Gyrthemar entered the training grounds with a sour expression and his new chainspear resting on his shoulder. He did not like chain weaponry. They were far too unreliable for his liking, losing potency over the course of extended conflicts as they slowly lost more and more of their monomolecular teeth. More importantly, though, they lacked elegance. A Night Lord must always project a shadow of fear over their enemies, of course, and the crude, brutal design of most chain weapons certainly did that, but Gyrthemar could not help but prefer a more distinguished, refined visage for his close combat armaments. Those he faced should fear him, not what was in his hands. A piece of beauty to compliment the terror, one could say.
"You," a voice barked over the crowd. Gyrthemar looked up and mustered a grin as he saw an old friend glaring at him, a power scythe leveled and pointed in Gyrthemar's direction so that there was no confusion as to who he was speaking to.
Ajax of the Carnage Stitchers, unlike Gyrthemar, had not had his missing eye replaced with an augmetic. His hollow socket was a deep void of black that was left open for all to see. He stood just as tall as the previous time they had encountered one another in this same room, that microscopic hunch of feral desire to lunge and maim still rested heavily upon his shoulders.
"Cousin," Gyrthemar responded with a smug sense of cordiality. Ajax's snarl deepened.
"Look at what you have done to me, rat!"
Gyrthemar looked the berzerker up and down, noting the chainflail that still hung on his waist despite the new weapon in his hands. "That misfortune you call a face is no fault of mine," he replied. "I can only claim the eye as my responsibility. Though, that may be an improvement, if you ask–"
"I am not speaking of that!" Ajax snarled. "I speak of this curse you have laid upon me!" He thrust the power scythe in his grip forward. "Zasharr has given me a weapon of your dead men as punishment. I am marked by misfortune now!"
Gyrthemar stared at the weapon in confusion. He knew the scythe had once belonged to Lutyphian, just as he knew of First Claw's demise. He had not known that their weapons had found their way into that apothecary's armory, however.
"Where did you get that?"
"It was gifted by your brother, the warpsmith."
Gyrthemar's ocular twitched at the mentioning of Pyotr. He had no desire to think of that brother of his at this moment.
"Your superstitions mean very little to me," Gyrthemar said with a shrug.
Ajax snapped his jaws and marched across the grounds to come face to face with Gyrthemar, drawing the eyes of most of the other Astartes in the chamber. "You do not want a repetition of our previous bout, Night Lord. You will have no saviors this time."
The ship shuddered, the decking rattling under their boots momentarily before ceasing.
Gyrthemar chuckled. "I came here to train, World Taster. Not to crush fleas."
A shade of red close to that of Ajax's armor grew across his face, veins bulging and mechanical dreadlocks pulsing. The berzerker's grip on his scythe tightened and his other hand reached down for his flail. All across the rooms, Astartes mimicked the action by slowly going for their own weapons. Even Gyrthemar found himself readjusting the grip on his spear, wishing—once again—that it was Vindkaldr on his shoulder instead.
The chamber stood in uneasy silence for several moments before, like a held breath being released, Ajax let go of his chainflail and snorted with derision. "Worm."
"We're family, cousin. You should be kinder to me," Gyrthemar replied with a mocking smirk.
"I will die before I consider you any kin of mine," Ajax spat, then turned away to rejoin the ranks of his warband.
Gyrthemar shrugged, then looked to his own brothers. "Naduvion! Let us spar!"
In the days since committing to Warp-travel, Pyotr had been informed of strange, destructive noises coming from within the Hall of Mechanization. This annoyed him, for strange and destructive noises was, effectively, the heart and soul of that very chamber. Eventually, however, the flies buzzing about his ears grew vexingly insistent and Pyotr agreed to look into it.
It was displeasing to find that the rumors had been correct.
"Curie," Pyotr said as he watched the tech adept and her subordinates systematically dismantle the hull of a gray-painted war machine.
A binharic belch of garbled annoyances emitted from the woman's throat as her elaborate ritual was interrupted. She looked to Pyotr, waving for her fellow priests to continue before approaching him, oculars pulsating red before diminishing to cool, blue hues with an almost forced effort. "Yes, master?"
"Is this the dreadnought I slayed on Exodus Station?" Pyotr asked. He already knew the answer.
"I was not present at the battle," Curie said, her tone pleasant and misplaced, "nor was it cataloged in any battle report. Therefore, I cannot answer with any true certainty."
"It is," Pyotr said.
Curie paused, as if processing the statement. "Then your query was a waste of time."
He ignored the comment. "I did not authorize the machine's deconstruction."
"No, you did not," Curie agreed.
"Then why is it?"
"It was authorized by another party," Curie stated, her ocular bleeding to green, seemingly unaware of Pyotr's rising ire.
"Who?"
"You lack the clearance to know that. Apologies," she said, the stress of her remorse going no further than the word itself.
Pyotr's expression darkened as he took a further step forward to loom over her. "Excuse me?"
The techpriest did not flinch. "You lack the clearance to have your question answered."
"I am the master of this hall," Pyotr hissed. "All that goes on inside these walls is within my clearance."
"The authority who made this request supersedes you."
The motor of Pyotr's chainglaive sputtered momentarily on the lord discordant's back, and Tzimiti, laying upon its bed of skulls in the corner of the room, briefly lifted its head in curiosity. "The warband lacks an official captain or lord, there is no superseding authority over me."
"Not according to the catalogs, master."
"Who," Pyotr said slowly, the ground beneath his feet beginning to tremble—though that was not his doing, "is the master of the catalogs?"
"That is classified, I am afraid," Curie said, once again using the wrong inflections in her attempts to convey empathy.
"Then I would like to access these catalogs."
"You do not have the clearance, I am afraid."
"Who does?"
"I do not have the authority to say who does, only who does not, I am afraid."
Pyotr surprisingly found himself thankful when his rage and indignation was abruptly stolen from him by his tainted soul, as he feared he was very quickly approaching the point of spilling blood and oil.
He looked down on Curie, the emotions within him now frozen and numb. "I want an itemized list of all individuals aboard the Savory Wound that are not cleared to access the catalogs."
"This will take time. Perhaps days, due to my current assignment."
Pyotr looked at the half-dissected dreadnought once again. The adepts had made steady progress, but their need and insistence to perform the proper rites and rituals was slowing them significantly.
"Does the desecration of such a holy relic not bother you, adept?"
"This heretikal action does not weigh on us, but the one who commanded it," Curie said, but Pyotr noted that her oculars had taken on a red shade once again.
"I do not have the authority to ask questions," Pyotr noted, but held up a hand as Curie made an obvious move to correct him. "I do not have the authority to ask certain questions, but can I still forbid this work from continuing within my hall?"
"You may, master," Curie said flatly. "I would not recommend such a course of orders at this stage, however. The holy machine is far too ravaged to be repaired once more and to cease our assignment would be to waste it as a resource. Perhaps if you had attended to your humble servants more frequently then this travesty could have been prevented."
Pyotr grunted. Odd. Curie's attempt at being passive aggressive almost seemed genuine then. Almost.
"Do as you see fit, then," Pyotr relented, then frowned. The expression deepened as he turned away and found someone leaning on the frame next to the entryway of the chamber. The Astartes was staring at him—for how long was difficult to say.
Snk.
Ssshk.
"How woeful it is to find good help these days," Retrigan said.
Heat was an eternal, dominant caress within the fuel-loading station of the enginarium decks. It was pervasive and it was vampiric in its ability to steal the moisture and breath from any and all who entered it. Artemis found herself sweating through the thick fabric of her bridge uniform in a matter of moments of stepping into its harsh embrace.
She drew eyes as she strode into the room. It was difficult to maintain poise under the uncomfortable warmth and equally discomforting stares, but she did it all the same. She was an obvious outsider to these people. Many of whom weren't even present for her secret, traitorous meeting, but she was an outsider all the same to them. Good, she needed that edge.
Artemis found Jep at a cogitator array. His back was to her, and she couldn't quite make out what he was doing.
"What's all this?" she asked from over his shoulder.
"Monitoring fuel lines to ensure the pressure remains stable and no fluctuations occur in their…" the man trailed off as he turned to see Artemis, his eyes widening. "A-Artemis! What… What are… You shouldn't be here!"
Artemis shrugged. "Was getting tired of the same old routine up above. Figured I could lend a hand down here."
Many of the passing crew scoffed and shook their heads, some laughing at her. The ones that recognized her and had been present to hear out her plan of escape, they either glared or frowned at her in pity.
It had been several days since Pyotr had conscripted her into his personal service. Since then, he had called on her very little. Artemis suspected that that would change once they left the Warp. This was her one opportunity to win people over, regardless if current consensus still had her labeled as foolhardy and suicidal.
Jep glanced from side to side and began to pick at the skin around his fingernails as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "This is not a good idea."
"I know," Artemis admitted with a sigh. "I have to try anyway."
An arm that felt as if it were threaded with metal cabling hooked around her neck and shoulder, which was then followed by a barking laugh.
"Ha! She is persistent, I will give her that!" Brelja said. "The skalds say that the best hunters never give up on their prey, even when they waste more energy than what they seek will provide."
Jep glanced about nervously. "Brelja… Perhaps you shouldn't be so… so loud about such matters?"
"Bah!" the woman waved a dismissive hand. "I could be talking about anything! Besides, I'm impressed. I've never seen a bridge officer skip down from her high tower to slum it with us thralls. Certainly could learn a thing or two if she's going to be helping down here." The woman pinched Artemis's tough uniform coat and tugged on it. "This? It's going to send you to the infirmary in minutes from heat exposure."
"Ah…" Artemis floundered. Admittedly, she'd been expecting to potentially deal with hard, physical labor. She just hadn't anticipated the heat to be so much of a hindrance. Looking around, however, she saw that every member of the station's crew wore exclusively light tunics with short or nonexistent sleeves. Some even went shirtless, women included.
Brelja laughed again, gave her shoulder a hard jostle, then leaned up against the cogitator next to Jep, arms crossed over her chest. "I say we give her something to do, Jep. Let the other side see how things are for a change."
Jep sighed, running a hand through his drenched hair, then scratching at his unflattering beard. "I wouldn't even know where to begin. These things… These things can't just be… You can't just jump into them. There's training and safety measures and…"
"Come on, Jep," Artemis pleaded. "I just need something to do. Even if it's just carrying heavy things around."
"I'd personally like to see that," Brelja said, raising her hand.
"Well…" Jep mused, looking over his shoulder at the disorganized stack of metal pallets, rebar, piping, scrap sheets, and other such materials for repairs and upkeep in the corner of the room.
"Tell you what," he said. "No one's been wanting to deal with the Behemoth there. Resources keep piling up but no one's willing to make it neat. If you want to try to take a crack at it, then I won't stop you."
Artemis nodded. It was something. If the crew here saw her willing to see to their needs, maybe that would be the first drop in the bucket of getting them to trust her and take a risk on her ideas. Maybe.
"I'm on it," she said and turned with stiff, determined precision and began making her way to her task. Artemis could hear Brelja snickering behind her, but she just rolled her eyes when she was sure no one was looking. How much trouble could it possibly be to just move some things around?
As it turned out, Artemis was not particularly good at "just moving things around."
She immediately found herself regretting her decision as she approached the pile of detritus and realized that it was much larger than she had expected and it dawned on her the enormity of her task and why no one else was willing to make the attempt. The stack alone was perhaps three times her height and took up a considerable swath of the deck space.
Over the course of an hour, Artemis gave it her best attempt at disassembling the horrid amalgamation of metal and scrap, but quickly realized it was next to impossible. There was no uniformity to the mass and, in order to remove one item, she'd find that it relied on her to remove another one first, which was then somehow supporting another series of materials that, if left tenuous, might risk having the whole structure collapse in a potentially dangerous way.
That part Artemis actually found rather engaging. She enjoyed the mental stimulation working out the best solution and calculating what she could remove and what she couldn't until later—almost like a puzzle. It was the execution of her solutions that was the aggravating part.
Artemis was no physical specimen and found that many of the resources before her outclassed her significantly. That, coupled with the heat, resulted in her being forced to remove her uniform coat and continue working in the simple top she had beneath it as her arms, hands, face, and attire steadily became more and more tainted with grime and grease. Still, by the time she heard footsteps approaching to check on her, she was mildly satisfied with the meager progress she had made.
"I'll give it to you, girl," Brelja said as she tossed Artemis a canteen of water. She immediately began to gulp it down eagerly. "I thought you would've given up by now."
Artemis wiped some of the sweat from his forehead. "Not an option."
The fuel-loader nodded to her with an expression of respect. "They're talking about you." She gestured deeper into the chamber with a quick shifting of her head. Cliques had begun to form amongst the workers, many talking in hushed tones as they went about their business, occasionally shooting furtive glances in Artemis's direction.
"Good things, I hope," Artemis said, risking a smile as a small flame of hope rose in her chest.
"They're saying you're an idiot and that this doesn't change anything."
"Oh."
Brelja turned to her with an apologetic look, her eyes sad in a way that Aretmis had not been expecting. "I like you, girl. I do. But you need to give up. What you're doing is going to get someone hurt."
"I have to take that risk."
"You're brave, but you don't have any wits to temper it."
Artemis raised an eyebrow as she took another drink of water. "Should I be offended?"
Brelja snorted a laugh. "Oh, don't misunderstand me, you're smart, sure, but wits is what you don't have."
"What's the difference?"
"Don't know, I'm not smart enough," Brelja said with a grin.
Artemis smiled. Then she chuckled. Then she found herself laughing. "That's so dumb."
"Of course it karking is, I said it, didn't I?" Brelja retorted in between her own peels of laughter.
The two continued in that state for a moment, but were unexpectedly stopped as the ship itself began to tremble as if appalled by their mirth. The rest of the crew within the station halted what they were doing in unison, even waiting several breaths after the tremor had ended before continuing their work.
Artemis felt a sharp pain in her skull.
"Feel like the whole damn ship's about to fall apart," Brelja said with a grimace. "Blood of my ancestors do I karking hate the Warp."
The pain didn't stop. Artemis brought a hand up to her temple and winced.
"Everything okay, girl?"
"I…" Artemis gasped in pain as lightning flashed behind her eyes. It continued to grow in frequency and volume until there was an array of colors flaring within her mind that consumed all the darkness in a painful rhythm. The pattern was almost like music.
Music, or a symphony.
Without realizing it, Artemis somehow ended up on her knees, growling through the pain as she hunched forward. Hands grabbed her shoulders and Brelja knelt beside her.
"Artemis, what's wrong? What's happening?"
A phrase immediately popped into her mind. She wasn't sure why, but she, from the recesses of her memory, remembered that it was something her mother had occasionally used when she and her brother had been children—spoken just before something bad was about to happen.
"The great beast cometh," Artemis whispered.
Pyotr narrowed his eyes at his brother, then turned away. He approached one of his workstations and removed his helm, pretending to be more preoccupied with what was before him than for whatever trivial display the once-raptor had come to make to him.
"I'm busy," he grunted.
"Yes, I can tell," Retrigan replied. Even through the distortion of his helmet's vox, Pyotr could hear the cynicism in his brother's voice.
"Those were very pretty words you spoke the other day."
Pyotr simply grunted in response.
"Though, I cannot help but notice you never actually asked my question." Retrigan approached Pyotr's station of cogitators and warpsmith tools. His posture betrayed his displeasure as he inspected them with his eyes, keeping his hands far from even accidentally touching anything.
"You are not authorized to use this equipment, Astartes XR-6-2!" Curie chimed in. Pyotr had yet to dismiss the tech adept, so she remained standing in the exact same position she had been in when she and Pyotr had been conversing.
Retrigan looked at her for only a single beat of the heart. "XR-6-2?"
"Yes," Curie said without any further elaboration. Retrigan grunted but pushed the topic no further, turning his eye lenses back to Pyotr.
"Does it matter that much to you?" Pyotr said, returning the discussion back to Retrigan's initial topic, despite his best efforts.
"I'd rather know that my brother has a plan beyond sending us in droves to die rather than just a hope he does."
"You will have to make do with hope."
Retrigan snorted. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
"Because you said so," Retrigan repeated slowly, nodding his head thoughtfully. "Need I remind you that you were the one who began distancing yourself from Sixth Claw? We simply adhered to your wishes. Do not punish the warband because of your wounded pride."
Pyotr did not pause in his faux work. "I had my pride surgically removed by Zasharr five days ago."
"I thought you did not tell jests."
"I don't." Pyotr turned to look at the nearest hololithic display and stared at the stream of his latest scrapcode. He had not touched the design in nearly a year. "My lack of transparency has nothing to do with Sixth Claw, Retrigan. Vultures watch my every move now that I have taken the reins in this endeavor. I do not need Gargahl or Anras to swoop in and ruin things."
"And you would think sharing your thoughts with your Claw will result in that happening?"
Pyotr looked his brother in the eyes. "Should I not?"
He was not given an answer.
The lord discordant opened his mouth to insist that Retrigan leave him when, with rapid alacrity, Tzimiti sprung from its nest and bound to the front of the chamber. Retrigan unsheathed his lightning claws just as quickly—as if he had been expecting this to happen—but was left just as bemused as Pyotr when the helstalker darted past him and crouched defensively at the entrance to the Mechanization Hall. The daemon engine's limbs were tense, its maw and weapons bared, and a deep, haunting croaking came from within its throat to accompany the rising thrum of its generator-heart.
"Is this normal behavior for your… steed?" Retrigan asked, his helm half-turned so that he could look at both Pyotr and Tzimiti warily.
"…No," Pyotr admitted. "Something is wrong."
Pyotr stepped away from his workbench and, with heightened senses, immediately began to notice the subtle dip in atmospheric pressure and temperature within the room.
Without orders, Curie scuttled over to the nearest cogitator—which so happened to be the one that Pyotr had been at moments before—and began to access its contents. After a few moments, her oculars began to pulse varying shades of blue and magenta as a clicking noise rose from her vocabulator.
"Ah," she said with a casual air. "That is rather unfortunate."
"What is it?" Retrigan demanded.
"It would seem that the Gellar Field has failed."
Sparks flew as Gyrthemar parried the bestial attack from his opponent. It had only been a few minutes into their bout and chain-teeth already littered the floor around Gyrthemar's feet—much to his displeasure. Naduvion favored heavy, brutal strikes that forced Gyrthemar to strip his spear and lose lethality in half the time he would in a normal duel.
Reorienting, Gyrthemar made to strike forward, forcing Naduvion to step back to avoid the jab. He took the opportunity to take his own few steps backward, widening the gap between them, and began to further size up his foe.
The two brothers circled each other.
"Have you always favored your left hand?" Gyrthemar asked, rolling his shoulder.
"Ever since I was a child," Naduvion replied lightly.
"Well, stop doing that. It's annoyingly effective," Gyrthemar said with a grin.
Naduvion snorted, flipping the dagger in his right hand into a reverse grip while flaring the motor of his chainsword in his left. That sword was strong and crushing, yes, but the real danger was the blade in Nadvuion's other hand. If Gyrthemar became too distracted with protecting himself from the former, the latter would end their bout before he even realized it.
Licking the backs of his teeth, Gyrthemar raised his spear once more and readied himself to charge. The opportunity would never come, though, as, just when he was prepared to make his first step, a harrowing scream rippled from down the corridor and into the chamber.
Everyone within the training grounds froze.
"What the hell was that?" Naduvion asked.
"I do not know. Someone amusing themselves with a slave?" Gyrthemar replied with a shrug that was more apathetic than he truly felt.
"That did not sound like a slave, brother."
The air grew cold and Gyrthemar heard the scream again, this time layered with a second howl. Naduvion was right, there was something eerie about those sounds. It was only a few notes off, but distinctly tinged with something beyond human or even beast. It was like a noise grappled and pulled from the deepest, darkest pits of a man's nightmares.
It came again, this time closer, this time as a choir.
"Something is coming."
Gyrthemar grunted and aimed his spear at the door. The other Astartes within the chamber followed suit, readying themselves, forgetting about their matches and the imaginary lines in the sand between warbands.
A stampede of irregular claws and talons scrabbling along metal rang through the darkness of the corridor. It steadily grew louder, as did the screams. It drew closer and closer still until, inevitably, it was a cacophony of noise that screeched louder than the motors of the chain weapons all around Gyrthemar.
Then the flood came.
Hordes of horrid creatures burst through the chamber's entryway, infiltrating the room in the same way a drop of blood spreads through water. A storm of claws, fangs, and baleful eyes rained down upon them with a singular, malicious intent.
Gyrthemar heard a shout from behind him. "Neverborn!"