Pyotr was in a vexed sort of mood. The electric volleys of rifle fire sent forth by the slaves of the machine cult did not make it any better.
"Anras told us that this station was supposed to be only lightly defended!" Gyrthemar spat through the vox, his midnight armor spotted black with numerous scorch marks.
"I know, brother," Pyotr growled. The crack of bolter fire rang out from his pistol as he fell another skitarii pawn before ducking back behind cover.
"He foretold nothing of the mechanicus or those other mechanized dogs."
"I know, brother. You say this like our visionary's false prophecies are my fault."
If Gyrthemar heard him, he made no indication as he hefted his chaincannon, made an annoyed grunt and stepped out from behind their wall of cover, firing the weapon in a wide arc. Gunshots rang out through the corridor and another squad of soldiers collapsed. Pyotr had to grab his brother by the cresting wings of his helm and yank him back behind cover before he took another dozen blasts of electricity.
"How your armor is still functioning is beyond me," Pyotr grumbled. Gyrthemar only chuckled.
"Who says that it is?"
Pyotr gave him a flat look. "If that were so, you would not be standing."
"Would you two cease your insipid whining and help us," Retrigan barked from the opposite end of the corridor where he and Taresh continued their volleys of covering fire.
"It is not my fault that Pyotr lacks humor. One would think the opposite, considering–"
"Shut up," Pyotr said flatly, shoving his brother into the wall harder than necessary as the skitarii finished their volley so that he could return fire. He was beginning to remember why he spent less and less time with his claw during recent missions.
"Where is your pet, Pyotr? It would be quite useful right about now," Taresh said in his monotone voice that bore no accent of the sunless world. He was the newest member of their warband and also, by happenstance, Pyotr's least favorite brother.
"Busy," Pyotr said through clenched teeth.
"I would appreciate it if it were less busy," Gyrthemar said, shoving Pyotr's hand aside so that he could spit out another flurry of rounds from his reaper chaincannon. "We're burning more ammunition than we have to gain from this mission."
"Wait," Pyotr said, forcing his brother's gun down. The skitarii had ceased firing and were ducked behind their own ramshackle defenses of fallen debris and machinery. "Something is wrong."
"What is it?" Retrigan asked as he and Taresh pulled back behind their wall. Pyotr did not miss that all three sets of red eye lenses were fixed upon him, as if he should have all the answers because of a mere tangential relation he had to their enemy.
Pyotr opened his mouth to answer, but before he had the chance to vocalize his thoughts, a wave of metallic soldiers in red rose from behind their stations and began to charge the Night Lords.
"What are they doing?" Taresh asked, looking at the charging squad with incredulity.
"I knew the machine cult was mad, not moronic," Gyrthemar chuckled, dropping his weapon and drawing forth the ornamented spear he had looted from the corpse of a Space Wolf. He proceeded to bound forth and meet the skitarii in their charge, skewering two of them and crushing the chest of a third with a ceramite-enhanced kick.
"I hate when he does this," Retrigan sighed. He shook his head and followed after his brother, lightning claws already extended and arcing with power. Taresh dutifully followed after him.
Idiots, Pyotr thought with annoyance, watching them as they cleaved down the first squad, only to be met by a second, and then a third. He could leave them to die, never have to deal with the burden of them weighing him down again. Pyotr relished the idea for a moment. Then sighed to himself and ran out to support them.
He took the head off one skitarii with his chainglaive, then pierced the heart of another with the speared-tip of his mechadendrite limb just as it was about to deliver a likely ineffective blow to Taresh.
"It's like fighting children," Gyrthemar laughed. "Look how they're running away!"
He wasn't wrong. Pyotr watched as the remaining rangers disengaged, a few of them being cut down by a spear thrust or chainsword swipe. They retreated back down the hall in a hurry. Strange, even through the robotic and rote way they moved, there was a certain desperation to get away, to get back to their defenses where…
Where a long-barreled cannon had peaked up from behind one of their supports, its interior burning with molten orange light.
"Gyrthemar," Pyotr said.
"Yes, brother?"
"I want you to know that I will die hating you."
"Understood, brother."
Pyotr and his claw belatedly turned to dive out of the line of fire of the cannon, knowing full well that it was far too late as it roared to life. Just as the moment of anticipation grew to a crescendo and Pyotr knew he was soon to perish, he heard the frantic scream of metal rapidly scraping along metal and the rhythmic thumping of a walking war drum.
Half the skitarii fortifications went up in dark flames alongside the soldiers cowering behind them that were now becoming nothing more than slag. The ferrumite cannon was crushed by the armored bulk of a lashing tail, and the last remaining soldiers were cut down by half a dozen serrated and bladed limbs. It was over in a matter of moments, but the helstalker continued to pulverize downwards with its forelimbs repeatedly until it was satisfied, then looked up at Pyotr for approval.
"Fortunate timing," Taresh said, not a hint of emotion behind his words.
"I suppose," Retrigan replied, eyeing Tzimiti—and then Pyotr—with unease.
The helstalker slithered out from behind the mechanicus roadblock, crushing multiple fortifications as it did so, and came up to Pyotr, forcing its face up to his while maintaining eye contact. The daemon engine did not like to be ignored.
"Thank you, Tzimiti," Pyotr said, then grasped the side of the entity's hull, lifting himself up and into the throne on its back.
"So, that's it?" Gyrthemar said, spreading his arms. "You're leaving us now?"
"Yes," Pyotr said.
Gyrthemar huffed but Taresh looked the deamon engine up and down. "What was it doing?" Pyotr pretended not to hear as he pulled upon his steed's reins and directed it to turn around. "Pyotr, you said it was busy. Why?"
Pyotr glanced back at his claw from over his shoulder. "Other, stronger denizens of the machine god's cult haunt this station."
"And?" Gyrthemar scoffed as he collected his chaincannon.
Beneath his helm, Pyotr sneered. He kicked Tzimiti into motion and began riding deeper into the facility.
"And I have unfinished business."
Pyotr rode through the corridors of Exodus station, allowing Tzimiti to guide their path. Around him, the facility burned with the toll of battle and the walls groaned for mercy. He idly swept his chainglaive through the air, bisecting a fleeing worker who chose the wrong time to come out of hiding. His last words were a scream of fear, his last thoughts were ones of pitiful pleas to his God-Emperor. It meant nothing to Pyotr.
His gaze lingered on the corpse as they rode past, a frown forming upon his lips. "I once drowned in the bliss of the terror that I wrought," Pyotr said aloud to no one in particular. "Now it takes so much for even a twinge of that joy. What changed within me?"
Tzimiti's chassis rumbled beneath Pyotr in response. They both knew the answer to that question. Pyotr simply didn't want to speak it.
Occasionally, they passed other claws prowling about the station, quickly outpacing them due to Tzimiti's powerfully mechanized limbs. Some hailed him on the vox, others gave him signs of disgust or spat at the ground in his direction, but most just ignored him outright. Pyotr didn't care, he knew that the winged skull he wore upon his armor meant less and less to his brothers as the years blended into decades that twisted into centuries. He knew that one day he'd find a knife planted firmly in his back—likely several.
Tzimiti came to an abrupt halt that nearly threw Pyotr from his throne. They'd reached an intersection in the corridor and the helstalker's bulk pointed forward, in the direction it knew it was meant to go, but its head craned to the left, eyes locked upon something that had its maw gurgling and cooing in desire. Pyotr followed the thing's gaze, seeing a stationary kastelan robot standing in solemn silence, its operating tech adept lying dead at its feet. The daemon engine yearned to tear into the defenseless machine and engorge itself on its screaming machine spirit. Pyotr closed his eyes and almost gave into the urge to allow Tzimiti to do so, but steeled himself against the thought and whipped the reins.
"Soon, Tzimiti. Soon," he promised. The helstalker's form vibrated in disappointment but continued, picking up speed until it burst into an enormous chamber. And into madness.
Battle raged from every direction that Pyotr could see. As far as he could tell, the room was meant to be a laboratory or workshop for the adepts of the station, but hardly any of that remained in the frenzy that had ensued. Battle lines had long since broken, squads and claws lambasting into one another with whatever they saw fit between ranged firepower and melee strikes. Mechanicus in red sent volley after volley into marines in midnight clad, or were carried off and shredded by cackling raptors. Dogs of the emperor in gray ceramite engaged in desperate contests of strength, their servo-arms and axes reducing the Night Lords' numbers at an alarming rate. Pyotr scanned the battlefield and almost immediately spotted Anras driving a power sword through the hearts of a rival marine and kicking his weapon free from the body. He forged a vox link.
"Pyotr?" the visionary asked.
"It is I, brother," Pyotr responded.
"About damn time. We could've used that beast of yours ages ago."
"This ammunition raid is a failure."
Anras's head turned toward him, ruby eyes glinting in the flashes of bolter fire surrounding him. "I foresaw our success. Doubt me and I will rend you—helstalker or not."
Pyotr was about to comment on how Anras had also foreseen no interference from the mechanicus or their bionics-obsessed cousins, but a loud crash stopped him.
In the center of the room, a dreadnought in rat-fur gray grappled with a hulking daemonic figure, batlike wings spread out wide and his midnight power armor barely doing anything more than adorning his upper chest.
"It would seem that Gargahl is in need of help. Again." Anras said, his voice dripping with smug glee.
"Leave it to me," Pyotr replied, not noticing the hollowness in his own voice or the way Tzimiti pawed at the ground in anticipation. He flicked the reins and they charged the entombed marine.
As they drew near, Tzimiti leapt into the air, colliding with the dreadnought's armor, the helstalker's limbs slicing into the metal to find purchase. It scrambled up onto the dreadnought's shoulders, letting out a torrent from its baleflamer as Pyotr revved his chainglaive and began to carve himself an opening.
"What is this?" Gargahl wheezed, arms still locked with that of the dreadnought's. The daemon prince had clearly suffered punishment, but he bore it with an infuriating level of tenacity. Just as he always did. "This is my glory to be had, brother!"
Pyotr was too focused on his task to respond. He continued cutting away at the dreadnought's armor, made soft by Tzimiti's daemonic flames. Once satisfied, he gripped hold of the layer of metal and pulled it back, muscles straining, to reveal the inner-workings beneath. Tzimiti eagerly ceased its torrent and extended its neck forward, daemonic flesh and mandibles revealing themselves as it latched on and began injecting its techno-virus into the circuity of the dreadnought.
The mighty war machine spasmed like a man who's veins had been lit aflame and frantically pulled itself from Gargahl, spinning around in desperation to knock Pyotr free. They remained steadfastly attached, Tzimiti pulsating as it feasted, the virus within flaying the machine spirit. It and the entombed marine cried out in pain and horror. And Pyotr could taste it.
Finally, he mouthed—or perhaps said aloud—as he allowed himself a single moment of divine pleasure. This is why he fought, why he lived. The fear of men and things of flesh were meek and pointless. There was no satisfaction there, terror came easy to them, it was a primal part of who they were, etched into their souls, no more satisfying than watching a babe breathe for the first time, instinctive. But machines? They were not meant to feel fear, they were not meant to know pain. That's what made it so beautiful when Pyotr managed to instill that condition upon them and reap the rewards of his challenge. To make the soul of artifice cower before him was to be a god.
Pyotr was shaken from his reverie as the dreadnought stumbled up against the nearest wall of the chamber and attempted to slam its back into it, squashing Pyotr in the process. He pulled on Tzimiti's reins, who dislodged itself begrudgingly and scrambled onto the dreadnought's chest, hissing in annoyance. Pyotr rose and brought his faceplate close to the sarcophagus housed into the machine and hoped the marine within could see him. He almost thought he could hear its howls of agony.
"Thank you," he said. "For the gift of your misery."
Pyotr raised his chainglaive and drove it into the sarcophagus before the dreadnought could recover. It ate into the ceramite, the machine seizing and slowing in response to the virus and its partially-eaten spirit. The housing gave way and Pyotr's blade dug into something soft. Preservation fluids poured out from the fissure Pyotr created and the dreadnought collapsed with a resounding thud that shook Pyotr's eyes in their sockets.
As the thing fell still, Pyotr breathed heavily, still feeling the euphoric waves washing over him. Once clarity returned, he found that Tzimiti had once again sunken its mandibles into the metallic flesh and was feeding. Pyotr could hear the spirit begging for mercy.
The sound of wings accompanied by a putrid stench filled the air. Pyotr turned to see the chiropteran visage of Gargahl glowering at him in disapproval.
"The kill was mine to be had, brother," Gargahl said, his voice coming out in ragged gasps. The daemon prince's skin was bloated and discolored like that of a corpse, blisters and pustules marred the skin like a tapestry, and a blanket of flies nested upon his back and shoulders in a fecund colony of filth.
"From my vantage it appeared to be the other way around."
Gargahl snarled and raked his talons along the ground. Pyotr didn't flinch. The daemon thought himself the leader of the warband—and many agreed. He did not like Pyotr's insubordination.
"Look around, Gargahl," Pyotr sneered. "We are losing. Our brothers lay dead on the floor at the hands of enemies that outnumber and outgun us. We cannot be distracted by petty feuds. We've already lost what we've come for."
The prince's lips split into a jagged grin. "And what makes you say that, Pyotr?"
Pyotr's eyes narrowed. "What are you hiding, brother?"
Gargahl let out a shaky, wet cough of a laugh and retrieved the hellish blade that he had dropped in the tussle with the dreadnought. "Plans within plans, brother. Plans within plans."
You say this as if you have the intellect to come up with them, Pyotr thought, frowning at his corrupted brother.
"We need to evacuate, Gargahl," he said. "The casualties are not worth…" Pyotr trailed off, for something caught his eye. The very thing he'd come here for, in fact.
In the midst of the battle, he saw a marine adorned in gray ceramite, servo-arms and mechadendrites sprouting from his back and whirring in the air around him. An orange primate with blue oculars rode upon his shoulders, frantically skittering from side to side, making minute repairs and adjustments to the marine's armor and bionics as the wearer swung his power axe, decapitating one of Pyotr's brothers with ease. He knew this marine. Oh, how he knew him well.
Lavitor Fabrinus. Son of Manus, chapter master of the Ferric Sentries, and the machine god's greatest fool.
A snarl formed on Pyotr's lips and a growl rose from his throat to such a degree that it shook Tzimiti from its feast. The lord discordant rose his chainglaive and pointed it directly at the tech marine.
"LAVITOR!" Pyotr bellowed. "I have come for you!"
The chapter master looked over towards Pyotr, his gaze also growing singularly focused. He raised his axe and pointed it at Pyotr. "Heretic!" he roared. "Come and meet your fate!"
With pleasure. Pyotr snapped Tzimiti into movement, plowing past other marines and mechanicus swine in favor of his true prey. Chainglaive teeth scattered throughout the air as it met Lavitor's omnissian axe. Two sets of red eye lenses stared into each other, both simmering with a hatred that could make the Warp boil.
"Still as profane as the last time we clashed," Lavitor Fabrinus said. His servo-arms lashed out, but Pyotr parried with his own mechadendrite. The chapter master had more, but Pyotr was swifter. He still didn't welcome the additional strain.
"Look at you," the marine continued. "A stain upon the Machine God's chromium apparatus. A flake of rust on the Omnissiah's grand mechanism. I will remove you and all echos of your name from the galaxy. I will make you pure through the holy crucible of death. There will be no more–"
Pyotr kicked him in the faceplate. The Ferric Sentry staggered back, two of his mechadendrites slamming into the ground to stabilize him. The primate on his shoulder howled and bared its fangs. "This is a duel, not theatre, Lavitor. Save your trite monologues for someone who cares."
A gout of daemon fire engulfed Lavitor Fabrinus. The marine raised an oversized fist and forearm to protect himself as he weathered the flames. Blind, he was unable to defend himself from the spiked tail that pierced the armor of his torso and sunk into the flesh beneath. Tzimiti frothed with jubilation as the chapter master grunted.
The tail continued to jab and drive further into the wound, but as Tzimiti's flames died, Lavitor snapped the appendage away with a backhanded strike and brought a grav-pistol to bear at Pyotr. The Night Lord hissed as the pistol fired and he was forced to bring his arm up to protect his helm. The blast hit and Pyotr's arm erupted into agony and splintered bones as the ceramite of his vambrace crushed inward on his limb. When Pyotr lowered his arm, he was met with the sight of an orange-furred blur flying through the air before landing on Tzimiti and began to wreak havoc. The xenos primate scurried from plating to plating, making calculated strikes with its multitool that caused the helstalker to tremble and shake before screeching out. Tzimiti began to buck in desperation to rid itself of the creature. Pyotr gripped tight, barely keeping himself from being flung from the throne. He grappled the annoying beast with his mechadendrite arm and hurled it across the room. He then took aim with his bolt pistol and let out a series of shots as it soared through the air. The primate should have been torn to several, bloody chunks, but, instead, it simply vanished in a warping of distorted air.
I hate displacer fields, Pyotr thought. He glanced down and took analysis of Tzimiti. The damage was severe for such a quick attack. The helstalker was reacting lethargically now and several of its limbs were dragging along the ground, unresponsive. Pyotr glared up at Fabrinus. "I am going to flay that monkey alive and feed it to the raptors."
The chapter master had no words as he took a defensive stance with his power axe. Good, that meant the fool could learn when to shut up.
Pyotr lept from the daemon engine's back, readying his chainglaive. Combat narcotics flooded his system, turning the consumptive torment of his wounded arm into a mere dull throb. Blood trickled from the cracked ceramite as Pyotr and Fabrinus circled each other, both sets of power armor humming with energy and desire. Destruction and warfare flared around them, but, in that moment, all was quiet. It was just the two of them and nothing else.
Lavitor made the first move, charging in with his omnissian weapon. Pyotr carefully stepped back and swung with his chainglaive, maintaining his superior reach. The Ferric Sentry battered it aside with the face of his axe, eliciting a grimace from Pyotr as the shock of the blow lanced up his arm painfully. A part of him whispered that he should be reveling in that pain, for pain was the greatest reminder of life. The rest of him wished that fragment would return to the Warp in which it came.
The axe came down towards Pyotr's helm and the Night Lord ducked closer into Fabrinus's reach. He dropped the chainglaive and drew his bolt pistol. Pyotr shoved the barrel into the fractured plating of the chapter master's torso and emptied the weapon's reserves. Ceramite fragments and bloody chunks exploded out from the wound and Fabrinus only remained on his feet through the aid of his servo-arms yet again.
"How does it feel, Lavitor?" Pyotr hissed. He could hear pained wheezing from his enemy's helm. "I hope it hurts." Pyotr chuckled and brought his helm up to look into the eyes of his prey, to see the torment within them. He hoped to gain some form of pleasure from that gaze, from making his enemy beg—but knew it was unlikely.
Instead he saw the twin-barrels of a shotgun and the orange fur of its wielder.
Disorientation exploded across Pyotr's mind before the sound of the weapon did. The world around him spun and his face grew molten with torturous lances of pain. Pyotr staggered back, bringing a hand up to his helm in an attempt to steady his mind. He barely had enough time to make sense of the blurred image of Lavitor Fabrinus charging him before the marine's bulk slammed into him, sending him to the ground.
Pyotr felt his face plate crash into the metal floor over and over again, bringing further disorientation and pain until he could no longer remember how many times it had occurred. Another moment later, he was grabbed by the collar of his chestplate and pulled into the air. He tried to resist, but his body could not make sense of the orders that Pyotr was giving it.
"You do not deserve this blessing!" Pyotr's world became suffering incarnate as he felt a sickening tear in his back—the feeling of his mechadendrite being ripped free. "You do not deserve this armor!" Lavitor continued, this time bringing his fist into Pyotr's chest-piece repeatedly until Pyotr felt the armor denting inward, making it all but impossible to breathe. "You do not deserve this life!" Pyotr felt his body clang back onto the floor. He found himself staring up at the ceiling. Lavitor Fabrinus loomed in his vision, axe raised over his head in an executioner's stance of absolution.
Pyotr wasn't sure how long he continued to look upwards. Only that, at some point, the chapter master of the Ferric Sentries was no longer there, prepared to deliver his fatal strike. Pyotr listened to the world around him, hearing the sounds of battle and tried to make sense of them. His brothers were dying, they must have been. The noise and commotion had escalated, reinforcements from the mechanicus and Ferric Sentries must have arrived to finalize the Night Lord's defeat. Their extinction. Only… why did Pyotr hear so much revving? It was like a chorus of chain weaponry had filled the chamber and were now singing to a rapt audience.
It didn't matter. Pyotr could hardly get air into his lungs now, the edges of his vision growing gray and dull. He guessed that he only had moments left now. He considered making peace, but then questioned that decision. Peace with what? There were no gods he could rely upon to deliver him, no brothers to remember him with glory, no father to support and cherish him. Just disappointment and a wasted life.
A figure crouched over Pyotr. It was not Lavitor Fabrinus.
The newcomer wore crimson armor, its head blocking out the light apart from the narrow gap between its helm's dual-prongs. Pyotr knew this marine too, though his oxygen-starved brain could not access the information. Who…?
"You are lucky, cousin," Zasharr said in a ragged, coarse voice. "It would seem you have cheated death once again."