Editing Story:Love Can Bloom (section)

===Chapter Two===


Taldeer had to rely upon speed. The only moment they were vulnerable, and even then was just barely was when they came out of the ground. She might have had a chance before, but-

She feels her side. Blood warm, with stray strings of meat snapped with her last exertion. And as if to remind her, pain shot through her body, sending her to her knees.
She looks up, the Flayed One uncovered, emerging from the ground, performing what she logically knows to be status checks of their corporum, but what for the life of her seem to be the stretches and aches of predators reawakened. Cracks of stone lodged in their living metal echo across the valley. There was a tomb under here, there had to be.

One comes closer, cocking its head. Insanely enough, she wonders why it hadn't already struck. Was it checking the database against traps and ruses pulled millennia ago? Verifying her against accounts of age old enemies reserved for torture or consumption? ''Come on,'' she thought bitterly, gripping her spear, ''this one line of fate where I don't die, needs you t-''

"Windspeed, 4km/hr, distancing, 1.6 km, .67 cm adjust."

Foreign thought. Tasted li-

"Necron. Acid rounds recommended. Shoot the joints."

She blinked, astonished, as the sun was blocked out by a raised hand.

A kilometer and a half away, the slight sound that one could mistake for a finger snap is heard.

Taldeer raises a hand in front of her face as a bullet rams into the center necron ribcage, shards of hypersonic shrapnel nudged by fate and her mind away from her. The metallic horror's spine, set at a one hundred and forty five degree angle, tilts, its claw flailing at where an Eldar used to be in its fevered program, before the acid finishes what a near kilogram round couldn't, and it falls in half.

Three flayed ones look to the horizon, as another finger snaps.

----

"Governor Militant."

Lukas Alexander stayed where he was, overseeing the incineration of the Eldar corpses, the troopers clad in chem masks and biochemical armor. He turned his head, slightly, to see three men far apart from one another. One was leaning on an ammo dump, having a smoke, the other carefully standing guard in front of an entirely unimportant building. The third, was a man dressed in immaculate uniform who had conveniently forgotten any sort of identifier.

"Soldier," Alexander turned back to look in the pit, promethieum lapping the sides. A weak hand raised, and one of the incinerators yelled, pointing down. All five turned their main jets on the offending motion.

"I need to brief you sir," the soldier blinked carefully, "On the situation."

Lukas nodded carefully, turning away from the bubbling hiss, "And your comr-"

The soldier stepped far too close to the governor in the space of a moment, placing a hand on his shoulder, his pinky sliding along to the Governor's carotid.

"My credentials are all in order, and don't bear mentioning sire. Where and when would you like the briefing?" The pinky slid up to the base of the chin, following the line of the pulse.

There was much the Governor Militant would have said. He would have laughed at the false soldier, threatening with a finger. Lukas would have loved to tell the fake all that Lukas had done in service to the Emperor of Man. He would have struck the man, shot him, and ordered the other two executed. Would have.

"I feel, we should meet immediately. Alone. In my command tent," He whispered, his mouth suddenly run dry.

"Thank you, Governor Alexander," the soldier murmured, removing his hand and turning on his heel. "But I feel that Ardrin should come, wouldn't you say sire?"

"Of course," Said the Governor, turning, following the man, and coincidentally followed by the other two soldiers minding their own business.

Behind him, the smoke drove high into the sky.

"Now," Said the man of the Officio Assassinorum, "You can be candid," he spread his hands, "Forgive me, my lord, but the secrecy of our service holds utmost sway over any respect for command. Do you wish to have me flogged, or denied rations? I believe those are penalties that you may inflict on me."

Lukas had just sat down, and paused, looking up, "Pardon me? Just who ar-"

"Specific ranks, alas, I can not divulge, even within these sound proofed walls, and before you say commander, the Inquisition had the walls soundproofed, just in case of a situation like this. Helps to assure no unfortunate leaks of confidential information. Would like to lock me up in the stocks? They have some stocks on the ship."

"Y-"

"It's a good thing your officer is unarmed," said the man turning on his heel, placing a too clean and soft hand on the Governor's table, "He seems the type to resist, fortunately my two comrades are just the type to take him in with a minimum of fuss, hmm, assaulting a fellow officer, my my, what a time at the whipping post for me!" The man turned, a smile on his face.

"Who ARE you?"

"My name would seem nonsense to you, I'm afraid. Actually, I should rephrase that; names, at least in my temple, are determined by missions completed. I feel that as Governor, at least in this current crisis, you must have some means to refer to me."

"And you would be?"

"Midilv," As Lukas opened his mouth, "I regretfully ask you to puzzle that one out for yourself."

"Why are you speaking so deferentially?"

"Because I am a loyal servant of the Emperor, and the Inquisitor has instructed me to obey you."

"There is an Inquisitor here?"

"He is not... Public," Midilv leaned in, his lips drawn taut across his too symmetrical, pore-less face. "Of this you should mention in thanks to your prayers to the Emperor tonight."

"The Vindicare," Lukas raised a hand before Midilv spoke. "And just the facts, thank you very much. I'm not in the mood for your shame and self mortification, or hints at machinations above and below," Lukas leaned in. "Just. Tell. Me. About. The. Vindicare."

The two casual guardsmen entered, bearing Ardrin between them. Ardrin looked clearly intoxicated on victory amasec. ''Looked.'' Midilv continued, heedless of the new company.

"The Vindicare. Right. Where to start: The obvious. He shouldn't be capable of this." 

"Of what?"

"Rebellion."

The entirely ordinary guardsmen lined themselves behind their speaker in formation. Lukas stared at the three of them, as he sat back heavily, color draining from his face.

"Rebellion?"

Rebellion was something that happened to ordinary men. It was something that happened in myth to the Space Marines long, long ago. The Assassins were an urban legend. They were a myth. Alexander was unaware of their existence until shortly before the invasion of Kronus. They were said to be inhuman. Machines of flesh and bone and Imperial propaganda. They were ideas, they were mankind's secret monsters, held on short chains and reduced to lives as valuable ammunition.

How can ammunition rebel?

----

Necrons.

Appeared recently. Date of origin, areas of operation, all invalid and untaught to the Vindicare.

The N20 coolant sheath is cool to the touch. A bad sign. Heat distends accuracy, and it should be freezing through the gloves.

The finger snaps, and the kick rams into the Vindicare's shoulder. A kilometer away, wraithbone spear impales the already fragmented skull, and pulls down, ramming through into the torso, pulling her up. Through the scope, she glitters. She shines. She glows radiant. In every spectrum.

Range has to be shortened, concludes the Vindicare. Naturally, in order to increase accuracy and allow a change to the secondary weapon. Naturally.

The Vindicare stands, and starts moving forward. His eye never leaves the scope. And the scope always seems to find itself back onto her. The finger snaps again.

Farseer Taldeer's hands come apart, and together, the fingers dancing and sliding across the wraithbones, her eyes, following the head of the blade, as it slides, up and away, traces of the bitter living metal following from the body.

Two down, five to go. The tide pulls around her, leaving her untouched where only moments before she was doomed. How?

Heavy footsteps crash into and rise from barren earth, as another silent Necron charges the Farseer from behind.

She feels the shot through the waves before it hits. A bullet, sliding through the machine's equivalent of a right thigh, and ending in it's left knee. She kneels, bringing the blade up, into the falling creature's neck, and then pulling back to impale the one that tried to stab her with claws lost from a bullet.

A human. A human was helping her. She could tell, by the caliber of the rounds. All brute force, no understanding of the harmony of a battle. Not made to end the battle right, but to end the battle now.

She couldn't be more thankful. The abomination in front of her still lived, sliding forward, scratching the wraithbone. She stepped back, pulling her weapon free, and nearly stepped too far before she felt the fates turn down into the dark hunger, and stopped in time to miss the claws of the one behind.

She leaps again, soaring by her will, and glanced down. Three left. One of them damaged. Confidence runs up and down her, as she falls back to earth, bracing herself as the pain in her side reminds her that she isn't unhurt herself, but she still feels so good. The three turn as one to face her.

There is a snap. Two Necron automatically track the third's head as it flies off the already damaged neck, landing on the ground to their right. They turn back to her. Waiting, for something. She couldn't lose the initiative.

She surges forward, low and ready. The one on the left has uneven footing, the living metal slower to adapt to the rocky landscape under it than true flesh. She steps first to the left, fate singing its assurances for the direction, then drives in, spear ahead-

And sees the Necron take it. No reaction. His comrade, is a blur of motion.

The Fates laugh, as the necron metal and her armor emit a symphony of shrieks.

The Necron she impaled looks passively on, it's hands reaching out and holding onto the spear as she attempts to pull it back with her one good hand. No use.

She lets go, twisting, biting her lower lip as the last of her arm guard gave way, giving the slicing talons access to her untouched flesh, she pulls, her bitten lip gives blood, and her arm shrieks in pain as she falls back, injured arm held close, she pulls back.

The impaled Necron stares down at her spear, as the metal dislodges it, slowly shaking and undulating it free. The other, stares for a moment at the blood on its claws, the ragged cloth and skin held, and compulsively wipes and twitches it across itself.

The two turn, diving low, scuttling forward, going on either side of her.

The ocean is gone. There are no tides, no eddies, no drifts anymore in the possibilities. Every way points down.

She screams.

Ordinary human beings do not hold a rifle in one hand, and a pistol in the other. Much less a rifle designed to pound a near kilogram round across a battlefield to, if necessary, blow apart a monstrosity spawned of nightmares and the unholy vagaries of the Warp. The pistol was little better than a sized down version of the rifle. This is because it might break your arms. A space marine wouldn't do it because it was stupid.

The Vindicare reflected on this as he jumped over the embankment, rifle down his shoulder, and pistol in his hand. His eyes switch between each in the time of a blink, lining them up with two skulls.

This is going to miss, he thought. Two snaps were matched with two unbearably loud reports of metal rammed into. Those bullets aren't even going to kill them, probably. Two metal skulls were reduced to molten, slightly caustic and soggy shrapnel. ''I'm probably going to end up hurting something.''

He landed with grace, next to Farseer Taldeer.

----

"A Vindicare should not be mistaken for a human being. Contrary to a human being, who is filled with distractions, memories, and connections to others, a Vindicare is a well oiled machine. He was raised and trained, from birth, that the only reason he wasn't dead, raped, ruined, or suffered under any other horrible abuse that we could think of, was because of the Emperor. They were taught that they were selfish monsters, to even think of being different from their fellows. Their vocabulary is limited to only that which they need. Any deviation is punished by torture. They were taught to hide from their teachers and administrators, and to only come out when the mission was complete, and only when they received word from an authority figure that acted the impeccable imperial. Any deviation was punished with torture. The sense of smell is cultivated carefully. We have attempted to teach them to tell the difference of weapons by discharge smell. Any exposure to perfume, or anything pleasant and unneeded in their missions is punished by torture. Callidus require some socialization to blend in. Culexus, with their small pool of recruits have need to take in any they can find. Eversor, their combat drugs do the trick. Never shall you find any more well disciplined than a Vindicare."

"So what happened to this one?"

"We failed to punish him for a botched mission."

"A botched mission? You let him live after a botched mission? And you gave him to me after that? I am responsible for liberating a world-"

"One of a million, sire. And oh so many people want assassins. This was one of them. An Inquisitor working on a world desired to send a message to the governor. The Vindicare was supposed to take out one of the primary's personal secondary's."

"What?"

"His mistress. The Inquisitor added stipulations. The Vindicare finished the job, but he failed to complete these stipulations."

"How did you manage to defy an Inquisitor?"

"His luck held. The Inquisitor was shortly thereafter purged before he could bring his wrath to bear, and the Inquisition informed us that they would take no action against us."

"He did kill her, right?"

"Yes."

"Then what's the matter now? He was fine earlier in the campaign."

"Combat stress? Machines do wear out, barring proper maintenance. Some machines sooner than others. Does it matter? What matters is that your men out there shall not find him, even with our guidance that we provided them."

"Are you-"

"We are not sabotaging them. I'm just telling you that the Vindicare are trained to be a force of nature. They strike as lightning upon the heretic, they are as hard to catch as the wind, and they are as easy to find as a mote of dust in the rainforest. Do not worry though. He will be found. There is always a contingency."