Editing Astral Wardens (section)

=Writefaggotry=

==In the Chains of Morpheus==

Badrukk was not a happy Ork. Granted, the recent fighting was certainly getting the ol' fungal blood moving, but even a Nob like him could see that they were losing, and not even losing in a propa' manner either! In the beginning, the sparkly marines would show up suddenly, shields interlocked as a solid wall. He and his boys, after a moment of surprise, would charge out expecting a solid fight. Shoota firing wildly, and choppas swinging in expectations of a krumpin', Badrukk's boys got really close at first.  Close enough that even lost in the waves of the Waaaugh surging over him, that Badrukk faintly questioned the lack of bolter-fire in response to his boys' charge. It was about at that point that the wall of marines stopped just being somewhat glowey and instead with a slight shifting of shields, erupted into a incandescent hedge of bright explosions and thunderous noise. At first, Badrukk was overjoyed! 'ere the humies were playing propa music for a fight! The flash! The bang! The WAAAUGH! he threw his head back and howled with the utter Orkiness of it all!

And then the shotgun slug took half his jaw away, mostly attempting the 'ard way; that being through the back of his skull. But a Boss' skull ain't the flimsy thing a marine's is, and he was dead 'ard to boot. Which is why once he regained consciousness, the survivors of his crew explained, while prying the remains of the slug visibly protruding from his face, that the charge had more or less stopped in place under the weight of the concentrated volley of shotgun slug fire. 

They had rallied _almost_ immediately, because they knew he wasn't dead ("Because they checked, yes they had!") and that he'd be very disappointed if they didn't carry along. Weathering under heavy volley fire, they surged ahead as an unstoppable green tide, but then a curious thing had 'appened. The marines suddenly vanished in a flash, and his boys were left milling about with no fight.

Since his boys hadn't anything to show for their Orky recovery, Badrukk had to show his disappointment. However, Badrukk found the explanation believable on later reflection, and the Dok confirmed as much as he was patching his face up courtesy of a donation from one of his 'so-disappointin' boys. 

Fingers-deep in the boss' nostrils while ork-handling the mandible back into its socket, the Dok recounted how he had been checking on his Boss' condition when he had looked up at the marine-wall, having heard a high pitched sound coming from them. A single clear note, much like slaves are wont to do if they're 'ungry and had a bit of recent slappin'. Singing it was, but just one clarion note. On that signal, the wall stopped firing and settled suddenly into a somewhat fixed, enclosed stance, and then with a flash of light, vanished. 

"Teleporta'd, most likely", Badrukk's token Mekboy chimed in with, while assembling a cobbled-together cyber-eye for his Boss. 

What a mess. What a right mess. No fight. No spoils. A bunch of his boys dead, him with a new jaw, half his previous pocket money so re-inserted into it, and a poundin' headache as well. 

That was a moon or more ago. Badrukk had lost track, especially after the Mekboy found out that his brand-new 'Telly-shield' needed perhaps a mite more testing before battlefield use. Granted, it HAD been the Mekboy's repurposed mining laser that had blown through the marine and his shield in one strike, but the humies had tellyporta'd away with the corpse and if it hadn't been for the three dead Orks lying on the dropped shield, likely would have gotten away with it as well. 

So giving it to the Mekboy to fiddle with had seemed reasonable, especially since otherwise his new eye tended to see through walls after a few days of not being 'kalibrated'. Engaging at first, but there's only so many times you can talk to your Dok's frontal lobes rather than his face before it all gets a bit old. On the other fist, it DID make finding in which bulkhead the Mek's toolkit was embedded in a lot easier, even if he did have to sit down for a few minutes after laughing himself into a headache once he found the bulkhead with the other half of the Meyboy's face in it; What a kidder, that boy had been, to pull such a face while fused inside a wall!

That had been the last propa' guffaw Badrukk had had since. The marines had kept showing back up, tellyporta'd in and usually at the worst moments too. Oh, not when he was 'alone', or any other time they had had traps or ambushes so cunningly set up. No, it was during a leadership discussion, when he was fist-deep in someone's chest, and while it was a big, dumb objects he was swinging around in the end, he'dve preferred his choppa to his 'most-recently-disappointin' adjutant. *POP*, there they were. "WAAAUGH", his boys would yell and charge. *BOOM* went the shield-wall, and the deck would spatter chunky-green. Just as they were about to get to the fun, "sweat and bad-breath" part, that stupid chime would sing and *POP*, they'd vanish again. 

They'd tried all the good plans too! Flankin' and they'd find a wall of shields blocking the tunnel they needed. Dropping stuff from above, and they'd find a roof of shields bouncing everything thrown at them. They even tried buryin' a whole lotta Orks beneath the deckplating, and waited. Waited for a week straight! He had been right proud of his chosen Kommando boys, staying stuck under that floor for that entire week while the rest camped above. Not a single complaint about the tightness, the lack of a fight (let alone room to swing a fist), or the various smells of cooking squig (or dripping liquids) that would filter down to them. 

Having the Dok bolt their mouths shut and dipping them in purple paint might have helped in that, but it was still right propa' in the respect they showed their boss! They didn't even make any noise when the really-big marines tellyporta'd in and the floor gave way beneath those heavy feet as one massive sheet of crushing metal. So much for the big Home game. Rained out, he supposed. 

Badrukk was a little disappointed that they hadn't found the right time to come up through the floor, or now that he was reflecting on it through the haze of the headache, hadn't come up at all since. Zoddin bastards, he thought, wiping the rust-rain away from his empty eye socket, nice and warm and out of the drizzle.

He shook his head, trying to clear the constant buzzing from his mind as it crested and fell away in the rather un-Orky still pool that was his mind. He was still right 'ard, even if his brain was maybe softer than normal. Still, he knew he was missing things. The not-fights all seems to blur into one long ever-teasing, ever-frustrating repeating sequence, like a spring squid that no matter how often you threw out the door, kept coming back. 

He was losing boys. Mostly in not-fights, a few to disappointin situations and other Orky cultural happenstances, but lately, more and more of them just vanish in the night. They'd copied the marines in the end, making little open-topped forts of scavenged deck-plating housing a mob or two of Orks, scattered about what was left of the Hulk's room's deck but close enough to each other that if the marines tellyporta'd in, they'd rapidly be surrounded by more than one mob. 

It'd worked too! They'd gotten a few more of the humies that way, once quite a few in quick succession after they managed to get ahold of a dead marine before the other vanished. By Gork, the next days were almost right, because those marines kept coming back near where the body and armour had been passed about. But soon enough, the what was left of the marine and his loot had been collected by the humies, and the old pattern came back. Long dull bits, with flashes of fun.

Which summed up Badrukk's life right now. Between the headaches and the malfunctioning cybereye, Badrukk found release only by nappin'. His boys were prolly figuring he'd gone soft, so he'd had to learn to awake swinging after the first few discussion interrupted his sleep. In the end, his little fort had him, his Dok, and a few Nobs he knew he could trust (and the preventative medicine the Dok had given had nothing to do with it, he was sure). 

The rest, well they could just stay out in their little forts if they didn't like it. By Mork, any of his boys around him could leave and join another group, and some certainly had, the zoddin' traitors must have snuck off on that last rest.  Gone now, leaving just the trusty-ones. Trust goes both ways, right? He trusts them, and they trust him. That they felt comfortable enough to nap around him proved that, right? And that was fine, that nappin'! 

The Dok made it clear after the most recent 'sergery' that a Ork healin' from such innovative work needed a few days of rest, although Badrukk's still wasn't sure what to call the most recent patient. He had provisionally decided to call everything left of the seam "Deez", and the bit right "Dumz", but he wasn't too sure which name to use when he was looking into both their eyes at the same time. Maybe just 'DeeDee', although 'Dumdeez' seemed right most days, because he thought this Ork wasn't on the smart side of the racial divide, regardless of its recent union. Maybe the Dok had run out of squig during the brain operation? 

Still, so far they had been mostly reliable, his Dok and his handful of Orks. Never complaining about taking watch, and no funny 'disappointin' either! Like clockwork, after nappin' and a meal, he'd stand on watch for hours, and whenever the marines showed up, would howl long and clear. Better than an alarm squig, him!

Seated, Badrukk rested his head against the cool metal behind him and tried to focus on clearing his head. The heavy, metal chestplate interfered with his attempts to regulate his breathing, but the other option was waking up not breathing due to a sucking chest wound, so the armour stayed on for the time being. 

The time being, oh yeah, the humies were showing up less now, and in fewer numbers, heh heh heh. When the day came when it was just one, he'd show his appreciation for all the recent fun, and start with the toes. They always had the most chew to them, and he wanted to take a very long time on the meal. To savour it. In the static-laden sea of his mind's eye, he could see the future banquet. He could savour it. 

But he had to live to see it, so he opened his eye, tensing and ready to swing, and finding nothing. just a circle of half-dozing, armour-clad Orks and a single sentry. Relaxing, Badrukk reflected. He'd HAD a right-propa WAAAUGH going! Dozens of Orks for every marine that would show up. Then it because a "Waaaugh!", then a "Waaugh". Now it was more of a "waug?" A few small forts, a couple dozen of Orks at most, his own boys, DeeDee the Alarmork, and a Dok. What a right mess. 

Speaking of which, where did the Dok go? He was nappin next to the Badrukk when he'd rested his eyes, and here he was, gone! Badrukk glared at DeeDee, and growled to get its attention, "Where's da Dok," he slurred questioningly. DeeDee stared back, silent. Badrukk pondered resetting his disappointing alarmork, when it shrugged, and pointed off to one side, over the fort-wall. 

Badrukk really wanted his old body, since you can hardly roll a repurposed pic-taker in lieu of eyes, but there was no point in discussing the issue with DeeDee. Dok was likely out rustling up food, or parts (or, considering that, what was both at the same time), and the headache was coming back too. Badrukk decided he was going to send one of the boys out to find him after another nap, if the Dok hadn't returned by then. Leaning back against the cold metal, he closed his eye again.

His cybereye beeped softly as it came back online suddenly, as he 'opened' it in response to...sumthin'. Checking his fist in mid-swing, he changed the move into studied stretch and a wide-mouthed yawn, looking about all casual-like. Nothing seemed to be wrong. Still no Dok, had it been long though? 

Badrukk wasn't sure, but he did note that two of his boys weren't around now too. Looking at DeeDee, he growled, then waited for the message to bridge the Ork's mental gap, engage muscles and turn the body around. "Where's Dok," Badrukk grumbled, pointed at the empty seats nearby, "and where's those two gotten off to then?" Again, he waited. And waited. Badrukk was pondering painting the Ork with his own blood, if only to see if it'd respond faster, when DeeDee jerkingly raised an arm and again pointed over the wall in the direction he'd previously indicated. 

Well, Badrukk though, he was going to send them out to find Dok anyways, so it was a good sign they'd worked that out on their own. Propa boys, they were. They'd need a reward. Maybe something nice for a meal. Maybe DeeDee? Augh, Mork, Gork, both and either, can you NOT fix this headache, Badrukk thought through the returning haze. Forcing a deep breath in the confines of his armour, he closed his eye to focus on quelling the headache.

Once the headache was defeated, pretty much the only fight he'd won recently, Badrukk reflected upon his current situation as he looked about, though this time he didn't even begin to swing as he awoke. Somehow, it just seemed...pointless. He looked about the confines of the ramshackle fort, noting the absence of the two other Orks now too. Bastards likely ran away. 

Would explain why Dok wasn't back either. Soddin' nutter always was an out-and-out Bad Moon to the core. He should have taken the chance a moon ago and opened him up to confirm his suspicions, but right now, it just seemed so...pointless. What a state of affairs. Badrukk looked about his domain. Count: One fort, small, spare, fit for maybe a single Nob on the very low end of the social strata. One Ork (or possibly two? Hard to tell with DeeDee), useful in very limited ways which included alarm system and emergency rations, but likely not in a fight. One boss, with one eye (well, camera), one brain, two fists, and hopefully no more than the necessary number of internal organs after the last operation, currently moping about. Inventory finished. 

Woo, what an empire. Hey, wait, don't be sad, you should be angry about it. Mind you, anger brings on the headaches, but right now, does that really matter? You're an Ork. Not just an Ork, but a Boss. A Boss! Bosses SHOULD be angry. Like, really angry. Angry. Yeah, THAT'S the paper-punchy thing! Just look at that modern marvel of Ork medicine! It's not angry about its situation. It SHOULD be angry about its situation! That's Gork-well un-Orky, which is VERY angering. By Mork, what harm has anger even done to an Ork! Being angry means being fighty! That zoddin' Dok, a right fight heals up an Ork, this is HIS fault, thought Badrukk as he staggered to his feet, I'm fixing this. 

Glaring at the silently-watching Ork, Badrukk growled with slowly simmering rage, "Listen. You ain't right. I ain't right. But a good fight will make us right. So you're going to fight, or you're gonna be breakfast. I'm the Boss, I say so. You unnerstan'?" Perhaps, in the depths of DeeDee's twinned eyes as Badrukk glared into them, he saw something wake up. Some sort of internal alarm ringing. Was that movement from DeeDee? Was that a shaky nod? By Gork, it was! The Ork (or Orks?) was getting it! 

A right fight, and then by Gork, this zoddin' headache, we're gonna krump, then we're going to find the others and Dok, and have some more tea and krumpins, and then we're goign to find the others, and krump some more, find those zoddin' marines, and THEN, Badrukk thought, THEN it was time for a proper meal! With all the right kind of chewing! But first, as Badrukk squinted his cybereye closed as a wave of pain rolled over him he thought, Imma going to fight this zoddin headache!

With a dexterity that belied the massive hands that oh-so-carefully reeled in the chain, it made not a rattle or a clink as it slowly drew up. Hand over hand, they moved, slowly, inevitably, gripping the chain bare-handed, and silently handing it off to another, gauntleted, hand which taking it up, fed it methodically into the internal reservoir of a contraption firmly welded to the vambrace of the owner's other arm. 

Five human eyes (and one well-made implant) looked down through the massed camo-netting, hanging in thick folds down from where it had been quick-sealed to the ceiling, to the dangling Ork. There a faint intake of breath, as one might do before speaking, but the words are never said as a the tip of a short, broad-tipped battle spear waved slightly. Even if the power-field wasn't on at that moment, by the faint gleam from the edge of the blade, it was abundantly clear by that motion that the owner though that it had the power to cut words away from deeds and silence from sound. Fingers and hands moved in short, stilted conversation, as battle-sign flashed back and forth between the three figures.

{Silence. Sentry. Active.}

{Confirm report?}

{Yes.}

Fingers danced in an elaborate, punctuated manner, spelling out letters, {W-H-A-T}

{Yes. Silence. Ready strike.}

{Ready strike.}

For it's part, the Ork seemed to be oblivious to what was happening to it. Its head moved back and forth, almost like clockwork, scanning the floor below. It was aware. But only of what was before it. Apparently not of the chain nor the grav-head anchored firmly to the back of its armour.  Or of the camo-netting, or the three marines behind that. Seemingly, no of its currently increasing altitude. Certainly not of the spear, as its wielder smoothly pulled it back into a striking position. Slowly, as silently as the chain was moving, the Ork looked back and forth across the floor below, aware of it an it only. 

Well, one must presume in the end, of the speartip, and it lashes out, harpooning the Ork through the back of the head, twisting ever to slightly, then much more slowly withdrawing. That chain, too, kept moving steadily, drawing the now dead Ork up past the folds of the camo-netting and into the small space carved out of the roof of the room. A space torched carefully out of the intra-deck space, made small by the three marines in full armour. 

The marine handling the chain arises from his crouch as the last few lengths of chain pass through his hands, one hand dropping the chain with a faint chime of links, to grab the Orc by the scruff of its neck and hold the body in place while the chain's owner smoothly detaches the grav-head and returns it back to its weapon-housing. The spear-wielder waves a free hand, gaining attention, and signs something. In reply, the Ork-holder peers down through the folds of the netting, then nodding in a rather happy fashion, says "Clear. All targets down." 

A wide smile appears on the speaker's face, as he continues, "And you thought we couldn't get all of them, Arrun. I told you, patience." 

Nonplussed, the spear-wielder replies with an affected tone, "Oh, noooo, Arrun, the Orks are far too tired and stupid to notice. We're the Emperor's finest. We'll get them all. I, Davvynd so say. You cocky bastard." 

The grin changes into a smirk, "Well I was right," said Davvynd, "They were too out of it to notice. And I was right about this...err...one?"

The three marines pause to look the Ork over, the ugly metal staples holding the seam connecting the two halves together barely glinting in the low glow of the third marine's helmet optics. "That is...different," says the third marine, a small auspex head flipping up over a shoulder to scan the Ork in full, "I would advise to return it to Humanity Ascendant so the Apothecary Majoris could look at it, but I feel that would lead to questions about how we ended up with it." After a short pause, he continues, "I do not want to be asked by the Forge Lord Majoris on this matter. I counselled otherwise, Davvynd, this was too stupid to work."

"No, Theodus, I may not remember Chapter 5 through 25 of the Codex..."

Arrun chimes in, "No one remembers those chapters, Davvynd."

Davvynd glares briefly at the spear-wielder, then continues, "...I may not remember 'those chapters-Arrun' but I do recall, Theodus, that you said this was, and I quote, 'overly risky and prone to failure' and cited a lack of cover from any fire from below." Davvynd moves the Ork around, looking into the differently-coloured eyes, "You also said that this one would sound an alert. I was right that something was wrong with it, that it was only ever responding to what it could see, and only if it was a marine. So, if it didn't see us..."

Arrun chimes in again with a exaggerated sigh, "...it wouldn't howl, yes, yes, you were right, we were wrong, so says the great hunter. By the Emperor, you only got more insufferable post-Rapture. You wouldn't hunt like the rest of us, you couldn't swim worth a damn, but those stupid traps..."

"Always kept his family fed, Arrun," says the techmarine, reaching over with his servo-arm to take the corpse from Davvynd. "The choice cut to the successful huntsmaster, Arrun, our praise so to Davvynd. Half a score of Orks, their champion included, no losses and no further material expenditure. The Forge Lord Majoris will praise you well, Davvynd. Arrun, clean your blade, you affront its spirit."

Stung, Arrun thumbs a button momentarily and the blade flashes with a puff of smoke into having a bright blue halo as the power field vapourizes the remains of the Ork clinging to it. The brief glare illuminates the space, reducing the cramped space additionally as it reveals the corpses of several Orks skewered onto the walls by the grace of a spike through the head; light reflecting off the dull lens of a repurposed pic-taker in the process. Servo-arm whining softly, Theodus spikes the Ork corpse onto the makeshift hook jutting from the wall's torn surface.

"Well then," says Davvynd, "we should head back and report."

Arrun grouses, "And how are you going to explain this to the Captain then? Just gloss over the plan, the manner, and the results?"

"It's worked before."

"Because he likes you. I know as much, he's said as much, you remind him of his younger brother apparently. Alright, how?"

"We didn't use our shotguns or other weapons, so no charges expended. Our armour was turned down to minimal settings, so no power use consistent with combat."

Theodus adds in with, "Sensors were not on combat setting, so no recordings beyond basic retained."

"And with us NOT taking the Ork-Medical-Mistake with us, no other evidence. We were on an extended recon patrol."

"Fine then, but we're well past the standard recon time period for this sort of campaign, Davvynd. Are you going to tell him that we were camped out some place? Resting? Chasing women? I don't know," Arrun says, then glancing at Theodus, "blessing every enginarium we came across on our patrol?"

"The light of the Omnissiah illuminates the mind's progress on the path of Humanity to its final ascendance, Arrun. Snark me again about my duties, and I will unscrew your head and look about inside to see the state of YOUR progress. And that is presuming you have a mind to start with."

"Ah, Arrum, my ever-snarly berark, I have an answer to that as well. We adhered as closely as we could to the daily rituals. Granted, we couldn't carry out the specifics; no practice cages here, but we certainly practiced our scouting techniques and tactical planning skills. Remember, this is the Captain we're talking about. If your report is direct enough, yet obviously nonsensical at points, he'll know something happened and more importantly, he'll know not to ask."

"You're going to tell him we spent the entire patrol playing neonate games?"

"Not at all! Scouting techniques! Tactical planning. Proper planning. That and yours is not nonsensical enough."

"You're going to tell him we spent the entire patrol planning to play neonate games?"

"No, erstwhile testing of capabilities through extended use of skills and careful time management. Extended recon when so tasked. Extended sentry when so tasked. All aspects of the daily ritual, efficiently grouped and acquitted to Chapter standard."

Arrun stared at Davvynd for a long moment, before raising one fist and saying, "I am going to punch you, you know this. Stop dancing about with words, and state plainly. THIS is why the Huntsmaster hated having you along, you know, you lippy pterrasquirrel."

"Pace, pace, Arrun," says Davvynd, holding up his hands in a warding manner. "You have to admit we DID do what I said."

"And this bit?"

"Free time."

"...? Free time.  Fourty-five minutes of free time."

"Fourty-two, thirteen seconds to last kill."

"Shut up, Theo. Fourty-five minutes of free time, Davvynd. As what? Hunting? Kilt-chasing? He'll want to know what!"

Davvynd laughs lightly as he moves past Arrun towards a gap in the wall. "Not hunting. He would ask about what we found. No kilt-chasing. He'd want to know who we found. And if they were still available. No, something else."

Arrun falls quiet, obviously thinking. Davvynd steps into the passage beyond and out of sight, with Theodus following shortly behind.

"Fine," says Arrun in the direction of the gap, "What are you going to tell him that we did for fourty-two minutes and thirteen second in free time?"

The reply comes from the gap, slightly resonating in the confirms of the space, "Fishing."

Immobile, Arrun stands. Then reaching up with gauntleted hands, he removes his helmet, and cradling it in one hand, briefly pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I am going to punch him." Moving the helmet around in both hands, he stares into the lifeless optic sockets for a moment, then with a sigh, turns it around again and prepares to don it. "And here I know the Apothecary Majoris says we can't get headaches anymore," he mutters as slides the helm over his head.


==Firefly Down==
 

	Emilia Pneumen, ace airman and Polestar for the renowned Firefly Squadron, sat by the fuselage of her crashed fighter, silently seething at the vagaries of fate. Five meters away,  tailgunner Marcus Rex turned the atmosphere blue with muffled cursing as he rooted through their Odonata's undercarriage in his sixth attempt to restore power and get them airborne. He had strictly forbidden Emilia from helping- crackerjack airman though she might be, her mechanical skills were, according to Marcus, nothing short of lethal-  and with a battle raging a short ways down the hillside and no good cause to attract undue attention to her squadron, she had nothing better to do than stew with her thoughts.

	Not ten hours ago, she had boasted to a Lightning pilot that the Fireflies would all make it through the battle, and he had agreed. He called them “Mosquito Squadron,” laughing as he told her that Odonata were nothing more than stunt craft, fluttering across the zone mortalis without making any sort of impact on who won the day. It was the heavy-duty craft like his own, the workhorses delivering payloads and putting feet on the ground, who won battles. Incensed, she had retorted the Fireflies would return from battle with nary a scratch on their paint, and she would bet money his beloved Lightning would have more holes in it than Thiepvalan cheese if it came back at all. 

	And now here she sat on the cold ground next to her beloved Odonata. About a third of the squadron had managed to guide their failing craft to a less-than-graceful landing at this ruined air field, and the rest of them had slowly trickled in from their crash sites following their Polestar's call through the Weave. Sydon Tong had taken up a guard position, watching the battlefield in case of trouble, Jinneil Robenko was trying to coax any sound out of the vox other than static, Jane Cobson was working out their position relative to the fleet, and Ramius Oasun had set up an abbreviated medical station for the benefit of those who hadn't landed so gracefully. It seemed everyone else had found something useful to do.

	 Well, everyone except poor Adrian Wright and his gunner Marian Lee, the only Fireflies missing from the assembly. Emilia had to assume whatever bizarre weapon the traitors had deployed to disable the Odonata had also affected Adrian' augmetics. While the rest of the squadron had managed to land their beleaguered craft with varying degrees of success, those two had gone down in the nearby mountain range. Emilia hadn't felt them in the Weave at all since then- she muttered a quick prayer to the Martyrs that they were only unconscious. 

''	“DROKK!”'' 

	Emilia flinched at the sudden expletive, and again as her copilot's autotorque whirred past her head. Marcus emerged from the fuselage sweating, red-faced and visibly frustrated. “Maybe the cogboys aren't groxdropping about their 'machine spirits,' 'cos I've checked every connection, tightened every fuel line and hammered on the engine box until my arm got tired. There's not a Martyr blessed thing wrong with it but it won't drokking turn over.”

	She sighed, resting her chin in her hands. “Figures. Who knows what the traitors did to it? If there's one thing you can count on traitors for, it's surprises.” 

	Hearing her tone, Marcus studied her for a moment, some of the color leaving his face as she felt his annoyance slowly shift to amusement. “Sore over your little bet with that barge-driver, Em?”

	Emilia turned away, further annoyed at having been read so easily. The psychic bond had its drawbacks, and for a brief selfish moment she was tempted to withdraw her mind from the Weave entirely. “It's not that, it's just- I'm useless down here, Marc. If I'm not in the air, I'm not doing any good.”

	Marcus snorted, instantly earning a heated look. “Em, you're our Polestar. None of us got the Oracle's knack but you. All you gotta do is sit there and keep the Weave going and you're doin' plenty good.” He paused, seeing her glare intensify, and tried a different tack. “Besides. It's like the boss says, right? The Vth Legion's not just the Astartes. Providence needs airmen as much as it needs tank crews, space marines, helmsmen... and even barge-drivers.”

	Marcus dodged the half-eaten ration she winged at him and retreated back behind the fuselage, chuckling. Still, Emilia did feel a little better- Polestars were the element that set the V<sup>th</sup> legion's auxilia apart from those of their brother states. Providence produced many psykers, but few proved compatible with the Astartes program. Half the population was ruled out at birth, after all, a fact that Emilia had been dismayed to learn as a child, but those individuals could still serve in the Luminary corps, lending their empyrean abilities to forge stronger bonds among squads.  Emilia's own psykic ability was infinitesimal, but it was enough to maintain the low-level gestalt that an Odonata squadron required for peak coordination, and for that she was always grateful. She touched the small shield-shaped badge on her flight suit's breast, marked with the Legion's star. It was a tiny reflection of the storm shields that were the Astral Wardens' signature, and Emilia smiled slightly at their Primarch's affirmation of her role, however indirect.

	She felt Tong's mind vanish from the Weave before she heard the gunshot.

	Marcus stood again from behind the fuselage, concern on his face- and then toppled backwards, a crimson hole blooming in his chest as a second shot split the air. Emilia spun toward the source and found a nightmare rising above the edge of the landing field.

	Emilia had seen Astartes before, of course. In the Union, the towering supermen were not an uncommon sight, often serving as honored statesmen when not called to battle, and she had brushed shoulders with many in the V<sup>th</sup> Legion's canteens. The creature that strode towards her with slow, purposeful steps had much of a Space Marine's form, much of their bearing, but amplified and twisted, an enormous brass-clad beast with burning, smoking eyes. This creature had a bristling panoply of gun barrels where its right hand should be, a yawning cannon-mouth for the left. For a moment, she wondered if this might be one of the Emperor's Custodians spoken of in legend, come to take vengeance on those who dared oppose the Imperial Creed.

	Then, she reached for her stubber.

	Other Fireflies had been quicker on the draw. Many of them had already taken up firing positions, unloading their sidearms at the approaching monstrosity. Emilia vaulted over her craft to take cover, landing next to her stricken tailgunner's heaving form, and squeezed off a trio of rounds in the direction of their assailant. She cheered with the rest of her crew as Jinneil landed a slug in the thing's eye, sending a plume of burning liquid jetting from its helm- but the cry died in her throat as the creature laconically raised an arm in his direction. Jinneil, his Odonata and the three other Fireflies who had taken up position behind it vanished in a plume of flame.

	With the squadron halved, the remaining Fireflies redoubled their efforts, unloading their stubbers with a frenzied fervor, but no matter how well-placed their shots the hulk never flinched, never faltered in its march. Another casual wave of its arm, and Sydon fell dead. Jane bolted from cover and met a hail of bullets. One by one the monstrosity cut Emilia's squadron down as it strode ever forward.

	She met Marco's eyes as he lay in the dirt beside her. His fingers flexed weakly, his mouth moved soundlessly, but for a weak, rattling breath. Through the Weave, she felt a faint goodbye, and he was gone.

	For the first time in years, Emilia was truly alone.

	The emptiness stunned her for a moment, crouching in the shadow of her fighter's fuselage. The warm, welcoming buzz of her crew's minds was simply gone, its absence an aching hole in her psyche. The Weave was undone. Save for the steady, rhythmic stomping of slowly-approaching feet and the distant sounds of battle, everything was silent. 

	Stomp.

	Stomp.

	Stomp. 


	Into that deafening silence came another revelation, equally terrible in its magnitude- the creature had been afforded every opportunity to kill Emilia. She had sat in plain view when it shot Marco, and even after she took cover it effortlessly destroyed Jinneil sheltering behind his Odonata. 

	It wanted her alive.	

	Stomp.

	Stomp.

	Stomp.

	Emilia quickly checked her stubber. Finding it empty, she scrambled for Marcus', freeing it with panicked speed from his unopened holster. 

	'''Stomp. '''

	'''Stomp.'''

	'''Stomp.'''

	Emilia pressed Marco's stubber to her chin, whispered a prayer to the martyrs, and closed her eyes.

	“Firefly Squadron, this is Radiant Dawn. What's your status?”

	Her eyes snapped open. The familiar voice of the mothership's comms officer crackling over the Odonata's vox stopped her short, finger trembling just above the trigger. Her sense of duty found itself at odds, the need to report to her superiors clashing with the desperate desire to join her crew. Everyone had heard what fate awaited captives of the Fallen Legions.

	“Radiant Dawn to Firefly Squadron, please respond.”

	“Dead.” She murmured. “They're all dead.”

	“Captain Pneumen? Is that you? We read you going down in the Antarean Range before we lost vox contact. Can you confirm your position?”

	'''''Stomp. '''''

	'''''Stomp.'''''

	'''''Stomp.'''''

	She shook her head, trying to clear it, and clambered into the cockpit to reply. “Traitors deployed some new weapon. Our Odonata failed. Brought them down as best we could. We were in an airfield. Some... thing found us. Gunned the squadron down like...”

	“Your position, Pneumen. Coordinates.”

	'''STOMP. '''

	'''STOMP.'''

	'''STOMP.'''

	“''Saints' eyes, Emilia, position''!”

	She closed her eyes. “We came down in an abandoned airfield, and  the zone of engagement is to the north... I can see the Antares range beyond them-” Abruptly, she thought of Jane huddled over her charts, and a sequence of numbers faintly rang in her mind as though echoing from a great distance. “27842.42 by 76422.1?”

'''	STOMP.'''

	'''STOMP.'''

''	'''THOOM'''''

	For a split second, Emilia thought the creature stalking her had changed its mind and decided to kill her after all, but the thundercrack was followed by a rallying cry, ten-strong. Steeling herself, she risked a peek over the cockpit.

	Ten Astral Wardens stood arrayed between her and the encroaching foe, clad in hulking Terminator plate and crowned with  silver starfire. The creature bellowed a challenge -less the roar of a living thing than the report of an artillery battery- and finally abandoned its steady gait, lurching into a long, loping stride that closed distance at a rate belying its enormous frame. It leveled its cannon-arm at the phalanx of Wardens.
 
	In response, the ten men gave a synchronized shout, pounding the base of their shields against the tarmac in unison. An ethereal wall sprang to life before them, a shimmering aurora of ghostly hands, palms forward as if to deny their foe. The monster's cannon fire splashed a great gout of flame against the phantasmal wall, but went no farther. Undeterred, it loosed another blast, and this time the barrier flickered. A third shot saw the wall puff into nonexistence like a vapor trail in a stiff wind, and the fireball continued through, smashing into a Warden's storm shield. The force of the blast drove the man back ten paces, but still he stood, and his brothers quickly closed rank to protect their stricken comrade. One of them shouted an order, and the men leveled their armaments- plasma pistols?- at the creature, returning fire en masse. Their foe reacted as little to the plasma as it had to the Fireflies' stubbers, but the effects were much more evident, punching holes in its massive armor that poured forth the same gouts of molten metal that Jinneil's miraculous shot had drawn from its eye.

	Behind a wall of brothers, the wounded Warden made an exploratory motion with his damaged arm, then unstrapped the storm shield and let the arm dangle limply by his side. He turned towards the Odonata, and, spotting Emilia peeking over the top, raised his good hand.

	“Captain Pneumen?” he called, his powerful voice booming over the din. “Crewman Robern Tilliam, Astral Wardens 305. This the only unit you've engaged?”

	Emilia nodded, blinking away entirely unprofessional tears, and glanced at the battle raging mere meters away- the monster seemed to finally be slowing under the hail of plasma fire, and the Wardens stood fast against its fusillade. 

	“What... ''is'' that thing, Crewman?”

	“Obliterator's what the cogboys call 'em. Void-taken things, astartes changed by some sort of Forge Lord warp-virus into a walking pile of guns and hate. Our boys have been dealing with them on the main front for a while, but I'll be a landling if I know why this one came after your squad.”

	Emilia swallowed the lump rising in her throat and risked another glance. The Astartes line seemed to be holding, but the Obliterator was nearly upon them. As she watched, one of the Obliterator's wild hail of slugs slipped past the shield wall and staggered another marine, whose brothers quickly moved to cover him as they had Tilliam. She looked to Tilliam, mouth open to alert him, and saw he had already turned back towards the fight, his good hand moving in bizarre patterns at the end of his arm. At first she thought something was wrong- could Astartes go into shock? - but then she noticed the faint trails of light left by his fingertips, trails that grew ever brighter. He was... drawing glyphs in the air.

	So intent was she on the mesmerizing shapes of light that even amid the sounds of battle and gunfire she startled when he called out.

	“Best stand back, Captain.  Terminator plate's a treasure, but it ain't got the best range of movement, and this is gonna take elbow grease more than finesse.”

	Obligingly she ducked back behind her Odonata as Tilliam advanced back to his brothers' line, his hand now clenched in a fist raised above his head. They parted to let him through, pausing their fire, and Emilia got a brief, terrifying view of the metal monster lunging into melee range, swinging its cannon arm the instant it spotted the opening in their line. For a moment, adrenaline and sheer terror slowed time to a standstill, the Obliterator reaching to annihilate the mild-mannered Marine.

	The shield line's haloes dimmed, Tilliam's halo flared,  his fist swept down as if tearing a star from the sky, and a pillar of silver fire lanced from the heavens to swallow his foe.

	The thing didn't die, not immediately. The beam struck it from the air, but even awash in empyrean flame it pushed itself to its knees. The daemon struggled towards the Marine, who held his pose, fist to the ground. The Obliterator opened its mouth, silently screaming its hate, and re-leveled its cannon. Roger's halo flickered fitfully, and his arm trembled... and then all at once it was over. 

	Whatever spiteful will animated the daemon-thing finally gave out. The armor collapsed, and instantly the creature's shape decohered, pouring from its twisted plate in a wave of molten metal. Still Tilliam held the ethereal beam steady until the last runnels and rivulets of the Obliterator's being had trickled through the cracks in the tarmac. Only then did he finally slump to his knees, allowing the heavenly ray to evaporate into tiny motes of light. Another marine- the crew leader? -walked over to give him an encouraging slap on the back, then turned to Emilia.

	“Hail, Captain. Bosun Okama, Astral Wardens 305<sup>th</sup>. I regret we couldn't meet under better circumstances.”

	Emilia nodded numbly.  She circled the hull of her fighter to join the Astartes, sparing one last mournful glance at poor Marcus.

	“I've called in pickup. We'll be getting you back to the Dawn before we re-engage.” Okama grimaced, following her gaze. “A team will be along to collect your crewmates as soon as they  can. They'll get a farewell befitting martyrs of Providence.” He threw an abbreviated salute, then gestured at his men, and they took up some distance away, surveying the battlefield below. 

	Tilliam hadn't joined them. He remained slouched where he'd finished the Obliterator, and even his halo seemed to gutter. Carefully, Emilia approached the marine, and as if sensing her presence he straightened up.

	“Crewman Tilliam?”

	He smiled, though it seemed slightly forced, the skin around his eyes taut. “I'm fine, and thank you for askin'.”

	“What you did... it was incredible. One person controlling that kind of energy... I can't imagine what that's like.”

	“Well, I had help. Whole squad chipped in for that Sidereal Lance, I just played the job of release valve. Takes a toll on a fella, to be sure, but those things won't stay dead unless you really bring down the hammer. Nothin' wrong with me won't be fixed with a stiff drink and a long nap.”

	Emilia shook her head. “Your arm?”

	His face fell, and he winced as if only just remembering, glancing at his limp gauntlet. “Oh. Aye, I reckon that's mostly bone shards and meat pulp. The cogboys are gonna be getting me to test drive one of their new augmetics, more like than not.”

	Emilia nodded, then froze. Augmetics... “Adrian.” Tilliam cocked an eyebrow, but Emilia's mind was suddenly racing. In the horror she'd forgotten. “Adrian and Marian. They went down in the Antares range. Separate from our squad. They might...” She blinked back tears, and forced herself to continue. “They might still be alive. I haven't felt them in the Weave, but...”

	Tilliam gently placed an enormous mailed hand on her shoulder. “We'll check it out. I'll let the boss know we got us a mission once we drop you off.”

	Emilia startled. “Is that a joke, Crewman? Surely you should stay shipside, you're in no condition...”

	Tilliam chuckled wistfully. “Still got a shield arm, don't I? 'sides, you can't heal properly while you're worrying about your crew. Common knowledge. We'll get it done, Captain, of that you can be sure. No man left behind, that's the 305<sup>th</sup>'s motto.”

	He turned to rejoin his brothers. Emilia watched him go, briefly frozen with indecision- then she  gathered up Marcus' stubber and raced to match strides with the superhuman. Tilliam passed her a questioning glance as she drew up beside him, but her gaze was fixed firmly on the other Wardens at the edge of the tarmac.

	“I need to come with you. Adrian and Marian are '''my''' crew. If they're still alive...” she swallowed the lump in her throat and tried again, a hint of defiance rising in her voice. “We're connected through the Weave. If they're in one piece I'll be able to find them faster than you will. You need me.”

	Tilliam examined her in silence for a moment, then chuckled. “You're Wardens material, Captain Pneumen, no mistake about it. Welcome to the crew.”

{{Warmasters Triumvirate}}