Editing Republican Commando (section)

===(25.5) Friends in High Places===

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">Crusader Invictus floats idly, heavily damaged, its hand shattered. The Crusader Sword floats nearby. Rose is unconscious, but otherwise everyone on the Command Bridge is more or less okay. There is no sign of the Hellstar, only the shattered moons and planetoids that once heralded it.

"Did scans learn anything useful about that damned thing?" Cyril asks.
"Have we a sample for delivery?" Cortain adds, "Hopefully to someone more competent than Doggfather..."
The vox sizzles through static, "Lads...lads, we'll try ta se......me teams over ta check..." It's clearly Rockfist. Vox signal is coming from down below, within the depths of Crusader Invictus.
"Bring what you can find to the Blade," Cortain requests.

The pict-caster feed kicks on through emergency power. Rockfist is there, clutching a vox. In the background, Thexus's mechadendrites are flailing about as he floats about in the zero-gravity.

"Aye, lad, we'll do what we can..." Rockfist sighs.

Cortain begins to review active systems while everyone orients themselves. Crusader Invictus is on emergency power. Motive, weapons, and other nonessential components are disabled. The God Machine is suffering from a grav plate failure and a sundered arm. He determines that it will take much time to fix. He is stopped, however, as the Commandos' private vox channel kicks in once more. 

"Most impressive, Republican Commandos," it says, "The God Machine walks, and the skies themselves cracked and shattered. We are quite impressed."
"Deepthroat," Cortain wonders before stopping. This voice is different than Deepthroat's, and even he couldn't access Deathwatch encrypted channels.
"Or perhaps...our benefactor in discovering this holy engine..." Cortain muses.
"I believe so," Cyril affirms.
"We know not who this Deepthroat is, but We suspect that We shall know soon. Republican Commandos, We invite you to Our chosen vessel, such that We may commune together. We look forward to meeting you."
"Chosen Vessel?  Aside from this one?" Cortain asks.
"He means a meeting place!" a new voice, a woman's now rather than the synthesized voice of before, "Forgive him, he can be somewhat grandiose at times. We'll send you everything you need!"
"Grandeur is entirely appropriate in the presence of a God-Machine," Cyril replies, "We will see you soon."

Sure enough, the Commandos are sent coordinates, their position within the extensive fleet outside.

"Lad, there should be a small access path behind Crusader Invictus's head," Rockfist states, "The Urist Brothers are on the way and will await yer orders."
The Commandos grab Rose, and begin to seek out the access path Rockfist explained. They do not question at the time HOW the Squat Engineer knew of such a path.
"Don't worry about me an' Thexus," Rockfist says, "We'll call for an Arvus once you're all sorted out."
"Best of luck," Cortain signs off as he approaches the exit hatch.

The hatch is kind of bent up from battle damage, but not enough to significantly impede the Commandos' travels. It leads to a mechanicum-engraved door, the sigils upon it marking it as a transfer dock / airlock. After a few minutes, everyone can hear a clanging, as something connects to the airlock. The door opens, and the interior of an Aquila Lander greets the Commandos.

"Urist McMorpho and Urist McPequod on station!" the two Squats yell, "Orders?"
Brynjol looks at Cyril, shrugging. Cortain delivers the Coordinates as the four Commandos board the Aquila. The two Squats review the coordinates, before their heads turn to the waiting Mechanicus fleet. "Yes, m'lords!" they state, as the rear door seals.

Cyril buckles Notomok into a few seats and maglocks himself somewhere convenient. Brynjol sits himself crosslegged against a wall, his fingers flexing slowly as he re-accommodates himself. The Aquila lander leaves the stricken God Machine, and is on its way into the cloud of Mechanicus vessels. There are countless Secutor and Monitor cruisers, most of which bear the symbols of the Skitarius and iconography of countless Mechanicus synods. Weaving through the fleet, which are holding at machine-synchronized attention, one vessel finally begins to grow larger, a heavily armored vessel of a pattern the Commandos are not familiar with. Cortain salutes and recites trivia about the fleet, though all eyes are drawn to the unknown vessel.

"Hmm. I do not recognize that pattern of ship... Cortain?" Cyril asks. Cortain strains his cogitator banks, but unfortunately finds no record of the vessel.
"Unfamiliar," Cortain admits, "Possibly exclusive to this forge world."
Cyril takes careful scans and pict-captures of the vessel -  the ship is heavily armored, and comparatively lightly armed.  Approaching, a wing of Fury interceptors take up escort position, and the Aquila is guided towards the heavily-armored vessel.

Every vessel in the endless fleet bears the symbols of the Mechanicus and Mars itself, arrayed above lesser synods. But it is the heraldry of the singular ship ahead that catches Cortain's eye. Adeptus Astra Telepathica.

"Sweet Terra...This is the homeland..." he realizes, "These fleets...they come from Mars itself!"
Brynjol rolls his eyes beneath his hood.
"These are from Sol, Bryn," Cortain states, somewhat annoyed.
"Oh alright then..." Brynjol sighs.
Temur glares at the vessels - emissaries from Mars and Terra, no doubt means something worrisome.

The aquila's vox stutters to life, "Designate Republican Commandos, this is the Tiamat-class Shield Bastion 'Bird of Time.' We are ready to receive you, in the name of the God Emperor and our Master. We shall ready a delegation."

"Acknowledged, Bird of Time," Cyril states, before turning to the Squats, "Take us in, lads."

The Aquila is guided into a landing bay on the Shield Bastion. Armored doors seal the void away, as the door to the Aquila sinks down. A number of bonded troops, also bearing the heraldry of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, begin to assemble outside.

Brynjol tucks his axe away under a fold of his voluminous ragged shroud-robe and leads the way in predatory crouch, as Cyril grooms himself and his Yeti. Cortain marches out with his polished heraldry, while Temur wordlessly scans the deck for threats. The waiting troops calmly salute. 
"The Master awaits. She is eager to meet you. Please, this way," the troops offer, though one voxes off to the side, "All have arrived. From here, we await orders."
Cyril returns the salute, as the Commandos form up and follow.

Escorting through the armored Shield Bastion, its halls covered in tapestries of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, and the occasional finely woven rug interspersed about, the battleship sized vessel reminds you of the Blade in its length and armor. This one, however, has been customized in ways the Blade never would. Eventually, the Bonded Troopers stop, outside a large ornate door. The runes carved upon it remind the Commandos of hexagrammatic wards, but they're clearly just engravings. The Commandos attempt to open the door, but it is quite heavy.  Getting a good footing, the Commandos push hard, and even with their power armored strength, it's still an effort. Eventually, the door opens.

The Commandos are greeted with a grassy plain and bright daylight. Far in the distance, a large tree grows in the soil.
"...hm," Cyril coughs, not sure what to make of things.
Cortain stifles his bemusement, while Brynjol scoffs at the light. Temur takes a deep breath, appreciating the wide, open plains, not questioning how such a thing could fit within a battleship.

The Commandos advance towards the central tree. Feeling like they've been walking for almost a kilometer, they HAVE have been walking for almost a kilometer. The tree is very wide, and clearly old, while the artificial weather within this chamber is set for a soft breeze to make it sway. Rounding the tree, the Commandos hear the flapping of cloth, and finally come across others.

One is a dreadnought-sized form, vaguely man-shaped. Numerous mechadendrites trail off it, and others constantly scan the area. Robes of the Mechanicum barely cover the mechanoid. The other is a woman who appears in her mid-twenties, appearing a few years older than Rose, wearing a blue and gold sash over her eyes as she sits delicately on a palanquin rug suspended by four poles, the sun blocked by another rug acting as awning. Her light clothing billows in the breeze.

"Welcome, Republican Commandos," the mechanoid man states, "We trust there was no issue on the trip over?"
Cortain begins sensing the vertigo as things begin falling into place. He bends knee to the two. "None at all."
The woman leans over, "Oh...how remarkable, but also funny," she laughs, "I see your mind. We are thankful for the respect, and yet, you are quick to castigate others who show it to you..."
"Why're we here?" Brynjol bluntly asks, his eyes narrowing.
"Master Clarity, there is a 98% certainty that, without introductions, all but the Techmarine shall not recognize Us. Such pleasantries are in order, are they not?" the mechanoid man states. Every so often, its voice changes pitch and frequency.
Cortain gazes up, half in awe, half in horror at Brynjol's continued use of words.
"Respect must generally be earned," Brynjol points out.
"Oooh, I like you!" she points at Brynjol, before turning to Cortain, "You who calls yourself 'Consul' Cortain, you seem to know. Why don't you do us the honors?"

Cortain says nothing, caught in the moment. Cyril thinks a moment, coming to a sudden realization based on Cortain's previous comments and current actions.

"Cortain, would you care to introduce us to the High Lords of Terra?" Cyril states.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpgMPC52Mqk

"Fabricator General," Cortain whispers, "Master of Astra Telepathica."
Brynjol raises a brow, "Charmed, I'm sure."
"To think that our exploits spread that far..." Cortain whispers.
Temur merely crosses his arms, concerned over what will be said.

The Mechadendrites of the Fabricator General swivel between the Commandos. Cyril signs the Aquila at the mechadendrites, hopping to the grassy dirt and contorting his legs to sit lotus-style. Cortain puts his other knee to the ground. Brynjol and Temur continue to lean against the tree, not quite sure how to handle the situation.

"Ahhh, yes, you are quite correct," the Fabricator General states, "Do not feel bad. Your predecessors did not realize at first as well."
"Now that that's out of the way," Master Clarity beams, "Let's sit together, and talk. I see your minds, your souls, I see you've been through quite a lot, no?"
"That is one way to put it," Cyril admits.
"Predecessors?" Cortain wonders, "My lords, you met the original Republican Commandos? "
"They were not Republican Commandos, that is a title reserved only for you," the Fabricator General explains, "We remember them well, they were simply a Kill Team. They came to visit Terra, ahh...almost one hundred years back now."
"We have heard a great deal of their exploits in Tiji, but information on the Kill-Team themselves is scarce," Cyril admits.
"Ah, them," Master Clarity laughs, stretching on her palanquin, "They were certainly unique. Almost ran me over, they did! If I didn't feel it, I never would have believed they were Or-"
A mechadendrite rushes forward at lightning speeds.
*THWACK*
"OW! Or...ordained to see the Emperor himself!" Master Clarity recovers, rubbing her head, "That was before the little incident your sector had with Squats, and before this whole business with the...Hellstar, you called it?" Master Clarity asks.

"That is what it seems to call itself, Master Clarity," Cyril affirms.
"Now THAT, that is a problem," Master Clarity sighs, leaning back, "The last time it was seen, so long ago, we used every weapon we had at our disposal."
"How far back do we speak?" Cortain asks.
"Much Archeotech was lost repulsing it the first times, although, We did not know it as Hellstar back then," the Fabricator General states, "We remember well, categorized as the Howling and the Harrowing, archived to be never spoken of again. Forgotten vaults were opened, every weapon readied, and even then, when we still had remnants of the Crusade with us those eight millennia ago, it was still a pyrrhic victory."
"And this Crusader Invictus...was this too a weapon of yours?" Cortain asks, "To fight them?"

"No, it was not," Master Clarity shakes her head, "You should well and truly consider yourself lucky. The God Machine that the Fabricator calls Crusader Invictus, we believe it to be a key weapon against this threat."
"It is the first weapon we have turned against the abomination to prove effective against more than the small manifestations," Cyril states, "Even our cruiser's dorsal cannon did nothing. The Crusader Invictus, though... each true strike hit home, and hit hard."
"Ohoho, Crusader Invictus, it is powerful indeed..." the Fabricator General states, "We must put all our faith in one, although, if we had the others, Victory would no doubt be assured."
"There are more?" Brynjol asks.
"Were," Cortain states.
"Even our Dark Age legends speak of God Machines, one of the many weapons available to Dark Age mankind," the Fabricator General states, "There were Three."

"If mankind could recover the other two, we could overcome many foes now giving the Imperium trouble, not just the wretched Hellstar," Cyril suggests, "Do legends indicate whether they were destroyed?"
The Fabricator General shudders, a hissing, clanking noise reminiscent of laughter.
"At what point did We say they were destroyed?"
"You did not," Cyril realizes.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJVnTbhACC8

The Fabricator General arrays his mechadendrites as a hololithic projector.

"In the beginning, there were Three God Machines. The First was called Crusader Invictus. Possessed of incorruptible willpower, Crusader Invictus could steal its enemies' strengths, and reflect its pilots' burning wills to become unstoppable. It would be lost, a victim of its own pride, and recovered only fifty years back. We put in every effort to restore it for you."
"We are honored, Fabricator General," Cyril nods.
"At the height of mankind's conquest, the Three God Machines were an unstoppable force, who with capable masters at each helm, could conquer entire battlefleets on their own," Master Clarity states, "Though, the years have been quite unkind. That is why we summoned the one called Rose, there. We needed a control core, and as a survivor of those times, she would do nicely."
Master Clarity looks down, "She should be awakening momentarily, anyway."
"You... summoned her? The Past and Future had many aboard, slaughtered by Daemons before we could intervene," Cyril asks, "You singled her out, knowing when she would be needed?"
"I had a theory. I thought it disproved..." Cortain muses.
"I wouldn't be the Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica if I didn't see such things!" Master Clarity giggles.
"Perhaps many were called, and we saved the last of them," Cortain wonders aloud.
"It is unfortunate that it had to be that way," Master Clarity sighs, "But you completed your mission nonetheless. As did the Inquisitors when I placed the mission within their minds."

"Inevitably, the Second would be the next to fall, its name lost to time. Possessed of an unquenchable rage, it too could feed off its masters and draw strength from them. To temper it in times of peace, it would take the form of a great cruiser, biding its time. It would be lost to a space hulk, and eventually found...by your predecessors," the Fabricator General explains, "Though where they are now, we do not know."

"And that leaves the third..." Cortain realizes.

"The Last of the God Machines was designated "Core Guardian." Unlike the others, it was entrusted to a certain people, cared and maintained for, and although it lacked the raw power of the first two due to its modular, combining form, it was capable of great feats of support. Even now, the Squats continue to hold it, honoring it as an avatar of their guiding ancestors. Where they service it, We cannot claim to say."
The Commandos briefly wonder how the Emperor works in mysterious ways, how all three God Machines ended up in Tiji.
"Yeah, Out of the three God Machines, I'd definitely say Crusader Invictus has a slight edge," Master Clarity states, "But you're in luck, for we are preparing one more weapon for you to the best of our ability."

"Could it be a new sword? My chainsword has lost over fourteen thousand teeth, and the gears are very dodgy," Brynjol begs, looking vaguely hopeful.
"If you maintained that weapon with the proper respect, Bryn, it would not need to be held together by dried gore and a prayer," Cyril admonishes.

"Although, now it's our turn to be somewhat...apologetic," Master Clarity sighs, "As progress was...disrupted."
"Listen, sometimes you have to saw the knees off a dreadnought, alright?" Brynjol shrugs, "It goes through a lot of teeth, Cyril, we've discussed this!"
Master Clarity laughs, leaning forward, "You guys do get along well together."
"Aye, there is that," Brynjol agrees, "Even if Cortain is a heathen who can't be swayed to the way of good bladework."
"Say what?" Cortain stands up.
"When is the last time we fought a Dreadnought?! You could stand to give the poor thing some attention between engagements, is all I am saying," Cyril yells, "Besides, Cortain stabbed that Berserker in the knees, not to mention any number of greater foes he has downed since with his Gladius."
"Before we met, Cyril. I've had this chainsword for a long time," Brynjol reminds him, "Replaced the guard, the hilt, the blade-housing, the gear-linkages, and fourteen thousand teeth."

Temur coughs loudly, cutting the discussion short.

"We work well together, ma'am," Cyril concludes, "We are friends and brothers."
"So I see..." she smiles.

"Fifty years ago, We dispatched a delegation of Holy Mars into the Area you call 'The Scar.' Within, We established a fortress-station, to construct a mighty weapon, which we decided to name the Star Bomb. We would turn one of the dead cores of the stars within into a destructive force," The Fabricator General continues.
"Sadly, the fortress was raided seventeen years back. We don't know by who, for it is impossible to see with sight beyond sight within the Scar" shrugs Master Clarity, "We had intended to support you further, but for now all we can do is rush the Star Bomb into production for you."
"And this bomb would...extinguish the Hellstar without collateral damage?" Cortain asks.
"We believe so. However, We also note a problem. The Star Bomb must be triggered from the inside for maximum effect, and We know not what lies inside the extradimensional being," The Fabricator General notes.

A Mechadendrite rests on all the Commandos' shoulders.
"Do not fret, We have faith you will make the Trinity proud," the Fabricator General grinds once more, akin to a chuckle.
"Aren't Fabricator-Generals supposed to be humourless bastards concerned about production values and such?" Brynjol interjects, "Beggin' your pardon, and all that."
"You do not question the Lord of Mars!" Cortain hisses.
"Why not?" Brynjol shrugs, "He seems a friendly enough sort."
"We usually are, and it is necessary to deal with the other High Lords in such a manner," the Fabricator General explains, "However, the third Fabricator General mind-engram interred within Us was quite adept at personal communications and social manipulation. It is quite the benefit to have his guidance within Us."
"He is the bin of over forty thousand years of knowledge that no man could possibly remain sane while storing it all," Cortain bows.
"Interesting," Brynjol admits.

"We are all friends here," Master Clarity laughs, before her smile vanishes, "Which does bring us to our next point..."

Cyril's head snaps to follow Clarity as her smile disappears. The Commandos are all now silent.
"You call yourselves Legionary," the Fabricator General now states flatly.
"It is a title given to us by one of our advisors," Cortain states.
"The Paragon of Metal calls us that, and we endeavor to live up to it," Cyril adds.
"I never bloody called myself a Legionary!" Brynjol insists, "Astartes is good enough for me."
"Paragon of Metal?" The Fabricator General asks, the mechadendrites cocking, intrigued.
"Theta Ten Sigma, a Castellax Battle Automaton and a veteran of the Great Crusade," Cyril explains, "His programming is somewhat inflexible. However, he has served the Imperium well, and continues to educate us in tactics and wargear now all but lost."

A number of mechadendrites begin to converse with each other.

"The Executor yet lives. Perhaps the other Marked...I digress. Let us focus on the matter at hand."
"None have called themselves Legionary for almost 10,000 years," Master Clarity states, "And for good reason. You KNOW why the Legions were disbanded, do you not?"
"No man should hold so much power, save the Emperor himself," Brynjol states.
Cortain glances upon that horseshoe in his chest, "Completely."
Cyril's hands clench into fists, "Horus."
Temur remembers the stories, of how his own Legion nearly tore itself apart due to the Warrior Lodges.
"Correct on all accounts," Master Clarity repositions herself on her side, head balanced on hand, "The reformation of the Legions is something we cannot allow to happen."
"I think they picked the wrong problem to work on," Brynjol interjects,  Part of my training involved reading the ancient texts. I took an interest in the Heresy."

Cyril glances curiously at Brynjol.
"Oh?" the Fabricator General asks, a mechadendrite turning to him, "And what do you believe you have learned?"
"It worked," Cortain admonishes, "And that is what matters...at least for the moment."
"Did it work, Cortain? There are threats in this galaxy too great for even a whole Chapter," Brynjol states, "The problem was giving the Primarchs so much autonomy, when some of them were so obviously... questionable."
The Fabricator General and the Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica listen intently.
"What is done is done, and we can't change that, but I think splitting the legions simply diluted the power of the Astartes, Brynjol continues, "The Wolves under Russ, or the Ultramarines under Guilliman, would have been a singular force in this time."
"Chapters can cooperate and serve much the same role as cooperating Millennials," Cyril disagrees,  Whether you are right is now a moot point."
"That was the point," Master Clarity pouts, crossing her arms, "What a mess things became because of the legions"
"And now we are embattled on all sides, rather than crushing each threat we meet before it can penetrate our holdings as the Great Crusade did," Cyril admits, "Food for thought, Master Clarity."
"With respect, Mistress," Brynjol says, "It was because of the primarchs."
The Fabricator General raises a huge hand.
"Tell Us, what would you have done?" the Fabricator General asks, multiple mechadendrites converging on Brynjol.

"Well, for a start, the likes of the Night Haunter and Angron would never have been allowed to become leaders of men," Brynjol begins.
Cyril's armour rattles visibly with emotion.
"You presume to know better than the Emperor's choice?" Master Clarity sits back smugly, "He put them in charge for a reason. He had a plan."
"I would never question the will of the Allfather, Brynjol retracts, "But it is beyond me to see what his plans lead to, if the state of the galaxy is as his will has created."
Brynjol pauses.
"But in my secret heart, I believe the Master of Mankind was at his core, a man, and he could not bear to see the weakness of his sons," he concludes, "If that is heresy, then call me a heretic."
"Such thoughts would cause the painful execution of a lesser man," Master Clarity muses, "And are only useful with the benefit of hindsight."
"It was impossible to see the mistakes of the Great Crusade, for it was a more optimistic time," the Fabricator General explains, "One where even We felt nothing could stop it. We could not see what was wrong until it was unrecoverable."
"Regardless, the Legions as you know them will never return," Master Clarity states, "Such an act would cause the death of the Imperium. None would tolerate another Warmaster."
"Ahh, but..." The Fabricator General begins.
"Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no no..." Master Clarity sits up.
Brynjol 's hands go to his blades, as the Commandos all ready for anything.
"Is something..?" Cyril asks.

"The Legions will never return, this is true and inarguable," the Fabricator General states, "But...a Legion of four...with only a few thousand Squats behind them...We believe that is manageable, and shouldn't cause TOO much issue."
Grinding. Shaking. Laughing.
"And if it turns out to be a poor idea, we feel such a Legion is...easy enough to deal with," the Fabricator General trails, "Do you understand, Republican Commandos?"
Cortain grimly notes, "Understood."
Cyril laughs outright. "Indeed, Fabricator General."
"I vote we're called 'Brynjol's Angels," Brynjol offers.
"I have actually grown to prefer the moronic label Doggfather saddled us with," Cyril shrugs.

"A Question," Cortain asks, "What is a Republican?"
"I...don't know," Master Clarity finally leans in, "This sector is very, very strange in the way it does things."
"Indeed," Cyril agrees, "Every sector has its idiosyncrasies, but Tiji takes the cake."
"Then go, Commandos, Legionaries, with our blessing. Stop the Hellstar before it can do what it has come here to do. We will support you how we can," the Fabricator General states, "Ave Imperator. Gloriam Deus Mechanicum."
Cortain gives a formal salute before rising.
"Yes, I can't wait to get back to the utter boredom of political backstabbing back on Holy Terra," Master Clarity sighs, "But, before we part..."

Master Clarity floats off the Suspended Carpet Seat, and touches the ground, "Your hands please."

Brynjol steps to the back of the line, untrusting, wile the rest of the Commandos extend their hands.
"I can offer you only one more piece of guidance," she states, "A brief glimpse into the future."
Master Clarity places her hands upon the Commandos', and she begins to glow, rising up, her clothes beginning to flutter in the psychic wind...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KQ0_0bBARq8

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

Borne on the wings of angels, unto deliverance,
The many join together as one, an unbreakable aegis.
Let the fire into your heart, and purge yourself of doubt,
As the sacrifice of few becomes the guiding light.

The wind swirls.
I see four that lead the vanguard against evil...
...but the future is so clouded...

...for in the end...

...I see three...

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)

The Commandos say nothing.  Master Clarity shudders and hits the ground.
"Ow..." she sighs, "Commandos, what was said was only for your minds, even I did not hear it. But make of it what you will, for it may be true, or it may be false. I can offer little else."

"We will...honor the insight you have given us," Cortain whispers.
"Go with Our blessings, Commandos," the Fabricator General states, "When all is readied, you shall know."
"We are grateful, Master of Mars," Cortain bows.
Cyril nods, bowing his head. Brynjol frowns, nodding. "We'll think on your words, lords."

The two High Lords bid the Commandos farewell. At the door, the bonded armsmen stand ready to escort them back. The trip back to the Aquila feels faster for some reason, as the engines are warmed up, and the two Urists await their orders. Cyril removes his helm once aboard the Aquila, chill air escaping his armour with a hiss.

"Take us home, lads," Cyril sighs.
The two squats nod, as the Aquila takes off. Flying out as the grand fleet begins to depart, the vox kicks in.
"Lad, Jus' a few updates," Rockfist states, "Crusader Invictus is bein' moved ta Cataclysm, where facilities fer it were set up. Also, yer Holomap started beepin' again."
"Good," Cyril notes, "Has there been another update on the Black Caste?"
"Aye, lad, I'll brief ya once ya get here," Rockfist affirms.

Arriving at the Blade once more, with what Master Clarity said weighing heavily, the crew of the Blade nonetheless stand ready as everything begins to return to "normal."

------------------------

"Where are we?"

Rose LaKhora floats amongst clouds. A bright yellow sun floats ahead. She stares at the dark-skinned woman ahead of her, eyes covered by a blue and gold sash.

"We're psykers. Our minds can travel to places lesser mortals can barely dream of."
"Where are my friends? Where are the Commandos?"
"The Fabricator General and I are addressing them in the Materium. Here, however, our minds can converse uninterrupted."
"Oh. I...don't believe we've met."
"I am Master Clarity, Eternal Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, Headmistress of the Scholastica Psykana, and Arbiter of Sanctioning."

Rose thinks a moment.

"Sanctioning? I undertook that."
"Did you? I do not recall you making the pilgrimage to Terra."
"The Inquisitors said-"
"The Inquisitors were not entirely correct. Only the strongest of Psykers can avoid the Soul Binding. You have proved yourself in a different way, Core of Crusader Invictus."
"It hurt at first, but...I will endure anything to help them, the Commandos."
"Yes, I can see. You care for them, as they care for you. A bond of loyalty we have not seen in over ten thousand years, between Legionaries and Humans.
"I won't fail them."

Master Clarity floats over, placing her hands on Rose's head.

"You will not. I know it. You are strong, and you will guide them as they guide you."

Master Clarity's hands begin to glow, as Rose's psychic potential is focused and guided. It is a painful process, and she screams.

"Have faith in the Emperor, and he too will guide you. The wards I grant you will shield you from the wrath of the Materium. It hurts, but you must bear it."

Rose shudders as she floats, barely breathing.

"You will awaken, and all this will be as a dream to you.

------------------------

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C9zI278O5XQ

"We were beginning to wonder when you would arrive."

Executor Thexus and Rockfist Fearengine walk the plains under the singular tree. Upon reaching its shade, the Paragon of Metal drops to one knee.

"I've never seen ya act like this before..." Rockfist wonders, before he sees the veiled woman and the metal man.
"FABRICATOR LOCUM, YOUR MARKED REPORTS."
"Fabricator Locu...oh, oh 'ere we go..."

The Fabricator General extends a giant hand.
"Rise, Our faithful. It has been ten thousand years, and yet you stand before Us. The Commandos were correct. You do yet live."
"WE REMAIN READY TO SERVE. TIME HAS NOT DULLED MY ABILITY."
"Fabricator," Master Clarity begins, "What is thi-"
"REMAIN SILENT. IRRELEVANT AUXILIA. THE WORD OF THE MESSIAH IS LAW."
"What...I..." Master Clarity pouts, readying a psychic barrage before the Fabricator General raises his hand.

"Theta 10 Sigma, the Marked were borne of Our greatest datasmiths and technomats. Your bodies were forged invincible. Your cortex serves as a backup of Our own. Know that you have fulfilled your programming masterfully. Heed Our orders. Assist the Commandos for as long as they require. Spare no expense to their needs, and ensure they are equipped appropriately."
"THIS I HAVE DONE, AND THIS I SHALL CONTINUE TO DO. THE LORD OF HELOTS HAS BEEN ASSISTING IN THIS MISSION. WE SHALL NOT FAIL."
"Good," the Fabricator General states, before pausing, "Have...you heard any trace of the other Marked?"
"I HAVE NOT, FABRICATOR LOCUM. I SHALL SEEK THEM OUT IF YOU DESIRE IT. I SHALL ENACT THE S3 PLAN IN THE INTERIM. THIS CRUSADE NEEDS MORE THAN THE LEGIONS."
"If you feel it necessary, you may do so."
"The S3 what?" Rockfist adds.
"Go forth, my Marked," The Fabricator General commands, "You have your orders. You are assisting, Rockfist Fearengine? Then you have Our thanks, and the Emperor's blessing."
"Aye..." Rockfist sighs, "The Squat Holds stand ever ready ta assist."

The Paragon of Metal and the Squat Engineer begin to walk out.
"Ahh, remember one more thing. We are no longer Fabricator Locum, but Fabricator General. Times have...changed," the Fabricator General states, "Though We have many engrams within Us, We still have one vision. One purpose."

"ACKNOWLEDGED, FABRICATOR GENERAL KANE. PEACE THROUGH POWER."
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