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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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5 153 877 M41
Geostationary orbit over Torax III
Orbital Defense Platform Alpha

Commodore Savin, Admiral of the Toraxian System Defense Forces, shuffled down the corridor towards the bridge, her ornate cane tapping rhythmically on the deck plates. Though barely eighty, her back was already beginning to hunch, and she was relying on her can, intended originally as a staff of office, more and more. She’d need to schedule a rejuvenant treatment soon.

The security team at the blast door came to attention and saluted. They were junior arbitrators, reporting to the local Arbites rather than the PDF or her own Naval provosts. With the restrictions the Governor kept placing on her armed manpower, she was forced to rely on her only ally planetside, Judge Valence. He could not spare much of his staff, but those officers he could offer were a damn sight more reliable than anyone else she could call upon. That, and there was no way she would be letting troops loyal to Rex into such sensitive roles.

She returned their salute and produced her identification. Not exactly necessary, her being one of the most recognizable people in orbit, but Savin has always believed in the maxim that Laxity is the Greatest Sin.
The first praetor scanned her ID, nodding when it cleared, “Welcome back, Commodore.”

“Thank you, Charles,” she replied. The guard nodded and shouldered his shotgun, honored by her recognition, despite his concealing face mask.

The blast door slid open with a pneumatic hiss and Savin entered as the bridge crew stood to attention.
“Commodore on deck!” said the attending senior officer with a crisp salute. Captain Orin was young and tall, his black hair cropped to a perfect regulation standard. He was a stickler for protocol and a bit unimaginative at times, but he was competent administrator and was invaluable in her dealings with bureaucracy. If she ever managed to dig the stick out of his ass, he might make for a suitable successor.

“At ease,” she told the crew. Orin stepped aside as she took her place at the command pulpit. “You are relieved, captain.”

“Aye, ma’am.” He handed her a dataslate and waited for her to begin reading.

“Summary,” she ordered, not lifting her eyes from the screen. The captain was used to being tested like this, the commodore wanted to see if he knew what to pay attention to.
This better end in everyone dying and well-fed nids.
“Two-hundred twelve civilian craft currently in orbit,” he began. “Thirty three of those are awaiting docking clearance. Another twenty-four for departure flight patterns. One vessel, a refugee ship out of Argama called the Sacred Light, sent out a distress call a few hours ago.”

“The reason?”

He took out his own slate to get the finer details correct, “Catastrophic engine failure. They had complained about difficulties with their warp engines upon arrival, so Captain Trask ordered the Nova to escort her on standby.”

“Estimated threat?”

“She hasn’t been boarded yet, but none of our scans have revealed any sort energy spikes. Her orbit was degrading, so I had the Nova tow her into higher station, away from the rest of civilian traffic. I also stationed the White Dwarf and Saint Ferrus on close standby in case the refugees need to be evacuated.”
The commodore nodded her approval, reading along with his report.

“There was just one more anomaly amongst the civilian traffic, a small trade ship, the Rapturous Wing, has been trying to avoid their mandatory inspection. There was enough traffic during Trask’s shift that he passed placed them further down the line at their request. He told me that, “If a trade ship was willing to postpone their own business, it was none of his.”

The commodore mumbled something about “laxity” and a need to “have words with the good captain,” then motioned for Orin to continue.
“When they asked for a second reprieve, I ordered the Star Knight to cover her while the Might of Torax conducts the inspection.”

“You ordered our flagship to conduct an inspection?” She chuckled, perhaps he was more imaginative than she thought.

“I thought it wise to show that Toraxian law is not something to be trifled with.”

“Very good, captain. Continue.” The governor had commissioned the Torax for her, but it was a gloriously overdesigned monster. It had so many redundant and unnecessary systems, compounded by the governor’s horrible taste in décor, that she hadn’t set foot on the thing in a decade. Instead, the Governor Rex had been using it, on occasion, as his personal yacht. Assigning it to such menial duties would send a clear message to the more than just incoming civilian troublemakers.

“Not much else to report,” he said. “Drydock is reporting that the next three vessels will be completed within the next six months, and are inviting you to suggest a few names.”
She waved him along, scowling. Forty years ago, she had taken control of the SDF once a lucky shot from an Ork Kroozer had destroyed the original Alpha Platform, taking Commodore Vincent with it. It had cost her over half of the fleet and thousands of lives, but she had held back the greenskins long enough for the Naval forces hunting the bastards to catch up and finish them off. The Imperium had allowed Torax a reprieve from their tithe obligations until they could replace their losses. Four decades later, the original two platforms had been expanded to three, the original thirteen escort vessels had nearly double to twenty five, and the planet now sported fifty weapons orbitals. She had only the vaguest idea of how far the PDF’s resources had been expanded. The governor had stretched out the Imperial leeway far longer than anyone would have thought possible, but now officious eyes were beginning to pry. Savin had been vocal in her disapproval, and so far only her status as hero, and the blame Governor Rex could shift her way (her forces were reaping the benefits, afterall), had kept her power. It was only last year that the governor had finally allowed a partial tithe to be paid.

“What about the situation with Platform Gamma,” she asked. “Has it been resolved yet?”

“According to Magos Korvin,” said the captain, reading from his slate once more, “the Mechanicum should be able to finish repairs on the station’s void shield generators within the next seventy-two hours.”
“Perhaps Rex will take note and allow for more thorough preventative maintenance in the future instead of simply building new craft.” She shifted her position in the pulpit.

“Be that as it may, commodore, repairs are proceeding on schedule.”

“Is that all, captian?”

“Aye, ma’am. All in all a fairly quite day.”

“Indeed,” said Savin. “That will be all for today, captain. You are dismissed.”

Captain Orin saluted and made his way to the blast doors. Before he could reach the portal, an alarm claxon sounded, blaring out a contact warning.
He spun around on his heel, pointing to the officer manning the nearest tactical cogitator. “Ensign Mauve, report!”

“Sir, we’ve just detected a large energy source inside the secondary perimeter, heading straight towards us.”
“Secondary perimeter? Why wasn’t it detecte-“

“Scan it,” commanded the commodore, “tell me what it is."

Deferring to her greater authority, the ensign turned back to his screen for confirmation.
“It’s… a ship, commodore,” he said. “A big one.”

“How big?” asked Orin.

“Huge, over five kilometers long. If my readings are correct,” he took moment to check them again, “it’s a frakking cruiser!”

Silence passed across the bridge crew. Commodore Savin stood, calmly, and began relaying orders, “Raise shields, charge weapons.

“All right people, we’ve trained for this, stay on task,” she said. “The first thing I need is for someone to hail that vessel, we need to determine its allegiance.
Captain Orin, I want you to get contact the fleet and have them enter Defense Formation Theta.” She turned to the communications officer, “Thadius, I sent a warning planetside. Contact the governor and the PDF’s high command. Tell them to go on alert.” She thought for a moment, “and warn the Arbites, as well.”

“Aye, ma’am.”
The commodore activated the inter-station communications array, but paused before speaking. She turned to the comms officer once more, “Connect me to the whole fleet.”

“Toraxian System Defense Forces, this is Commodore Savin speaking. We have just detected what may be a hostile craft in-system. I want all crews to battle stations, but I want everyone to stay calm. Don’t take any overt action without my direct command. May the God Emperor be with us.”

“Aye’s sounding from all craft except the Dwarf and Ferrus,” Ensign Thadius told her.

“What’s wrong?” asked Captain Orin.

“The distress call from the Sacred Light was repeated, and they had just begun the evacuation. It will take them some time to separate from the vessel and get into formation.”

“Well then, they’ll have to be our reserve,” said Savin, remaining as collected as ever. “Have we established contact with the vessel?”

“Err…” said the ensign, “I’m getting a transmission now, actually. All channels.”

“Put it on speaker.”

The voice they heard was hard, cold. It sounded like pneumatic press crushing granite into powder. It’s depth was like nothing they had ever heard.
“Torax III. The Emperor’s judgment is upon you. Those that wish to increase the chances of their survival are advised to surrender immediately. Any persons attempting to flee or resist will be neutralized with extreme prejudice.

“The Astartes are here.

“The Justicars are here.


The absurdity of the statement shocked Savin to her core. Astartes? Here? Judgement? She could see her bridge crew reeling, trying to make sense of what had just been said. It was just like forty years ago, when they had heard Commodore Vincent was dead. Even Orin was paralyzed with shock. Then, like now, she knew she had to take action or there would soon be chaos.

“Stay calm, this is obviously a misunderstanding,” she told them. “Get me a line to that vessel and we’ll work this out.”

This snapped them out of their stupor. The comms officer began worrying over his equipment and Captain Orin started relaying with the rest of the fleet.

Commodore Savin raised the receiver to her lips.
A series of flashes blossomed past the primary viewscreen, followed by second stream of detonations.

“That was weapons fire!” roared the captain.

“And too close to have come from the cruiser,” agreed the commodore. “Tactical, tell me what just happened.”

“We’ve stopped receiving transmissions from the Star Knight and Might of Torax.”


“It seems like they were struck from behind when the broke away from the Rapturous Wing to get into formation.”

“A frakking Q-ship!” said Olimer.

“Astartes don’t work like that,” said the commodore, working it out in her head. “These are pirates, or we’re facing an invasion.”
She glanced over the tactical display. “We have three escorts in range of the Wing, I want them to unleash everything they have at the bastard.”

“Aye,” began the ensign. “Wait, it’s firing again!”


“It looks like a torpedo strike!”

“Incoming energy blast!” shouted another tactical operator. “The cruiser has just fired!”

Barely after the words passed his lips the entire station shook with the impact of its void shields collapsing. Two beams of high yield energy struck glancing blows across the defensive field simultaneously. From her personal display, Commodore Savin could trace the blasts they terminated amongst the cluster of civilian graft waiting an anchor behind her station. She could only imagine the devastation wrought by the twin lances amongst the unshielded, poorly armored transports and traders.

Her attention was drawn to the icons indicating the incoming torpedoes, four of them. The attackers had timed their assault well, the lances draining their shields and allowing the torpedoes to strike cleanly. Without the protection offered by their void shields, even a single torpedo would be enough to gut the entire station.
She was dead, her station dying with her, but her fleet would live on. She had trained them well, and if they stuck to the plans and procedures she had laid out for them, they would be able to keep fighting. Damn that Rex, but now his fifty defense orbitals might be all that saves the planet.

Seconds later, the torpedo icons disappeared they collided with the one indicating the Platform Alpha. The commodore closed her eyes, the ghost of a prayer to the Throne on her lips.

She could feel a tremor, a slight one, through the deck plates. It passed quickly.

She waited. One second. Two.

Her eyes snapped open and she jolted to her feet, “All hands, prepare to repel boarders!”

She snatched up her comms receiver and activated it. “All hands, to arms! Repel boarders!”

Her bridge crew began to pick themselves up and return to their stations. If the enemy was boarding her station, that gave them a fighting chance. It gave her time to continue organizing her defense. But something else worried her, why only four boarding torpedoes? Her station had a crew of over three thousand; there was no way anyone could consider boarding a craft as large as hers with so few a viable tactic.

Not unless they really were marines…
Well, there was no point worrying about that now. They were already on board, so all she could do is direct her forces. She delegated the defense of the station itself to Orin, listening as he posted security teams at all major installations and junctions. Nodding with approval, she turned her attention back the battle beginning to rage outside.

It wasn’t going well.

A second blast from the cruiser had disabled two more of her system defense boats. The Q-ship had, as yet, resisted the fire from the squadron she had assigned to destroy it. Obviously its shields were military grade.

Tactical had revealed that the Rapturous Wing had launched a shuttle towards Platform Gamma. With its shields down, still under repair, it could be attacked at leisure. The attackers were well prepared, the cruiser was positioned so that it could fire on Alpha and Beta Platforms with equal ease, and had sent in infiltrators to attack the one it could not. Each station was positioned equidistance from the other two, forming a defensive triangle around the planet. A ring of fifty weapons orbitals connected them. Since the cruiser was heading directly towards Platform Alpha, it could not bring to bear its primary armament against two of them.

They had probably been planning for the shuttle to go unnoticed with all of the confusion, but they had underestimated the Toraxian SDF. Already Gamma Station and a score of their weapons orbitals were opening fire. The shuttle was as good as destroyed.

There was something else amiss, however.
“Why aren’t the White Dwarf or Saint Ferrus moving?” she asked. “It shouldn’t take them nearly that long to detach from an evacuation procedure.”

“I don’t know, commodore!” cried the tactical officer. “They’re just… drifting.”

“What about the refugee ship?”

“It’s… commodore, the Sacred Light just raised shields! Its engines are firing at full burn and it is on an intercept course for Beta Station!”

“A second Q-ship?” Captain Orin’s voice was barely a whisper.

Well prepared, indeed, thought the commodore. By feigning an emergency with once vessel and enticing their attention towards possible criminal activity with a second, they had managed to neutralize four of the SDF’s best ships before they knew what hit them. The Wing had probably sent several boarding parties onto the Ferrus and Dwarf when they docked to assist with the ‘evacuation.” The crewmen at the airlocks wouldn’t have even been armed.

Orin’s hand went to his ear as he listened intently to his micro bead. He ordered several security teams to abandon secondary posts and to rendezvous outside of the bridge.
“What’s happing, Captain?”

“The boarders, ma’am,” he said. “They’ve managed to tear through every defensive line they’ve come across.” He looked her in the eye. “They’ll be here in a matter of minutes.”

“But, how could they, so fast?” asked the Ensign Thadius, as if to himself.

“Atartes,” the commodore’s voice was as cold as the void. She watched the reactions of the bridge crew, the fear mounting to panic as they realized what she had said.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “what I ask of you now is more important than anything I’ve asked of you before.” She stood and addressed them directly. “If this is an attack by traitor marines, then it is our duty to defend this bridge with our lives. If they manage to capture this room, Torax will be defenseless.”

Six years earlier, a terrorist group had seized control of one of the newly constructed weapons platforms. Without warning, they had fired the station’s entire payload at everything and anything it could. They lost four other orbitals and sixteen hundred civilian crewmen before they managed to destroy it with a direct it. Since then, Savin had insisted that the Adeptus Mechanicus install a failsafe into every existing and newly constructed orbital, allowing the highest ranking officer on the bridge of the Alpha Platform to disable their weapons.
If the invaders new this, and their boarding party was proof that they did, then Savin had inadvertently put her entire world at risk.

The sound of weapons fire just outside the blast shields drew her attention. She drew her service pistol and ordered the self-destruct protocols to be activated. She could hear the concussive blasts of the arbitrators’ riot guns firing again and again, intermixed with the whine of a few lasguns.

“Captain,” she said, “I’ll need your codes as well.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

They each began to enter their authority override codes into their consoles when the primary lighting on the bridge gave out, replaced precious seconds later by the glowing red lights activated by their emergency power cells.

Their cogitators froze, denying them access, as the reverberating sounds of the station’s weapons died out with a whimper.

All eyes turned to the blast doors.
“This is it,” Savin told her crew. “Find cover and shield your eyes. Those doors can withstand a hell of a lot of punishment, but you can be damn sure they brought plenty to spare.” She looked at them, each of them. “It has been an honor serving with you.”

There was a dull thud on the other side of the portal.

“They’re placing charges, this is it.”

She ducked behind her pulpit and opened her mouth so the blast wouldn’t blow out her eardrums.

With a pneumatic hiss, the doors slid open.

She paused, they all did. That should not have happened. That could not happen.

Commodore Savin opened her eyes and peered over the metal sides of her command chair as the two arbitrators, shotguns held at the ready, marched in, taking defensive positions at the sides of the doorway. In the distance she could hear small arms fire dying off with the last screams of her last security operatives.

She stood, “What in the hell is going on!”
Then he was there, a giant encased in ceramite. Standing a head and shoulders over the arbites, he stood at ease, surveying the bridge. He held a bolter, casually, in his colossal fist. Even in the gloom, she could see the telltale glistening of blood splatters dotting his chest, faceplate, and gauntlets.

“Monster!” shouted Captain Olimer, leaping to his feet
Before he could bring his service pistol to bear, the armored giant raised his weapon with an easy flick of the wrist and fired. The mass reactive shell tore through his chest like it wasn’t even there, detonating once it passed his ribcage. The resulting explosion ripped open his chest cavity to the world, splattering everything in front of him hot, sticky blood.

“Olimer!” she cried, rushing to his side. One of the arbites, Charles, lowered his riot gun and fired as well. The blast took the commodore in the side, and she fell to the deck heavily.

Before she blacked out, she could hear the traitorous arbites and the massive… space marine, there was no denying it now, firing into her crew. There were many screams.
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nice work, OP. now write faster!
She awoke to pain and shouting. The pain was hers, centered at the side of her chest. The shouting was coming from a man. It was a voice she thought she recognized.

“You were supposed to seize the platform, not massacre half its crew!” Who was that?

“That may not have been your intent,” said a voice that sent a jet of ice through her blood, “but the assault proceeded exactly as I had intended."

“You intended this?! You’re here to remove Governor Rex, yet you’ve destroyed a dozen ships and killed twelve-thousand civilian alone!” She knew that voice, but had never heard it sound so angry. “Why do you think my Arbites were armed with stun rounds? God Emperor, help me, you’ve murdered Captain Olimer!”

‘My Arbites?’ Throne of Terra, that was Judge Valence!
“I suggest you alter your tone, Judge, before I take exception.” That voice, that voice. It was the same one from the transmission. The one from the cruiser.
“Wait,” said the monstrous voice. “It seems she has regained consciousness. We will discuss this later; I have an invasion to plan.” Heavy thuds receded towards… well, she assumed it was the door. “Oh,” the voice added, “and you might as well brief her.” With a hiss the door closed, and there was silence.

“Bastard,” said Valence after moment. “Bastard.”

He turned and arrived at the commodore’s side.
“How are you feeling, can you stand?” His hand grasped her shoulder.

“D-don’t t-touch me,” she gasped, each breath a struggle, “y-you traitor.”

His hand tensed, then receded. She opened her eyes, closing them again when they touched the glare. Slowly, she opened them again. Judge Valence was staring down at her, his face sick with worry and anger.
That's as far as I've pre-written. It's going to take a bit longer form here on out.
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I'll wait then. I like where the story goes.
“Treason has nothing to do with it,” he said. “This is…”

“W-what? A coup?”

“Justice,” he told her. “They’re here for justice.”
“And the massacre?” her voice was returning. “Half my frakking fleet blown to dust!”

“This… this has gone farther than I had anticipated, but the Justicars are here at the request of the Adeptus Arbites.” He paused, finding the right words, “They were supposed to remove Rex from power. Violently. Publically. He insisted on surprise… I assumed he thought it would make you, the planet, surrender faster, more readily.”

“Surrender? Why have a war at all?” she asked. “An Astartes cruiser would have been welcomed with open arms!”

“By you, perhaps, and most of your fleet,” he said.
“But not by Rex. Not by his PDF.”

“What are you talking about?”
>divine right.jpg

Dat sure iz a big boat boss. Should we loot it?
“He’s a traitor. Or he will be, soon. He’s been building an army.”

“Wait,” said Savin, “are you talking about the tithes? He’s stretched out the reprieve further than he should have, but he’s no traitor!” She managed to manhandled herself into a sitting position. Her ribs were still very tender. “And we’ve started the tithe again!”

“The tithe was ‘lost,’ enroute.”

“And we’re being blamed for that?” she asked, her anger rising.

“The tithe never left. My officers found evidence suggesting it was stored in a series of underground warehouses on the outskirts of the capital.” He sighed, “And it’s worse than that. The regiments he’s been raising? New ‘Guard’ regiments?”


“He signed a new order, an executive order, returning them to service in the PDF.”

“Impossible! He doesn’t have the authority.”
“No, he doesn’t. But he’s been trying to use the orbital incident as justification. He says Torax is at risk and needs the additional security.”

“So he’s overzealous, that’s no reason to decimate my fleet and invade the planet!”

“Commodore,” he bent down closer. “The terrorists…”


“They were acting under the governor’s orders.”

“How could you possibly-“she paused, listening.
“Wait, that sound…” she closed her eyes, straining.
“The primary cannons are charging!”

“The Justicars…” said the Judge.

“Get me to their leader,” she demanded. “I won’t have my own vessels firing on my planet!”
As she shuffled along, hanging onto the Judge’s shoulder, he told what had happened while she was unconscious, and before. His arbites, in concert with Magos Korvin, had been preparing the fleet for the invasion. Sabotage, she called it. Gamma Platform was the oldest of the three, so it made more sense for him to find a ‘complication’ with its shield generator than the Alpha’s or Beta’s. Shortly after the Justicars took her bridge, the arbites stationed on Beta Platform managed to deactivate its shields. The Sacred Light, a Q-ship operated by the Justicars for covert operations, subsequently rammed and boarded it. From what Valence had heard, the crew of Beta suffered even worse than that of Alpha.

“Bastards,” he had said after telling her.

“Takes one to know one,” she had said, just loud enough for him to hear.

Gamma suffered worst of all. Ironically, it was their success that caused their doom. Having detected the shuttle, actually an Astartes thunder hawk, their point defense weapons actually managed to shoot it down. Fifteen marines, including the pilots, were killed instantly.

“The good captain,” he told her, “didn’t take it well.” With the forces assigned to its conquest destroyed, and having none to spare, he simply ordered his strike cruiser to destroy it. Gamma’s shields being down, a single lance strike tore through the hull and in to the reactor. The resulting explosion obliterated the station and took nearly a dozen of the civilian craft with it.
“They would have surrender,” she said. She struggled to keep form weeping. She had friends amongst the officers, and knew many of the crewmen as well. Now they were gone, killed senselessly. “What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

“The worst kind, Commodore.” They had entered the central cogitator array, where the Marines had evidently set up their command center. The captain rose to great them as they entered. “The very worst kind.”

Savin shook Valence from her side. She stood before the marine, wobbling slightly, as best as she could.
“Why?” she asked. “Why all of this bloodshed? Judge Valence told me everything; how he asked for your assistance in removing Rex, since he didn’t have the force to do so alone. How you agreed, agreed to do as little damage as possible. It was supposed to be public, to be an example for the rest of the populace, and other worlds beyond.” She shook with anger. “Well this was public, alright. You’ve done more damage than the frakking Orks! You’re inhuman!”

The captain let her rank, taking her abuse in silence. When it became clear she was through, he motioned for her to take a seat.

She chose to remain standing.
bump for justice and good writefaggotry

and because i'm going to plagiarize the story for a DH campaign
“’You’re inhuman,’ you say.” His was an imposing figure in the gloom of the bridge, but her, in the light, he was positively terrifying. Standing well over two meters in height, he seemed to fill the entire room. His gauntlets, still coated with a splattering of blood, whirred and clinked as they rose to his helmet, wrought in the shape of snarling, horned lion. The seal on his helm hissed as it was released, and she barely managed to suppress the urge to gasp when his face was revealed.

It was pale, hard. His scared skin was stretched unnaturally over an enlarged, malformed skull. A trim beard of black cut across his lower jaw, giving the whole visage a dangerous, predatory impression. But his eyes, his eyes were the worst. Black as black itself, there was no trace of white anywhere. There were empty, blank. It was like looking out into the space, but without the stars. She shuddered.

“’You’re inhuman,’” he repeated. “Yes, that just about sums it up, doesn’t it?” He looked down at her, unsmiling, emotionless. “Do you know what it is they call my kind, Commodore? We Astartes bear another title, one you should be familiar with.”

She looked down at the deckplates.
“Say it.”

“Angels of Death.”

“Yes, Angels of Death.” He waited until she raised her head once more, then glanced at the Judge to make sure he was paying attention as well. “We are monsters, living weapons. The Emperor designed us to kill and conquer, and to hold what is conquered. We, we astartes, have sacrificed our humanity, sold it, in order to save the rest of you.”

“Save us?” she demanded. “Save use killing innocent people wholesale?”

“If need be, yes. Torax III is, as you say, going to be an example. An example of what happens when you duty is forgotten, discarded. This governor or yours, Rex, could have removed by assassination. We could have teleported a squad into his personal chambers and ended his reign in seconds. But another would have taken his place, and what lesson would have been learned? That treason, dereliction of duty damns oneself? True, it does, but it hurts others as well. Had he continued on his path, this world would have been subjected to war. Real war. Not like what we have done here today, are doing today.

“We’ve given Torax III a taste of hardship it will never forget, but we have been more merciful than you may believe. No, do not protest, I will have my say. Your fleet has some twenty five escort craft, correct? We destroyed four. A world this size needs fifteen for adequet protection from standard threats. It only needs two platforms, as well. As we speak, your own defensive grid is firing at the surface. We are targeting, destroying, every piece of property owned by Governor Rex, and the rest of Torax’s nobility, as well. Soon we will make our drop, and many more will die.
“Your world has failed in its duty to the Imperium, and for that it will be punished. But, as I said, we will be merciful. We will hurt them, scare them, scar them for a dozen lifetimes. They will never forget the might of the Imperium they had neglected. Eventually they will realize that they too are part of that might. They are the Imperium. We cull, pruning the vine so that the best fruit will flourish and grow. The punishment we inflict is cruel, and it is unusual. If it was only one, or neither, punishment would have no weight, or purpose. This punishment will not soon be forgotten. Not by Torax III, and not, I think, by those that hear of this destruction.

“’We are inhuman,’ you say. Yes, we are. We are chimeric monsters, separated from the species that birthed use by decades of alchemic science and brutal surgeries. And by blood, more blood and violence than you could imagine.

“See my helm? See the icon that graces my pauldron? This is the Manticore. A beast part lion, part scorpion, part dragon, and all monster. We wear the Manticore to remind us that human morality no longer applies to us. You don’t approve of our methods? That is good, it proves you are still human. Your condemnation of us is the greatest thanks we could ask for. It shows us that humanity, the real humanity, hasn’t lost its way.

“I have done things, horrible things, to people just like you. I have destroyed families, murdered children in front of their parents, torn people apart while they were still alive. I see your revulsion, and I am glad. That you find my actions reprehensible makes them all worthwhile.”

“Why?” asked Savin. “Why are you telling me this?”
For the first time, the captain smiled. “Good, Commodore. Good. You are as intelligent as I have been told. To answer your question, tell me this:
>"Say it."
“Imagine you have a child. What do you do when the child misbehaves? Do you strike it? Scold it? Deny it certain pleasures, or even sustenance? Perhaps, punishment builds character, after all. But there is something else that needs to be done, what is it?”

She remained silent.


“You have to tell them what they did wrong, so they understand,” answered Judge Valence.
“Very good, Judge. But then I was asking the Commodore, wasn’t I. I would have been surprised if you, a member of the Adeptus Arbites, hadn’t known.
“Yes, that is the answer. For punishment to work, it must be cruel enough to be remembered. It must be unusual enough to be noticed. And it must be explained, for obvious reasons.”

“Then why tell me? The people of Torax are the ones that need to know.”

“Because, Commodore, in exactly twelve minutes my company, minus the ones you’ve managed to kill with your impress targeting patterns,” at this he struck his fist to his chest in honor of their sacrifice, and to recognize her accomplishment, “will be initiating a combat drop.

When we land, we will kill. We will kill thousands, hundreds of thousands. Amongst them will be Governor Rex. And, Commodore Savin, after I’ve mounted his head upon a spike, YOU will be governor of Torax III.”

With that, he simply left the room, leaving Savin to her thoughts.
Oh God Emperor, I didn't even notice.
/tg/, can you ever forgive me?

I know I can't
Anyway, that's all for now. I realize I need to rework the ending and do a few touch ups all around.

This is basically my take on what a space marine would really be like.
If I continue the story, the narrative will follow what happens to the nameless captain when he returns to his chapter.
Let's just say his chapter isn't too happy to have lost nearly a fifth of a company on such an insignificant mission


Short, evocative, and to the point
Goddammit. Deleted a post in the wrong thread.

Sorry about that.

Yeah, that works. That works perfectly.
Thanks for the help!

You're welcome.

By the way, do you upload your works somewhere? I like your style, I'd like to read more
Well, it's been a long time since I've written anything like this. Years even. There are at least two stories of mine on 1d4chan, but honestly they both sucked. Hard.

But from here on out I'm going to keep writing in my spare time. Feel free to suggest a place to upload my work.

Also, I'm always looking for story ideas.

Also also, thank you for giving a damn. You can't imagine what it means to a writer to hear even a single person say they are interested. Especially when that person isn't their mother.
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I don't recognize the chapter. Is it homebrew?

>black eyes
>pale skin
>splattering of blood

Is it a raven guard successor or is it pic related?
Homebrew. I imagined them as a sort of loyalist version of the Night Lords (using terror as a weapon), which is where the black eyes thing came in.
Now that you mention it, I was going to have the captain tell Savin that his chapter did it to them on purpose to make them even less human looking (during his manticore speech), but forgot. But hell, that's what rough drafts are for, right?
Here's something I wrote back in 2011. It's not very good and has a shitton of typos and purple prose, but I find it amusing, so here you go:

Light from the opened doorway cut through the darkness like a knife, alone in the threshold a figure stood, visible only by its silhouette. It made no movement.

“Enter,” commanded a voice like gravel, seemingly emanating from the darkness itself. The figure at the door complied wordlessly, making no sound as it stepped forward into the gloom. With an audible hiss the portal closed, steadily chocking off the light until none remained.

The room was filled with an enveloping darkness.
With a muted clang a single beam of light shot down from the ceiling, forming a perfect, one meter circle on the black floor.

“Step into the light,” the voice commanded once more. Again, the figure complied, suddenly becoming visible as it took its designated place. Male in figure, dressed in a one-piece suit of plain grey he stood silently at attention. His features were covered by a simple white helm, a pair of eye slits the only ornamentation visible.

“Designation,” it was a command, not a question.
Calmly, in a voice devoid of emotion he replied, “Operative J53-xx02, Officio Assassinorum, Culexus Temple.”

“Operative J53,” began a new voice, this one the cold, mechanical voice of one whose words were provided by artificial means, “we have a mission for you.”

The figure raised his head, ever so slightly to confirm he was ready to receive his instructions.

A third voice, produced by a woman of no great age, was raised, “know now that these orders come down from the highest of authorities.”

The assassin nodded.

With that and a click a pict screen flared into life before him. After a second of confused blurring a solid image took shape, resolving into a clear mug-shot. This was far from unusual, though it was difficult for the Officio’s spies to capture a foreign threat on film, many of their targets were estranged Imperials themselves and therefore had identifying images on file. Usually.

The operative took it in with practiced ease: human (no physical deviations), male (handsome face), young (mid teens), dark hair (trimmed short in military fashion), and uniform (non quite military, likely Schola Progenium); all in all a rather unassuming person. The young age of the target was strange as his placement in a Schola meant he was no royal or aristocratic heir. That meant he was likely a nascent psyker, and a powerful one too, if his removal required the attention of a Culexus rather than the Arbites or a military instillation.
“The Emperor’s Tarot has revealed to us this subject’s destiny,” the woman’s voice continued. “The greatest seers and astropaths of Terra are in complete agreement, in fact, rarely has the Tarot ever been as clear: one day this subject will do great things for the Imperium.”

What? the assassin thought to himself, somewhat taken aback.

“He is to be a great hero,” the voice of gravel added, “amongst the greatest of this generation.”
Then why do you need an assassin… he almost asked aloud.

“And you, Operative J53-xx02,” continued the artificial voice, “are to be his guardian.”

His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, what for an assassin of his caliber was equivalent to a normal human collapsing in shock.

“You… do not approve?” asked the rough voice slowly.

He took a moment to collect his thoughts before replying. “I merely…” he paused, trying to find the words, “have difficulty understanding-“

“Understanding why?” the feminine voice cut it.

“The situation is understandably unusual,” explained the monotone artificial voice, “and it is ironic that an assassin, one tasked with taking lives, is to be required to save one; but the Tarot was clear on a second matter. You, you personally, are destined to be his guardian, his bodyguard. For reasons that as yet remain unclear, any other course of action will lead to the premature death of the subject.”

“As well as the billions his actions are to save,” finished the woman.

J53 merely nodded, still unable to fully understand but willing to do his duty nonetheless.

“In two years time the subject will be posted to a military unit, from where he will begin his career in earnest,” the woman began the briefing. “You shall undergo additional training and surgery in the interim to prepare you for your new role. Roughly one year before the subject is to join the regiment, you will be ‘transferred’ to the unit in disguise, in order that you may establish a solid position in the unit well in advance of his arrival. You will be tasked with maintaining his survival, without revealing your true nature to him or any others, for the remainder of his natural life.”

He nodded once more, now that he was getting concrete orders his conditioning and experience cut in, quickly displacing his earlier confusion.

But there was one thing he felt he should know…

“You have a question, Operative?” asked the gruff voiced man.

A moment passed before he could bring himself to ask, “if the Emperor wills it, sir: what is the subject’s name?” If he was to spend a lifetime with this person, he felt he should know the man’s name.

There was a brief pause.

“Very well,” the three voiced together, “he is called-“
-----Two Years Later------

Operative J53-xx02 of the Officio Assassinorum’s Culexus temple stooped in the shade of a Salamander scout vehicle waiting for the shuttle to arrive. The sun was well into the sky and its oppressive heat was causing him to sweat profusely. Not that he minded, years of training and psycho-indoctrination having long ago inured him to physical discomfort. Or even pain, for that matter. As the shuttle was not due for awhile yet he busied himself with a data slate of pornography. Not that anyone was paying attention to a perverted little sweaty Valhallan guardsman, Desolatia IV was (ironically) boring, but not quite that boring.

After nearly a full year in the Valhallan 12th Field Artillery J53 still wasn’t fitting in with the regiment, at least not with the other troopers: all according to plan. He was to separate himself from the common soldiery enough to be left alone while not quite alienating them. To facilitate this, his skin had been infected with numerous diseases and fungi, producing a rather intense smell by all accounts. It would not do for someone to realize his natural ability to block out the warp, an effect the manifests amongst normal humans by a feeling of intense discomfort. The smell was to give them an excuse to disregard him and so far it was working perfectly.

An hour passed before the shuttle finally roared into earshot and landed. The assassin made no notice of it, near apathy was part of his cover.
Moments later the shuttle’s side hatch opened and personnel began exiting the craft.

Though he instantly recognized his charge (having memorized it in preparation for the mission), he forced himself to wait until the young man drew near. He just as his picts had shown him, save for the crisp new sash of red and matching black hat and cap that were symbols of his office.

“Carry your bag, sir?” he asked, noticeably failing to salute, once the subject had spotted him and made his way over.

“That’s fine,” came the hasty reply, the subject obviously finding J59’s body odor quite unpleasant, “It’s not heavy.”

The charge stood there awkwardly there for a moment before adopting a friendly smile, ”Commissar Cain,” he introduced himself, “and you are…?”

‘Operative J53-xx02,’ he almost replied, the designation still deeply engrained into his psyche. Instead, he gave his new designation, his new name, “Gunner Jurgen. The Colonel sends his apologies, but he’s busy,” he added as he had been told.

“No doubt,” replied his charge, his voice hinting sarcasm.

As the commissar took a seat in the vehicle J59… no, Jurgen, stowed the bag. He took the driver’s seat and allowed himself the luxury of being pleased with this first meating.

It was to be the beginning of a beautiful partnership.
Well, I think that's all for tonight. If this thread is still alive, I may continue this story. Or, if someone posts something I find interesting, I might write about that instead.

It's all good practice.
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>his skin had been infected with numerous diseases and fungi, producing a rather intense smell by all accounts

i like ur shit. and this new representation of Jurgen. more of the space marines pls?
Polite bump in order to prevent this thread to sage off the board.

Writefag said he'd be back and continue his story. Me like story!
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Make them a night lords successor chapter. Dark backstory + dark premonitions + full socipaths trying to be lawful good = Profit.

>Gunner Jurgen
The captain marched from the chamber, heading towards the station’s primary hanger. As he passed each intersection, the arbitrators standing guard snapped to attention. He could see, no, smell their fear. Their anger. He could see them flinch when got near, as if longing to bring their shotguns to bear, but thinking better of it. They hated him, hated what he had done. Hated what he was doing; going to do.

Heavy footfalls from further down the hall drew his attention. Judging from the duration between each thud, the speed of the approach, and the weight of each step, it could only be-

“Brother Trask,” he said, greeting his staff sergeant.

“Captain,” the marine stepped aside as the captain passed, then fell in behind him at a respectful distance. “All is in readiness for the attack, we await your pleasure.”

The captain nodded and increased his pace, but he had noticed the slight twitch of Trask’s helmet when the met.

“Something on your mind, sergeant?”
“Your helmet, sir,” he said.

The captain replaced his helm, resealing it. “You disapprove?”

Now that both astartes were fully armored they could speak via vox, freely. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove, captain,” said the sergeant. “But you showed your eyes to the woman.”

“I found it necessary, Brother. We are here to teach a lesson, and the Commodore is our star pupil.” He had a point though; he should have resealed his helm before leaving the cogitator complex. Barely one in fifteen inductees into the chapter ever developed eyes like his and, although such a divergence was well within recognized tolerance levels set by the Martian Biologus College, knowledge of the eyes are considered a chapter secret. Showing Savin was one thing, a suitable highlight to the truly monstrous nature of a marine, but allowing the arbitrators to see had been careless.

The loss of nearly a score of his Brothers, his charges, had evidently scarred him more deeply than he had thought.

Carelessness was unforgivable.
This, however, was not the time to dwell on past mistakes. He flexed his jaw and turned his head slightly to the left, activating his vox. Opening a channel to his company’s techmarine, he confirmed that the bombardment was going as planned. Too much and the planet’s value to the Imperium would be decreased, too little and the populace would not be adequately punished.

As Trask had said, everything was in readiness. Horst, their assigned techmarine, was one of the best in the chapter, which explained his attachment to one of the Justicar’s four Line Companies in the first place, and the attack was proceeding as well as could be expected. It was Horst’s direct communion with Alpha Platform’s central cogitator that had deactivated the planet’s defenses and had allowed them to capture the Alpha’s bridge without blowing out the door. Fortunately, the rest of the station surrendered readily after that point. Had they not, Horst would have been forced to cut the station’s life support, opening it the vacuum of space.

By the time the captain finished conversing with Horst and his numerous squad leaders he and Trask reached their awaiting combat shuttle.

The whine of the thunderhawk’s engines would be near deafening to the human flight crews, had they not been either killed or herded out of the way during the Justicar’s secondary sweep of the station.
With one of his two thunderhawks down, the rest of the company would be forced to deploy via drop pod. Though this was the preferred method for this nature of planetary assault, it required them to waste precious minutes returning to their warships. The loss of the gunship was putting them behind schedule, and the loss of nearly two full squads had them understaffed. There was little chance that they could not adapt, however. The captain had brought a full Line Company, one hundred and five marines, not counting himself or Horst, who would be remaining in orbit for tactical support. A mission like this, a minor one in the grand scheme of things, would usually have been conducted by one of the larger Demi-companies, who specialized in this sort of covert operation.

That the captain had lost so many of his men, even with forces that were considered overkill by his peers, only exasperated his shame and failure.

They would be avenged in the battle to come, and vindicated soon after.

The gunship launched just as he and Trask were taking their seats. From the reinforced viewport, the captain could see dozens of streaks of light raining death upon the world of Torax III from the orbitals that made up its own defensive complex. Marines are skilled warriors, but always outnumbered. The Justicars had made it a point of being able to commandeer an enemy’s strength for their own purposes.

On his first mission as captain of Manticore Company, he and his marines had seized the bridge of a frigate. They had overloaded the engines and locked in her course towards the enemy flagship. The impact, and the detonation of the frigate’s warp coil, had utterly annihilated the vessel, a grand cruiser in the service of a renegade Admiral. Its destruction had turned the tide for the badly outnumbered Imperial Fleet. The captain still bore the icon of a winged bomb around his neck, an honor offered to every member of his strike team by the grateful Navy.
Half an hour later the captain’s gunship circling over the governor’s burning chateau, located in the picturesque mountain range of the planet’s northernmost continent. The chatter of the thunderhawk’s heavy bolters firing at the few remaining security personnel could be heard even over the roar of its engines.

“Enough, take us down,” the captain ordered once he had determined that the surviving troops had no weapons heavy enough to damage the ‘hawk. He made his way to the embarkation ramp and, steadying himself with a hand on the wall, turned to address his marines.

“According to the data provided by Judge Valence, the governor has been here on leave for the past week,” he said. “The house itself is designed for comfort, but there is an extensive bunker complex located underneath.” Their strike cruiser, the Manticore, could have easily obliterated the sight from orbit, but he did not need to tell his men that they needed to recover the governor’s body for their assault to have the optimal success. Capturing him alive would be even better.

“This ‘Rex’ of theirs has been preparing his defenses for nearly four decades,” he said, “so you can expect heavy resistance and any manner of nasty surprises waiting for us when we get inside.”

“They’re the ones in for a nasty surprise, Capatin.” Brother Simmon, a spry two hundred, and the youngest member of his honor guard, could always be relied upon for some sort of heartfelt interjection at moments like these. Such behavior was considered unbefitting for a Justicar in most circumstances, by Simmon had never shown this side of character to outsiders. His skills at close quarters combat, armed and unarmed, also gave him a degree of leeway; but the truth of the matter was that he was simply well liked. Most of the company seemed to consider him to be a mascot, of sorts.
“Indeed,” said the captain. “All the same, I want this done cleanly and quickly. The Manticore will be finishing this place when we have the governor.” He allowed himself the luxury of a smile, “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The thunderhawk lurched to stop as the front hatches opened. The captain and his honor guard leapt forward and hit the ground, some five meters bellow, running. A few stray lasbolts sizzled when they struck the charging astartes, doing no real damage aside from wilting paint, as the gunship’s engines increased in power, taking it over to the next entry point.

There were ten more astartes on board, waiting for deployment. They were the best soldiers in the company, handpicked for the crucial assault on Platform Alpha and this, the subsequent attack on the governor himself. The captain and his team would attack from the front entrance, on the building’s west facing. Since it backed up to a mountain, one of the remaining teams would enter from the north while the second took the south.

When a team located the entrance to the bunker, it would hold the location until the others arrived. Five marines would then be left to secure their line of retreat while the captain led the remaining ten marines into the complex bellow. If they ran into trouble, which was unlikely, but possible, this would give them a reserve of five marines to call upon. In meantime, those left above would be responsible for neutralizing any troops still alive on the surface.
Sparing a moment to fire a few bolts at the sources of incoming lasfire, more to keep their heads down than anything else, the six astartes marched steadily towards the main gate. It, like the majority of the windows of the front façade, had been shattered by the heavy ordnance that had been directed towards the building over the past few hours. Truly, that the building was still standing at all was a fitting tribute to Brother Horst’s skill and accuracy.

As they passed up the stairs and through the threshold, they were met by dull chatter of a pair of heavy stubbers positioned on top of a hastily assembled barricade. Anticipating the nature of this sweep, the captain had had his marines replace their standard bolters for ones with attacked flamers. Without pause, Brother Trask merely stepped forward and hosed the improvised fortification with a gout of burning promethium.

There was little chance that the governor, or any member of his family, would still be above ground by this point, so the marines had no reason to check their fire. Several times they encountered similar barricades, or were ambushed when passing a room. These brave, but foolhardy soldiers were doused with flame, ripped apart by bolter fire, or simply crushed and shoved aside. Those that fled, or surrendered, were ignored. The Justicars had on need to waste time or ammunition on harmless cowards that would be incinerated by an orbital lance strike within a few minutes later. Let them pray to the God Emperor for forgiveness, for they would receive none from His Angels this day.
Sorry about the wait. I know where I want to go from here, but I'm having trouble deciding how to get there. I've already rewritten the next paragraph about seven times.

I ask that you please bear with me for a bit.
If anyone is still reading, of course.
i am
Six minutes and forty-four seconds after touching down, Team Three uncovered the entrance the bunker in a small parlor between the governor’s bedroom and private office. Governor Rex had had the foresight not to place guards in the room, but there was nothing he could do to mask the erratic heat signature behind the hidden doorway. Though only a few degrees lower than the rest of the wall, the difference was more than enough to be noted by the enhanced sensory arrays of the astartes’ helmets.

“Hold position,” ordered the captain. “Team Two, rendezvous with Team Three. Team One, one me.”

They made their way to the parlor, killing a few more soldiers on the way. “”Well, they’re loyal little bastards,” remarked Simmon. “You have to give them that.

The captain established a relay through the thunderhawk and back to Alpha Station, “Brother Horst?”

“My captain?”

“I’m looking at a hidden wall panel, concealing a ceramite blast door.” He tapped the wall. “I’d estimate it to be roughly three and a half inches thick.”

“My captain,” the techmarine said, “your meltabombs should be more that suitable to remove the door. I find it unlikely that that is why you called me.”

“Indeed, Brother. I have little doubt that there is some sort of booby-trap. I need to get in, quickly.”

“One moment,” said Horst. “Please place the auditory receiver of your auspex against the panel and tap it until I tell you to stop. Relay the information to me, and have one of our Brothers send me a heat index in real-time.”

“It will be done,” said the captain. “Brother Simmon, would you do the honors.”

“Aye, captain.”
“Aye, captain.”

After a few moments of continuous tapping, the Scion of Mars asked for them to stop.

“As far as I can tell, there are at least three charges placed on the door. One of them is built into the design itself, the other two have been added recently.” He paused, evidently communing with his armour’s inbuilt cogitator. “There is no way to deactivate the charges in a timely fashion, but I know of something that might work."

“And that is?”

“According to the schematics you have provided me, the parlor is situated next to a large bedroom and backs up to that room’s closet.”

“That is correct.”

“That closet is the furthest point possible from hidden door, and therefore the charges as well. It is unlikely that they would arm the bombs to detonate on that side of the room. I believe Brother Simmon is armed with a power sword?”

“That is also correct.”

“Then cutting in with that sword is your best chance to enter the room without detonating the bomb.” He paused, “However, there is a still a large margin for error, and whomever you assing to do the cutting will be at great risk.”
“I’m willing to take that risk, Captain,” said Simmon.

“Very well. Thank you Brother Horst.” Team Two had arrived during the captain’s conversation with the techmarine, and now he addressed his full complement of marines. “I want the rest of you to fall back to a more secure position. If this doesn’t go as planned-“

He was interrupted by a communiqué from the thunderhawk, “Captain!”


“We’ve just detected a column of troops and armor approaching your position; ETA twenty minutes.”

“Captain,” interjected Brother Horst. “They’re already too close for me to destroy them from orbit, these guns are accurate, but the margin for error is too great, in my opinion.”

“How did they manage to remain undetected up to this point?” asked the captain.

“I believe they were hidden in a shielded cave,” said Horst. “One not on any of the official records we have available.”

“Yet more proof of the governor’s treachery,” said the captain. “Simmon, I want you to cut open that room, now. Team Two will intercept the column while Team Three establishes a defensive position in the chateau. I will lead Team One into the bunker. Team Three is our reserve, for either my team or Team Two. Any questions?”

There were none. “Good, then get into position.”
The astartes filed out of the room, their combined footfalls shaking a painting from the wall. Their captain conferred with the thunderhawk pilots. They were out of missiles, and running low on bolter ammunition, but would be able to slow the inbound troops with the main cannon for awhile longer.

Simmon managed to cut into the secret room with little difficulty, and soon the captain and his honor guard were making their way down a flight of stairs into the bunker. They slowed as they reached the bottom.

“Trask, six rounds through the door,” said the captain. “Simmon, toss a couple of frags when it’s open.”

Trask fired, shredding the portal and ripping it right off its hinges. A shriek of pain rang up the stairwell. The crump of Simmon’s grenades silenced the shout.
The captain took the last few steps with a single bound, hitting the ground with a roll. He came to halt at the knee, cracking off a short burst of rounds at a gaggle of surprised soldiers and service staff at the end of the hallway he had just entered. “No flamers or grenades from this point forward,” he ordered. “We need the governor, and his family, identifiably intact.”

His vox rang with affirmation beeps from his five guards. “Split up, kill and clear. Stay in communication.”

Each of the marines took a different route. The captain went forward, the others each peeling off in different directions. Each time he reached a door he kicked it open, his superhuman strength even further enhanced by the fiber bundles of his power armour forcing the rip apart. Many were empty of personnel, but almost all had some sort of equipment or supplies. One room was some sort of auxiliary command center, the bunker apparently having been designed to serve as a substitute for the PDF high command in an emergency. As it was, the attack had caught them off guard, and the only people in the complex were maids, servants, and a few guards. Most of the soldiers died well. The others did not.

His marines were faring no better, none of the having come across so much as a second cousin of the Rex Family. But it soon became clear that they had a new problem. The bunker was shielded in some way, likely to prevent prying eyes to see just how extensive the complex was. Unfortunately, this meant that the marines’ vox transmissions were being blocked as well. They could communicate with each other, but not with their Brothers on the surface. The captain had been forced to station one of his men near the stairwell to act as a relay between them and the surface.
Perhaps it was for the best, however. If a member of the Rex family tried to make escape from the stairwell, it could take precious minutes to round them up; minutes they could not spare.

After a quarter hour, Simmon found something useful. “Captain,” he said, “I have the governor’s son and wife in custody.”

“Which son?” he asked. “And which wife, for that matter?” According to their portfolio on the governor, he had married and divorced six times in the last two decades alone.

“Current wife, Chirus. It appears to be his youngest son, Davix, age three.”

“Good work, Brother,” said the captain. “How much of that section do you need to finish clearing?”

“It was the last room,” he said. “What do you want me to do with these two?”

The captain was coming to the last intersection of his chosen area as well. He slowed, covering the hallway with his bolter. “Bring them to the stairwell, this should be done soon.”

There was loud bang and a powerful impact struck the captain in the chest, knocking him to the floor. The neural interface provided by his black carapace allowed him to feel the damage done to his chest plate, a section of ceramite the size of his own enlarged fist has been cracked off by the force of the blow. Seconds later, the hallway reverberated with the echoes of heavy weapons fire.
He rolled to the side and through the doorway of the last room he had cleared. He came to a crouch and primed his bolter. The captain waited, listening: the weapon discharge and rate of fire, the whirring servos, the faint sound of extremely regular breathing, and the click of an auto-targeter could only mean one thing.
He activated his vox, “Team One, be advised: I have encountered a heavy weapons servitor, armed with a heavy bolter. Proceed with extreme caution.”

“Do you need assistance, captain?” asked Sergeant Trask.

“Negative,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I should be able to take care this.”

With that he focused his attention on the problem at hand. The servitor had ceased firing once the captain had moved out its visible range. He could not here the automaton moving towards or away from him. It must be programmed to guard that corridor, rather than seek and destroy intruders.


That meant the governor thought something beyond that point was worth protecting. Since his wife and son were comparatively unguarded, it was reasonable to infer that Rex himself was prize.
Now to deal with the servitor.

The captain looked the room over. It was a kitchen; a small one, but well stocked. Yet more proof that the governor was near. The kitchen was also possessed of a rather high grade oven that positively reeked with the smell of sugars and flour. Evidently the woman lying in a pool of her own blood was some sort of pastry chef. The governor must like his cake.


He smiled.

The captain went to the storeroom, snatching up a half dozen bags of flour. He then went to the sink and started the faucet. Without the luxury of time to spend of fine motor skills, he simply ripped it form the wall. He grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and soaked it in the rushing water. Runoff was washing away the woman’s blood.

He dunked the bags of flour in as well, soaking them completely. Placing the sludge into the towel, he wrapped it into a ball. As he moved back to the doorway, he paused to snatch the corpse off the floor.
Positioning himself carefully, he quickly drop-kicked the body down the hall. It was ripped into shreds in seconds. As the servitor continued to fire uselessly into the meat that was rapidly becoming even less identifiable, the captain primed a frag grenade and shoved it into the white mass of gooey baking material.
Heaving it blindly towards the servitor, he counted down.



With a muted bang, the grenade detonated and the captain was dashing down the hallway. A thick layer of sticky, white powder covered the servitor from head to foot. The sludge that landed on its ocular device was throwing off its aim.

Raising his bolter, the captain fired. Three mass reactive shells took the servitor in the chest, neck, and face. When they detonated, the servitor’s entire forward section erupted in fire and viscera.

The weapons servitor hit the deck plate in sync with the captain. Firing without the benefit of sight, the servitor’s shots went wild. The corridor, however, was small, and even blind, the automaton couldn’t have missed even with every shot had it tried.

The captain’s left pauldron was a ruin. His entire left arm was numb. A glancing blow to his helmet had ripped it off, taking his right ear and a large portion of his face with it. Miraculously, his right knee pad had suffered a direct hit but was effectively unharmed, though the knee of flesh beneath it throbbed with the forming bruise. Detecting the injuries, his power armor automatically injected pain depressors into the captain’s bloodstream.
Stumbling to his feet, the captain removed a micro-bead from its storage pouch at his belt. He limped over to his shattered helmet as he made contact with squad, “Servitor neutralized.”

“Captain,” said Trax, “your voice sounds strained. Is all well?”

“I had more difficulty than expected,” he told him. “I have sustained minor injuries, and my armor has been severely damaged. Nothing of major concern, however.”

“I will reach your position in two minutes.”

“That,” said the captain, “would be wise.” He turned around, seeing exactly what it was the servitor was guarding. “In fact,” he said, “Bring in everyone we can spare. And have Brother Simmon bring along the prisoners.”

“You’ve found the governor?”

“I believe so,” he said. Behind the cooling, cybernetic corpse of the dead servitor, there was a blast door. It was even thicker than the one blocking the entrance to the bunker itself. And the captain knew the material it was made of. It was quite familiar.


"I do believe so."
It's a little too early, but I'm reading. OP is aussie?
In five minutes, the captain was joined by four of his honor guard, including Trask and Simmon. The boy huddled against his mother. He was small, incredibly small. The captain could almost have held him in the palm of his hand. The child was crying and his mother was trying to quiet him down. When he had seen the captain’s bloody, ruined face, he had broken out in hysterics. The captain had touched his gauntlet to his face, and felt the bone protruding from his cheek. Now he wouldn’t even need his black eyes to frighten people.

The wife was tall, for a human. For a woman. Her hair was long and brown. She scowled at the marines surrounding her every time she looked up from her comforting her son, though her own eyes were still red from where she had been crying.

Flexing the fingers of his left hand, pleased with the returning feeling despite the pain, the captain turned back to the door. While he waited, he had found poorly disguised intercom to the right side of the adamantium doorway.

“He’s behind this, isn’t he?” the captain asked, turning back to the frightened woman and child.

She simply hugged her child closer.

“Simmon, take the boy from her.”

“Yes, captain.” The marine made to move closer towards them.

“Wait!” she screamed, sobbing again. “Yes, he’s in the panic room!”

“Good,” said the captain. “Though I’m curious as to why you are not in there with him.”

“I believe she was trying to acquire the boy and bring him here, sir,” said Simmon. “When she realized I was already in their section, they hid in a closet.”
The captain nodded, then activated the intercom.

“Governor Rex,” he said. It was not a question. There was no answer. The captain inclined his head towards the governor’s wife, “Perhaps you can get him to answer?”

“Tyrus,” she cried, “for the Emperor’s sake! They have Davix!”
I live in Louisiana, actually. What makes you think I'm down under?

Also, thank you for reading. It's been so long since anyone else posted that I was wondering if I still had an audience!
It must be like 4AM or so over there. Weird hour to post on a wednesday.
Just about three, actually. I work night shifts at a hotel, so my sleep schedule is reversed from the norm. Today, tonight, I just happen to have off.

I'm almost done with tonight's selection, by the way. Things about to get dark.
Still no answer.

Casually, slowly, the captain bent down and took a knee next to the woman. She flinched back when he looked into her eyes. Gently, he took her hand between his finger and thumb.

Then he squeezed.

Her pupils seemed to double in size as she opened her mouth to scream. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he held it tight. Her anguished shouting sent his missing ear ringing. He ground his finger and thumb back and forth, pulping the flesh and bone of her hand.

“Throne!” said a voice from the intercom. “Stop it, stop it!”

The captain obliged, and the woman collapsed, near to fainting. She lay there, heaving, weeping. Her son was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Very good, Governor Rex,” he said. “Now that we both know where we stand, I will tell how things will proceed from here.

“You, sir, are behind half a foot of adamantium. I have several dozen meltabombs. I could, very easily, open your little door there with them. But, as you probably realize, the backwash from their detonation would incinerate your corpse.

“I won’t lie to you, Governor. You will not live to see this day end. I, however, would prefer to take you alive so that I can execute you in front of your people. And again, I will not lie, the death I plan will not be a pleasant one.
“You must realize, then, that I am not providing you with much incentive to come out, so you may be inclined to take the more painless death by melta.”
“Where are you going with this, you frakking monster!” with the vox distortion, it was difficult to tell whether panic or anger was more prevalent in his voice. Had he been a gambling man, the captain would have put money on panic.

“And there we come to the crux of the situation,” said the captain. “I am a monster. Worse than you could imagine. Now, I could go into the reasons why I am a monster, but at the moment I am rather pressed for time. Besides, I’ve already been through that once today.

So, instead, I will merely show you how monstrous I can be. Starting from the point at which I end this little conversion, I will begin to dismantle your son. I would have preferred to keep using your woman, her already being damaged, but it seems she has gone unconscious.”

“Y-you wouldn’t,” said the governor.

“I have done so in the past, and will do so again in the future.” I drew the boy to him and the child began squirm.

“Wait,” said the vox.

“Governor,” said the captain, “I am now tearing off your son’s right ear.”

He did so.
I'm at the airport waiting for my ride. Keep going. I got an hour till I need to turn my phone off.
Well I was planning on ending there for now, but I'll go bit further.
I must admit to taking the liberty of adding this thread to sup/tg/. I've gotten rather fond of the story and plan on continuing it. It would be pain to keep reposting the whole story, you understand. It currently clocks in at 26 pages and 10,202 words (the longest I've ever written).

Anyway, thank you again for your interest, and have a great flight!
Writefagging I'm boarding my flight now. Can someone put this on suptg so ppl can read it later?
Done and done.

Good timing, too. My laptop, which has the story, is having trouble with the internet. I'm posting this on my phone, instead.

Goodnight, everyone. I promise to keep the story going at a later date.
Though if I can get my interwebs to work, I may post some more in this thread.
good night OP
Bumping this valuable thread.

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