Editing Marcius Flavius

[[Image:Marcius Flavius.jpg|thumb|right|Federation bridges were not designed to accomodate eight-foot tall superhumans.]]

Marcius Flavius, Battle-Brother of the Imperial Fists, was the first space marine assigned to a Federation starship in the historic Federation-Imperium officer exchange program. In his place went Commander Riker of the Enterprise to the Imperial Fists' fortress-ship, the Phalanx.

Marcius Flavius is remembered for his stern dedication to the basic values of the space marines, such as eternal battle readiness, and being willing to bend the rules to accomodate Captain Picard's odd preferences for not shooting xenos on sight, including Lieutenant Worf and Counselor Troi, and, most annoyingly, not destroying the heretical Iron Man Data.

==Explanation==


==The Writefaggotry==

Story 1:

Battle-broth... COMMANDER Marcius Flavius looked at the terminal in front of him in disgust. A thousand flashing touch-screen buttons, all of which had a different function, and apparently the same man was expected to deal with the ship's weaponry AND its communications. What nonsense was this? Admittedly, the lack of a chair for the weapons officer, to encourage constant attention, was an admirable detail, and he would bring it back as a suggestion when the transfer ended.

"Brother-Captian Picard!" Command Flavius shouted, his helmet-augmented voice shaking the bridge. "There is an unidentified ship dropped out of the warp! Shall I prepare a torpedo/phaser spread?"

"Good idea." commented Worf approvingly. Commander Flavius was uncertain of what to think about the xenos; while he was automatically condemned for his inhuman biology, he WAS the closest thing to a traditional space marine here. Still, his religion seemed suspiciously close to Khorne worshipping, he'd need a closer eye.

Captain Picard rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Why the Federation had agreed to Imperium-Federation officer transfers he could not guess, but he was doing his best to accomedate the commander, though secretly, he wished for Riker back, and wondered how he was performing aboard the Litany of Litany's Litany.

"No, Commander, not unless they're hostile." he said wearily.

Although he was wearing a helmet, and could go for a week in constant battle without tiring, Data thought he could hear a sigh from the space marine. "Commander," he started. "Perhaps you should--"

"I hear not the unholy cries of the Iron Men." he interrupted. Fortunately, he thought to himself, I outrank the creature. Unlike with Worf, who might have some redeeming qualities, Commander Flavius knew EXACTLY what he thought of Data.

His eyes dropped to the foul, though attractive, half-xenos Commander Troi. A psyker, that one, though a weak one. She might be forgiven for her heritage in death, but while alive, she was a constant link to the Warp. It was true that Flavius had fought alongside chapter librarians, but they had decades of training to control their heretical mindlinks to the realm of daemons. Troi, from his understanding, had had none of that. And Brother-Captain Picard would not fire on a potentially hostile ship at its weakest? And the doctor seemed to have FEELINGS for the Brother-Captain that were poorly disguised.

Only Tech-Priest La Forge seemed to be performing his duties adequately. This ship needed some reorganization, he thought.

"And if I can slay five hundred Slaaneshi cultists in two days," he thought. "With nothing but a nonfunctional chainsword, I can bring this ship to Imperial standards."


Story 2:

"Brother-Captain, sensors are finally able to scan the ship. They indicate it is a corvette-sized minor ship, probably a scout of some kind."

"Design?" asked the captain, warily.

"Sensors indicate... it is approximately 3040 meters on all sides, with a cubular shape."

Picard nearly spilled his tea, though reacted quickly enough to avoid it. "The Borg!" He stood up immediately, after setting down the teacup. "Shield up, ready all weapons, red alert!"

Commander Flavius was impressed as he followed the orders. "So THIS is what it takes to motivate the Federation." He would have to research the Borg a little more later, to learn what made them different from the Romulans they DIDN'T destroy earlier. Honestly, a race had been in multiple wars with humanity over the centuries and Picard didn't immediately open fire?

"Keep us just outside their weapons range." Picard paced the bridge over to the science officer's station, placing a hand on Data's chair's head. He was visibly sweating.

"It is time to finally see how these faux-Naval officers react to battle." he thought. He had never met a true Imperial Naval officer, only Guardsmen, but he'd heard of them. The Federation seemed like some bizarre combination of them and extremely lenient Rogue Traders.

"What's the enemy cube doing?" Picard asked.

"They appear to be... hailing us, sir. Shall I respond with a torpedo?"

"I wonder what they're going to say, maybe that we shoudl resist them" Worf mused sarcastically. A smirk appeared on Troi's face; apparently there was some joke here Flavius wasn't in on. Only the emotionless Iron Man and Picard, too busy for humor, said nothing. "Put it on screen." he said, facing the viewscreen.

An albino alien with cybernetic enhancement flashed across the screen. A terrifying red artificial eye adorned its face, with the other side covered by metal. Flavius recognized the alien, actually.

"Sir, this is not a Borg! This is an--"

"WE ARE DA BORK. YER TECH... TEK... SCIENCY AND BIOWHATZIT DISTINCTIVENESS'LL BE SCAVENGED AND ADDED TA OUR OWN. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE, BUT FUN. DIS BORG SQUARE'S GOT ALL DA FIREPOWER OF A SPACE HULK, BUT MORE." A toothy smile adorned the Bork's face.

Brother-Captain Picard very quietly, very patiently walked back to his chair in the center of the bridge, all eyes on him. He took a sip of his tea, crossed his legs, straightened his shirt, and while still holding the teacup, responded with an uncharacteristically serious "Mr. Flavius. Fire all weapons."

For some reason, as he entered the commands into the computer to fire (with its atrociously childish sounds as the buttons were pressed), Flavius' mind flashed back to his first day on the Enterprise, a week ago.

He'd been in the galley, and despite these Federation values of "acceptance," no one sat at the table with him. Admittedly, no one else wore constant battle armor, was eight feet tall, and required three chairs and entire side of the table.

After a few minutes alone, looking over a PADD of Starfleet protocols the Brother-Captain had advised him to read, the dark-skinned Tech-Priest wandered over, and sat across the table.

"Hiya!" he said, extending his hand. "Name's La Forge."

"Greetings." Commander Flavius shook the hand. Fortunately, he'd had experiences with regular Guardsmen, and knew to use a fraction of his strength even when unarmored. As it was, in full armor, La Forge was lucky Crusher wasn't needed.

"May I ask you something, Tech-Priest?" the commander asked casually.

"Uh, sure."

"Why are you so... unaltered? I am aware cybernetic enhancements are considered standard and necessary amongst the Omnisessiah's chosen, but while my own experiences with them have been limited, it was my impression that having nothing except artificial eyes is conisdered to be the barest of minimums."

"Uh... in the Federation, engineers don't normally have artificial body parts unless their real ones are destroyed somehow."

"Oh. I assume you lost your eyes in battle? Perhaps with the Klingons?"

"No, uh, I was born blind."

"Ah." The room fell silent as they did; apparently, everyone was listening to their conversation. Flavius poked at the "replicated meat" and "synthehol." He suspected it was a good thing that one of his chapter had been sent, and not a Space Wolf.

"So tell me, commander, what, uh, 'chapter' you're from?"

"I am Battle-Brother Marcius Flavius of the Imperial Fists."

"Oh, do you guys have your own ship?"

"Yes, our fortress-monestary Phalanx sails the stars, recruiting new hopeful marines from the various worlds we come across, both primitive and advanced. We are especially known for our self-flagellation." he said casually.

La Forge choked on his food. "Self... flagellation?"

"Yes. We punish ourselves for inadequacies. Our sergeants and captains do not even bother to punish failure; it is assumed that any failure by a marine will be dealt with by himself. Why, I am using a pain glove right now." He set the PADD down on the table and waved to La Forge with it; now that La Forge actually looked at it, it WAS a different glove than the heavy guantlet on his other hand. "It stimulates the pain receptors all over the body. Every Imperial Fist owns at least one. I'm used to it enough by now that I can still function; otherwise these gloves wouldn't be usable in battle."

"What..." La Forge's disbelieving and disgusted eyes were luckily obscured by his VISOR. "What inadequacy are you punishing yourself for?"

"The Brother-Captain suggested I read this PADD of protocol." he said, picking it back up. "The implication is that I am not yet versed enough in Starfleet rules, so, I endeavor to please him."

"Oh." La Forge awkwardly finished, picked up his plate, and left.

That was the last time anyone ever ate with the commander.

Dozens of torpedoes flashed from the Enterprise, spreading out and impacting the Bork ship with incredible force, burning through bolted armor plates and exploding within, blowing weapons of all kinds out of the square.

“Evasive action,” Picard said calmly, “Pattern Delta-3. Circle them.” He turned briefly, eyeing Commander Flavius, who was holding down the firing buttons for all the Enterprise's weapons with one finger. “Continue firing. Target their weapons and shield emitters.”

“Yes, Brother-Captain!” the Marine shouted, quickly scanning the console for the appropriate options, remembering the memorized schematics from the central computer. Worf watched with approval as he selected the correct commands.

The Enterprise went to half-impulse, skirting the edge of the Bork square's engagement zone while pouring phaser fire into its flanks. Literally every surface of the rusting metallic vessel was covered with weapons, be they missile batteries, old-fashioned autocannons or guns so big they could swallow a Galaxy-class cruiser whole. One of Marcus Flavius's expertly targeted torpedoes sailed into the mouth of a big gun, detonating inside the firing chamber.

An answering storm of hot lead cascaded from the Bork square as the gun exploded, taking a three hundred-meter chunk out of the side, killing thousands of drones. The Enterprise, even maneuvering like a bee fed only with cocaine and promethium, was taking hits.

“Shield strength decreasing rapidly, sir!” Flavius yelled, happily blowing his enemy's guns to bits, “Seventy-five percent and falling!”

A random console exploded, blasting a random crewman halfway across the room.

“Medical team to the bridge,” Picard said, his voice tense, before he looked back at Flavius, steadying himself as the ship rocked to one side. “Suggestions, Commander?” he asked pointedly, testing Flavius's knowledge as much as looking for a brilliant tactical plan.

The Marine glanced at the displays before him, and nodded. “This foul ship we're fighting is tough, sir, but only on the outside. These scans indicate that the core is made of wood and iron. We still have the shield strength to break through.” Inside his helmet, he was smiling.

Picard blinked. “You're suggesting we ram it?”

Flavius nodded again. “I am, Brother-Captain.”

Picard turned to face the viewscreen as sparks flew from every available surface, blanketing the bridge in an ensign-burning glow. “Then by all means make it so, Commander. Take us in.”

“Aye, Brother-Captain!”

The Enterprise suddenly tilted to one side, going to full-impulse as hundreds of shells spattered off its forward shields. Firing a full spread of torpedoes directly ahead, the well-built Federation vessel routed all emergency power to the forward emitters and charged in.

For a moment, the battle ceased.

...and then the Enterprise came barreling out the other side of the Bork square, trailing plasma from both nacelles and with its saucer covered in wreckage and broken green bodies. Behind it, the enemy vessel vanished in a brilliant explosion as its primitive petroleum powerplant lit. Picard took a moment to assess the damage to his ship before issuing his next orders.

“Contact Starfleet Command,” he said to the Commander, “Inform them of what transpired here and of our current position while we attempt emergency repairs.” He sighed. “And get those infernal things off my ship's hull.”

“Yes, Brother-Captain!” the Marine answered, quickly bringing up the communications screen and preparing a message. When he had finished, he would be the first out the airlock, scrubbing corpses off the Enterprise's saucer section and finishing off whatever might still be alive. It would be just like old times.


Story 3:

“Sister Apothecary.”

The great, booming voice shook a dozen small implements off the shelf by the door. Doctor Crusher sighed, and met the speaker where he stood, while an attendant cleaned up the mess.

“What seems to be the problem, Commander?” the Doctor asked, tricorder in hand.

The gigantic Marine squeezed through the doorway, bringing his enormous arms from behind him and setting a bloodied ensign on the nearest medical bed. Crusher immediately scanned him, frantically ordering everyone around to help her stabilize the patient. “What the hell happened to him?” she shouted at the Marine, carefully examining the poor man.

Flavius came to attention. “I was training in your holodeck when this man entered, improperly prepared for the simulation within. I disengaged the safeties and increased the power to eight hundred percent to provide myself with a challenge. The blast wave from an exploding tank shell threw him into the wall before I could pause the simulation.” The Marine looked at the man with an expression of pity, though no one could tell because of his helmet. “I am truly sorry. I will remember to lock the door next time.”

By this time Crusher was very busy trying to make sure the ensign would survive the next few minutes. “Yes! Make sure you do! Now leave, please. We have this under control.”

The Commander saluted and departed the infirmary, stooping as he walked out, scraping his pauldrons noisily on the wall. No longer in the mood for the holodeck's version of “battle”, he stopped by long enough to turn off the simulation and return the power levels to normal, then headed off to engineering, leaving deep footprints in the carpet.

LaForge looked up from his work, typed something into his PADD, grimaced, and glanced to the side, only to jump backwards as he found himself face-to-face with the towering hulk of metal that had replaced Commander Riker and his beard. Geordi adjusted his visor and set the PADD down.

“I thought you were still off-duty, Commander,” he said quietly, making a mental note to repair the doors Flavius had come through.

“I am, Brother Tech-Priest. I have found myself with considerable free time since my arrival. Your Federation work schedules are...” he paused, searching for the word, “Quaint. I have not been so underworked since boyhood.”

Geordi glanced around the room, noticing that all of his staff had mysteriously disappeared, probably behind secure blast doors.

Flavius straightened his posture. “Brother Tech-Priest, I have a personal request to make.”

“And what might that be?”

“I desire access to your main computer's design software,” he said matter-of factly.

The Chief Engineer resisted the urge to rub his useless eyes in exasperation. “...why?” he said finally, picking up his PADD again.

“The crew aboard this ship lack personal protection, Brother. You wear only flimsy fabric garments and minute technological items. I have personally injured a great many of you simply by colliding with you in hallways.”

LaForge winced.

“I wish to fashion armor for you, Brother. I will need your assistance, as I do not share your... expertise in such matters. I am fully prepared to submit a complex and detailed proposal to the Brother-Captain and any crew members who need be informed as well as-”

“Fine,” the Chief Engineer said, “That's fine. I'll have you set up by 0800 tomorrow.”

Flavius saluted. “Thank you, Brother Tech-Priest. I will arrive promptly. Excuse me, please.”

The immense Marine exited the room, scratching the paint off the door as he squeezed out into the hallway. Engineers began to emerge from a small storage closet off to the side.

“...is he gone?” one asked. LaForge let his head sink into his hands. What had he gotten himself into this time?

Ensign Danny's surgery was completed in an hour. Though he was confined to medical for several days, and the ringing in his ears never quite went away, he was no worse for wear after a close encounter with the computer's best approximation of a Leman Russ's main gun. When he first awoke after Crusher finished re-solidifying his rib cage, he found a rather large vase filled with an array of flowers beside his bed, with a note crudely attached to the outside.

“I hope you are well, Brother. Please allow me to express my profound gratitude that you live to fight again. At your next opportunity, please meet me in Ten-Forward.”

Ensign Danny was the first to join Flavius's armor project. Over the next few months, his injuries would become legendary.

“No. You must stand like this,” Flavius said, hunching over and putting his arms out in front of him. The timid young man in front of him tried to imitate his posture.

“Like this?” the ensign said, finding it hard to move in his bulky metal suit.

“Arms up. Brace your legs. Yes, that will do,” Flavius replied, standing and walking back over to the holodeck's arch. “Now prepare yourself.”

The ensign braced himself as best he could, and nodded. The Marine pressed a small, inconspicuous button.

A multi-ton tank roared out of the wall as the simulation re-engaged, filling the small room with the roar of a massive engine. The tank struck Ensign Danny squarely, plowing directly into his waiting arms. The poor man skidded over a hundred meters in his immensely heavy suit, straining against the tank as it continued to charge forward. Then, with a mighty yell, the crewman raised his arms, the suit's powerful, crushing hands biting through the tank's forward armor. The vehicle lifted off the ground and swung up, sailing over the ensign and crashing to the ground, tumbling into a low hill and exploding, pelting the heavy suit with shrapnel.

“Excellent!” Flavius called out, pausing the sim. “This is the most effective combination yet.” He rushed over to the sobbing ensign, pulling a specially-made, ridiculously rugged tricorder from his belt. “Are you alright, Brother?”

“My... arms...” Danny managed to say, before falling backwards into the dirt.

The Marine scanned him thoroughly, sighed, and hefted the ensign, suit and all, to his shoulder. “Tensile strength is still insufficient. I will have the computer address this.” With that, he carried his charge to the infirmary for the eight time that week, muttering litanies.

Crusher was livid. “You can't keep doing this!” she shouted, laying the unconscious patient on the familiar bed, calling for assistance. “There's a limit to how much we can repair, Commander!”

Flavius stood at attention. “Better here than on the battlefield, Sister Apothecary.”

“What battlefield?” the redhead replied angrily, running one of her instruments over the ensign's shattered arms, “What the hell do you think you're going to need this for? Why do you need to half-kill one of my people every hour just to test it?”

The Marine shook his head. “Sister Apothecary, I must be vigilant. The enemies of the Emperor persist even here. I cannot afford to let my Brothers seek them unprotected.”

The Doctor said nothing for a moment, consuming herself in her work. She didn't want to think about what the ensign was putting himself through, and, for the life of her, she didn't know why he did it.

“Commander,” she said finally, “Please return to your duties.”

Flavius bowed and departed, easily fitting through the enlarged and reinforced door. He made his way to the nearest turbolift, a new and improved heavy-duty model suited to his size and mass, and told the computer to take him to the bridge.

The Marine stomped out of the small, tubular craft as soon as it arrived, nodding to Worf, the almost-redeemable xeno, as he passed. Since the Brother-Captain was nowhere in sight, Flavius surmised that he must be inside his chapel, attending to the many less-glamorous facets of running a starship. He pressed the small button beside the door, noticing that it, too, had been reinforced, and barely deformed at all under the gentle pressure of his gauntlet.

“Enter,” said a voice from within. Flavius obeyed as the door opened, coming to stand at Picard's desk, upon which sat a steaming cup of his favorite tea.

“Ah, what can I do for you, Commander?” the balding man greeted the Marine, taking a sip of tea as he thanked the powers that be for keeping Flavius occupied and relatively out of trouble for the past few days.

“Brother-Captain, I have concerns about your crew,” the armored Marine stated simply, lamenting the lack of skulls in the small, conservative chapel.

“What sort of concerns?” Picard responded.

Flavius chose his words carefully, wary of speaking to one so glorious and exalted as the Brother-Captain about the failings of his mortal servants. “Brother-Captain, your crew are very poorly suited for the rigors of intense combat. They are physically weak and lack any sort of enhancement that would allow them to survive even the most mundane of inhospitable environments. A single deck being exposed to vacuum would kill over a hundred, for example.”

“And?” Picard said, urging the Commander to continue.

“Sir, I formally request permission to augment choice members of your crew.”

“Request denied.”

Flavius tilted his head to one side. “May I request an explanation, sir?”

Picard bit down an immediate retort, memories of his brief time with the Borg welling up like a tide of blades in the back of his mind. “Commander, I will not subject my people to such... modifications in the absence of a coherent justification for it. To date, you have presented no such justification.”

The Marine nodded, and saluted. “My apologies, Brother-Captain. I will make every attempt to ensure that those modifications will not be necessary.”

“See that you do,” said Picard, gesturing to the door. “Dismissed.”

A minute after Flavius had left, Picard began to wonder about the ramifications of the Marine's presence aboard his ship, and, for the first time in his life, actually considered allowing himself to prefer the presence of Q. He managed to cut that impulse off at the knees, and ordered another cup of tea from the replicator.

Meanwhile, Commander Riker was undergoing yet another round of training aboard the ship run by Flavius's Chapter, the Imperial Fists.

“FASTER! FASTER, BATTLE-BROTHER! YOU MUST RUN FASTER!” Shouted the Chapter Master, taking potshots at the Carapace-Armored human with a Heavy Bolter. For the past several months, he had taken it upon himself to train the man personally, and had noted a considerable and increasing improvement in his combat skills. But it still wasn't enough.

Riker's beard caught the wind as he bounded through the training course, doing his best to dodge the incoming fire. Never again would he complain about Captain Picard's insistence on playing opera in the background during those long, boring briefings. Never again.


Story 4:

Commander Flavius pulled out the tiny chisel he'd taken to mark on his armor as of late and wrote down the newest order from the Brother-Captain.

'No Surprise Combat Exercises'

Try as he might, he couldn't seem to get the Brother-Captain to understand just how unprepared his crew was in case of attack. "Maybe I should concentrate on prevention..." Flavius thought "...although I doubt the Brother-Captain will allow any more 'experiments' with Tech-Priest LaForge after the melta incident."

Reaching his post, Flavius resumed his duties just a hail from the planet below came in.

"...*Static*... We're under attack...*explosion*... there were Romulan pirates waiting at the drop loca...". The transmission cut off abruptly. Pounding the heavily reinforced comm devise on his chest, Commander Flavius hailed the captain and other chief officers as he'd been told to do.

"I heard" Brother-Captain Picard said as he stalked into the bridge, "Mr. Data, what's going on?"

"It appears as if the away team has been captured and transported to a secure location, I cannot lock onto them to transport them back to the ship captain. Judging by the energy readings from the attack, the Romulans appear to be well armed."

Picard turned to tell Worf to begin assembling a rescue team when he realized that Commander Flavius had left the bridge.

Rage burned beneath the Space Marine's power armor. "Not only are crew in danger, but I must trek deep into the bowels of this miniscule ship to retrieve my sacred armaments." Flavius stormed down the corridors and finally reached his room.

Grabbing his powersword, bolter and bolt pistol he hesitated. He set down his bolt pistol and examined the 'phazer' he had been assigned by Tech-Priest LaForge. Flavius attempted to set the weapon from 'stun', a most useless setting to 'kill' it's proper position. The weapon broke in his titanic grip.

He elected for his bolt pistol instead.

Once ready he hit his abused comm button again and commanded the poor insign in the transporter room to get him as close to the Romulans as he could.

"At least this cultures teleportorium is reliable." He mused as specs of lights danced in front of his visor.


Story 5:

"Sir, the IKS Rachtar is coming out of warp." said Data, placing the Klingon ship on the viewscreen.

Commander Flavius had spent much of his free time reviewing the xenos species catalogued by the Enterprise's computers. Most of them were of little interest or, it seemed, were content to serve aboard the ship under the decidedly human captain. The Klingons, sans Worf, were not.

According to the computer, multiple wars had been waged with them. Their technology was roughly equal to the Federation's, with the Klingons having weapons advantages while the Federation had shield, speed, and miscellaneous advantages, but they were also a warrior culture.

Flavius swallowed his rage. If he was on the Phalanx, a xenos species that worshipped war would be exterminated immediately on suspicion of Khorne worship. But... the Klingons were ostensibly friendly. And, though it pained him to admit it, Brother Worf was nearly acceptable as a crewmate. He was that only member of the crew capable of providing any kind of challenge in the holodeck, albeit only in melee combat, and he feared battle less than anyone on the ship but Flavius himself.

So, though he would never admit it, Commander Flavius was rather looking forward to their rendevous with the IKS Rachtar. A proper warship, even a xenos one, would be a welcome sight. Even the Bork Square didn't really qualify.

"Sir, I'm detecting strange additions to the Klingon vessel. Nonstandard spikes appear to be jutting out from random areas of the hull, and... well, noneuclidian geometry appears to have warped areas of the ship in ways our sensors can barely read." The Iron Man sounded perplexed.

"Open a hailing frequency." Picard stood up. He had personally spoken with Captain K'rell before, and hoped he'd be remembered.

The Klingon ship came on the viewscreen, but even Flavius, who'd never seen the interior of a Klingon ship before, could tell something was wrong. The same impossible geometry adorned the bridge, and a half-crazed Klingon came to the screen. By his insignia, he was K'rell.

"Federation!" he snarled, showing his teeth.

"Captain K'rell! This is Captain Jean-luc Pi--"

"I know why you've come!" he hissed. He pulled a knife from his belt, and waved it menacingly at the screen, despite their being several hundred kilometers away from each other. The attentive battle-brother noticed another Klingon, sitting at a weapons post in the background.

"Captain--" began Picard.

"You have come to be the BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" screamed K'rell, and at that mark the Klingon in the background punched a few buttons, attacking the Enterprise with the ship's disrupters. It was quick thinking by Flavius that raised the shields in time.

"It is as I suspected." he muttered sadly. "They've been corrupted.

"By what?!" demanded Worf, stepping to Flavius.

"Khorne." said Flavius grimly, as Picard turned around, shocked at the aggressiveness of the now-turned Klingons. "I suspect you may be the only Klingon not of his ilk, simply because you are among humans so much. Your species' warrior culture would leave them vulnerable to his influence." said the commander plainly. "The Rachna must be destroyed, Brother-Captain. It is too far gone."

[[Category:Space Marines]][[category:warhammer 40,000]]