Transports had arrived to ferry the exhausted defenders to their respective rendezvous points. Considering their recent performance in the battle against the Grimm, the Lamenters had decided that it was only right to offer their Hunter counterparts a chance to glimpse their supply base. Of course, it would be understandable if their newfound allies refused.
"There is not much in our base to be interested in," Aethon had explained, "Besides the walls and the defense systems, there is only our armory."
Apparently, that was the correct thing to say for Ruby had interrupted him right at that very moment.
"We're going," she had said, eyes gleaming, and that had been that.
The Stormraven banks on its wings as it approaches its destination. The gunship's ramp begins to lower while it is still in midair. Wind gushes into the compartment as the Hunters are given their first view of Firebase Tempestus.
"That's not a base," Weiss breathes, "That's a fortress."
Dumedion looks at her.
"Are the two not the same in your culture?" he asks.
Aethon finds himself back in the command center. Besides him are his fellow sergeants, Braellin and Matreus. Their helms are off and in the crook of their arms as they stand at attention.
Captain Theosius and Epistolary Saphriel sit opposite of them. Their presence within the bunker is expected as members of Chapter command. What is not expected is the hulking form of Ancient Vaspasian, looming above the Lamenters officers. Such is the Relic Contemptor's immense height that even when half-kneeling, the top of its armored shell scrapes against the room's ceiling.
Theosius sets down the datapad in his hand and focuses on his gathered subordinates.
"I've read the reports and seen the recordings. But I want to hear it from you. Just what are these Hunters capable of?"
The sergeants share a look.
"They are exceptionally skilled," Braellin begins, "Talented in close quarters combat and accurate at range. They are also quite fast. Dexterous even. But it's when they use their Aura combined with their Semblance that they transcend from merely skilled to truly dangerous."
"One of the Hunters in my group could make wireframe replicas of our weaponry," Matreus says matter-of-factly, "Another took out a rotor cannon out of her handbag like a cheap arcanist's trick."
"They are this world's version of us," ventures Aethon, "They might not be regarded as angels or demi-gods, but their deeds are entwined with Remnant's perception of what heroes should be. The locals respect them. Even adore them. From what I have seen so far, they are worthy of that respect."
Theosius leans back into his throne.
"I've witnessed everything you've witnessed. Still. It is hard to reconcile. Aura. Semblance. It all sounds like some fairytale story to me."
"And with the things we've seen," Saphriel says softly, "you don't believe them?"
"I'm not saying I don't believe them," the Brother-Captain retorts, "I'm saying it's hard to reconcile."
"The blasphemy of the Tyranids was hard to reconcile," rumbles Vaspasian, "but once they were at our door we reconciled pretty damned fast."
Theosius inclines his head.
"Your point is taken, Honored Ancient," he turns to Saphriel, face an impassive mask, "Now that we have accepted these powers exist, our next question is simple. Are they warp-based?"
The mighty Librarian purses his lips.
"I do not believe they are. I have talked with the people here. There is no stench of the warp on them. At least, none that I can detect," the Epistolary hesitates, "But I cannot give you a solid conclusion. The warp is… strange here. Normally drawing my power from it would be like trawling through a great ocean. Great battering waves continuously assail you from all sides. Even a moment of laxity could mean being dragged under the surface. But here… there are no waves. The surface is calm. Tranquil. And I do not know why."
Theosius grunts.
"Very poetic, brother."
Saphriel smiles.
"I try my best, Captain."
"An inconclusive conclusion coming from a Librarian means bad portents to come," growls Vaspasian, "It means mysteries in the dark and mysteries in this universe are never good."
"I agree," Theosius nods, "Which is why we must be prepared," he turns back to the gathered officers, "When it comes to these Hunters, in a combat situation, how well do we measure up?"
Aethon frowns.
"We are planning to engage the Remnanites in open hostilities?"
"No, but I am planning for its likelihood. Should a scenario exist where open hostilities has already occurred, I want to know what it takes to properly overwhelm and destroy the opposition. So answer the question, Sergeant. In your view, based on what you have seen, what do you think it will take on our end to defeat a team of their Hunters?"
"What are the conditions?" asks Braellin.
"Standard topographical location," answers Theosius, "Normal weather conditions. Assume the enemy is as eager to end us as we are eager to end them."
"Support from orbit?" Matreus requests.
"Is a luxury. The Mater is too damaged for her guns to fully operate. Even if they were, they would be disallowed in this scenario. If we have to rely on orbital bombardment to take out a single meagre squad of theirs, then we have lost the fight already."
"Vehicle support?" Aethon enquires, "Deployment of esoteric weaponry? How concerned are we with losses on our side?"
"Assume our armor is engaged with their armor equivalents. Assume availability of armaments as per standard Codex deployment. Minimized losses."
The three sergeants glance at one another.
"A full Tactical Squad," Aethon replies. Braellin and Matreus nod their agreement.
Theosius's brows rise.
"Ten full-fledged Astartes against four mortal humans?"
"Ten full-fledged Astartes against capable warriors in their own right with abilities that we do not fully comprehend," Aethon shrugs, "And besides. You said minimized losses on our side. We could do it with the current state of our squads. But I can't guarantee you all of us will emerge unscathed."
"We don't have time to wage a conflict of mutual destruction," Saphriel points out.
"We don't have any full Tactical Squads either," Vaspasian grumbles.
"Quite," Theosius says musingly before facing his sergeants again, "I do not disagree with your analysis. But with the added caveat that these Hunters do not know war like we know war. That is an advantage. And one we will not hesitate to utilize should the need arise. The Emperor willing, that need will never arise. "
"With respect, Brother-Captain," Braellin begins, "if we aren't here to fight them and we aren't here to conduct them into the Imperial fold, then what is our objective here? Besides killing Grimm and more Grimm, what is our goal in regards to Remnant and its people?"
"That would depend on who you ask. The Ecclesiarchy always wants new converts. The Administratum would love nothing more to implement a new tithe. That would require them to have a presence on this world, however. Did you see any Administratum adepts the last time you were on board the Mater, Sergeant?"
The Lamenters chuckle among themselves.
"I can't say I have," Matreus scratches at his chin.
Theosius snorts.
"The Ecclesiarchy can likewise go hang. We don't care if these people worship the Emperor. Worshipping Him was what got us in this mess in the first place. No, matters of faith are not things that should be decided by Astartes. What matters to us is duty. Obligation. We are the Emperor's Space Marines. We are the Defenders of Humanity. They are humanity. So we will defend them. It is as simple as that."
"I like simple," smiles Braellin.
"But to do that," Theosius continues, "we need to find common ground with the locals. The better we understand them, the better we can defend them. The Remnanites have already sent their representatives to us in the form of these Hunters," the Lamenters Captain directs a look at Saphriel, "I believe it's time we reciprocated the gesture."
"A delegation of our own?" the Epistolary guesses.
"Indeed. Normally such a task would fall upon the ranking officer, but I have never been good with dealing with mortals. Their antics frustrate me to no end. You will go in my stead, Brother-Librarian."
Saphriel dips his head in acquiescence.
"It shall be done, Brother-Captain."
"Good. But you will need an honor guard. That duty will fall upon Squad Aethon."
The aforementioned sergeant grunts.
"This has something to do with rescuing that woman, doesn't it?"
"You said the indigenous population consider Hunters to be heroes. Now show them what the Imperium considers as heroes."
Aethon looks slowly around the room.
"It will be… interesting," he finally says.
"It will be," rumbles Vaspasian, "Which is why I'm going with you."
Team JNPR enters the building. The first thing that assails them is the odor. The smell is the chemical-rich scent of a surgeon's table.
"Hello?" Pyrrha calls out.
The sole figure in the room turns. He is clad in a full panoply of plate like every Astartes the student-Hunters have seen so far. The only discernable difference is the white vertical stripe painted down his helm and the helical sign emblazoned over his right shoulderplate.
"Greetings," he rasps.
"Is this the Apothecarion?"
"That depends on why you are asking."
"We were directed here. By Sergeant Braellin. He said someone in this building could help us."
"Then you have come to the right place," the Marine inclines his head, "I am Memnon, Head Apothecary. You have wounded, I presume?"
"Yes," Pyrrha makes way for Nora and Ren, propping Jaune up with their shoulders, "One of our teammates. We are--" she begins to say.
"Team Juniper," Memnon finishes for her, "Your names are known to me. I have been kept up-to-date by Chapter command," he peers at them, "You must have left quite an impression on my brothers for them to recommend you to me instead of a regular medicae."
"Squad Braellin had a lot of cool guys in it," Nora says happily, "I even got to use their thunder hammer. I still like mine better though."
Memnon grunts.
"Like I said. Quite an impression," the Apothecary peers at them before striding towards the only table in the room. As he moves, the bulky contraption wrapped around his right arm comes into view. Arcane sigils the student-Hunters can't read swirl over emerald green diagnostic screens, "Bring him here."
Team JNPR half-drags and half-carries their comrade over. They help him up into a sitting position on the operating slab. Memnon bends down and peels off the field dressing affixed to Jaune's shoulder.
"Just this area? Nowhere else?"
The boy shakes his head. He winces as the Lamenter begins examining the open gash. Pyrrha notes that despite the heavy gauntlet sheathing the Apothecary's hand, his fingers are probing expertly around Jaune's wound without disturbing it.
"The tear has ruptured your skin and the flesh underneath, but it has not compromised the main muscle mass. The arterial and capillary veins underneath have also remained undamaged. That is good. As such, we can begin the healing process immediately."
"Don't you need tools for that?" Nora asks inquisitively.
"All the tools I require are in here," the Apothecary taps the device clasped around his arm, "It is called a Narthecium. Though using it on a mortal will be a relearning experience for me."
"A relearning experience," repeats Ren.
"Indeed. I have not actually performed surgical operations on a human for quite some time."
"How long is 'quite some time'?" Pyrrha enquires.
"One hundred and eighteen standard Terran years," the Apothecary states.
"Good joke," Nora grins at him.
"I wasn't joking," Memnon replies briskly before turning to his patient, "Now, before we begin, please lower the palpitations within your secondary heart to prevent ancillary blood loss during the procedure."
"I don't have a secondary heart," Jaune groans.
"Ah yes," Memnon nods, "My apologies. I've forgotten. Instead, please flush any toxins in your bloodstream near the wounded area to mitigate blood poisoning. This can be done by control impulse via your Oolitic Kidney."
"I don't have one of those either," Jaune says helplessly.
"Truly? If that is the case, the healing process might require a more proactive approach... Please direct all extraneous breathing through your third lung."
"I only have two lungs!"
"That does make this problematic," the Apothecary fiddles with the buttons on his Narthecium and in response, a set of miniature saws and drills detach themselves from the bottom, "Do not be distressed. We will improvise."
The student-Hunters stare at the assortment of tools, none of which look like they belong anywhere near a human body at all.
"Are you actually a doctor?" Ren asks, "As in a real life doctor and not, well… whatever you are now?"
"I assure you that I am. I am merely out of practice when it comes to mortal patients."
"I'm starting to see that now," Ren deadpans.
"I am glad your vision has started working," Memnon says courteously, "But rest assured Hunters, that your comrade is in perfectly safe hands. The last time I operated on a human, the only mistake I made was reattaching his limbs to the wrong places."
Four pairs of eyes stare blankly at him.
"That was a joke," the Apothecary says after a pregnant pause.
"Ha-ha?" Nora responds.
Jaune raises the arm that is uninjured.
"Not to interrupt anything, but I'm still kinda dying over here."
"You are not dying, Huntsman Arc," his surgeon corrects, "The wound has only ruptured the outer layers of your body and left your primary systems intact. It will only prove fatal if it becomes infected, in which case you will most likely succumb to a combination of blood contamination and hectic shock."
"Gee, thanks. That makes me feel so much better."
"You're welcome. Now please turn this way so that I may begin the process of repairing your flesh."
The boy does as told and shows the gash on his shoulder.
"Hmmm. Yes," the Apothecary murmurs as he leans in, "This will be a quick and simple procedure. If you will, please begin activation of pain receptors in the wounded area."
"How do I do that?"
"By exercising your Catalepsean Node," the Lamenter says casually back, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
"What is a Catalepsean Node?" Ren asks for his friend.
"The sixth organ in the implantation process. It controls a variety of neurological functions within a Space Marine's body," Memnon pauses, "It just occurred to me that you don't have one, do you?"
"No, he doesn't," Pyrrha confirms.
"Well. That does make this awkward," the Apothecary's Narthecium has already lowered in anticipation, "I've forgotten human bodies cannot automatically shut down pain without outside aid."
Jaune stares at the menagerie of blades, drills, and saws hovering over his skin in dawning horror.
"Wait… you were going to operate on me… without giving me any painkillers!?"
"Do not be worried. This building is insulated to prevent inside noise from going out."
"That's not what I was worried about!"
"Could it be," Memnon surmises, "that you wish for a dose of anesthetic before operations begin?"
Jaune's mouth opens and closes for several seconds.
"Yes," the student-Huntsman finally says, "Isn't that normal procedure?" he adds an instant later.
"Not for us. Astartes physiology is forged to be immune to pain. Even when the agony is too much for our pain receptors to handle, most of us just grit our teeth and bear through it. But in your case I have just the thing. A moment please."
The Lamenter reaches into the pouches strapped around his waist and produces a dull metal object that gleams sinisterly in the light.
"My Narthecium already contains the necessary serum," he explains, "All that is required is a suitable vessel to transfer it into your bloodstream. A needle like this should suffice."
"That's a needle?" Ren states flatly.
"It is our version of one, yes."
Pyrrha stares at the implement in the Apothecary's hand. The 'needle' is as long as her forearm. The base of it is as thick as her wrist.
"If you stab me with that," Jaune says somberly, "I really am going to die."
"Only if the puncture wound remains untreated. But in hindsight, I can see why the application of such an implement is unnecessary on human patients," the Lamenter stores the spiked barb away, "Something like this is needed to break through the black carapace."
"Jaune doesn't have a black carapace!" Nora says brightly.
Ren looks at her.
"Do you even know what a black carapace is?"
"Nope," the girl chirps, "but I know Jaune probably doesn't have one!"
In the meantime, Memnon has produced another needle, this one slimmer and more normal-sized.
It is still, Pyrrha notes, unreasonably long.
"Hold still please," he instructs.
Jaune winces as the needle's tip pierces his skin. A clacking sound erupts from the Narthecium. The Apothecary withdraws his tool with a satisfied grunt.
"Excellent. I have injected you with our version of anesthetic. You should be feeling the serum's effect immediately. Be warned, however, that there will be side-effects."
One of Ren's eyes twitches.
"You tell us this after you've injected him?"
"What are the side-effects?" Pyrrha asks worriedly.
"The usual. Nausea, sleepiness, dryness around the mouth, and the sudden urge to confess your deepest and darkest thoughts."
"You're kidding."
"I am not," Memnon replies, "I believe the Inquisition uses a variant of this serum in their standard interrogation procedure."
Pyrrha starts when she feels a hand tugging at the hem of her uniform. She looks down to see Jaune's flushed face gazing up at her.
"Pyrrha…" her team leader croaks, "There's something… I need to tell you…"
The student-Huntress swallows.
"Y-Yes, Jaune. Anything."
"I…" the boy's eyes, to her delight, are staring directly into her own, "I…" then they promptly roll in their sockets as their owner falls into a deep faint.
"Hmmm," Memnon grunts into the silence, "My apologies. I do believe I hit him with a dose meant for Astartes."
Pyrrha makes a sound in her throat that she herself can't quite decipher. Her teammates stare at her.
"Um, Pyrrha?" Nora asks, her tone uncharacteristically concerned, "Are you okay?"
"Indeed," Memnon walks around the surgery table, "I have detected a noticeable change in your physiology within the last several seconds, Huntress Nikos. Your heartbeat has accelerated to what I can only describe as an exponential rate."
The tools in the Apothecary's Narthecium whir and clack.
"Are you in need of an operation as well?"
Team RWBY and their Astartes complement arrive before the armory. It's a mustard-drab compound with thick outer bastions. The double-headed eagle of the Imperium and the Chapter's own symbol are emblazoned over its walls. Besides that, it is an unassuming building in a firebase full of unassuming buildings.
Aethon punches in the command code besides the entrance. The doors slide open on hissing pneumatic pistons.
"Pinch me," Ruby whispers, "I must be dreaming."
Dumedion tilts his head.
"Is this a serious request, Huntress Ruby, or is this another one of your euphemisms?"
They step in. Rows of pristine boltguns greet them, stacked neatly in vertical armament racks. Magazines of all shapes and sizes are slotted next to them, organized by type and variant. Sickle-shaped clips for the standard Godwyn pattern, smaller straighter magazines for Tigrus patterns, heavy-duty ammunition drums for the Umbra-Ferrox variant. Beyond them are specialist weaponry. The sleek forms of plasma guns, the tubular barrels of flamers, brutish-looking meltaguns. All are all evident stacked against the armory's walls. And then armaments meant for Devastator Squads. Lascannons, multi-meltas, missile launchers and their corresponding warheads. Melee weapons in great abundance too. Chainblades of all patterns, power weapons sheathed in their scabbards, power fists and thunder hammers placed delicately over arming tables.
And all of this takes only one quarter of the armory's allotted space. The other three-quarters of the room are filled by weapon crates stamped with the sigil of the Departmento Munitorum.
While the Lamenters focused on saving human lives on a myriad of different worlds, their serfs and bondsmen had made desperate sorties on supply depots and ammunition dumps to rearm the Chapter. And when the number of Chapter servants dwindled, this thankless task fell to the Imperial Navy personnel the Lamenters rescued, piloting everything from Valkyries and Vendettas to bulk landers and civilian crafts refitted for military use. Better that these weapons be pillaged by Imperial hands rather than be consumed by the hunger of the Kraken.
"You are permitted to hold and examine Astartes-grade armaments," Aethon informs his charges, "but not anything beyond that. As for Guard-issue weapons… you are allowed a great deal more latitude."
"Define 'a great deal more latitude'," requests Weiss.
"You are allowed to test them and should you wish, draw from the current stock you see before you."
The girls grin among themselves. Malachiel turns towards his sergeant.
"Did the Brother-Captain really issue such a command?" he speaks into the squad's private link.
"I was also skeptical at first," replies Aethon, "but as I understand it, the purpose is diplomatic in nature. Supposedly, it is traditional for an exchange of gifts to take place before negotiations begin. Something grandiose to inspire confidence in our position. We have no such gifts onboard the Mater. What we do have is a great deal of weaponry and not nearly enough personnel to use them," he nods towards the slight figures already dispersing among shelves of stacked munition crates, "And if there is one thing I believe we share with these Hunters, it is the appreciation for heavy firepower."
As though to prove his point, Ruby has already pulled a slender firearm off a nearby rack. The barrel itself is longer than her arm.
"Aethon! Aethon! What's this?"
"Lucifer-pattern long-las," the sergeant answers automatically, "It utilizes hotshot power packs for increased lethality. It is the Guard equivalent of your world's sniper rifle."
"How far can it shoot!?"
"Two point four standard kilometers at pinpoint accuracy. Though it is not unknown for experienced marksmen to hit targets beyond that range."
Ruby makes an undecipherable sound. To the Lamenters' mild chagrin, she brings the weapon up close to her face and begins rubbing it against her cheek.
Her sister draws the Astartes squad's attention before they can comment on this strange behavior.
"Hey! This thing looks like it'll fit me perfectly! What is it?"
The Space Marines gather around her. In Yang's hands is an armaplas gauntlet reinforced by segments of ceramite plate.
"Power fist," Dumedion grunts, "Imperial Guard issue."
"Just like the ones you guys use?"
"The strength amplification is smaller," says Corien, "as is the area of the generated power field, but the underlying concept is the same."
Yang sheathes her hand into the heavy gauntlet. She flexes her new mechanical fingers experimentally.
"It feels clunky."
"Power fists are not meant to be subtle weapons," Dumedion says with a hint of amusement, "They are very straightforward when it comes to application."
"Straightforward as in 'I punch you in the face' straightforward?"
"Quite."
"Though you will need an external-mounted power source to use it to its full potential," adds Corien, "Something like this."
Yang makes a face as the youngest Lamenter holds up a backpack generator.
"I have to wear that to use it?"
"Correct. Otherwise the power fist just becomes a particularly heavy glove."
"I don't know. I think I can still go to town with a particularly heavy glove."
"The power field is half the reason you use a power fist," Malachiel speaks up, "The strength amplification is the other half. Both require extraneous power from outside sources. The power field especially. Weapons containing molecular disruption fields are renowned for their energy consumption."
"Wait, wait, wait," the blonde Huntress holds up her hands, "What you're telling me is that if I punch something while wearing this and the backpack, it'll dissolve?"
"It'll explode if the power field has been cranked to maximum," Dumedion supplies helpfully.
Yang turns slowly to face him. The look on her face has become remarkably serious.
"Let me make this absolutely clear. What you're telling me. Is that if I punch something while wearing this and the backpack. It'll dissolve, then explode?"
"A power field can have varying degrees of effect," Corien answers for his brother, "On a normal setting, it works by disrupting matter at a molecular level. On higher settings, it still works by disrupting matter at a molecular level. It just does so explosively."
Yang's expression has gradually changed as the explanation wore on. Now the grin on her face stretches from ear to ear.
"Alright," she nods towards the Space Marines, "I'll take it. One power fist and one power fist backpack please."
The Lamenters look at one another.
"While we do not necessarily disagree with your selection," ventures Dumedion, "Would it not be wise to choose a weapon that supplements areas you are weak in? We have noticed that you are solely lacking when it comes to long range options. Would a lasrifle or some other battle rifle analogue not be a better choice?"
"Nah. I think I'll take the explodey, punchey fist. And besides," Yang jerks her head back, "Ruby can help me make modifications if I need them. Isn't that right, Rubes?"
"Huh?" the girl in question glances up from the weapon she is currently admiring. Aethon notes that besides the Lucifer-pattern long-las slung over her back, there is now a Mars-pattern laspistol strapped to each of her thighs along with a Bosphoran hacking sabre hooked to her waist. She has also, in the course of their conversation, looped a bandolier of grenades over her right shoulder, "Sure thing, Yang!" she calls back before brandishing her newest acquisition, "Hey Aethon! What does this do?"
The Lamenters sergeant focuses on the weapon she is hefting with both hands.
"Kallibrax-pattern heavy stubber. It's a drum-fed variant designed to suppress the enemy while allied support move to flank. Its drawback is its susceptibility to jam after repeated use."
"Cool! But why does it have three barrels?"
Malachiel turns to look at her.
"Why shouldn't it have three barrels?" he asks.
Ruby blinks. Her gaze travels from the hefty firearm in her hands to Malachiel and then back again.
"Good point," she beams as the heavy stubber joins the long-las in being slung over her shoulder.
Weiss pauses from examining a nearby weapons table.
"I think I found something that shouldn't belong here," the student-Huntress holds up a small object that gleams between her fingers, "In fact, I think I found a lot of things that shouldn't belong here."
The Lamenters walk over. Arrayed before them is an intricate display box filled with jewelry. Gold and silver rings. Bracelets inlaid with precious stones. Necklaces worth more than the combined industrial outputs of entire frontier worlds.
"That looks like an earring," Yang says as she joins the group. The blonde Huntress grins at her teammate, "It suits you, princess."
Weiss rolls her eyes.
"Is it an earring?" she asks the Astartes.
"It is," Malachiel confirms, "It is also a digital weapon."
"A digital weapon?"
"Miniaturized weaponry concealed in jewelry or badges of office," Aethon tilts his head towards the display case, "This entire set belonged to a rogue trader plying the trade lanes near our operational area. Brave man, but prone to bouts of eccentricity. Unfortunately for him, he overestimated his own abilities and underestimated the Kraken's. By the time we responded to his calls for aid, his trading vessel was already wrapped in the feeding tendrils of a Tyranid Bio-ship."
"Wait," frowns Yang, "He? As in a guy? A guy wore all this jewelry?"
"Vanity and rogue traders go hand-in-hand," Dumedion rumbles, "This wasn't the only set of digital weapons he had in store, but it was the only one we managed to salvage."
Weiss peers down at the ear piece perched between her fingers.
"How does it work?"
"Hard to say," Malachiel answers musingly, "Most digital weapons are custom-made for their owners. They only activate when triggered by biological signals from their host. With its original owner deceased, the mechanical cogitators in this piece has most likely reverted to its default inert state. It will remain nonoperational until the logic engine contained within bonds to a new host, in which case it will continue to serve faithfully until the new owner becomes deceased as well."
"And how does it do that?"
Malachiel shrugs.
"Most digital weapons I am familiar with work on the basis of bio-transference. Should bio-signals from their previous master be unavailable for a prolonged period of time, their machine spirits will accept a new host once held for five standard seconds."
Weiss slowly, slowly turns to regard him.
"I've been holding it for more than five seconds," she says flatly.
"Congratulations," Corien nods politely at her, "You are now the owner of a digital weapon."
Aethon notices that Blake is leaning over a desk laden with a series of open containers. The sergeant detaches himself from his squad and strides over, footsteps heavy against the bunker's metal flooring. The faunus turns as he approaches. In her hands is a matte-black pistol with a built-in targeter. Even to the Space Marine's experienced eye, the weapon is beautiful. Silver embroidery flows across its surface. Complete with a sculpted Imperial Eagle near the barrel. The pistol's grip is exquisitely molded to fit a human palm. Its elongated muzzle strikes a perfect balance between length and stopping power.
It is as close to flawless as a sidearm could be.
If the look in Blake's eyes is anything to go by, she knows it too.
"Hellpistol," Aethon says as he nears, "Illium-pattern," the Lamenter meets the girl's enquiring gaze, "What it lacks in ammunition capacity, it makes up for with compactness and portability. Most Hellgun variants require backpack generators to use. This one does not. You won't get off as many shots, but if your aim is true then you won't need them. Judging from the ornateness, this weapon once belonged to either nobility or a high-ranking Guard officer," the Space Marine's eyes flicker towards the abnormally-sized bow hiding her faunus ears from view, "It's not meant for common soldiery."
Blake reluctantly begins to set the pistol down.
Aethon tosses her something. The student-Huntress instinctively catches them. She opens her hand to reveal small rectangular objects in her palm.
"Power cells," the Lamenter nods to the weapon in her other hand, "You need them to shoot it."
For you.
A series of crashing sounds causes all of them to turn. Ruby looks up sheepishly from the pile of weapons she has just accidentally knocked over. Aethon notes that there is now a Voss-pattern grenade launcher along with a plethora of ammunition pouches strapped to her chest. She has also, for some reason or another, affixed a Cadian-pattern flak helmet over her head.
"Sorry!"
Dumedion lets out an amused snort.
"There is such a thing as maximum carry load, Huntress Ruby."
"I know! But it's so hard to decide! Hey, Aethon! Just how many weapons did you say I can choose?"
"Did the Brother-Captain specify a limit?" enquires Malachiel into the squad's vox-net.
"He did not," Aethon turns to the youngest Huntress present. His answer is based on what he believes the correct answer should be according to courtesy and consideration for a culture foreign to the Imperium of Man.
What he has forgotten in his empirical calculation is Aura. Aura that can intensify a mortal's strength to many times its normal limit. Aura that can heighten a human's toughness to inhuman levels of durability. Aura that can increase the amount a fifteen-year old girl can carry into the realms of preposterous.
The Lamenters watch in slowly rising bemusement as the pile of weapons in the Huntress's arms grows larger, and larger, and larger.
"Should we… Should we stop her?" Corien asks when Ruby is no longer visible behind the mountain of armaments.
"Speak for yourself, brother," grunts Dumedion, "I'm actually quite curious to see just how much more she can carry."
"Indeed. For a girl of that size to possess so much upper body strength…" Malachiel turns to his Brother-Sergeant, "Perhaps telling her 'as much as you can carry', was in retrospect, the wrong thing to say?"
The path she is being guided along winds through most of the firebase. She's been here before in one of her clandestine recording sessions but it feels different now that's she's being escorted. There are two soldiers flanking her. One on each side. Tall, broad men in full combat harness. They belong to the Korith Lifeguard, a regiment Eveline has learned enjoys somewhat of an elite reputation among the Guard. They are what other Guardsmen call grenadiers and they look the part. Both men are bedecked head to feet in heavy carapace armor. Fully visored helms with respirator masks hide their features from view. In their plated gloves are compact hellguns, connected via thick cabling to power generators on their backs. They march a step behind her in perfect lockstep formation. Their fluid gait simply extrudes professionalism.
"Eyes ahead, ma'am," one of them says when she starts to linger, "You don't want to be late when it comes to matters with Astartes."
Eveline smiles in response. She knows when she's being chided, but the way the Korith had phrased it made it seem almost polite.
Their destination comes into view after they make a detour around a clump of bunker-habs. The Lamenters' air field consists of a solid quarter of their sprawling firebase. Foliage and vegetation has been cleared away as far as the eye can see to make room for transport crawlers and armored gunships. At the end of the path leading to the takeoff and landing pads is a solitary figure. Even at a distance, his size is apparent. Everything about him, from the oversized pauldrons to the tree trunk legs, portrays the being as something too huge to be fundamentally human. He's a giant, two and a half meters tall.
Eveline senses her escort hesitating. Her bodyguards might be grenadiers in the literal sense of the word, but even they register simple awe at the sight.
This is another eccentricity that she has yet to figure out. Some of these Guardsmen have been fighting alongside the Lamenters for years. Some of them come from regiments with histories longer than Vale has been a political entity. The Korith escorting her, if the stories they told were true, have been deployed to dozens of separate warzones in their lifelong careers as soldiers. Yet their behavior and the behavior of their comrades towards the Astartes border on the realm of superstition.
They treat the Space Marines as though they were something otherworldly. As though they were supernatural.
As though they were divine.
"Wait here," Eveline tells her escort.
The Korith step back, relieved.
"Good luck, ma'am," one of them says, as though she needed it.
"May the Emperor protect you," the other bows his head.
Eveline wrinkles her nose.
The Emperor. The god these Imperials considered their ruler and supposedly, the most powerful being in the universe. Her gaze flickers to the giant waiting patiently for her at the end of the path.
"As I understand it," she says politely back, "he already is."
The reporter begins making her way towards the figure. Saphriel smiles at her when she nears. The Epistolary inclines his unhelmed head.
"I'm glad to see you've made it, Miss Magnolia."
"Something like this," the reporter says back, "I wouldn't miss for the world."
The Lamenter chuckles.
"This way, please."
He leads her onto the air field. They pass rows of reinforced hangers as they walk. Eveline catches glimpses of the vehicles parked within. They are nothing like the sleek, streamlined forms of Atlesian airships she is familiar with. These Imperial craft are blocky and rectangular. With weapon mounts jutting out from every conceivable place. They don't even look vaguely aerodynamic. Some of the ships Eveline pass are literally battering rams with wings attached.
Two more figures wait for them near one of the landing pads. These figures the reporter is familiar with. You can't mistake the forms of Hunter Academy instructors for anything else. One of them is a slightly overweight fellow with a dropping mustache. The other is a slim man who wears a constant aura of being disheveled around him.
Eveline walks towards them as Saphriel stops to speak with a nearby group of maintenance crew.
"Instructor," she greets the first man, "Doctor," she says to the other, knowing his preference for the title.
"Miss Magnolia!" Port's not insubstantial belly quivers as he chortles, "A pleasure to see you here! I remember our last interview as though it were yesterday! You were still new to your job back then! Wet-behind-the-ears and so eager to learn!"
Eveline nods courteously. In her years-long dealings with the staff at Beacon, she has learned one thing about Peter Port. Namely that he will treat you as his student even though you were never his student.
"And how you've grown," Oobleck smiles at her behind the thick rims of his glasses. His hands are cupped around his ever-present thermos, "Those pictures you've compiled were magnificent, Miss Magnolia."
"Thank you."
"The one where the giant was cradling the woman with the children at his feet," Port says with another chortle, "That one was suitably heroic. So daring. So courageous. It reminded me of my Hunting days. Oh how gallant I was in my youth!"
"It's captured the imagination of everyone in Vale," adds Oobleck, "and most likely everyone in the other cities too. We've always wondered what lay beyond our planet. What's waiting for us out there in the universe? Now we know. People like us and the warriors who are their guardians."
Eveline frowns. Oobleck senses her hesitation.
"You've been here longer than us," he says, "What do you think about these Astartes?"
"They are very impressive," the reporter replies cautiously, "And as you mentioned, brave and courageous. But they are… different… from us. The way they speak. The manner they act. I can't quite explain it. Only that there is something both fundamentally human and inhuman about them."
"Could it be a cultural issue?" Port suggests, "We can hardly expect people from outer space to conform to our values."
"No. I think… I think they were made to be this way."
"Made?" Oobleck focuses on the word, "That's a curious way to put it."
"I put it that way, because to me, that's what it feels like."
Oobleck nods. A pensive look hovers over his face.
"They are certainly different from our own Hunters. But perhaps that is the point," the smile reappears, "The Guardsmen accompanying them are also quite interesting."
"Just interesting?" Port huffs, "The Fusiliers are my ideal beaus of soldiers! Perfect gentlemen, every single one of them! Who know the value of a good tale when they hear one!"
Eveline knows which regiment he is referring to. Even amid the cultural melting pot that is the Lamenters' firebase, the 15th Lennox Fusiliers are distinctive. The reporter has seen them moving around on patrol and lounging about when off duty. Their feathered shakos and almost too elegant uniforms made them look like walking anachronisms. Something taken out of a page from a history book or field manual. That, and each and every member of the Fusiliers maintained an elaborately groomed mustache to a religious degree.
They also told terrible war stories.
"We are in luck," Saphriel says as he joins them, "Our flight should arrive earlier than expected. One of our Thunderhawk transports will ferry us from here to the Mater."
The Vale delegation smile among themselves. The sheer significance of what is about to transpire makes them forget about their earlier discussion.
"To think, I, Peter Port, will be among the first people in space," the instructor's mustache trembles with excitement, "Just think of all the stories I can tell to the students!"
Saphriel turns to Eveline.
"It is my understanding that Dust technology does not work when it enters orbit. Is this true?"
The reporter nods.
"That's what our scientists say."
"Then I have just the thing for you."
The Librarian produces a bulky contraption and hands it to her.
"This is a pict-recorder I have scrounged up from our inventory. I believe picts come out the bottom after you've pressed the button."
Eveline stares down at the cumbersome object in her hands. Saphriel notices her bemused expression and smiles.
"Is something wrong?"
The reporter shakes her head.
"Nothing is wrong… It's just that… It's just that we haven't used a camera like this for years."
It is night when Jaune Arc wakes up on the operating table. Whatever the Apothecary hit him with had knocked him out of commission for the greater part of the day. The boy half-rises to discover someone had requisitioned a blanket and draped it over him while he slept.
The perpetrator is slumped by the base of the surgery desk. Pyrrha's chest rises and falls gently as she sleeps. Jaune hesitates for a second before removing the blanket and draping it around her shoulders. A few paces away from her, backs propped up against the wall, are the slumbering forms of Nora and Ren. The former's head is resting on the latter's shoulder.
Jaune smiles slightly at the sight. Then he remembers his injury and looks down. There is no longer a gash on his arm. He can still feel the dull ache of the wound but the stitching has been so immaculate that the gash is no longer visible. It would seem that Memnon, despite his eccentricities, was frighteningly proficient in his work.
But that would be an apt description for all the Astartes he's met so far.
The student-Huntsman's feet touches the floor. The aftereffects of the serum are affecting him. He's never felt this awake in a long time. He takes one last look around the room before making for the entryway.
The night breeze flits across his skin as he exits the compound. Nearby glow-lamps cast an eerie light over him. Jaune looks cautiously around. His first impression of the base was made haphazard by his teammates rushing him to the Apothecarion. Now he has time to process in detail what he's seeing. He begins to walk.
He passes blocky hab buildings and more reinforced bunkers. He passes automated turrets on mechanical platforms and artillery pieces dug into the ground. He passes groups of uniformed soldiers on patrol, rifles slung over their shoulders. Some of them glance curiously at him, but none impede his progress.
Sometime during his journey, Jaune realizes his feet are moving automatically. It's as though someone is guiding him. As though the path he is walking on is preordained.
It's not someone who eventually stops him, but something.
It stands behind a row of hab-buildings, a solid, threatening edifice looming above the structures around it. The sheets of tarp covering its frame attempt to but does a poor job of hiding its true form. It only takes Jaune walking closer to realize it's not an edifice or a structure at all. It has arms and legs and a head. A brutal, sloping helm that juts from the epicenter of its chest. Glimpses of azure and sable plating can be seen underneath the tarp. They gleam magnificently in the moonlight.
It is also, at the very least, three stories tall.
"What is that?" Jaune murmurs to no one but himself.
"It is a Cerastus Knight-Castigator Titan," the voice comes from behind him, "the Vengeful Sorrow, formerly piloted by Alyona Orhlacc, sworn to House Orhlacc, turned Freeblade. She fell in glory eight standard months ago, on the Plains of Juvenal. When the Tyranids could not overwhelm her by physical force, they resorted to psychic trickery. It took a dozen Zoanthrope broods to make her bend and a dozen more to make her kneel."
Jaune turns. He's seen Astartes before, the squad that was sent to work with his team, and more of them in the firebase. But the one that stands before him now is a different beast altogether. His suit of baroque warplate is more decoration than armor. Gilded twin-headed eagles. Beautiful idyllic script etched in quicksilver. The bleeding heart and teardrop sigils Jaune has come to associate with the Lamenters gleaming like polished gemstones. Complete with a flowing velvet cape in the most regal purple the student-Hunter has ever seen.
"We spent Lamenter lives hauling her Knight chassis back to our transports. Surrounded by the Kraken on all sides. Even against such odds, we could not allow the Great Devourer to defile her memory."
"I'm… sorry," Jaune can't think of anything else to say.
"Are you?" the Marine turns to face him. Golden leaves wreath his antique helm. Unblinking visor-lenses fix the boy with their merciless stare, "Why are you here, Jaune Arc?"
Jaune isn't even surprised the Astartes knows his name. They seem to know everything.
"If I've trespassed…" he begins to say.
"You already have," the giant points out.
The student-Hunter winces at the curtness of the reply.
"…then I'm sorry," he finishes lamely.
"That's twice you've apologized," the Astartes says, "and twice without understanding why. Is that a trait among all people on this world or just you?"
Jaune looks down.
"I think it might just be me."
The Space Marine tilts his head.
"Now you're being honest. But you still haven't answered my question. Why are you here?"
"I was wounded and--"
"Being wounded doesn't make a warrior wander the perimeter of an Astartes firebase in the dead of night."
Jaune has nothing to say to that. The pitiless vision slits remain fixated on him. It feels like his soul is being stared into.
"Or perhaps it's not the wound itself that drives you, but the act of being wounded."
The boy flinches.
"How did you know?"
"Being observant was once my foremost duty," the giant says, "A Space Marine Chapter is an army of a thousand heroes. Picking the heroes to lead the other heroes was always the hardest part."
Jaune nods slowly.
"I wanted to be a hero too when I first came to Beacon. Something like the statues they put up in front of the academy. But never did I think I would lead my own team. Not when I'm so… weak… compared to them. I mean, have you seen Ren move? He's so fast with his blades. Nora too. The things I've seen her do with her hammer. And Pyrrha. She's a champion. They're so much better than me and I'm supposed to lead them?" the student-Huntsman shakes his head, "Sometimes I wonder what they need me for."
His companion turns away. The gold-wreathed helm moves to stare off into the distance. Jaune feels a sudden sense of melancholy wrapping over his shoulders and he doesn't quite understand why.
"I asked the same question when I led my first squad," the Astartes begins, still looking away, "To be in a Chapter of heroes was one thing, but to lead a squad of them? That was something I felt I would never be ready for. It took someone much wiser and much older than me to reassure me I was fit for command. And when I inherited the mantle of responsibility from him, I remembered his words in every decision I made," the giant turns to face him again, "For a leader doesn't need to be faster or stronger or better than the warriors in his squad. A leader leads, Jaune Arc. Speed is useless without direction. Strength is wasted without purpose. And a champion is not a champion at all if she doesn't believe in what she's fighting for. That's why they need you. To give them direction. To give them purpose. To give them a cause worth fighting for."
Jaune smiles slightly when the Marine is finished.
"Thank you for that."
"Did it help?" his companion enquires.
"I… think it did."
"Good," the Astartes nods, "Though I do not understand why you've asked me this. You are the last person to need this type of advice, Dorn."
Jaune blinks. In that moment he realizes the diagonal lines across the giant's armor are not symbols of heraldry but crimson crosses hastily painted over coal black warplate.
"Um, sir? My name isn't Dorn."
The Marine's helm slowly swivels to regard him. The strained stillness emanating from his frame is the silence of a man fighting some inner unspeakable turmoil.
"So it isn't," he rasps and inclines his head in a final nod, "Carry on, Huntsman Arc."
The Astartes pivots on his feet. Before he can fully disappear into the darkness, Jaune catches florid letters embellished over timeworn parchment on one of his ornate shoulderplates.
Pieced together and they form but a single word.
Malakim.
Atmospheric ascent has not been kind to those riding within the Thunderhawk's hull. The shaking and juddering has done awful things to Eveline's body. Locked into a seat harness twice her size, the five minutes it took to exit Remnant's atmosphere was the sickest five minutes the reporter has ever felt in her life. Her only comfort is that the two professors sitting opposite of her look just as queasy as she feels.
She almost misses the tap on her shoulder. Saphriel's amused face hovers over her periphery.
"You'll want to see this," the Librarian moves to disengage the locking mechanism built into his seat harness.
Eveline does the same. Her legs are still wobbly but she manages to follow the Astartes through the gunship's inner corridors. They arrive before the pilot's compartment. The thick slab doors slide open on hissing, pneumatic pistons.
Any symptoms of sickness is promptly forgotten.
Beyond the Thunderhawk's cockpit is the void of space. A vast bleak canvas of nothingness. The dim twinkling of distant stars is the only light amid the darkness. In the midst of all this emptiness is a sight Eveline will remember for the rest of her life. It takes her a few seconds to fully process what she is seeing.
It's a planet. A world. Landmasses dots its surface. The rolling forest green of Sanus. The jagged, windswept surface of Anima. The winter ice of Solitas. She's seen them before. But it's different this time. She's not viewing these continents on a picture or a map. She's seeing them in real-time. At a height that steals her breath away. She's looking at the world, her world, as nature intended it to be. The sheer significance behind it stuns her. And the oceans. Bluer than she could have possibly imagined. The seas that lap against each continent are continuous waves of liquid sapphire. Set against the blackness of the void, they make the planet as a whole appear almost aglow.
Emotions she never dreamed of wells within her breast.
"That's…" she finally manages to say, "That's… Remnant."
Saphriel inclines his head.
"It is."
The rest of the Vale delegation has gathered behind them.
"It's… beautiful," Oobleck says softly. Port nods vigorously as he dabs at the corner of his eyes with a handkerchief.
The Lamenter chuckles at their reactions.
"I have heard a saying passed down among the Guard," he begins, "That the Departmento Munitorum promises new recruits many things when they enlist. Among them, glory and reward. But it's the sight of their own world as they leave on bulk landers that make them most loyal," the Epistolary places a hand on the back of the Thunderhawk's command throne, "Bring us about if you will, Sothis."
"As you say, Brother-Librarian," their pilot responds.
Their view of Remnant slowly fades as the gunship ponderously swings its nose around. What takes the planet's place is both a solitary and desolate sight. A lonesome shape, floating lifelessly in the void.
Eveline nibbles at her lip. A small part of her had hoped that whatever vessel these Space Marines had arrived in would be… different… from them. That the Imperium they had so espoused would be less warlike than its protectors. Yet as their transport steadily powers them closer, the true nature of the Astartes vessel becomes harder to hide.
It's huge. Gargantuan. A void-borne colossus of war. The reporter focuses on the last word because it's factually accurate. The thick ablative plating that covers the entirety of the hull. The crenellated battlements that consists of the ship's entire top half. The harsh contours of the prow. Every aspect about the Battle Barge is built for war. It's in the name. Battle Barge. A barge built for battle. In retrospect, Eveline feels foolish thinking it could be otherwise. It looks nothing like the pleasant passenger airships that occasionally ferried people to and from the four kingdoms. It's a floating fortress, a space-borne keep, ten and a half kilometers long.
Yet, there is also a certain beauty to it. Not in the same way that Remnant is beautiful. Nothing like that. But there is a certain dignity to it. A dark, gothic majesty that radiates outward from its hull. It's beautiful the same way a worn sword is beautiful. Regal the same way a battered suit of armor is regal.
Details emerge as they come closer. The indistinct shapes attached to the ship's side become weapon systems. Massive cannons lined in great broadsides. Longer and slimmer guns, mounted on swivel turrets.
It is with a distinct sense of uncomfortableness that Eveline notices almost all of them are pointed in the direction facing Remnant.
Saphriel must have sensed her unease for his next words are addressed to her.
"Macrocannons and lance arrays," he explains, "At this moment though, they are still inoperable."
The reason why becomes apparent as they power ever closer.
The vessel itself is in a terrible state. Massive gauges have been slashed across its hull. Craters the size of city blocks streak along its side. Eveline sees ruined battlements where weapon systems once existed, but have since then been smashed into wreckage. There are entire sections of the Battle Barge where its inner compartments have been opened up to merciless cold of space.
"Your ship," she whispers, "It's hurt… damaged."
They pass along a deep ravine carved across the prow that would have been a small canyon on any other landmass. It is as if some vast, tentacled beast had wrapped its tendrils around the ship and tried to drag it down under.
"What could have possibly done this?" Port murmurs.
"Something terrible," Saphriel answers him.
Eveline turns to him.
"More terrible than the Grimm?"
The Librarian smiles in response.
"One mystery at a time, Miss Magnolia," he says.
Something is drawing him to it. It's inexplicable. Unexplainable.
Jaune Arc looks up at the massive construct looming before him. His feet have automatically moved him within touching distance. An inner part of his mind knows that this out of the ordinary for him, but everything he has experienced so far in the Lamenters firebase has been out of the ordinary.
The engine itself is almost paradoxical in its appearance. Just by looking at it, Jaune knows that it is technologically advanced. You don't create something that large and that huge without advanced engineering. But there are parts of the Knight Titan that makes it look… primitive. The sloped, hunching pauldrons. The ruthless, slanted helm with its menacing vision slit. The winged animal emblazoned over the banner hanging from its hip.
No… another part of his mind thinks… Not primitive. Fuedal.
The Lamenter had called it a Cerastus Castigator. He had implied it was a variant. To the student-Huntsman's untrained eye, such a machine would not have looked out of place stomping alongside a column of mail-clad men-at-arms from one of Remnant's past, medieval kingdoms.
An unbidden thought makes him stretch out his arm. His fingertips tremble inches away from azure plating, daring him to commit the deed. With a final shudder of anticipation, Jaune places his hand over the thick plating surrounding the Knight Titan's leg.
Two things happen instantaneously.
The sheathed presence of Crocea Mors begins rattling on his back. At the same time, a creaking, lurching sound erupts from above him.
Jaune looks up and meets the baleful glare of the Castigator's visor lenses.
The student-Huntsman starts, then recoils. The Knight Titan. It has moved its head to stare at him. Impossible. Jaune is no stranger to engines and machines. He's seen the new Knight-200s rolled out by Atlesian factories and even beheld the larger war walkers supposedly embedded within their military force. But this is different. Never before has looking at a robot set the hairs on his neck on end. Never before has just watching a machine filled him with an eerie sense of dread. Every nerve in his body is telling him to back away but the sheer intensity of the Cerastus's stare has rooted him to the ground.
It's as though there is something within the engine beckoning him. It's as though there is something alive within the machine.
"Why do you profane the Sorrow with your unsanctified presence?"
The boy wheels on his feet. The voice belongs to a figure in flowing red robes. Cog-toothed symbols along with the same animal insignia stitched over the Knight's tabard adorn its frame. These are not the factors that most attract his attention, however.
It's the voice. There is a synthetic quality to it. An artificial blend of human and machine.
It's also unmistakable female.
"Why do you profane the Sorrow with your unsanctified presence?" she repeats.
"I wasn't… There was… I just…"
The figure is no longer looking at him. Her cowled head has turned to the Cerastus engine. She has noticed the change in its posture brought about by its sudden movement.
"So you've chosen," Jaune hears her murmur.
There is something hidden in her tone that the student-Huntsman does not like at all.
The newcomer turns back to him. There is a rigidness accompanying the motion. As though parts of her body are not entirely flesh and blood.
"I am Cydonia, Sacristan to the noble engine Vengeful Sorrow, formerly sworn to the Noble House of Orhlacc, decreed by Imperial Authority to hold the worlds of Dark Haven and Wychval."
The part of Jaune's mind still working in light of these new revelations understands the proper greeting for what it is. It also knows that his response will form the basis of a first impression not easily changed by subsequent acts.
"Hi?"
The boy winces as soon as the word leaves his mouth. Cydonia merely peers at him.
"You've broken it," she says finally.
Jaune looks from the Sacristan to the towering Knight Titan and back.
"I don't think that's possible," he says weakly.
"Not the Sorrow," Cydonia snaps impatiently, "Communion. You've broken communion with the sacred engine. Why have you done this?"
"Because I don't know what that is!"
The Sacristan steps closer. A slender mechanical limb emerges from beneath the folds of her robe. Gleaming, prehensile digits wrap themselves around Jaune's wrist.
"Then allow me to show you," she says and places his hand back on the Knight Titan's leg.