpered and looked back at Rafel, trying to keep his mind off the pain and his eyes off the bloody gash. Petrar skillfully bandaged the scrape, then turned back to Haoyu. "Look that way," he ordered, pointing towards a somewhat-intact building in the distance. Haoyu's eyes followed. While he was distracted, Petrar put a needle into Haoyu's forearm. It was standard practice to check for any signs of infection or corruption.

Haoyu tensed at the sudden prick. Petrar's strong arm held him in place, preventing him from squirming. After a brief moment, the Priest withdrew the needle and handed the child back to Rafen.

"What now?" asked Haoyu with a slight sniffle. He curled up closer to Rafen's neck. The Marine raised an eyebrow.

Nearby, Petrar pressed a few buttons on his equipment, running the blood tests. There was no sign of infection. Good. Pausing a moment, then deciding why not, he inputted a new series of commands.

Rafen looked over Petrar's shoulder, astounded at the results that came up. The Sanguinary Priest turned his head to look at both Rafen and the boy.

Chance of gene-seed rejection: Extremely Low

Chance of implantation success: 95%

Rafen looked over to Haoyu, then back to the blinking monitor, then back to Haoyu. He didn't look like a Blood Angel, with his toned skin, round face, and black hair. Then again, neither did Rafen when he was a child. Physical looks didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. It seemed the inhabitants of this Terra had very pure genes indeed. Rafen's clear eyes met Haoyu's.

"Rejoice little one, for you shall go to the stars. And there, you shall become my brother."

oOo

Approximately Forty Kilometers North of Palopo, Indonesia

Ida panted as she pushed her way through the dense jungle undergrowth. She tripped over a root in the darkness and stumbled. Somehow, she still managed to keep her balance. Breathing heavily, nearly hyperventilating, she ran as fast as she could, feet slipping on the layer of plants that littered the jungle floor.

Around her, the various members of her party all ran as fast as they could. Some were gaining slightly on her; others, those too weak or unlucky enough to trip were falling behind. They were a mixture of family members, friends, neighbors, and barely-known individuals from the surrounding areas. They all banded together. There was strength in numbers, after all.

It seemed that particular thought went out the door in the situation they found themselves in. Yes, there was strength in numbers, but it was all useless against the forces of the Reapers. All the strength of the huge numbers of the Alliance military on Earth didn't stop the invasion. How could a group of civilians even come close to trying to protect themselves?

Ida's thoughts turned to despair as she ran, the howls and moans of pursuing monsters sounding eerily through the jungle night. A scream echoed through the air. She tried to ignore it.

Panting, breathing, stumbling, running, heart racing, chest pounding, Ida and her group stumbled into a small clearing. The faces she had come to know so well over the past several days all looked around in panic. Ida brushed a sweaty strand of black hair from her face. She sucked in the rich jungle oxygen, desperate to fill her lungs. She would need to run more. It was the only way to escape.

Behind her, someone screamed.

Howls and maniacal, inhuman cackles filled the air, echoing through the trees. It added to the already terrifying feel of a jungle at night. This wasn't a good place to be, but there was no other alternative.

Their party had escaped from their homes around the area and banded together to try and evade the Reaper forces. Ida was silently thankful that she was nineteen, her body still young and strong. If she was any younger or too old, she wouldn't be able to keep up. She wouldn't be able to outrun the Reapers. She would become Reaper food, just like the unfortunates who hadn't made it to the clearing.

Another howl… this time in front of them. Ida cursed under her breath and tried to swallow past a suddenly dry throat. A man whose name she did not know readied a puny old-fashioned automatic pistol in shaking hands. She gave a tiny, miserable, despairing laugh. Oh, they didn't even have mass accelerator weapons. Now they were surrounded, trapped in the jungle by monsters with no help on the way.

Of course there was no help on the way. While the Reaper invasion affected every person throughout the entire planet, the focus of both the resistance and those not on Earth were the major cities. Oh, New York, Vancouver, London, and Singapore fell? How tragic! How terrible! It's a blow to our culture, our people! The resistance must be sent! They must help!

In contrast, no one cared about them. Who knew where Palopo was? Hell, who knew where Indonesia was? Ida was sure half the people who didn't live in Southeast Asia only knew it as "those islands between China and Australia." They probably got Indonesia mixed up with the Philippines half the time.

Who cared about Indonesia? Who ever had? Well, the Portuguese certainly did… to exploit the natural resources of the islands. The Japanese Empire during World War II did… for the same reason. Hell, they treated the people worse than the damn Portuguese. But apart from that? No one. The Systems Alliance certainly didn't care. Indonesia was a feeder, a place to give resources to the great Alliance city of Singapore. That was the way of things. No one actually cared about any of the islands in the Pacific except Australia or New Zealand. No one actually cared about Central America. No one actually cared about the central areas of the United States or Canada: their farmland existed to fuel the cities.

No one cared about Indonesia. No one cared about the island of Sulawesi. No one cared about Palopo. No one cared about them. No one cared about her.

There was a flash in the trees. Ida caught a glimpse of a prowling monster draped in black. These creatures were far more dangerous than mere Husks. The people simply called them "abominations", for that was what they were. They howled and cackled, chortling out broken snippets of twisted screams and corrupted machine code. Ida glanced around her. More circling. More howls. Now coming from all directions. They were trapped.

Whoever had guns readied them. Their weaponry was a reflection on the state of the Alliance: while the big cities thrived and were brought to the future, the rest of the world was left in the twentieth century. Even now, the big cities had big, brave, strong, well-armed Alliance Marines to fight in the resistance.

Here they had Colt 1911's that were probably made in 1911.

Tears threatened to come out of Ida's eyes. There was no hope. Never in her life had she felt such monumental despair. It threatened to shut down her body. Already, her legs were unresponding. Why? Why? No one cared. No one ever did. No one ever would. Now Ida would die, ripped to shreds in the jungle night.

The howls became even closer, even more frenzied. Ida turned around desperately, seeking moving streaks in the treeline. The wolves were circling. The monsters were closing in.

Ida was barely able to react as one broke the treeline at a run. Those with guns snapped off quick, panicked shots. Most missed, and what few hit didn't seem to slow the creature down. For the first time, Ida got a good look at a real, living, breathing monster.

It had more than ten legs; too many to count in brief seconds of panic. All were huge and crab-like, made of rusting and rotting metal that gleamed dully in what faint light the group could conjure to displace the jungle's all-encompassing darkness. Its upper body was mounted on a spider-like underbody, and seemed to twist and turn in an almost lizard-like fashion. Ida shuddered. There was nothing natural about this thing or its movement.

Its head was a horrible amalgamation of a human face and lizard snout, almost as if the two had been stitched together. Upon the monster's torso were dozens of human arms and a few tentacles, all grafted and stitched to its back. They swayed and moved spasmodically, almost of their own accord while their owner howled.

The monster lunged at the nearest man, who desperately tried to backpedal. The monster roared in triumph and lunged.

Fast, nearly too fast for Ida's eyes to lock in on, a new blurred figure broke the treeline. It came not on foot, not at a run, but flying through trees at breakneck speeds. Ida couldn't tell precisely what it was, only a humanoid-sized blur of darkness moving faster than thought. The dull roar of a jet engine sounded in her ears, and faint wisps of fire came from the figure's back.

The newcomer collided directly with the monster. Shimmering claws slid from its hands and crackled with arcing lightning. It glowed blue in the darkness as the newcomer lunged upward, tearing the beast apart from abdomen to cranium in one brutal blow.

More howls. More shrieks. The monsters came on as one now, the wolfpack closing in for the kill. The blackened figure soared high above. Pistols flashed from his hips as a deadly barrage of explosive shells tore apart the charging monsters. The figure spun and dipped in midair, twisting to fire his dual weapons at a leaping abomination. They tore bloody chunks into the creature's torso, blowing foul-smelling intestines everywhere. It keeled over, dead.

Ida could now make out more of the figure. It was about eight feet in height and wore a suit of heavy black armor. Its helmet was white and beak-shaped, and upon the figure's back was a black jetpack of some sort.

Though, strangely, Ida could not make out anything else. It was as if the huge form of the newcomer blended in with the shadows surrounding it, the black of its armor absorbing incoming light. Whatever it was, it seemed to be of incomparable deadliness, tearing apart the most powerful of Ida's pursuers with contemptuous ease.

A monster raised a cannon grafted onto its arm and took aim at one of the survivors. The black figure was there in an instant, standing in front of the terrified woman… and took the shot to his own armor. He (Ida was beginning to think it was a he) lunged forward, jetpack whirring, and slashed diagonally across the monster's chest. Turning, spinning in midair with such a grace that it belonged more on a dance floor than a confused night battle, the armored man drew a pistol and shot another monster on the other side of the clearing. Both shots connected with the beast's head, blowing it clean away, stopping it in its tracks.

A group of three abominations, ignoring the puny survivors, charged the newcomer. The man instantly spun and counter-charged. Ida gasped aloud as he seemed to flicker in and out of reality, jumping from shadow to shadow with the aid of his jetpack. It was almost like a monster in a horror movie, except the man was on their side and fighting the monsters.

Reaching the charging beasts, the man ducked low, sliding, then came up in a burst of fire. He spun in midair, end over end, claws extended and humming with their deadly power. Spinning twice, thrice, claws ripped apart one beast's throat, then face, and shredded through the abdomens and heads of the second and third. They fell to the damp ground, howling in despair. Two died instantly; the man brought an armored boot down on the third, crushing its head in a coup-de-grace.

More shrieks. More abominations broke to the clearing. The black armored man was everywhere, jumping from shadow to shadow, flickering in and out of sight and hearing. Every move was calculated with terrifying intelligence and executed with sublime grace. Claws went to pistols then back again as the situation required. Monsters fell, torn to ribbons or blown to bits.

However, above all, the newcomer prioritized the safety of the survivors. Whenever a beast charged at the group, the man would be there, tackling it to the ground and punching claws through its head. Whenever a shot was taken at a survivor, he or she would suddenly find a black mass in front of them, taking the force of the hit upon his own armor.

A beast charged again, and the man, in midair, still firing, still taking out threats on the other side of the clearing, neatly hooked his leg around the survivor in the beast's path and gently tossed her to the ground. The monster missed its charge and snapped its head, confused. The newcomer flew up and unleashed a flurry of shots into the monster's back, breaking its spine with his explosive bullets and killing it instantly.

Suddenly, it was eerily quiet in the clearing. The howling and screaming stopped. No more gunfire lit up the sky; the midnight jungle belonged to the insects once more.

The survivors all looked around, almost as if fearing more beasts would come. Several simply stared, mouths agape, at the newcomer. He touched down in the center of the grove. The dull whine of his jetpack ceased. Ida studied him further. Yes, he did indeed wear black armor with a white helm. This time, able to see him well, Ida noticed a symbol on his left shoulder pauldron: a simple white bird of prey, wings outstretched.

Ida was startled by a sudden hiss of released air. The man's hands went to his helmet, removing it. Her suspicions were confirmed. It was indeed a man inside that armor. Weirdly enough, his head was larger than a normal human; it wasn't a normal man in the armor, but rather the armor was sized to fit this man. His hair was black and covered his head in a mop, and his skin was extraordinarily pale even in the darkness.

"Who… who are you?" asked one of the survivors nervously. Some huddled together. The more bold took tentative steps forward, approaching their savior.

"I am Shrike," replied the man simply. His voice was much deeper than that of a normal human, but still soft and calming. "And if you come with me, I will take you to safety." The group looked at each other and silently made a decision. Of course they would be following Shrike. He was the one who saved them; the only one who truly cared about their existences.

oOo

Mexico City, Mexico

His mother had always told him that angels were real.

Oh, to be sure, some of the other children had mocked him. "How could angels be real?" they asked, "They are nothing but fairy tales." Their parents had told them otherwise. Both children and adults scoffed at the notions of Heaven, Hell, God, or angels. They weren't real. How could they be? There was no proof of their existence, just ancient stories in a dying tradition from a book long forgotten.

His father had been slightly more skeptical of such things, of course. His father was a hardworking, very practical man. He did not doubt God based upon scientific values. Far from it. No. His father only believed what he could see himself, those things that he could mold and work with his own two hands. But still, Gabriel's father never scoffed at God. At any god. He thought doing so was wrong. Even the Spirits of the Turians, or the Asari Athame, or even the Cult Mechanicus's strage Machine God were respected. To do otherwise would be blasphemy. Gabriel's father might not have wholly believed in God, but he still feared Him.

Of course, there were still other children that believed in God. Gabriel saw them at Mass every Sunday. But from what whispered conversations he could overhear from his parents, apparently there were fewer and fewer of them every year.

Gabriel was young, only twelve (almost thirteen!), and did not quite yet understand the wider consensus and politics of the Alliance. He did not understand that religion had been largely given up by humanity after they first found evidence of an alien civilization on Mars. Other life in the galaxy apparently caused a crisis of faith and was counter to many major religions' teachings. But why should it be? Was God not still the creator of all things? Was sin somehow not possible? Shouldn't good tenants be kept? It didn't matter if aliens existed. Gabriel had been taught that all sapient species were created in God's image and likeness.

But most people disagreed. Religion was a thing of the past. The Catholic Church, once the most powerful organization in the world, was relegated to a flock of mere millions. Who had once commanded civilizations to conquer in the name of God, glory, and gold now only gave moral advice that was often swiftly ignored by an uncaring populace. The last bastions of the Church that once ruled the world were Italy, Central America, and parts of Spain and Poland. Much like any of their counterparts, mono or polytheistic, Catholicism and Christianity as a whole were on a steep decline.

Gabriel knew none of this. He only knew what his mother and father taught him. He knew he was named after the Archangel Gabriel. He knew the stories taught to him by Father Miguel, the kindly priest. He knew of Archangel Gabriel's visitation to Mary. He knew the Bible, he knew what was correct and what was not correct. But most importantly, deep within his heart, Gabriel knew that his namesake existed. He knew angels were real.

Right now it seemed more probable that Hell existed than the distant Biblical messengers of God. The Reapers had come to take their toll of blood from Earth. Monsters of metal had descended from the sky, laying waste to everything along their path. They killed without provocation or discrimination. All were equal in death. Though Gabriel did not know it, that was the point of the Reapers. It was little consolation to those on the ground.

Like all other cities on Earth, Mexico City had been laid to waste. The streets had been blasted by the Reaper's fearsome main weapons, the buildings crushed by their bodies. Nearly everyone who lived in the once-proud city, one of the largest in the world, was killed.

A few, a miniscule, precious few, were spared. Like in most times of crisis, it was all due to pure, dumb luck. Gabriel was one of the very lucky few. When the Reaper assault came, he had been within a secure side room of his school's basement. He didn't know what had happened; in fact, he thought it was an earthquake, a not-uncommon occurrence in the city.

Gabriel probably would have suffocated or starved in that room if not for an even more lucky occurrence: the room had a second exit. So Gabriel pushed open the heavy metal hatch, made harder by the debris that stood atop it. But he had done it, and walked out into a scene of utter devastation.

His school was destroyed, smashed to the ground as if it never existed in the first place. The buildings surrounding him were mere husks or rubble. In the distance, Gabriel saw towering squid-like behemoths, systematically destroying everything in the city.

He did not look back at the school or the bodies he was certain were beneath it. He did not cry. He did not go back home, for he realized that was a death sentence. Gabriel knew his mother and father would want him to stay safe. They could reunite at a different time. He didn't think of the alternative: he knew they would get out, God willing.

Instead, Gabriel had prowled the ruined streets of Mexico City, eating and drinking whatever he could scavenge in the ruins. He constantly avoided Reaper patrolls. Indeed, he almost got good at evading and avoiding Husks. It was a talent; a skill borne of necessity.

Still, it was a hard week or so. There was little comfort, and Gabriel always had to stay on alert in case Reaper patrols were moving in. The food was fine: anything canned or packaged in plastic would still stay good. Water was another problem. He saved what little he had, knowing that he would survive longer if he rationed. It was tempting to just gulp it down, but then what about tomorrow? You always had to think about tomorrow. That was how you survived.

Where would you go tomorrow? Where would the Reaper forces be tomorrow? What would you eat and drink tomorrow? That was Gabriel's mantra. Eventually, he hoped it would result in a 'how will you get off the planet tomorrow?', but that would have to wait. One tomorrow at a time.

Today, Gabriel was moving from building to building as silently as he could, trying to find any leftover and undestroyed scraps of food and water. His mouth was parched, lips cracked and dry. It was hot, as it was usually in the city, but there was no air conditioning to bring comfort. Everything mechanical was destroyed or beyond Gabriel's capacity to repair it. Instead, he simply thanked God that he had enough food and water; that he had survived for this long when so many others hadn't.

He crouched on a pile of rubble at the edge of a destroyed building, hand brushing against the remnants of a brick wall. In front of him was an open street. One had to be careful about open streets. They were good areas to move, yes, but that was where the Reapers moved. You always had to look very carefully before crossing. Otherwise, Reaper forces, hidden or patrolling, would catch you.

As Gabriel was about to cross, something caught his ear. A series of muffled thuds sounded through the city. How strange. What were the Reapers up to now? There was another sound too, a faint humming whine, nearly a distant roar. It was coming from the sky. Gabriel cocked his head. What was going on?

He would never know why precisely he decided to look up at that exact moment. Perhaps it was to see what the noise was. Perhaps it was because there was a crick in his neck. Perhaps it was something more. But, for whatever the reason, the sight Gabriel saw would be seared in his mind forever.

High above, silhouetted clear against a brilliant blue sky, were soldiers clad in brilliant golden armor. They swooped low, coming in gracefully down to the ruins of the city beneath them. Their armor was perfect. Utterly glorious in every respect, it shone magnificently in the clear sun. Upon each of their backs was some sort of jetpack. Each had metal wings painted white, spreading out like eagles from their jump packs.

From throughout the street, a series of howls and chitterings greeted these newcomers. Racing from the buildings lining the street were terrible monsters, draped in black and weeping pus, blood, and oil from wounds. Gabriel realized they had been lying in ambush. Had these newcomers not come, he would have crossed the street and surely been slain.

As the gold-clad soldiers came in low, Gabriel caught a glimpse of their leader. He wore armor of pure, solid gold, with carved abdominal muscles. An axe, crackling with holy lightning, was in his hand as he swooped low, bearing down from the sky upon wings of fire. He fell from the heavens like an avenging god, coming here to Earth to punish the enemies of humanity with divine retribution.

With a huge crunch, he landed atop one of the monsters, bringing it to its knees. His axe flashed out, slaying the thing almost casually. Turning, he spun, neatly beheading another charging beast with but a single blow. For the first time, Gabriel caught a good look at his head. Tears fell unprompted from the boy's eyes. The soldier wore a mask of gold, a man's face with a ruby teardrop lodged in the forehead. But it was the expression on the mask, an expression of such tranquility, of such nobility, triumph, and such sorrow that stole Gabriel's breath.

The leader's bodyguard landed, beautiful swords flashing out from their sides, laying low the monsters that not even the Alliance Marines could fight. They were gods of death, myths of legend brought to life to save humanity in their darkest hour. They fought magnificently, blurring too fast for Gabriel's mortal eyes to follow. In but a few moments, every monster in the vicinity was dead, brought low by the weapons of the golden giants.

Gunships screamed overhead, releasing more soldiers to free the city from their holds. All were these giant newcomers, wearing armor of magnificent gold or crimson. All wore jetpacks, streaking through the sky with the ease of birds and grace of warrior kings. In that moment, Gabriel realized his mother had been right.

Angels were real.

oOo

Codex:

Luis Dante:

Titles- Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, Lord of the Host, Lord of the Angels, Bringer of Sanguinius's Light, The Last Archangel, Lord Regent of Baal, Lord of Sorrow and Hope, The Last Light in the Darkness, Patron Saint of Triumph and Ear to the Great Angel

Luis Dante was born upon the second moon of Baal. The radioactive wastes of the moon inured the young Dante to hardship and tragedy, and at a young age, he left his home to trek to an outpost of the Blood Angels. Parched in the wastes, Dante only survived through the intercession of a winged golden figure known as the Sanguinor. Marked for greatness, Dante passed all his trials with flying colors.

Strangely enough, Dante was never destined for the rank of Chapter Master. While most who hold such titles, from the violent Gabriel Seth to the wise Marnius Calgar to the patient Kayvaan Shrike, were almost certain to gain control over their chapter from the moment they became officers, Dante was a simple line officer and was to be nothing more. However, an event known as the Kallius Insurrection changed that fate.

During this terrible war, nearly the entirety of the Blood Angels chapter was slain. With fewer than 200 brothers left, the Sanguinary Priests and Chaplains elected the only surviving Captain as Chapter Master.

Since taking the role of Lord of the Host, Dante has led the Blood Angels to their most glorious triumphs since the dark days of the Scouring. Many First Founding Chapter Masters are known throughout the wider Imperium: Logan Grimnar for his good friendship, Marneus Calgar for his wisdom, Jubal Khan for his boisterous cheer and swift deadliness alike, Tu'Shan for his kindness, and Kayvaan Shrike for bringing light into even the darkest shadows. Dante has a reputation similar to theirs, but while they are celebrated for their wisdom, kindness, and/or warfare, the Lord of the Angels is a distant, golden savior- a hero of myth come to life.

The oldest living Space Marine not interred in a Dreadnaught, Dante has served the Blood Angels for 1,500 years. He is an avenging angel, falling from the sky before his golden brothers to strike the first blow. He has fought battles uncounted, slain an infinite number of beasts, and stood by eternal legends. Indeed, one would be hard-pressed to find someone who has lived Imperial history longer than Dante.

To his fellow Chapter Masters, Dante is an exemplar of the fearlessness, dedication and strategic genius that speaks to the heart of the Space Marines' never-ending mission. To the hard-pressed generals and marshals of the Imperial Guard, he is a thrice-welcomed and honored ally who stands at the forefront of Mankind's defense. To the common soldiers and citizens of the Imperium, Dante is nothing less than a savior, a golden god who descends from the heavens on wings of fire.

And to his enemies, Dante is the Last Archangel, the Heir to Sanguinius, the man who is prophesied to bring hope to the Imperium and stand before the steps of the Throne to slay all comers in the Time of Ending. Woe betide any who cross the man bearing the immortal face of his fallen father, weeping tears of frozen gold.

Kayvaan Shrike:

Titles- Shadow Master of the Raven Guard, The Master of Shadows, Lord of the Trifold Path, Savior of Targus VIII, The Deliverer, The True Heir to Corax, Hope to the Oppressed, Terror of Tyrants, Patron Saint of Those Lost in Darkness and Ear to the Raven Lord

He who would become Kayvaan Shrike was born in the slums of Kiavahr, the forge world in which the Raven Guard's fortress monastery moon of Deliverance orbits. It was a hard life, lived in service to gangs amongst teeming millions in Kiavahr's hives. The young Shrike ran messages for gangers, where he learned cunning against those who were older and stronger than him.

Eventually, the Chaplains of the Raven Guard took interest in the young boy. He was taken to Deliverance, where he learned of his duty to the Emperor of Mankind and became one of the Raven Guard's most promising young neophytes. Shrike rose to the rank of Captain swiftly, and became one of the foremost masters of ambush among the Raven Guard. But it was on the world of Targus VIII where the legend of Kayvaan Shrike truly began.

Targus had been under assault by the Ork WAAAGH Skullkrak. After leading Raven Guard forces to destroy the Orks' orbital defenses, Shrike and his company were stranded in Ork territory after their transport was destroyed in near orbit. This did not deter the Captain; far from it. Instead, Shrike led a guerilla campaign across Targus for two years, killing Kommando patrols, sabotaging Ork factories, machinery, weapons, and rescuing human survivors wherever he could. After being extracted from Targus, Shrike was honored upon Deliverance and became nothing less than a savior and Saint to those suffering under the WAAAGH. However, Shrike returned almost immediately to the battlefield to continue the fight against Skullkrak.

Amidst the ruins of a dozen planets, desperate men beseeched the God-Emperor to send Shrike to deliver them from the Orks. Fleet Commanders and Lord Generals pleaded with the Ravens' high command to send Captain Shrike to their sector of the campaign. However, Shrike went where he was most needed; not to battlezones where Imperial commanders struggled to contain the Orks, but to worlds whose populaces had been abandoned by an overstretched and uncaring Imperium. Shrike and his men are legends upon those worlds, as revered as the ancient heroes of the Great Crusade.

Much later, Shrike would take the mantle of Shadow Master after its previous holder, Corvin Severax, was ambushed by the Tau Commander Shadowsun upon Prefectia. Though Shrike privately believed Severax was a fool who rushed into battle, forgetting the core tenants of Corax, he kept his peace. Instead, Shrike was hailed a hero for recovering the gene-seed of the fallen, further elevating his status in the chapter.

Now Shrike serves as Shadow Master, revered by his brothers and cousins alike as a patient, wise, quick-thinking, and cunning leader. He seeks no glory for himself, only for Imperial victory and salvation of the normal humans whom he has sworn to protect. On threatened worlds, Guardsmen clutch their lasguns tighter, knowing that every solar minute they hold is one more minute in which the Shadow Master might come and deliver them from evil. Fellow Marines greet him warmly, realizing that the stealthy ambush tactics of the Raven Guard often blend well with many other chapter's more frontal assaults.

However, beneath ravaged skies, amid broken terrain, the enemies of the Imperium keep a wary eye on the shadows, knowing that Shrike might just be lurking in the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

oOo

There we have it! I hope you liked it. Marines being nice, civilian perspectives... we have it all! Though I don't think it'll be a problem, I should mention that the last scene is me writing about religion in the Mass Effect universe from a character's perspective. In addition to that, I've been leaning really hard on the super-glorious depictions of the Blood Angels and Dante. I hope I'm not leaving the Raven Guard behind. They are my favorites, after all. The only problem is they don't like the limelight, so I can't write them in the same 'glorious Space Marine' style. Either way, I hope you liked the chapter, and the Marines being the good guys for once. Next chapter, we meet some old friends, make some new ones...

And Legio will walk.

It'll be great.