This looks both fun and interesting. Count me in.
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The Returned
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Holy crap this is moving fast. Guess I'd better start writing if I have any hope of keeping up
I had the same thought. I was actually about to go to bed and on a whim checked one more time. Figured if I didn't post now the fight would be over by the time I got around to it.
Instinct has a habit of taking over as soon as shit hits the fan.
Collin had slammed his body into the floor before Hobbes body even hit the ground. Bullets started cracking through the walls and the now shattered window, peppering the furniture and busting the scattered beer bottles and empty glasses. He heard the cries of Yancy struggling to keep Hobbes alive, though from his prone position Collin could already see the blood pooling under the British mans body.
Fuck man, you better pull yourself together..
Unarmed, and caught flatfooted, Collin knew he was at a disadvantage. They all were, as the only one currently armed at this point was Packard, who was hefting a rifle too large to maneuver easily in the confined space of the apartment. Kennedy dashed off upstairs, and Collin gritted his teeth as more glass cascaded down on his head and back. He needed to do something fast or they were all going to get smoked.
He vaguely heard a feminine voice, and he glanced up and saw Martin pointing at him and Packard and telling them to go upstairs and take out the shooters from the roof. Collin rolled his eyes. Great idea…let me just shoot mind bullets at them…
His green eyes fell on the trunk, and he started crawling on his stomach towards the open box. He dragged himself up slightly, reaching his hand inside and grabbing the first thing that he could wrap his fingers around and hefting it out with the rasp of metal against plastic. Flipping onto his back, Collin laid the weapon across his chest and looked down to inspect his prize.
Oh yeah…this’ll do just fine.
He had grabbed an 8-gauge pump action Avenger shot gun. This one in particular had a barrel shortened to just past the fore-grip, with a birds-head style grip instead of a full stock. As he pulled the weapon out he checked the chamber, and saw Kennedy running back down stairs with…what the fuck was that? It looked like the door of an armored car. Kennedy braced himself in front of the window, the concentrated firepower pausing as the bullets started to impact the metal shield with loud *ping* sounds. Taking advantage of the respite, Collin pushed himself up to his feet and ran up next to Kennedy, bracing his shoulder against the side of the shield, his back to the man holding it. He glanced over at Martin, who now stood over Yancy and Hobbes and gave orders to a few other people.
“Sorry lady, sneaking and peeking isn’t really my style,” he said with a sarcastic smile as he pushed the barrel of his shotgun out around the edge of Kennedys barrier, and pulled the trigger. The gun boomed like a cannon and kicked in his hand like a pissed off mule. Collin fired blindly two more times, not caring if he hit anything. He peeked his eyes around the shield, looking for targets, but the street lights were so dim his eyes were having a hard time adjusting. The sudden pop and wizz of bullets bouncing off the shield near his face made him jerk his head back around and fire again.
“Fuck! I can’t see shit out there. We need to get out of this house now!” He barked, digging into the box at his feet and stuffing handfuls of shells into his jacket pockets.
Collin had slammed his body into the floor before Hobbes body even hit the ground. Bullets started cracking through the walls and the now shattered window, peppering the furniture and busting the scattered beer bottles and empty glasses. He heard the cries of Yancy struggling to keep Hobbes alive, though from his prone position Collin could already see the blood pooling under the British mans body.
Fuck man, you better pull yourself together..
Unarmed, and caught flatfooted, Collin knew he was at a disadvantage. They all were, as the only one currently armed at this point was Packard, who was hefting a rifle too large to maneuver easily in the confined space of the apartment. Kennedy dashed off upstairs, and Collin gritted his teeth as more glass cascaded down on his head and back. He needed to do something fast or they were all going to get smoked.
He vaguely heard a feminine voice, and he glanced up and saw Martin pointing at him and Packard and telling them to go upstairs and take out the shooters from the roof. Collin rolled his eyes. Great idea…let me just shoot mind bullets at them…
His green eyes fell on the trunk, and he started crawling on his stomach towards the open box. He dragged himself up slightly, reaching his hand inside and grabbing the first thing that he could wrap his fingers around and hefting it out with the rasp of metal against plastic. Flipping onto his back, Collin laid the weapon across his chest and looked down to inspect his prize.
Oh yeah…this’ll do just fine.
He had grabbed an 8-gauge pump action Avenger shot gun. This one in particular had a barrel shortened to just past the fore-grip, with a birds-head style grip instead of a full stock. As he pulled the weapon out he checked the chamber, and saw Kennedy running back down stairs with…what the fuck was that? It looked like the door of an armored car. Kennedy braced himself in front of the window, the concentrated firepower pausing as the bullets started to impact the metal shield with loud *ping* sounds. Taking advantage of the respite, Collin pushed himself up to his feet and ran up next to Kennedy, bracing his shoulder against the side of the shield, his back to the man holding it. He glanced over at Martin, who now stood over Yancy and Hobbes and gave orders to a few other people.
“Sorry lady, sneaking and peeking isn’t really my style,” he said with a sarcastic smile as he pushed the barrel of his shotgun out around the edge of Kennedys barrier, and pulled the trigger. The gun boomed like a cannon and kicked in his hand like a pissed off mule. Collin fired blindly two more times, not caring if he hit anything. He peeked his eyes around the shield, looking for targets, but the street lights were so dim his eyes were having a hard time adjusting. The sudden pop and wizz of bullets bouncing off the shield near his face made him jerk his head back around and fire again.
“Fuck! I can’t see shit out there. We need to get out of this house now!” He barked, digging into the box at his feet and stuffing handfuls of shells into his jacket pockets.
Well that was unexpected.
But awesome. Time for a good old fashioned shoot out.
But awesome. Time for a good old fashioned shoot out.
Did someone say Savage??
”I thought you went off the record after that most recent gang bust. I would have thought you were in danger with the underbosses looking for revenge....Tim got you involved in this, what does he want with us two?”
Collin pushed the brim of his ballcap up a bit with one index finger, revealing more of his face. His green eyes fell on Yancy, and he gave a wry smile at the man’s slightly stuttering speech. By the sound, and smell, of him Yancy was either still drunk or just recently sobering up. Collin checked his watch, seeing it as just a bit before midnight. Yea, that sounds about right. Taggart had probably picked him up in the middle of another bender. Being Friday that usually meant lots of teary war stories. Hence why Collin avoided the Red Raven on Fridays.
As Mack continued to look around the room with a look of shock and disorientation Collin spoke up, for only the second time since entering the room. Blowing out a cloud of smoke from his nostrils he addressed the distressed ex-cop.
“I did go underground, and thought that I did a good job of it too. It’s been about 4 years, and yet still somehow that Taggart found me. I don’t like it, but the offer he gave was a little too good to just pass up without a second glace,” he finished, pulling on the cigarette again and noticing the ember was just about to the filter. He stubbed the butt out and watched as another person entered. That would make seven, and the small female that looked uncomfortable and shy could be none other than Miss Valeriya Ilyushin. Her file, like most of the others, was lacking in their background, but he knew that she was the driver of this group. She had a string of racing awards under her belt, as well as plenty of time under the hood of a car. His appraisal of the new arrival was interrupted by Hobbes pulling a gigantic trunk into the living space.
When the huge box was opened, even Collins stoic demeanor cracked as he gave a low whistle. Hobbes and Taggart had somehow smuggled what equated to a small arsenal inside the box. It was stuffed with weapons of all different types, and Hobbes hefted a long rifle towards Packard. The weapon looked mean and military grade, though Collin had absolutely no idea what it was. It didn’t look like anything he had seen on the streets before, let alone anything he had seen any of the various PMC forces carrying in Neo-Bay. His question was answered when Hobbes mentioned that the custom rifle had been stolen from the Japanese, meaning that it was likely a secret prototype the Japs had been developing. He took another sip of the whiskey, but set it down behind him in order to keep his body between the alcohol and Yancy. The guy didn’t look like he needed anything else to drink any time soon.
Collin pushed the brim of his ballcap up a bit with one index finger, revealing more of his face. His green eyes fell on Yancy, and he gave a wry smile at the man’s slightly stuttering speech. By the sound, and smell, of him Yancy was either still drunk or just recently sobering up. Collin checked his watch, seeing it as just a bit before midnight. Yea, that sounds about right. Taggart had probably picked him up in the middle of another bender. Being Friday that usually meant lots of teary war stories. Hence why Collin avoided the Red Raven on Fridays.
As Mack continued to look around the room with a look of shock and disorientation Collin spoke up, for only the second time since entering the room. Blowing out a cloud of smoke from his nostrils he addressed the distressed ex-cop.
“I did go underground, and thought that I did a good job of it too. It’s been about 4 years, and yet still somehow that Taggart found me. I don’t like it, but the offer he gave was a little too good to just pass up without a second glace,” he finished, pulling on the cigarette again and noticing the ember was just about to the filter. He stubbed the butt out and watched as another person entered. That would make seven, and the small female that looked uncomfortable and shy could be none other than Miss Valeriya Ilyushin. Her file, like most of the others, was lacking in their background, but he knew that she was the driver of this group. She had a string of racing awards under her belt, as well as plenty of time under the hood of a car. His appraisal of the new arrival was interrupted by Hobbes pulling a gigantic trunk into the living space.
When the huge box was opened, even Collins stoic demeanor cracked as he gave a low whistle. Hobbes and Taggart had somehow smuggled what equated to a small arsenal inside the box. It was stuffed with weapons of all different types, and Hobbes hefted a long rifle towards Packard. The weapon looked mean and military grade, though Collin had absolutely no idea what it was. It didn’t look like anything he had seen on the streets before, let alone anything he had seen any of the various PMC forces carrying in Neo-Bay. His question was answered when Hobbes mentioned that the custom rifle had been stolen from the Japanese, meaning that it was likely a secret prototype the Japs had been developing. He took another sip of the whiskey, but set it down behind him in order to keep his body between the alcohol and Yancy. The guy didn’t look like he needed anything else to drink any time soon.
“Would you like a drink?”
Collin glanced sideways at the question. Lily Martin stood near him, her small hands holding a glass filled with the unmistakably brown liquid of whiskey. Or rum maybe, Collin wasn’t sure what kind of drinker Taggart was. At her question he wordlessly reached over, and grabbed the bottle from where it was sitting next to her. Disregarding the glasses that were strewn about the counter, he held his cigarette between his index and middle finger of his right hand and brought the neck to his lips. The liquid burned as it passed his throat, warming its way down to his stomach were it settled and gave off a steady heat.
Yep, definitely whiskey. He swallowed another swig and set the bottle next to him, taking another pull on his cigarette before ashing in the tray. He blew the smoke out slowly, letting it curl around his face and the brim of his hat as he listened to Kennedy speak. The man briefly mentioned his past, and Collin kept his face impassive as he listened.
You can learn a lot about people by just sitting there watching and listening. He could tell Kennedy was trying to be sociable, as well as Miss Martin, but he frankly didn’t care too much about anyone’s backstory. He knew enough from their files anyway. Lily Martin, Cuban, 5 feet tall and about 100 pounds soaking wet. She had martial arts training, though the file had been pretty vague concerning her actual work experience. While he was curious to the reason she was here amongst the likes of himself and Kennedy, who both had long histories of police or military work behind them, he knew from reading the other members that there was some reason Taggart had selected her. As with all of them.
He glanced her way again, pulling on his cigarette and letting the ember glow hot and bright against his face. “Thanks,” he said in a rough voice, the Bostonian twang still evident even after years of living south of the city. He turned back to the bottle, taking another drink and listening to Hobbes making small talk with some of the other guests.
Collin glanced sideways at the question. Lily Martin stood near him, her small hands holding a glass filled with the unmistakably brown liquid of whiskey. Or rum maybe, Collin wasn’t sure what kind of drinker Taggart was. At her question he wordlessly reached over, and grabbed the bottle from where it was sitting next to her. Disregarding the glasses that were strewn about the counter, he held his cigarette between his index and middle finger of his right hand and brought the neck to his lips. The liquid burned as it passed his throat, warming its way down to his stomach were it settled and gave off a steady heat.
Yep, definitely whiskey. He swallowed another swig and set the bottle next to him, taking another pull on his cigarette before ashing in the tray. He blew the smoke out slowly, letting it curl around his face and the brim of his hat as he listened to Kennedy speak. The man briefly mentioned his past, and Collin kept his face impassive as he listened.
You can learn a lot about people by just sitting there watching and listening. He could tell Kennedy was trying to be sociable, as well as Miss Martin, but he frankly didn’t care too much about anyone’s backstory. He knew enough from their files anyway. Lily Martin, Cuban, 5 feet tall and about 100 pounds soaking wet. She had martial arts training, though the file had been pretty vague concerning her actual work experience. While he was curious to the reason she was here amongst the likes of himself and Kennedy, who both had long histories of police or military work behind them, he knew from reading the other members that there was some reason Taggart had selected her. As with all of them.
He glanced her way again, pulling on his cigarette and letting the ember glow hot and bright against his face. “Thanks,” he said in a rough voice, the Bostonian twang still evident even after years of living south of the city. He turned back to the bottle, taking another drink and listening to Hobbes making small talk with some of the other guests.
“Hold boys! Don’t let the green bastards take another inch!” Erron roared over the cacophony of combat. Sometime during the melee he had lost his winged helm, his black hair unbound and streaming around his grimacing face as he fought. The circle of the 9th had bent and bowed under the weight of the Greenskin tide pressing at them on all sides, forcing the circle to turn into a disfigured shape. Out of the corners of his green eyes Erron could see the forces of Ragath, Ballor, and Roek trying desperately to reach the beleaguered Marines, Ragath’s twin axes hacking down Orks as he bellowed with primal rage, while Roek’s claws sizzled and popped with fresh blood.
In the sky, formations of Jetbikes and Speeders arched and turned, bringing their formidable firepower to bear again and again on the seemingly endless brutish hordes. Heavy bolters rattled, spitting explosive shells into the bodies of the Orks, and the heat of Volkite beams lancing through the formation made the air ripple and crack. Ork shapes burst into flame and ash, seared by the arcane technology, their primitive armor doing little to stop the onslaught of heavy weaponry. Off to one side, alone, stood the “Ancient” himself, his Dreadnought body riddled with indentations from bullets and Ork blood. One arm bearing a powerfully large blade, the length nearly half as long as the entire Dreadnoughts body, carved vicious slices through dozens of Orks at a time. The other hand shaped like an immense claw gutted the Orks that dashed around his massive feet, struggling to escape the wrath of the Wild Blades Dreadnought.
Even with all the might of his entire Legion brought to bear, Erron could see that his lines were starting to break. Despite the efforts of his Thanes, the Greenskins were too concentrated, too dense to simply breach by sheer ferocity and strength of arms.
Erron heard a roar, turning, his eyes flicking to an Ork Nob holding a massive Choppa over his head in a two handed grip. The Nob leapt into the air, slicing downward with its massive blade, looking to split the Primarch from head to toe. Erron gave the airborne beast a snarl, and ran forward, dropping to his knees in a slide spewing dirt and rocks in front of him. He leaned back, his black hair tracing the ground and he brought both Sisters up in an arcing slash above his torso, slicing deep through the Orks midsection. The two halves of the Nob crashed behind him, carried forward by its momentum. Erron jumped to his feet, spinning his knife around to drive into spine of another, his sword coming across and slicing its throat with such force that the body spiraled away from him in a haphazard corkscrew. He turned again, only to be jarred sideways by a round striking his shoulder plate. Off balance, he staggered to one side, then another as an Ork took advantage of his confused state to slam a Choppa into his side.
Erron let loose a feral cry, grabbing the foolish Ork by the head, slamming his forehead into the Orks pig shaped nose and felt the flesh pulp against his skull. The Ork went limp, its face caved in under the strength of the Primarch. Before it could drop Erron grabbed the body, holding it up against his chest and turning the Orks crude pistol backward, squeezing the Greenskins fist so that it fired a deadly burst into the chest of one of its fellows.
“Death Rides on Swift Wings!” He screamed, the barking cries of his Legion answering the call. He felt a swell of pride for his sons. Here, on the corpse stricken fields of Ullanor Prime and surrounded on all sides, they still roared their defiance in the face of death.
The churning of an engine made Erron turn, his battle lust making him ever more hungry for fresh prey. The sound grew louder, and Erron crouched, anticipating some Orkish machine to come crashing through the ranks towards him. A stuttering staccato of bolter fire raked out, splattering Orks as a single Outrider bike came into view, its thick tires smeared with blood as the figure on top lashed out sideways with twin swords. The bike struck a huge Nob, pulverizing the beast’s chest but halting the bikes suicidal charge, causing the vehicle to tip upwards on its fore-end. The Marine on the back jumped, using the bikes momentum to catapult himself forward, swords held high as he landed on the back of an Ork just to the Primarchs flank, crushing its skull beneath his armored knee.
Erron grinned, recognizing the lupine-esque helmet of his 6th Thane, Captain Lovar Kine. “Damn foolish of you to find your way in here!” He shouted, pulling his knife out from under and Orks jaw and kicking the body aside. “You looked like you could use the assistance Chief,” came the vox-muffled reply, but even beneath the helmet Erron could hear the mirth in his Thanes voice. “Any more of your boys find a way through?” Erron asked, a slight reprieve gained from the battle as his bodyguards formed around them, holding back the snarling Ork forces with powerful two handed cleaves of their swords. Lovar shook his head. “It was a miracle I made it through, the dirty bastards are everywhere. You certainly picked a good spot for a stand.” Erron nodded, surveying the battle again. “Aye, but imagine the stories the Seers will have once we finish removing this stain from the land?” He said as he gave his Thane a wide grin, and then they both turned and charged back into the fray together, blades held high.
Within the artillery blasted trees on the outskirts of the battle, Void Master Gabriel watched. His men were doing their best to drop Orks from their positions, taking shots at unsuspecting Greenskins and targeting any Nob that looked like he was barking orders. Even still, he could tell that his efforts were not going to be enough. Erron Khaal had tasked him with protecting the formations of bikes that strafed the flanks, and he had done so. Still, some of the last words the Primarch had said to him rang in his thoughts. Your actions will save a lot of Wild Blade lives… From his position Gabriel could clearly see that the battle was not going in the Xth Legions favor. Their lines were breaking, and soon the 9th Company that held the center would be overrun and trampled under Ork boots. Erron himself held that center, and through the lenses in his helmet Gabriel could see the Primarch hacking wildly at the hunched shapes of Orkish brutes. Gabriel chewed his cheek inside the helmet. He had to do something. He couldn’t just stand here and watch fellow Astartes get slaughtered. Especially not when Erron himself had placed such trust in him and his Chapter. What would Asmodal do? he asked himself, and the answer was obvious. He knew what he had to do, though he did not relish the thought.
“Sixth Chapter,” he called calmly over vox, the calls from his Stalker-Masters affirming his hail. “All Legionnaires, prepare for close combat. We charge to relieve the Wild Blades on my order.” There was a pause. His Stalker-Masters had undoubtedly heard the command, and Gabriel knew they disagreed. This was not the Void Stalker way. They did not charge headfirst into carnage. They met the shadows of death with shadows of their own that were even more terrifying. “Sixth Chapter. I gave an order,” Gabriel said, annoyed by the silence that followed his order, inflecting his words with his Will. He would be obeyed without question. “Roger sir, all squads are ready on your order.”
Gabriel hefted his Singing Spear, taking a deep breath through his helmet. He did not feel fear; no Void Stalker would ever let themselves succumb to that vile emotion. No, it was simply the weight of what he was about to do. He would not, could not, fail.
“Death,” he whispered.
From his position in the center, Erron did not immediately see the sally of the Void Stalkers. The violet clad Marines gave no war cry, no signal to their attack. But they came on, like silent ghosts out of the trees, chainswords whirring to life and bolters flashing, dodging the passing bike formations as they ran to meet the flanks of the Greenskin horde. Void Master Gabriel himself led one of the formations, his spear held above his head in a reverse grip, throwing the weapon and lancing an Ork through the chest. Gabriel simply held out his hand, and the spear twisted, gutting the Ork open and flying back along its trajectory to his open palm. With his other hand he let out a powerful psykic blast, an invisible wave of force rolling in front of his men, bowling over Orks and knocking them prone. His forces fell upon the fallen Greenskins with quiet efficiency, blasting their heads apart with bolt rounds or ending their lives with quick thrusts from close combat weapons. The Orks, surprised by this new threat, gave a brief pause in their aggression as they assessed the new battlefield conditions with their primitive brains. Erron did not give them the chance they needed.
Punching one Ork in the throat with an armored fist, the Primarch left the choking and gurgling xenos die slowly as he raised his arms above his head. “Now Wild Blades! Let these Greenskins taste your steel! Kill them all!” He roared, his eyes alight in savage fury, Lovar barking an order over vox as well. All around them the Wild Blades on their bikes slid to a stop, scattering clods of dirt and dismounting. The 6 mounted Companies all converged on the Orks, following Gabriels example and mounting one last counter charge. The blades of tens of thousands of Astartes warriors answered their Primarchs call, letting the Greenskin brutes taste steel tempered with the memories of the fallen. As Erron Khaal crashed the pommel of his sword onto the skull of an Ork, he felt another jump onto his back and his knees bend at the weight of the creature. Reaching back, he heaved the beast off him, raising his foot and crushing the Orks face under his heel.
This was their stand. Here the Wild Blades and 6th Chapter of Void Stalkers had devoted everything they had to give the Armatus the time they needed to kill the Warboss. Erron had to hope that their victory would be soon.
In the sky, formations of Jetbikes and Speeders arched and turned, bringing their formidable firepower to bear again and again on the seemingly endless brutish hordes. Heavy bolters rattled, spitting explosive shells into the bodies of the Orks, and the heat of Volkite beams lancing through the formation made the air ripple and crack. Ork shapes burst into flame and ash, seared by the arcane technology, their primitive armor doing little to stop the onslaught of heavy weaponry. Off to one side, alone, stood the “Ancient” himself, his Dreadnought body riddled with indentations from bullets and Ork blood. One arm bearing a powerfully large blade, the length nearly half as long as the entire Dreadnoughts body, carved vicious slices through dozens of Orks at a time. The other hand shaped like an immense claw gutted the Orks that dashed around his massive feet, struggling to escape the wrath of the Wild Blades Dreadnought.
Even with all the might of his entire Legion brought to bear, Erron could see that his lines were starting to break. Despite the efforts of his Thanes, the Greenskins were too concentrated, too dense to simply breach by sheer ferocity and strength of arms.
Erron heard a roar, turning, his eyes flicking to an Ork Nob holding a massive Choppa over his head in a two handed grip. The Nob leapt into the air, slicing downward with its massive blade, looking to split the Primarch from head to toe. Erron gave the airborne beast a snarl, and ran forward, dropping to his knees in a slide spewing dirt and rocks in front of him. He leaned back, his black hair tracing the ground and he brought both Sisters up in an arcing slash above his torso, slicing deep through the Orks midsection. The two halves of the Nob crashed behind him, carried forward by its momentum. Erron jumped to his feet, spinning his knife around to drive into spine of another, his sword coming across and slicing its throat with such force that the body spiraled away from him in a haphazard corkscrew. He turned again, only to be jarred sideways by a round striking his shoulder plate. Off balance, he staggered to one side, then another as an Ork took advantage of his confused state to slam a Choppa into his side.
Erron let loose a feral cry, grabbing the foolish Ork by the head, slamming his forehead into the Orks pig shaped nose and felt the flesh pulp against his skull. The Ork went limp, its face caved in under the strength of the Primarch. Before it could drop Erron grabbed the body, holding it up against his chest and turning the Orks crude pistol backward, squeezing the Greenskins fist so that it fired a deadly burst into the chest of one of its fellows.
“Death Rides on Swift Wings!” He screamed, the barking cries of his Legion answering the call. He felt a swell of pride for his sons. Here, on the corpse stricken fields of Ullanor Prime and surrounded on all sides, they still roared their defiance in the face of death.
The churning of an engine made Erron turn, his battle lust making him ever more hungry for fresh prey. The sound grew louder, and Erron crouched, anticipating some Orkish machine to come crashing through the ranks towards him. A stuttering staccato of bolter fire raked out, splattering Orks as a single Outrider bike came into view, its thick tires smeared with blood as the figure on top lashed out sideways with twin swords. The bike struck a huge Nob, pulverizing the beast’s chest but halting the bikes suicidal charge, causing the vehicle to tip upwards on its fore-end. The Marine on the back jumped, using the bikes momentum to catapult himself forward, swords held high as he landed on the back of an Ork just to the Primarchs flank, crushing its skull beneath his armored knee.
Erron grinned, recognizing the lupine-esque helmet of his 6th Thane, Captain Lovar Kine. “Damn foolish of you to find your way in here!” He shouted, pulling his knife out from under and Orks jaw and kicking the body aside. “You looked like you could use the assistance Chief,” came the vox-muffled reply, but even beneath the helmet Erron could hear the mirth in his Thanes voice. “Any more of your boys find a way through?” Erron asked, a slight reprieve gained from the battle as his bodyguards formed around them, holding back the snarling Ork forces with powerful two handed cleaves of their swords. Lovar shook his head. “It was a miracle I made it through, the dirty bastards are everywhere. You certainly picked a good spot for a stand.” Erron nodded, surveying the battle again. “Aye, but imagine the stories the Seers will have once we finish removing this stain from the land?” He said as he gave his Thane a wide grin, and then they both turned and charged back into the fray together, blades held high.
Within the artillery blasted trees on the outskirts of the battle, Void Master Gabriel watched. His men were doing their best to drop Orks from their positions, taking shots at unsuspecting Greenskins and targeting any Nob that looked like he was barking orders. Even still, he could tell that his efforts were not going to be enough. Erron Khaal had tasked him with protecting the formations of bikes that strafed the flanks, and he had done so. Still, some of the last words the Primarch had said to him rang in his thoughts. Your actions will save a lot of Wild Blade lives… From his position Gabriel could clearly see that the battle was not going in the Xth Legions favor. Their lines were breaking, and soon the 9th Company that held the center would be overrun and trampled under Ork boots. Erron himself held that center, and through the lenses in his helmet Gabriel could see the Primarch hacking wildly at the hunched shapes of Orkish brutes. Gabriel chewed his cheek inside the helmet. He had to do something. He couldn’t just stand here and watch fellow Astartes get slaughtered. Especially not when Erron himself had placed such trust in him and his Chapter. What would Asmodal do? he asked himself, and the answer was obvious. He knew what he had to do, though he did not relish the thought.
“Sixth Chapter,” he called calmly over vox, the calls from his Stalker-Masters affirming his hail. “All Legionnaires, prepare for close combat. We charge to relieve the Wild Blades on my order.” There was a pause. His Stalker-Masters had undoubtedly heard the command, and Gabriel knew they disagreed. This was not the Void Stalker way. They did not charge headfirst into carnage. They met the shadows of death with shadows of their own that were even more terrifying. “Sixth Chapter. I gave an order,” Gabriel said, annoyed by the silence that followed his order, inflecting his words with his Will. He would be obeyed without question. “Roger sir, all squads are ready on your order.”
Gabriel hefted his Singing Spear, taking a deep breath through his helmet. He did not feel fear; no Void Stalker would ever let themselves succumb to that vile emotion. No, it was simply the weight of what he was about to do. He would not, could not, fail.
“Death,” he whispered.
From his position in the center, Erron did not immediately see the sally of the Void Stalkers. The violet clad Marines gave no war cry, no signal to their attack. But they came on, like silent ghosts out of the trees, chainswords whirring to life and bolters flashing, dodging the passing bike formations as they ran to meet the flanks of the Greenskin horde. Void Master Gabriel himself led one of the formations, his spear held above his head in a reverse grip, throwing the weapon and lancing an Ork through the chest. Gabriel simply held out his hand, and the spear twisted, gutting the Ork open and flying back along its trajectory to his open palm. With his other hand he let out a powerful psykic blast, an invisible wave of force rolling in front of his men, bowling over Orks and knocking them prone. His forces fell upon the fallen Greenskins with quiet efficiency, blasting their heads apart with bolt rounds or ending their lives with quick thrusts from close combat weapons. The Orks, surprised by this new threat, gave a brief pause in their aggression as they assessed the new battlefield conditions with their primitive brains. Erron did not give them the chance they needed.
Punching one Ork in the throat with an armored fist, the Primarch left the choking and gurgling xenos die slowly as he raised his arms above his head. “Now Wild Blades! Let these Greenskins taste your steel! Kill them all!” He roared, his eyes alight in savage fury, Lovar barking an order over vox as well. All around them the Wild Blades on their bikes slid to a stop, scattering clods of dirt and dismounting. The 6 mounted Companies all converged on the Orks, following Gabriels example and mounting one last counter charge. The blades of tens of thousands of Astartes warriors answered their Primarchs call, letting the Greenskin brutes taste steel tempered with the memories of the fallen. As Erron Khaal crashed the pommel of his sword onto the skull of an Ork, he felt another jump onto his back and his knees bend at the weight of the creature. Reaching back, he heaved the beast off him, raising his foot and crushing the Orks face under his heel.
This was their stand. Here the Wild Blades and 6th Chapter of Void Stalkers had devoted everything they had to give the Armatus the time they needed to kill the Warboss. Erron had to hope that their victory would be soon.
Opening Theme
Collin stepped out of his ramshackle apartment building, dressed in his usual jeans, t shirt and leather jacket. A faded baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, he bent his head down and cupped his palm, the sharp *shick* of flint on steel and the sudden burst of orange glow against his skin as he held the flame to a cigarette in his mouth. He put the lighter in his pocket, gray smoke puffing out his nostrils into the dim street lights as he just stood for a moment surveying the coming and going of headlights and pedestrians.
“Hey buddy, can you spare a light?” A voice to his left suddenly asked, making Collin turn and see a man in a ragged looking suit leaning against the wall of his building. Used to beggars and vagabonds asking for handouts, a simple light was no big deal, and Collin fished out his lighter and tossed it to the man, the metal glinting against the fluorescent glow of headlights as it spun through the air. The man caught it and deftly lit his own cigarette, and Collin took time to size him up. He was no older than any other bum he had met; his clothing told a story at first glance of someone recently out of work and looking for more. Still, the guy didn’t talk like a hobo. He was calm, confident, without the desperate stutter and pleading look in his eyes. He wasn’t that big either, didn’t have hand in his pocket around a gun and wasn’t leaning forward like he was about to swing. So Collin made the mental decision that the stranger did not pose an immediate threat.
Nodding, handing back the lighter, the stranger puffed on his cigarette next to Collin for a few moments, both of them just silent and standing in the street. Then he spoke, “I’m Tim Taggart, but you can just call me Tim,” Collin nodded, not saying a word. He didn’t really feel like striking up a conversation with a complete stranger on the side of the road. Tim started to chuckle. “I should’ve known you weren’t the social type Corporal McCreary.”
At the mention of his name, and his old rank, Collin turned his head and looked at Tim Taggart with narrowed eyes, about to open up his mouth and ask just who the fuck this guy thought he was. Tim spoke first. “Yes I know who you are McCreary, and know a lot more about you than just your name. A year in Boston, two in Neo-City, though I do find it amazing that no records exist of you actually graduating any type of formal police training. I did find out you have a significant problem with authority figures. Worked you way up to Sergeant…twice I think wasn’t it? First time busted down to just a patrolie for punching your Department supervisor, second time down to Corporal for only the suspiciously vague citation of ‘excessive violence during questioning.’ Care to elaborate?” Collin stood there, his mind reeling, not sure if he wanted to punch this Tim Taggart in the throat and leave him coughing in the gutter or hear him out. Tim just puffed on his cigarette again and shook his head.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter. The few other records I could actually dig out from my government connections are more than enough to cement your position on the team. Plus, you won’t have to worry about citations for ‘excessive violence’ anymore.” Tim continued, ashing at his feet. Collin, took a drag on his own cigarette, his eyebrows rising a bit at the mention of a team. He finally got the chance to speak.
“What the fuck are you talking about old man?”
Tim chuckled again, and pulled file out of his jacket, handing it to Collin. “Everything you need to know is in here. Salary, job description, as well as a dossier of your teammates,” at Collins glowering look from his final word Tim smiled. "Yes McCreary, team mates. Non-negotiable. But before you immediately say no just take a look at the file. If you aren’t interested then so be it. If you are you’ll find instructions inside on where to be and when.”
Collin stepped out of the cab, sparking a cigarette as he walked down sidewalk. He had the driver drop him off a few blocks from the location, not wanting to get out right in front of the supposed headquarters to this mystery gig. He shouldered past people as he walked, ignoring the angry glances thrown over their shoulders at his back. He had looked at the file. Salary first, he didn’t want to waste his time on anything that wouldn’t be worth the trouble. Pay was decent, better than bouncing bars and clubs. The dossier concerned him. Only two names on the list had stuck out to him. Micheal Yancy was the first on the list, the only individual Collin actually knew remotely well. He and Yancy had partnered on a bust a long time ago, and after the department folded he saw the man from time to time drowning his sorrows over yet another empty bottle. Greg Kennedy he knew by reputation only, being one of the Riot guys in the force before the whole thing turned belly up. The other myriad names and histories on the list meant little to him. They didn’t have much experience outside of whatever had attracted Taggart, and Collin didn’t trust words on paper. The thought of working alongside other people irked him, and he had considered just tossing the whole file in the trash. Yet…here he was, standing outside the address given in the file.
Collin just stood there looking at the door for a long time. He leaned against the window of a parked car, just looking at the beat up wooden door and smoking. He finished his cigarette, lit another, and when that one was done he finally pushed up off the car and walked up to the door. He knocked once, his baseball cap pulled over his eyes, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket when the door cracked open. Hobbes, or at least that’s what the name attached to the picture in his file said, opened the door. Before he could speak and welcome Collin in he stepped past the man and into the house.
The place was a fucking mess. Empty take out containers, beer bottles, dozens of ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and ash. It smelled like a stale smokehouse. Collin felt right at home. He walked into the living room, heard the voices of other already gathered. He recognized all their faces from the files. Lee Allen, Jamie Packard, Krauss Helfer, and Lilly Martin were all there. He recognized Kennedy immediately. He was older than the last time they had met, which had just been in passing within the few times Collin was ever around the department. Collin rarely forgets a face. He did a quick mental count of people and made note of possible exits. It was an old habit that he had never been able to shake even all these years working civilian sector.
Without saying anything, Collin took a seat on one of the stools by the kitchen counter. He pulled an already overflowing ashtray towards him and lit another cigarette, puffing the gray smoke into the air.
I hope this shit is worth it, he mentally grumbled to himself as he took another heavy draw.
Collin stepped out of his ramshackle apartment building, dressed in his usual jeans, t shirt and leather jacket. A faded baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, he bent his head down and cupped his palm, the sharp *shick* of flint on steel and the sudden burst of orange glow against his skin as he held the flame to a cigarette in his mouth. He put the lighter in his pocket, gray smoke puffing out his nostrils into the dim street lights as he just stood for a moment surveying the coming and going of headlights and pedestrians.
“Hey buddy, can you spare a light?” A voice to his left suddenly asked, making Collin turn and see a man in a ragged looking suit leaning against the wall of his building. Used to beggars and vagabonds asking for handouts, a simple light was no big deal, and Collin fished out his lighter and tossed it to the man, the metal glinting against the fluorescent glow of headlights as it spun through the air. The man caught it and deftly lit his own cigarette, and Collin took time to size him up. He was no older than any other bum he had met; his clothing told a story at first glance of someone recently out of work and looking for more. Still, the guy didn’t talk like a hobo. He was calm, confident, without the desperate stutter and pleading look in his eyes. He wasn’t that big either, didn’t have hand in his pocket around a gun and wasn’t leaning forward like he was about to swing. So Collin made the mental decision that the stranger did not pose an immediate threat.
Nodding, handing back the lighter, the stranger puffed on his cigarette next to Collin for a few moments, both of them just silent and standing in the street. Then he spoke, “I’m Tim Taggart, but you can just call me Tim,” Collin nodded, not saying a word. He didn’t really feel like striking up a conversation with a complete stranger on the side of the road. Tim started to chuckle. “I should’ve known you weren’t the social type Corporal McCreary.”
At the mention of his name, and his old rank, Collin turned his head and looked at Tim Taggart with narrowed eyes, about to open up his mouth and ask just who the fuck this guy thought he was. Tim spoke first. “Yes I know who you are McCreary, and know a lot more about you than just your name. A year in Boston, two in Neo-City, though I do find it amazing that no records exist of you actually graduating any type of formal police training. I did find out you have a significant problem with authority figures. Worked you way up to Sergeant…twice I think wasn’t it? First time busted down to just a patrolie for punching your Department supervisor, second time down to Corporal for only the suspiciously vague citation of ‘excessive violence during questioning.’ Care to elaborate?” Collin stood there, his mind reeling, not sure if he wanted to punch this Tim Taggart in the throat and leave him coughing in the gutter or hear him out. Tim just puffed on his cigarette again and shook his head.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter. The few other records I could actually dig out from my government connections are more than enough to cement your position on the team. Plus, you won’t have to worry about citations for ‘excessive violence’ anymore.” Tim continued, ashing at his feet. Collin, took a drag on his own cigarette, his eyebrows rising a bit at the mention of a team. He finally got the chance to speak.
“What the fuck are you talking about old man?”
Tim chuckled again, and pulled file out of his jacket, handing it to Collin. “Everything you need to know is in here. Salary, job description, as well as a dossier of your teammates,” at Collins glowering look from his final word Tim smiled. "Yes McCreary, team mates. Non-negotiable. But before you immediately say no just take a look at the file. If you aren’t interested then so be it. If you are you’ll find instructions inside on where to be and when.”
Collin stepped out of the cab, sparking a cigarette as he walked down sidewalk. He had the driver drop him off a few blocks from the location, not wanting to get out right in front of the supposed headquarters to this mystery gig. He shouldered past people as he walked, ignoring the angry glances thrown over their shoulders at his back. He had looked at the file. Salary first, he didn’t want to waste his time on anything that wouldn’t be worth the trouble. Pay was decent, better than bouncing bars and clubs. The dossier concerned him. Only two names on the list had stuck out to him. Micheal Yancy was the first on the list, the only individual Collin actually knew remotely well. He and Yancy had partnered on a bust a long time ago, and after the department folded he saw the man from time to time drowning his sorrows over yet another empty bottle. Greg Kennedy he knew by reputation only, being one of the Riot guys in the force before the whole thing turned belly up. The other myriad names and histories on the list meant little to him. They didn’t have much experience outside of whatever had attracted Taggart, and Collin didn’t trust words on paper. The thought of working alongside other people irked him, and he had considered just tossing the whole file in the trash. Yet…here he was, standing outside the address given in the file.
Collin just stood there looking at the door for a long time. He leaned against the window of a parked car, just looking at the beat up wooden door and smoking. He finished his cigarette, lit another, and when that one was done he finally pushed up off the car and walked up to the door. He knocked once, his baseball cap pulled over his eyes, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket when the door cracked open. Hobbes, or at least that’s what the name attached to the picture in his file said, opened the door. Before he could speak and welcome Collin in he stepped past the man and into the house.
The place was a fucking mess. Empty take out containers, beer bottles, dozens of ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and ash. It smelled like a stale smokehouse. Collin felt right at home. He walked into the living room, heard the voices of other already gathered. He recognized all their faces from the files. Lee Allen, Jamie Packard, Krauss Helfer, and Lilly Martin were all there. He recognized Kennedy immediately. He was older than the last time they had met, which had just been in passing within the few times Collin was ever around the department. Collin rarely forgets a face. He did a quick mental count of people and made note of possible exits. It was an old habit that he had never been able to shake even all these years working civilian sector.
Without saying anything, Collin took a seat on one of the stools by the kitchen counter. He pulled an already overflowing ashtray towards him and lit another cigarette, puffing the gray smoke into the air.
I hope this shit is worth it, he mentally grumbled to himself as he took another heavy draw.
Working on a post now. Should be up sometime soon.
EDIT: Posted.
EDIT: Posted.
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