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Chapter 20 - 26

Day 20

The tear was a strange thing, not least of which because Tide's sight was two-fold in his Domain. On the one hand, he saw the tear as someone like Purilla would have seen it. A rip in the void, held open by countless strands of silk, nigh-invisible to behold, yet impossibly strong. Through the gap was a realm of hellish madness and horrors, both tantalizing and revolting, as infinitely complex as the universe's inner workings.

On the other hand… When he 'saw' the tear with the aid of Neural Physics, it wasn't so much a tear as a looking glass. The realm he saw wasn't orderly, by any means, but there was something of a way of things that he could discern. Not a hierarchy or a food chain, but something like those material concepts.

Within the roiling thoughts and emotions that made up the Warp were predators that prowled its depths, feeding on the very waters they swam through and upon one another. Of course, this was a metaphor for a realm that could not be properly defined in any language, even its own. Even Tide had difficulty understanding the concepts that he was being shown, almost like a sort of sensory overload. To put it simply… he wasn't intelligent enough to understand the Warp at its most fundamental.

Yet.

To continue the metaphor, the predators were varied and utterly unique. They, like Vra'kzil had been, were made up of fractured thoughts and emotions, the waters given shape and pseudo-existence. Most were 'small', weak, with little power in them, but numerous, like a swarm of some kind of… vicious bacteria. He imagined these to be the 'Least Daemons', like the microscopic daemons Nurgle used for its plagues. Some were of a size like Vra'kzil and these ones usually fed on one another or the smaller entities. Lesser daemons, likely.

Others were titanic, leviathans that drifted along the Warp's currents, like great whales that opened their maws wide and sucked in countless entities. Greater Daemons. These were the ones Tide was most wary of, watching them carefully, searching for any sign of reaction at his presence. Fortunately, they never noticed him. Whatever power he had to hide from the gaze of creatures like Vra'kzil seemed to work on Greater Daemons as well.

Would it work on the Ruinous Powers? The Emperor? Tide wasn't sure, but he also wasn't really interested in testing such a thing. While he had defeated Vra'kzil easily enough, a single Greater Daemon, even the smallest of which had possessed hundreds to thousands to an unimaginably greater number times the power of the bird daemon, had been enough to convince him that he was just a medium-sized fish in an ocean vaster than he could conceive of.

Each daemon was unique, but some were more different than others. Something akin to colors of certain emotions and thoughts were ascribed to each of them. By far the most common were shades of green, red, blue, and pink. It didn't take a genius to figure out who those daemons swore allegiance to. Daemons of the four Ruinous Powers were by far the most active and aggressive, mainly towards one another. The Reds were highly confrontational, the Greens were more placid if dauntless in the face of the others, while the Pinks darted in and out to strike with wicked glee, all the while the Blues struck in areas seemingly both random and calculated, foiling the designs of the other three.

What was more interesting, at least to Tide, were those entities that lacked any of the four main 'colors'. They were far fewer in number and varied in size, power, and aggressiveness. Some were even more vicious then the Reds, others stiller than the Greens. They struck where they pleased, not guided by any greater force Tide was aware of, not participants in the larger game, but actors in it regardless. Some, like the daemons, were fractured, wrought from a larger whole, but others seemed whole.

From what he knew, Warhammer Fantasy had many minor Chaos deities, but in 40k most attention was given to the Ruinous Powers, with only a few entities like Vashtorr and Be'lakor being independent of them, at least to a degree. Were these powers gone entirely or simply less active? Some were only the size of Least Daemons, others as large as the Greater Daemons he had seen.

Those questions fell from his mind after he, almost absentmindedly, cast his gaze further afield. In the distance, he could see things floating in this ocean of psychic power. Far away yet indescribably close, four icebergs the size of what could have been whole galaxies floated in the roiling waters, surrounded by predators so titanic they may have been the size of stars. They seemed to cast everything in their shadow, forming a dark cloud between them all, beyond which he could see only the barest flashes of golden lightning, like the flickering sun behind the canopy of a forest. These icebergs were beyond anything he had seen and, even with all his power, he could not fathom the roiling and raw power contained within each of them.

The Chaos Gods, parasites though they were, had more than enough power to back up their claims. And yet, Tide could tell that this was only the barest fraction of their might, like the shadow cast by the sun during an eclipse. If he saw them as they truly were, even with the mental strength of millions of humans, he'd likely go mad.

He tore his gaze away from those four blights on reality, hoping their gazes did not wander from their endless conflict with the Emperor. He did not need the attention of the gods in this place.

Tide waited for a long while, at least for him. For the Materium, the amount of time passing was relatively slow, a few seconds for them, days for his mind. His ability to slow the passage of time, at least in his Domain, had expanded greatly.

The Warp was strange in how time worked for it. Perhaps it was because of the local Warp Storm, but the waves seemed disturbed, rippling. Despite this, the daemons seemed fine, assuming viciousness was their natural state, though it wasn't like he had many encounters with them.

The flow of time, likely as a result of the storm, was distorted. It seemed to skip forward and back in places, move slower or faster than the Materium. However, there was a pattern in it, somehow. Every four changes, it reverted back to time slowing down. Always after four changes. There wasn't any specific amount of time the changes came upon, the types of changes weren't in any way connected from what he could tell, except for that fourth change.

Was Tzeentch fucking with him? He watched the roiling madness for hours, but he couldn't find a pattern beyond the fourth repeating change.

He was aware this was something that often drove people mad in the Warhammer setting. Staring directly into the Warp was… unhealthy for most. He might have had some resistance to it, but he couldn't say if he was outright immune. He wasn't going to bet on it.

To that end, he receded from his studies. He may have resolved to study the Warp to better understand and combat it, but he wouldn't let himself get so caught up in it that he drew attention away from other, more immediate matters.

The Sisters of Battle were coming to Malum and it was clear which enemy would be their first target. As far as they knew, the western cities were not corrupted so much as simply led by traitors. That would already be a bloody affair where innocents would die. More concerningly, however, an attack would almost certainly result in the discovery of the Chaos cult and result in a much more thorough purge of the city.

He would prefer they attack the Genestealers or the Orks, but it seemed the Inquisitor had 'explicitly' forbidden them from attacking those enemies for the moment. The traitors were a loophole that the canoness had exploited and forced the Inquisitor to accept. How long that would last would depend, but he doubted Ellen would take it lying down. From what Purilla knew, Deimos was already left bustling with the preparations for their regiments to strike out and shatter the Orks besieging it.

He had held off from infecting anyone else in Deimos beyond Purilla and the tech-priest assistant and had chosen not to infect their lungs to prevent his normal method of spreading. If he could, he would prefer Ellen to be the first one he infects, if only to remove that particular threat to him. However, she had not called for Purilla, nor had she returned to the spires ever since her meeting with the Lord-General, instead heading down to the mustering fields where her army was assembling.

Tide wasn't sure the forces the Orks had at their disposal, but they were a varied army with infantry and heavy vehicles. With the benefit of Deimos' high walls and heavy defenses that was not so much of a problem, but the guard regiments Monstrum raised were solely of the infantry variety. The planet had the capacity to manufacture some of the smaller and more standard pattern of tanks and transports, but not in sufficient numbers to support twelve regiments, not against the horde of Orks.

Whether the infantry alone could carry the day was a question Tide didn't have an answer to. The Guard were stubborn and well-trained, but they were still just cannon fodder compared to many of the threats in the galaxy, Orks included.

He was less worried about his own infantry managing the task of dealing with the Orks. Ignoring the fact that he had essentially already made them out to be mobile bioweapons against xenos thanks to a certain 'Organism-04', he could expend their numbers without issue since the eight regiments the Sisters would be receiving command of were solely made up of Puppets, each with zero qualms whatsoever about giving up their life for the mission.

Tide's mission, however, not the Sisters'. If they sought to outright purge the hive cities… He wasn't sure he could allow that to happen, even if it meant revealing his presence to a greater degree than he already had or using whatever means he could to stop them.

Ethics be damned.

Ahsael sat in his throne, his Rubric Marine standing to his side, ever watchful and ever silent, empty gaze looking out upon the gathered sorcerers and servants.

Unlike some of his brothers in the Thousand Sons, Ahsael was not one so disinclined towards their patron god's brothers and their followers. While worshippers of the Architect by far made up the bulk of his forces, at least those that knew the truth of the organization he had spent decades so painfully handcrafting, they were far from the only members. Khorne's bloodthirsty butchers made useful attack dogs in the underhive, provided the proper guidance and occasional disciplinary action. Slaanesh's seducers and courtesans made excellent infiltrators and recruiters both, whether among the starved and deprived impoverished or the eccentric and gluttonous nobility. And even Nurgle's wretches could prove useful, though Ahsael harbored more disdain for them than even those followers of the other gods.

The leaders from these groups were the ones he had called, alongside Uirus, Ahsael's fellow brother of the Thousand Sons. While the man was not as powerful as Ahsael in the sorcerous arts, he was an adept warrior and, most importantly, a symbol of just how outmatched the other gods were on this world. After all, he was the only other Space Marine on this world, not counting the dust-filled Rubric Marine, and an ardent worshipper of Tzeentch.

"Why have you called us?" The question was blunt, as expected from the foremost of Khorne's worshippers on Monstrum, a beastman named Kalak Bronze-Blood. Of all those in attendance, he was the only one that came near to not just the height but also the bulk of a space marine, standing nearly seven-and-a-half feet tall with a frame that rippled with powerful muscle and barely contained rage. His ram horns glinted in the low light of the chambers, having been replaced by bronze fused to his skull some years ago. This was one of his calmer moments, shown by the fact that he was not currently frothing at the mouth and his horizontal, slit-like pupils showed no signs of the Blood God's frenzying madness, though his cloven hooves beat and scraped against the carpeted floor occasionally, tearing up the fine fabrics of the city governor's former audience chamber.

"Consider this a review, of sorts," Ahsael began, ignoring the provocative and nearing disrespectful tone of Kalak. Large and strong he might have been for a mortal, he was no Space Marine, much less a Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons. His disrespect mattered little, his opinions even less so. "Kalak, since you seem so eager, you may begin. Tell me, what have your… warriors accomplished." It was hard to keep the sneer from his voice, but he managed it somehow.

"We have slaughtered many of the greenskins!" Kalak said, his fur-covered chest puffing out with pride and boastfulness. On the other side of the chamber, the silk-clad Lord Janiel rolled his eyes and feigned a yawn, covering his mouth with one manicured hand. "Their skulls have made excellent trophies!"

"So I see," Ahsael said, noting the pauldrons Kalak had made from the heads of two such Orks. They were splattered with blood that could have been leftover from the materials used or something… fresher. "And what else?"

Kalak snorted air, not in a prideful manner, but more out of confusion. Large, strong, brutal… but not exactly cunning. "We have done as the Blood God demanded! Blood has flowed and yet more will in the coming battles! What else could there be to report!"

"Perhaps you'd like to tell our lord of your casualties in those battles you waged," Uirus spoke up, the helmeted space marine making no effort to hide his mocking tone. "Assuming you can even count that high."

Kalak rounded on the space marine, blowing puff of steaming air out from his snout and looking all like the bull about to charge that he was, but held himself back, barely. Kalak, for all he espoused the virtues favored by Khorne, was not so completely taken by the Blood God yet and knew better than to charge a Space Marine like Uirus… Probably.

"The weak perished," Kalak gnashed with a snarl. "Their deaths have only made us stronger!"

"You've lost half your braying cultists," Uirus pointed out.

"And the xenos fled screaming from the walls of Janus because of us!" Kalak spat, a sneer coming across clearly even upon his mutated lips. "You're welcome."

It was Uirus' turn to snarl, coming to face the beastman, hand falling to the hilt of his khopesh at his side. His body radiated hostility and Ahsael could feel the sorcerous power beginning to build up around his brother's free hand. To his credit or to his folly, the beastman did not back down or shy away, despite doubtlessly being able to feel something.

"Enough," Ahsael said and the feeling bled away, as did the hostility in Uirus' stance, if not in his mind. His brother turned away from Kalak, who seemed almost disappointed rather than relieved as he should have been. "Janiel, how do your pleasure cults fare?"

Janiel strutted forward, ignoring the glower from Kalak that the beastman shot him. Of the three foremost servants of the other gods on Monstrum, Janiel was by far the one who could most easily pass for human. His face was well tended to and his frame was not overly monstrous or tainted by more obvious mutations, hidden as it was behind thin silk robes. The heavy perfumes that covered him were almost as rancid as a daemon of Nurgle, yet carried in them a tinge of something alluring and seductive. An air of authority, promises of power and, above all, danger hung about him.

"Work continues in Ate, but Eris' governor is nearly ours, as is much of his court." Janiel's voice was smooth and dark, like a serpent's. Many mortals had been lured into the grasp of Slaanesh by that voice, but it had little effect on a champion of Tzeentch, beyond marking him as one to watch carefully. "We've also begun reaching out to the officers of the local defense forces tere. While they will obey their governors, it will be much easier to move more openly if they are fully ours."

Ahsael nodded, cutting off Janiel before he could continue. Many among Slaanesh's lot were as enraptured by the sound of their own voice as others were, perhaps even more so. A swift end was preferable and it kept Janiel aware of his position in the order of things. Finally, almost reluctantly, Ahsael turned his gaze upon the final individual under this little 'review'.

"Doctor Ferrik, what have you learned from your studies?"

The jubilant mass of pale flesh and jolly mannerisms that was Doctor Ferrik glanced up, having been distracted by some document on his dataslate. A wide, loathsome grin stretched his face disproportionately and the doctor chortled in a way that set his flesh aquiver, looking as though it might slough off him in clumps. "My initial examinations have proven illuminating on the nature of the genestealers and their infections! While purely biological in how they infect, their appears to be a Warp element that connects the mind of the drones to a greater mind."

Ahsael knew this already, but he pretended to be interested in the Nurgle-worshipper's findings. "And might we be able to disrupt this connection?"

"Possibly," Ferrik admitted, a wide frown coming across his face. While not as 'gifted' as many other followers of Nurgle, even some on Monstrum, Ferrik had proven intelligent and, most intriguingly, curious in acquiring new knowledge in a way that was almost Tzeentchian. By making him the leader of the Plague God's faction and focusing him and his cultists on a relatively harmless task, Ahsael could ensure they stayed out of the way until they were needed or could be disposed of without issue. "It would require an immense amount of psychic power or a very focused and precise attack."

Ahsael knew that as well. These were not the first genestealers he had encountered and studied, nor even the first outside this cursed region of space. However, they were acting strangely, even more so than most of the cults that had been twisted by the Ghoul Stars. This strangeness, as seemed to be the case more and more, was centered around the city of Malum and whatever strangeness had taken hold there.

"Then I believe you should begin researching into why the genestealers failed in their initial attack upon Malum," Ahsael stated. "It is possible just such an event occurred there and has somehow been left undetected by others. I will grant you command of twenty regiments to go and free Malum from the Inquisitor's grip. I would ask that you keep your more… obvious afflictions a secret, as the bulk of these regiments have yet to be introduced to the guiding hand of Chaos."

Kalak snorted derisively, while Lord Janiel all but glowered at the Nurgle worshipper, but Uirus was silent.

"Thank you, my lord," Ferrik bowed low, an odd sight that sent a waft of malodorous air towards Ahsael, temporarily overpowering even the exotic scents that covered Janiel. "I shall endeavor to ensure the city falls quickly."

"Another thing," Ahsael stated and all eyes were once more on him. "Word comes from Deimos. The Sisters of Battle have left for Malum via a route unknown to us and hidden from the assaults of the Orks. Presumably, some kind of underground tunnel. They will likely be in Malum by the time you have arrived. While a thousand troops is hardly a grand army, they are not to be underestimated and may prove… difficult for mere defense forces to handle. To that end…"

Ahsael flexed his hand and sorcerous might and the doors into the audience hall swung open. Dragged forward by robed cultists carrying heavy chains, a heavily and ritualistically scarred human man, naked save for a piece of cloth around his waist, stalked forward. Blue flames burned behind his eyes and his movements were stiff and jilted, as though he were unfamiliar with the action of walking and looking around. His flesh seemed to crawl and shift along his bones, like something was shifting underneath and the air grew cold as ice.

"A gift for you, Doctor Ferrik," Ahsael said. "One of a hundred like him. Unleash them as you see fit, but be aware that control is a fickle thing when it comes to daemonhosts."

"Y-yes, my lord," Ferrik said, turning back and bowing low.

Catherine Ellen strode through the mustering grounds in full regalia, her freshly polished and anointed armor gleaming in the buzzing lights of the massive market square that had been requisitioned for the task of holding twelve regiments as they prepared for war. The Inquisitorial Rosette was emblazoned across the black power armor's chestplate in Imperial crimson, outlined in gold.

The Guardsmen who saw her made the sign of the aquila, but she made no gesture in return. The commissars pointed her out, telling the common infantryman that the God-Emperor's own representative, divinely appointed, had been sent to lead them to victory. She ignored them all, moving ever onwards with purpose.

Some Inquisitors preferred to move secretly, believing they could accomplish more from the shadows. Ellen was not one of that lot. The Inquisition's authority was absolute and anyone who denied that was a heretic.

The Lord-Inquisitor who had sent her to Monstrum in the first place did not seem to understand that. Yes, Calistis Hroth was her senior by several centuries and renowned throughout the Ghoul Stars, but she did utilize the authority and recognition that granted her as often as Ellen felt she should have.

There were many threats to the Imperium in the Ghoul Stars. The roving Ork, the hidden genestealer, the subversive Chaos cultist, these were only some among them. Xenos empires ran rampant throughout the Ghoul Stars, whether it was the Togoran Bloodreeks, the wicked Cythor Fiends, or the shapeshifting Thexians, all with their own little empires.

Threats that could have been crushed by Hroth centuries ago. Now, those filthy xenos were likely taking advantage of the Imperium's division and Hroth's inaction.

Ellen would not be so lax. Once this thrice-cursed Warp Storm had ended, she would reunite the Imperial forces of the Ghoul Stars herself and launch a crusade that would scour clean a thousand star systems of the filth and create a bastion of the God-Emperor that would never fall.

Never.

The Broodmind stalked through countless halls and across bridges and in factories. Hordes of screaming cultists mustered at its command, but they were little more important than expendable fodder, loosed like the rounds of one of the autoguns they wielded into the endless tide of greenskins. Its true forces, packs of vicious monsters and mutants with horrific forms and even more terrible powers, waited in the deepest parts of the hives, readying themselves, equipping themselves.

Yet, not all was silent in the darkness of Whiro's burning spires. In one section in the highest towers of the hive the crack of lasfire could still be heard. The shouting of defiance and adulation, not for some xenos false-deity, but for the God-Emperor of Mankind and for Monstrum.

The Broodmind sent pack after pack into this place, intent on slaughtering the last remnants of its enemies, but something disrupted its concentration, its clarity, more than even the taint of these wicked stars and the storm in the ocean had.

Pack after pack, expended like empty cartridges, slain by some threat that, while not great in and of itself, nevertheless refused to die. Refused to break.

On the spires of Deimos, just below the black clouds that covered the world in darkness, all was perfectly still and silent. Even the roaring of the greenskins, the cacophony of the machines and foundries, all the activities of the city far below could not be heard, only seen. Only watched.

In the distance, Warboss Grinhide's roiling horde crashed against the bulwark of the Imperium's defenders again and again, endless in their numbers and perseverance. Yet, the Warboss himself was oddly absent from the battlefield, despite the front gate being the most heavily defended and, as a result, most contested area of the warfront.

Just behind the gate and its stalwart defenders, regiments of the Imperial Guard were massing, preparing for their great push outwards. Catherine Ellen could be seen among them, sometimes, accompanied by her guard of Tempestus Scions.

The Orks were waiting, as much as the greenskins had the capacity for such a thing. More specifically, the Warboss was waiting, lulling its enemies into a false sense of semi-security. Encouraging the belief that all they needed was a single, great push.

He was not so sightless. From the spires above Deimos, he saw all and he comprehended much more. Throughout his observations, he had seen the signs. Ork mobs pulled back, like rabid beasts having their chains yanked upon by their masters. Hordes sitting idly or having their attention turned by a guiding hand towards less valuable targets, simply to keep them busy while the plan ran its course. This Warboss was a tricky one and one that would not reveal himself before the greatest battle yet to come.

The Inquisitor seemed to be preparing to provide that battle, though she had no idea what she was getting herself and her forces into.

Perhaps the Imperial forces would be decimated before the time came. Perhaps they would survive. It did not matter to his mission and, as a result, did not matter to him.

He would wait. He would watch. Until the time came.

On the spires of Deimos, all was perfectly still and silent.

Day 21

Purilla strode through the massive Grand Hall of the Planetary Governor's palace, her eyes drawn to the countless displays of wealth and affluence. The hall itself was a long corridor, nearly a kilometer in length, wide enough to drive a column of superheavy tanks through and tall enough that she could have thrown a stone upwards with all her strength and only gotten around halfway to the top. Gilded statues depicting heroes and saints lined the crimson carpeted floor and hanging from the wall were massive tapestries crafted of the finest silk that portrayed Monstrum's past governors with almost as much definition as a pict. As they were arrayed in order from first to last she was given a, somewhat harrowing, insight into exactly when the governor's family decided to maintain… closer bloodlines.

She felt a spike of amusement, almost like a barked laugh, that was not her own and a soft smile found its way to her lips. Tide did not always make his presence known to her, but he was always just a thought away for her. Whether or not that meant he was always present and watching, but merely silent, or simply could drop everything to 'speak' with her at any time she wished wasn't something she had asked about yet.

Some, mostly those without psychic abilities, might have found the idea of having someone in her head constantly or near-constantly as disturbing or even concerning, but Purilla was used to it. One of the few fond memories she had of her time when she was being trained as a psyker was the presence of the minds of her brothers and sisters. The life they each had gone through, the ardor of the Black Ships, the hardship of their training, that and their abilities to know one another's true feelings had given them a sort of fellowship that Purilla had found herself missing after she was sanctioned. In a way, her new relationship with Tide was like that one.

She waited for a moment, wondering if Tide would speak, but he refrained from doing so, seemingly content with letting her know his amusement. He probably didn't want to distract her from her mission.

Tide's capabilities were truly amazing, once he had explained them further. While she had difficulty understanding the concept of Neural Phsyics, especially since it seemed wholly separate from psychic abilities, he had explained some of his more mundane powers as well, though calling such abilities 'mundane' was beyond simple understatement. To be able to manipulate genetics on such a level and with such ease was incredible.

She still remembered that strange feeling of shifting and reforming that her arm had undergone when she first become what Tide called an Altered, one who, by his own words, was 'infected with the Flood' but not overtaken by it, as most of the population in Malum currently were. Unlike them, however, her lungs had not been changed to produce additional spores, as Tide did not want her infection to be detected.

That memory was disturbing for her in a visceral sense, something Tide had assured her was a perfectly normal reaction to have and apologized profusely for, but taking the wider point-of-view the capabilities were endless. An Altered or one of the forms Tide created himself were essentially walking arsenals and hidden ones at that. If he wished, Purilla realized Tide could likely have spread much more quickly simply by taking control of every Altered like he had briefly with her and sending them after the rest of the population.

That he hadn't was reassuring to her and made her feel that his apology and claim that he didn't like doing such things were both sincere.

According to Tide, things appeared to be coming to a head on Monstrum. Ellen was preparing for her attack on the Orks, the Sisters of Battle were coming to Malum, and the traitors, who she was shocked and appalled to learn were controlled by a chaos cult, were on the move.

She'd been concerned when learning that the Sisters were heading towards Tide's center of operations, but he had reassured her that he would be fine. Still, Purilla wasn't sure.

Tide's position was a precarious one. If an Imperial ship managed to arrive, whether in spite of the Warp Storm or because it had ended, Ellen was likely going to commandeer it in the name of the Inquisition. If it had the ability to perform an exterminatus…

While Purilla wasn't certain Ellen would go that far, she wasn't certain about a lot of things with the Inquisitor these days. Ellen had always been ruthless and, though she had never ordered such an act before, it wouldn't be beyond her.

She couldn't allow that to happen, but Ellen had left her and Vidriov behind in the palace as she went to war, apparently no longer needing their advice. The people of this world, at least those not infected by genestealers or corrupted by the horrors of Chaos, were innocent and deserved a chance at a better life. The universe itself needed Tide to stop the pain that had been carelessly inflicted upon it, to save… well, everyone. Everything.

So it was that she had concocted this scheme and gotten Tide onboard with it. She wondered if he had a similar plan, but hadn't wanted to involve her, as he had admitted that having a Planetary Governor as an Altered would be of immense benefit in the long run. He'd agreed to her idea fairly quick, though that could have been due to how quickly he seemed able to think. Or rather, how he was able to slow time for his own thoughts thanks to Neural Physics.

She was so lost in her own head that it took a subtle mental prod from Tide to get her attention back on her own surroundings. She found herself at the end of the Grand Hall, faced with a door that could have given an ordinary hiver vertigo simply from having to crane their necks up to look at its top, but was relatively small compared to similar portals she had seen on some warships and other immensely opulent constructs.

The door depicted the massive, embossed face of Selvik Monstrum himself, shiny and golden. Despite the bat-like proportions of the governor's face, the angle anyone would be forced to view the depiction from, not to mention some expertly subtle craftsmanship, made the man's appearance seem impressive, noble even. It was an impressive door and utterly impractical.

She did not go through that door, which would only open for great events and court. While she was the member of an Inquisitor's retinue and some would consider her mere presence deserving of such pomp, she knew well that Ellen's goodwill was quickly running thin and she had no desire to be the reason it ran out by making a fuss over them not opening an eyesore of a door.

Instead, she took one of the side entrances, passing by the silent, if glowering, palace guards that stood sentry outside it. Their surface thoughts made it quite clear they felt disdain for her, but whether that was because they knew of her status as a psyker or they disliked the Inquisitor she purportedly served, she did not know.

The chamber that Selvik held court in was just as impressive as the Grand Hall had been. Twelve columns, each made of solid marble and all thick enough that twenty men working together couldn't have wrapped their arms around their base, were spaced along the sides of a grand, Imperial-red carpet itself as wide as the Grand Hall had been and actually a continuation of what had only appeared to be the floor within the hall. Dozens of braziers, each wrought from black iron and lit with roaring golden flames, were placed between each column, though most of the light was provided by the ceiling's lights, though these were no less excessive than anything else in the chamber.

One could easily have made the mistake of thinking that they were outside again, as the ceiling of the audience chamber was not only a hundred meters high, but a masterwork painting designed to depict a clear night sky that, according to local legend, possessed the same stars, which doubled as the lights providing illumination to the entire chamber, that would have been seen from the center of the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra. Purilla doubted that was actually the case, but the view was impressive nonetheless.

Imperial architecture is many things, but subtle certainly isn't one of them, Tide commented silently and Purilla wondered what kind of aesthetics a being like Tide might have preferred. She'd have to ask later.

The massive audience chamber was almost entirely empty, save for a few dozen servitors cleaning it and the one other human swiftly approaching her. The man was tall and thin and he walked with a noble's gait, though a noble approaching a superior, rather than an inferior. The uniform he wore was that of a servant, but the finery indicated a high-ranking one, similar to a butler.

"Lady Purilla Olivia, welcome," The man said, bowing his head. His old age was obvious, despite what had likely been many rejuvenation treatments, indicating he was reaching the end of a very extended lifespan. Three centuries, at the very least. "The governor is awaiting you in one of the side chambers. If you would follow me?"

"Of course," Purilla replied gracefully even as she reached out and brushed the foremost thoughts of the man's mind. Unsurprisingly, he was nervous to be greeting a psyker, though he physically hid it well.

The man turned on his heel and departed from the main carpet. She followed and they made their way to a side chamber, one much smaller and, relatively, nondescript.

Through the door, Purilla saw the governor, sitting hunched over a cup of some kind of hot drink. He glanced up with small eyes and smiled at her, his bat-like features drawing back in what could easily have been mistaken as a snarl.

Purilla imagined she felt something small and light crawl from its hiding place between strands of her hair. She might not have imagined the near-inaudible buzzing of small, insectoid wings as the creature Tide had called a 'Tick' took flight, unseen and unnoticed.

"Welcome, Psyker Olivia," The governor said, sitting up slightly straighter, though he did not rise. "I am told Inquisitor Ellen sends you with a message."

Like she had for the butler, she reached out once more and felt the mind of the man before her. She had half-expected the governor to try and send a body double instead, but likely the knowledge that a Psyker was being sent to deliver the message had killed such a plan in its crib. This was the genuine article.

"Yes, if we might speak in private?" Purilla said, giving the butler a look. The butler, in turn, looked to the governor.

"Of course!" The governor said genially and waved the butler out. His mind said this action made him slightly more nervous, but not scared. He likely had people watching them outside the room, waiting for any sign of psychic attack. He was also unaware of the fact that Purilla could sense the tensing minds of twenty palace guard on the other side of a secret entrance into the room.

"Inquisitor Ellen is unhappy with the current predicament, as I'm sure you can imagine," Purilla stated. A part of her wanted to look around at every flicker of shadow and mote of dust in the expectation of viewing the tick's flight, but she restrained herself.

"So I can," Selvik said, looking genuinely sad. "My world is under siege for the first time in millennia."

"Indeed," Purilla said, while mentally asking Tide, How long?

Already done.

There was no change in Selvik's body language or mental state to indicate his becoming an Altered. Just like that, her mission was successful.

I don't think telling him 'the Inquisitor's annoyed' is much of a message.

I know, Purilla replied. I'm just going to tell him some recommendations for keeping order in Deimos.

Then by all means, he's looking at you.

"Ah!" Purilla said, shaking her head. "Apologies, sometimes I get lost in my own thoughts."

"Do you now?" Selvik asked, a somewhat forced smile on his face. There was a spike in his nervousness at her explanation.

"Now, where were we?"

Vidriov listened to the noosphere, feeling the sacred data in the air all around him. Entering so deeply was almost like floating in an ocean of numbers and code, a place where holy logic reigned supreme. It had its own dangers, of course. The temptation to remain within this place forever, this realm that must have been something like what the Omnissiah Himself dwelled in, was strong. To exist among machine spirits and to leave behind the weak flesh of his form in totality.

He could not, however, as doing such a thing was nothing short of the highest of heresies. He rarely allowed himself to access too much of the noosphere of any world, even one where its waters were relatively shallow like Monstrum. This was a rare and even self-indulgent pleasure, but a necessary one.

He entered a section of the noosphere even more secure than the rest of it, a place where only the three highest ranking members of Monstrum's priesthood had access, including himself.

A string of numbers, words of the lingua-technis, were transmitted to him a moment after he arrived.

Inquisitor Catherine Ellen - Reconsidered beliefs on Organism-04? The question came from the planet's highest-ranking tech-priest, Magos Zalum, personal tech-priest of the planetary governor. The way he spoke was a further emulation of the machines they held sacred, an attempt to remove anything but the bare essentials, though Vidriov personally felt it was an insignificant improvement, if one at all.

Negative¸Vidriov responded in the same language. Remains opposed to anything beyond low-level study.

Not unexpected, another source said. It was Logis Calarn Alpha-4-3, who was the leader of the tech-priests attached to the Order of the Cleansing Rains. She lacks vision.

If he had a form in this dataspace, Vidriov might have nodded. Instead, he sent a code of confirmation, one also sent by Zalum.

Question - Inquisitor Catherine Ellen – Plans to delete hostile elements?

Monstrum Urban Cohorts will be deployed to eradicate the orks outside Deimos, Vidriov replied. I calculate the likelihood of success as approximately 76.541%. Army will continue on to deal with other ork elements in the north, before proceeding to deal with genestealer and traitor elements.

Estimation – Likelihood of success against all ork forces?

48.764%, Vidriov answered.

Estimation – Likelihood of success against genestealers, assuming successful eradication of ork forces?

12.312%.

Estimation – Likelihood of success against traitors, assuming successful eradication of ork and genestealer forces?

0.037%.

Estimation – Likelihood of success in previous estimations if Organism-04 deployed in support of Imperial forces?

Against orks: 99.999% - Against genestealers: 99.98% - Against traitors: 87.068%

Conclusion - Inquisitor Catherine Ellen – Grossly incompetent – Alternative – Traitor.

Agreed, Calarn said. After a long moment, where Vidriov knew they were waiting for him, he replied.

Agreed.

Something must be done, Calarn spoke. She has lost control of the Adeptas Sororitas and over 58% of the planet. She will lose the rest of it if we do not act.

Estimate – Deimos fully blessed with Organism-04 timeline?

Approximately two weeks following initial deployment. Vidriov had run simulations thousands of times already. The rate of spread of Organism-04 was… unprecedented. Assuming additional vectors added to initial deployment, timeline decreases up to 23.412%.

Confirmation – Deployment should begin immediately.

Calarn sent a code of agreement. With the Omnissiah's blessing, it will not be too late already.

With the Omnissiah's blessing, Vidriov agreed.

Canoness Praxiah stood atop the foremost Chimera, gazing solemnly upon the cheering crowds of Imperial citizens that surrounded the Order of the Cleansing Rains as they rolled through Malum's streets. At her side was Colonel Marcus Agrippa. The rolled through abandoned quarantine checkpoints as they made their way towards the camp where the regiments of PDF under Agrippa's command were mustering.

Technically, the arrival of Praxiah and her Sisters in Malum was a violation of that quarantine, even if no one was trying to stop them. However, from a simple conversation with Agrippa himself, whose straightforwardness in getting his troops ready before their arrival she could appreciate in a leader, especially on such short notice, the man had claimed no knowledge of any plague outbreaks.

Certainly, there were no signs of disease or similar maladies afflicting the people of Malum. These were no plague victims, but healthy Imperial citizens, gladdened by the arrival of the Sisterhood and stalwart in their faith to the God-Emperor. In fact, if anything, they seemed even more healthy than the common people of Deimos or any other hive Praxiah had ever seen before. As sure a sign of the God-Emperor's work as any. It was for that reason that Praxiah had rescinded the standing order for her Sisters and their Order's servants to keep their breath filters and helmets on at all times and why her own helmet was tucked under her arm, allowing her to breathe the, somewhat, clearer air of Malum's surface.

"According to reports and long-range surveillance, the transport lines leading to Janus were damaged by the initial Ork assault." Agrippa had ceded command of the overall forces to her upon her arrival. Another welcome surprise. While it was only right, being not only the higher-ranking officer, not to mention his senior in experience by a wide margin, she had encountered plenty of stubborn leaders in her time that were too convinced of their own tactical and strategic brilliance that they refused to give up their command without further persuasion. Ever since she'd arrived, he'd personally started providing her with the also surprisingly in-depth information of the composition of his forces, suspected enemy strength, and all manner of other little details that, while small on the face of it, painted her a vivid picture of suspected resistance.

The man clearly had the makings of greatness within him, as the sheer attention to detail would make even the most skilled Administratum clerks seem slow-witted. Perhaps not necessarily as a general, as she had not seen him operate under the different kind of pressure an active battlefield could create, but certainly as a leader of some kind. However…

"How was this 'long-range surveillance' conducted?" Praxiah asked. While she had already violated the quarantine, she had good reason and knew just what kind of person Ellen was. Marcus Agrippa did not have that reasoning and should have obeyed the Inquisitorial order if he was a loyal servant of the God-Emperor.

"Seismic activity was detected by Tech-Priests manning the augurs at the tunnel to Janus and several explosions were detected by sentries posted to the lower spires. Power running along the lines from Janus was subsequently lost, though our own generators remain functional," Marcus stated, showing no signs of her suspiciousness. "We haven't been allowed to send anyone to investigate the tunnels properly, so the exact damage is unknown, but the destruction was viewed as being great enough that most of the railways would be shut down somewhere around halfway between Janus and Malum. Whether the traitors still have operational rail transport that can get them near there is unknown, but I'd wager they do."

"How far can our own transports get us?"

"Unknown," Agrippa admitted with a grimace. "We'd need to send out scouts to confirm. A servoskull, at the very least."

Praxiah nodded. "I'll have one of our Order's Tech-Priests send some out as soon as we've arrived. No insult to your city, but our equipment is likely more advanced than what you have on hand."

"None taken," Agrippa nodded back to her. "We suspect the damaged sections to be a two day's march out."

"Good. God-Emperor willing, our transports are in better shape than theirs."

"I had the enginseers working on them after I first heard you were coming," Agrippa said. "They're not exactly ahead of their maintenance, but I've been told the machine spirits are actually rejuvenated due to the… break in traffic between cities."

"The God-Emperor works in mysterious ways," Praxiah said and she thought she might have seen the makings of a smile on Agrippa's lips out of the corner of her eyes, but it was gone in an instant, his face once more a professional mask. "How soon can we leave?"

Agrippa glanced at her, seemingly surprised by her question. "Canoness, with all due respect, you and your Sisters just completed a march I'm told kills most of those who take it from the arduousness," Agrippa said, his mask breaking again, this time with a look of what seemed like genuine concern in his eyes. "While I do not doubt the ability or fervor of the Sisters of Battle, with all due respect, I can't imagine you're in top form."

Praxiah leveled a stony gaze at him, one that could make lesser humans cower. Yet Agrippa stood his ground.

It was true that her Sisters were tired and it was also true that they would gladly fight regardless of that. However… She could not fault Agrippa for wishing all their forces to be in top shape. They would be assaulting a hive city, after all, and that was no small task. With only eight regiments and a single Order of Sisters, their task was a great one.

"Very well," Praxiah allowed finally, returning her gaze to the distant grounds where she could see countless lightly armored men and women scurrying about fields of hastily erected tents and other facilities, readying themselves for war. "I will allow for four hours of rest before we depart, if only because it will take at least that long for the first reports from the servoskulls to return."

"Yes, Canoness."

Day 22

The main gates of Deimos, massive and made of thick slabs of ceramite and rockrete, had not ever been opened in the living memory of Monstrum's rulers. They were as old as the city itself, supposedly, built in a time of great strife, constructs the size of the God-Machines of the Mechanicus and nearly as tough. There had been no reason for them to be unsealed in all that time, as no one of sufficient import had ever had a reason to stride out into the grey wastes that surrounded the hives of the planet. At least, no reason that they wanted to bring the entire city's attention to, in any case. It was not even certain if the gates could still be opened.

The Orks had tried anyways. Again and again, they charged the most heavily defended area of all Deimos, knocking upon its doors with their charges, only to be pushed back by the city's valiant defenders. Through it all, the portal had stood strong and unbreached.

Yet now, in a rare moment where the Orks had withdrawn from their attack, the mighty and ancient constructs swung on mechanisms freshly checked and applied with sacred oils, their enduring master-craft parts creaking with stress and rust loudly enough that the sound could be heard for tens of kilometers in every direction, creating a cacophony that even those in the base of Deimos' spires heard the tones of.

From behind them, louder than even the gate's protestations, was a single, harsh command:

"FORWAAARD… MARCH!"

The Imperial Guard was going to war.

In four columns each a hundred men thick, with dozens of tanks supporting their vanguards, four regiments of the Monstrum Urban Cohorts began their march out of Deimos, two million men united into a single force of awesome power.

The Orks were not ones to sit idly by when an opponent marched out to meet them. Unlike the ordered and disciplined ranks of the Cohorts, there was no coordination to their response beyond a general objective to meet them head-on. Hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands of Orks rushed straight at their enemy, shouting and hooting and hollering with joy at the approaching slaughter.

As the Inquisitor had expected. Upon the walls above the gate, hidden wherever they could find cover, thousands of the Cohorts' best marksman and snipers opened fire with powerful las rifles, targeting the largest Orks in the encroaching horde, the leaders of the mob.

While the las rifles were prized for their range and power, even they had limits and could not be expected to reliably kill even a regular ork alone. For that reason, accompanying their surprise attack was the boom of almost every artillery piece Deimos had in its defense arsenal, save those that could not be moved in time for the counterattack. While the demand had severely weakened the other sections of the city's walls and defenses, the resulting slaughter of greenskins and the loss of leadership and morale in their enemy made it well worth the sacrifice.

The charge faltered and slowed, even while the Guard continued to march outwards, forming firing lines akin to ancient terran armies. The front ranks had set their lasguns to full burst, unleashing the maximum power of their lasguns into the enemy horde, sending waves of red death crashing into the fragmented horde. When their ammunition ran dry, they withdrew from the front rank and filed between the lines of their comrades to reach the back of the vanguard, where they would reload. Meanwhile, the second rank became the first and repeated the process.

What resulted was a near endless stream of lasfire that cut through the horde like a power sword sheered through flesh. Thousands of Orks died as the columns marched forwards, their tanks opening fire and adding their voices to the crackling thunder of discharged lasguns.

The Orks, bruised and battered, fled back to their roks in the far distance and a victorious cheer went up among the Guard, but Ellen knew the battle was far from over. This had been the vanguard of the siege, not the bulk of the Ork forces around Deimos. They had been caught unprepared and their defeat had been more due to the surprise and shock of their sudden attack than any actual damage they had dealt.

With enough room to breathe, fresh power attacks were distributed among the four regiments and their lines change formation. Where before they had been a hammer to break the Orks, now they would be marching out from the cover of the city's defenses. They could not afford to be taken by surprise.

Another four regiments emerged from the city, forming a massive block made up of thousand men battalions, forty units thick and a hundred long. Once more, the tanks and other vehicles the Guard had were placed in the spaces between the battalions.

Their formation had eaten up much of their time, but the Orks had not yet responded. So, the eight regiments marched out, eager to continue their initial success.

Ellen studied the battle map, not displayed on her hololithic artifact, but a smaller and far less advanced construct. The flickering, in part due to the poor connectivity with the servoskulls surveying the field, was frustrating to have to deal with, but she had little other option at the moment, unless she wanted to have statuettes on paper in place of any live feed.

The initial march out had gone well. Perhaps a little too well. She had never seen Orks abandon a fight so easily. The violent greenskins were stubborn, if nothing else. Yet they had broken quickly.

Unimportant, she decided. The fury of the God-Emperor was with them. Orks could be cunning, but she doubted convincing an entire mob to fall back in the middle of their charge was possible for any Warboss, let alone one that seemed absent from the battlefield entirely.

On the edge of the map, where the feed was at its grainiest and regularly flicked in and out of existence as servoskulls were unable to get closer due to drawing the notice of the enemy or simply left range, the main Ork force could be seen, the furthest remnants of their shattered vanguard rejoining the roiling mob.

That force was already on its way to meet the regiments, driven forward by the largest of their kind and their own lust for battle and bloodshed. Already, hundreds of thousands of Orks were getting ready to charge their enemy.

An open battle favored the Orks and their brutish strength, but this would be no slaughter. The core of the front ranks, where once lasguns had dominated, were replaced by teams carrying heavy weapons and the tanks and artillery pieces began reforming into a wedge in the center as well, while the flanks were held by infantry.

The Hammer of the Imperium would smash right through these vile xenos, shatter their lines. If the Warboss was among the horde, it would almost certainly be in that center. The flanks would fight a delaying action, forming five lines of defense that the enemy would have to get through to deal effective damage to the Guard's center.

Corren's face and that of his squadmates were all the same, stoic expression, but inside he was shitting himself. Posted on the first line on the right flank was… not a great place to be and staring down an endless green tide of screaming orks would make a man feel less than stellar about his prospects of living. The Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer spoke of greenskins as being weaker than humans and as dumb as plants.

While he would never doubt the veracity of such a sacred text, not aloud anyways, he couldn't help but get the slightest impression that whoever wrote those words was… misleading, a tad.

Orks were not weaker than a man. Over the last few days defending Deimos from their onslaught, he'd seen Orks rip men apart with their bare hands, others with mechanical vice-claws that acted as replacements that could crack armor and bone like crumpled parchment in their grip.

True, they did go down in a single shot… from a tank, at least. His lasgun might have killed a few of the orks in the initial charge, but there were at least ten of his fellow guardsman shooting at the same targets as he was.

He kept all this to himself, of course. No point giving Commissar Blair a reason to doubt his bravery or think he'd make a good means of motivating the rest of them.

However, as the rest of the Orks prepared to charge at them across an open field, he couldn't help but grip his lasgun a tad tighter and wish they still were in the cover of the hive city. Even Blair, normally the most boisterous and ferocious among them to set the example as a commissar did, had fallen silent at the onrushing horde. He thought the man might have had a slight tremble from the way his bolt pistol was shaking.

He set his worries aside and looked for the biggest, meanest ork he could find in his line of fire. He didn't have to look far to find one that fit the bill, a towering creature encased in scrap metal shaped almost in a mocking imitation of true armor.

He didn't fire. He waited. He waited for orders over the commbead in his ear, despite the nerves wracking his body and mind, despite the growing pit in his stomach as he saw that giant come closer… and closer… and closer… and-

"FIRE!"

He squeezed the trigger and his vision was consumed by waves of red light interspersed with blue flashes as every guardsman beside him opened up with their own weapons. The crack of heavy stubbers and cannons and bolters split through his ears like a thunderous crash that threatened to deafen him. The roar of the orks was temporarily drowned out, as was all sight of the approaching horde during the split second where the light that covered them was so bright he might have been in the barren lands.

He kept firing, though it took a minute before his vision actually allowed him to see anything. When he heard the familiar click of his lasgun emptying its final round, it was muscle memory that let him remove the power pack and replace it with a fresh one from his belt, and what let him resume firing despite having no idea if he was actually hitting anything.

Eventually, his vision was restored and the waves of light had become broken up enough that he could see the enemy through it and the pit in his stomach only grew deeper. The orks were still rushing forward, only a few hundred meters away now. If their attack had killed any, he had no idea, the foe's numbers had covered them in the rush.

Order the withdrawal, he prayed, still firing endlessly. He saw three of the smaller gretchen creatures fall to his weapons fire, though that was all they did: fall. They were still moving when they collapsed, though they wouldn't be able to get up again as their own allies crushed them under the weight of their charge as they continued to rush forward.

The orks had been firing the whole time, but now their shots were beginning to land. There was a spray of blood from his right as Mel collapsed to the ground, a heavy metal round having ripped its way through his torso, nearly tearing the man in half. Corren thought he might have heard his squadmate screaming, but he wasn't sure.

Order the withdrawal, he repeated. His lasgun was proving ineffective against the larger orks' heads on its own, doing little more than burning their faces it seemed, so he changed his approach and aimed lower, at their knees and ankles. The Emperor's eye was with him and he managed to cause one of the larger orks to stumble and fall, the last sight of the vile xeno its eyes widening in shock before it was swallowed by the rush.

To his left, he saw Commissar Blair, wildly waving his chainsword over his head as though wanting to fight the orks hand to hand, bolt pistol pointed down at the ground, roaring a battlecry, disappear as several rounds tore their way through him, sending chunks of flesh and cloth flying everywhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his squadmates stop firing for a moment to go over and pull the bolt pistol out of Blair's arm, which had landed several meters away from where the man had been standing.

ORDER THE DAMNED WITHDRAWAL, he shouted, begging the God-Emperor to spare a moment of His time. Finally, He seemed to hear his servant's request.

"First line, throw grenades! Withdraw to second line!"

The moment he heard the voice in his ear, Corren chucked the grenade he had been entrusted with before the battle before turning and booking it for the second line. He did not bother turning to watch the explosions, nor to see the carnage that resulted as heavy stubber fire filled the pre-planned gaps in the withdrawing first line to further slow the Ork charge.

He ran fast and he ran hard, keeping his head low. One of his squadmates, Sephor, was faster, but wasn't as lucky, getting closer to the second line than the rest of them before a brown mass that looked more like a mouth with legs than a true animal shot towards him, its maw opening wide to snap shut around the poor man's lower back, a sickening crack being heard as the force of the collision snapped Sephor's spine and sent him to the ground. He was screaming for a while longer before the squig's razor sharp teeth sliced him in two.

Someone with a bolt pistol, perhaps the guardsman who had picked it up from Blair, fired a shot that caused the vicious beast to explode before it could finish its twitching meal.

Corren reached the second line and dove, sliding victoriously behind the next rank of Guardsman. He panted for breath and began crawling towards the back of that line, only to feel a pair of hands on his shoulders haul him up back onto his feet. A commissar, with a vicious grin on his face, clapped him on the arm almost good-naturedly.

"Well done, son!" The man shouted over the din of battle. "Now, join the line! There's a good man!"

Shit.

"Right flank's first line has withdrawn and reinforced the second line," One of the colonels, placed in charge of that flank, said. Ellen nodded, not looking away from the center of the battle map. Things had developed quickly.

"Sections of the left flank's first took too long," Another colonel, in charge of the left, noted. "They've engaged the Orks with bayonets."

"They'll buy us time," Ellen said. "Heroes, one and all."

She said the words almost absentmindedly as her attention was on the meat of the battle in the middle of the battle map. The Orks had crashed against a wall of stubber, cannon, and las fire, chewing through their front ranks like a chainblade chewed through flesh. The field was already littered with corpses, but something was nagging at Ellen. This felt too… simple, even for Orks. A headlong rush was completely in keeping with their style, but they were almost entirely made up of infantry.

The Orks had vehicles, there had been numerous sightings of them during the siege, but outside of a few warbikes and other light vehicle they were notably absent. Had they been deployed elsewhere on the planet?

It was minutes before the next major change occurred and she heard one of the colonels swear under his breath, perhaps thinking she wouldn't hear him.

"Right flank's second line needs to withdraw," The man said to the vox officer nearby. "Throw grenades and pull back."

"The left flank's second line is holding," The second colonel said, hiding a sneer in his voice and Ellen noticed the other man shoot him a glare.

"Their center is collapsing," Ellen said quietly, causing both men to forget their animosity and refocus their attention on the task at hand. They watched as a combined arms force of tanks and infantry a few thousand strong began to push forward into a breach that had been created. Over the course of minutes, they looked at something like a boarding pod rip through the hull of armor, expanding the breach to be further widened as Ellen ordered more and more troops into the offensive.

"Once we break through their central line, we'll roll up both of their flanks," Ellen said, a moment before there was a shift in the orks.

"Their… flanks are reinforcing the middle?" The first colonel said, sounding almost astounded. "They're pulling back on the right."

"The left as well," The second man said. "They're leaving themselves wide open."

"Order the flanks to encircle the orks," Ellen quickly said, leaping on the opportunity. It was a change in their plan, but the flanks were no longer needed to guard the center.

Her orders were swiftly carried out and the flanks began to close like a vice-grip around the neck of their foe. It was then that Ellen noticed a section on the right of the battle map wink out of existence and she glanced at the tech-priest.

"Servoskull-182b and Servoskull-281c have lost connection," The tech-priest stated as he plugged in several mechadendrites into the display. "Attempting to reconnect."

Grinhide smiled as he watched the faroff specks of fire that had once been a pair of floating humie skulls crash to the ground, taken out by some device crafted by his mekboys. Some kind of 'ee-lek-trow-mag-nat-ick' shoota or something. He didn't really care about the weird name, but the results were useful for blinding the humies.

In the distance, he could just about make out the humies army slowly closing in around his bait. A part of him, a big part, had been itching to be in that fight, to just join in the rampant slaughter rather than do all this sneaking around. Still, this was fun too he supposed. Their faces would be a sight to see, he was sure.

His metal boots stomped loudly up onto the top of his kill krusha, stepping onto his place right behind its main gun. He turned to face those behind him.

"ALRIGHT, YOU GITS!" Grinhide snarled at his forces, remarkably quiet for a horde of orks piloting all kinds of wagons and tanks, slowly being revealed from under massive tarps of human skin stained with the black ash that covered the ground. "WHO WANTS TO FOIGHT SOME PUNY HUMIES!?"

The silence of the gathering area was shattered by the united roar of orks and revving engines and firing shootas.

"'ERE WE GO, LADS!"

Corren barely managed to pull himself out of the way of the descending choppa, its misshaped teeth cutting through the air where he'd been less than a moment earlier. He lunged forward, his lasgun's bayonet sinking deep into the neck of the ork, its dark blood choking its final gasps as it died. For good measure, he gave the blade a twist before yanking it out, breathing hard, blood pounding in his ears.

Around him, the ordered firing lines of Guardsmen had devolved into a brutal melee as the withdrawing orks suddenly rushed forward again with renewed ferocity. He barely saw the ork choppa falling towards him from his right and he leapt aside, crashing to the ground atop an armored ork's corpse, feeling the scrap metal plates of the xeno's gear sharply digging into his ribs with enough force that they might have cracked.

He raised his lasgun, kept in his hands only by a grip tighter than a dead man's, preparing to either fire a shot or spear the new enemy through, only for a blinding flash to burn his retinas. When he blinked them clear a moment later, he saw the Ork was gone, replaced by a charred corpse and fried gear, choppa fallen from its vaporized hand.

He glanced at his savior, a man wielding a plasma gun, unsure whether to thank him for saving his life or condemn him for firing such a volatile device so near to him, but there was no time. A gretchen leapt upon the weapon's wielder from behind, burying a shiv in his throat in the gap between helmet and chestplate, gruesomely similar to how Corren had slain the ork from earlier.

The plasma gun wielder collapsed to the ground, his weapon falling with him and Corren froze for a moment, half-expecting the unstable device to explode. When it did not, he didn't breathe a sigh of relief, instead moving towards it.

The gretchen was seemingly caught in a blood rage, repeatedly stabbing the already dead guardsmen with its blade again and again. Corren took full advantage of the filthy creature's distraction and fired a shot from his lasgun, briefly enjoying the sight of the resulting miniature explosion as the energy bolt sliced through its neck and caused the thin structure to explode outwards, effectively decapitating the xeno.

He rushed forward and abandoned his lasgun in favor of the plasma gun. He had been trained in its use, though never with an actual weapon as there weren't enough to go around. He hoped the machine spirit did not mind the profuse amount of blood that had covered its frame.

He readied the weapon just as a huge ork, a nob he identified, emerged from the chaos of battle and turned its horrific gaze upon him. The ork roared a wordless warcry and charged, but Corren's finger was already squeezing the trigger and there was another blinding flash and a shriek of bestial pain. Horrifyingly, the monster had survived the blast, despite the lower half of its body being vaporized and everything else being scorched beyond recognition. The ork wailed in pain reaching out with a charred hand at him as though in an attempt to reach his neck to crush it in its grip, before the cry was cut off with a gurgle as another guardsman, one Corren didn't recognize behind all the blood covering his face, stabbed through its neck with a bayonet.

Corren was already moving, already searching for the next target with his new weapon, when he heard the sound of engines piercing through the din of battle. Engines that were louder and far different to those of the Leman Russes and other tanks brought to this battle by the Guard.

He turned, a deep fear in his stomach, almost uncaring if an ork managed to sneak up behind him as had occurred for the previous wielder of his plasma gun. Because at least then he wouldn't need to face what he saw coming for them next.

Barreling towards him at shocking speed was an endless sea, not of the green of orks, but of scrap metal welded onto vehicles that ranged from barely the size of a man to twice that of a Leman Russ. And ahead of the pack of hollering orks and their war-engines was a tank that had to be the size of a vehicle like the legendary baneblade that he had only heard of.

Shit.

"They… They're supposed to just be dumb animals…" One of the colonels, Ellen wasn't sure which, whispered under his breath. She was too busy staring at the battle display as a steadily growing wave of ork vehicles began to spread across the map, her power armored hands squeezing the metal frame of the device tighter and tighter, much to the alarm of the tech-priest.

The orks had outflanked them. They had outflanked her.

"Pull the right flank back and prepare to meet their charge!" The colonel in charge of that flank reacted laudably quickly, quickly delivering a further deluge of orders, more than a few of which were overreaching his granted authority. But that didn't matter.

"Major Lensk," Ellen said, her voice low and dangerous. The Scion stepped forward instantly, his face the mask of a professional killer. "Ready my bodyguard and all our reserves. We're heading out."

"Yes, Inquisitor," The man responded, departing immediately.

"Inquisitor?" The other colonel left the question in his voice unspoken.

Ellen gave no answer, simply turning and storming out of the command tent. Four infantry regiments of the Guard would not be enough to defeat that force of vehicles… But they should be enough to get her to the Warboss.

She had made a mistake, a serious and costly one. But if she killed the leader, the mob would fracture. And, if she failed… she would not have to live with the shame of being defeated by an ork, at the very least.

From high above and far away in the spires of Deimos, the silent watcher saw the battle unfolding before him as he'd expected it to. Catherine Ellen, as the Lord-Inquisitor and other reports had told him, was brash and inexperienced. He'd seen the signs of the orks preparing their ambush, as they moved more and more of their vehicles away from the front to a place hidden even to his excellent vantage and perception.

The waves of ork vehicles crashed into the right flank of the Guard's forces, slashing them to ribbons like power claws through plastek. Ironically enough, the lines closest to fighting the orks that had been left as bait were the ones least impacted by the assault, as the counter-encirclement pushed for the center of the Guard's lines, aiming for the strongest forces.

It was only minutes before the four reserve regiments were rushing out, their few transports rushing ahead of the bulk of the infantry that had to fast march towards the enemy. Those minutes cost the Imperium's forces dearly, tens of thousands dying to the onrush of ork forces.

Ahead of the rest of the Guard's transports was a single, more special chimera, one that had been crafted to higher specifications and bore the signs of authority upon it, flanked by another two, more standard transports. The Inquisitor had taken to the field, apparently intent on either defeating the Orks herself… or dying and not having to deal with the aftermath of her momentous failure. This too had been expected.

The time had almost come. The Vindicare assassin did not tense in preparation, did not shift even a millimeter to prepare his shot. He did not need to.

Grinhide roared in delight at the slaughter unfolding before him, watching as tens of humies were grinded into a red paste under the mass of his kill krusha. He could already see the puny tanks and he rotated the massive turret he stood behind, slamming his fist down on the giant red button labelled with the ork rune for 'fire'.

The massive kinetic round sliced straight through one tank and embedded itself in another behind it before it exploded, shaking the ground with the force of the blast. His tank crashed into a third tank, simply rolling over the top of it and crushing the humie vehicle with its sheer weight.

However, that had proven a mistake, as the ammo cache of the kill krusha's victim exploded and Grinhide was thrown clear of his tank, landing in a heap on the ground.

Undeterred by or unaware of the loss of its Warboss, the superheavy tank trundled onwards, barely bothered by the explosion under it. Grinhide snarled and roared in rage.

"GET BACK 'ERE, YA GITS!" Grinhide shouted at the top of his lungs, waving his massive choppa, which was covered in saws, above his head wildly, but he could not be heard over the sound of fighting. He grabbed the nearest grot and brought the shaking and terrified creature up to his face. "TELL'EM TO COME BACK!"

With those orders, he threw the diminutive beast full force at the tank, the grot screaming as it soared through the air. Grinhide's aim was a little off, as the grot went straight over the top of the kill krusha, disappearing behind its frame. Satisfied that the grot would surely fulfill his orders and definitely hadn't been killed either by the force of the fall or being subsequently crushed by the kill krusha, Grinhide's attention turned to his surroundings.

A dozen puny humies were charging at him with their gun-choppas held ready. Grinhide smiled savagely and revved the whirling blades on his choppa.

Corren wasn't sure how he'd survived the ork encirclement. He'd just kept shooting anything green that moved and that had somehow worked. A dozen other guardsmen, none of which he knew the names of, had gathered around him, moving from the burning wrecks of ork vehicles that had either been destroyed in battle or simply failed. The main ork forces had moved on to attack the center, apparently content to leave pockets of survivors behind to get to the real fighting faster.

Not all of them, however.

Six boys charged out from behind a collapsed ork battle wagon, four with choppas and two with shootas. Corren was already moving before even any of his fellows and the plasma gun, which had already proven itself a dozen times over, unleashed a flash of light that saw one of the gun-wielding orks turned to ash in an instant. The other ork with the shoota was the target of half-a-dozen lasgun shots that dropped him dead almost as quickly.

The four remaining orks roared as they charged and Corren barely had enough time to set his weapon, close to overheating, down before they were upon them, drawing his combat knife. One of the orks ran straight for him, swinging its choppa sideways at his neck, and Corren dropped down low. The ork tried to change the direction of its swing at the last moment, but all it accomplished was throwing off its balance as the blade soared harmlessly over his head. The lumbering beast stumbled to the side and a trio of blasts from a lasgun pelted its armored sides harmlessly.

Corren jumped forward and turned in the same motion, getting behind the ork in an instant, using both hands to bury his combat knife deep into an uncovered section of plating in the ork's shoulder. The xeno shouted in anguish, dropping its choppa as its hands tried to reach the combat knife, but Corren had already wrenched it free and brought it down again, this time onto the monster's skull.

The blade embedded itself into thick bone, but did not sink as deeply as he'd hoped it might. Not deeply enough for the ork to stop moving, its heavy frame suddenly turning to slam the back of its fist into his chest, sending him flying and crashing to the ground, combat knife left stuck in the beast's skull.

There were screams from a few of the guardsmen, death cries Corren had become far too familiar with in the last few hours, and he saw no one was coming to help him as the ork trudged towards him, its square face radiating rage. And he was unarmed now. The ork was unarmed as well, but… well, it was an ork.

The greenskin rushed forward and Corren leapt to the side to avoid its haymaker, lashing out with a kick of his own that harmlessly struck the xeno's armored shin. The ork reached down and grabbed him by his leg with alarming speed and Corren knew he was going to die at that moment.

The ork tossed him like a ragdoll and it was a miracle that his leg wasn't wrenched out of its socket from the throw. The hull of an ork tank halted his short flight and he heard the crack of his ribs as they broke more than he felt the fractures. The air was knocked from his lungs and he gasped futilely for breath, unable to even stand as the ork approached, a vicious grin on its face as it reached up and pulled the combat knife that he'd embedded in its skull, seemingly preparing to return the favor.

Corren's hands closed around something familiar, a hand grip. Barely aware of what he was doing, he leveled a weapon that had the same familiar blue coils as the plasma gun but fitted for a pistol and squeezed the trigger.

The blast held all the fury of the plasma gun he'd wielded before simply contained in a smaller package and the ork fried as easily as the rest had.

He laid there for a while, staring at the charred corpse as it slowly disintegrated in front of him, barely aware of the fact that the other orks had finally been slain by his makeshift squad, now four men fewer.

His eyes fell to the plasma pistol in his hand, a sacred weapon if ever there was one, something he was lucky to even see let along wield. Something even commissars and officers would not always have had access to. He could only think of a single word as he stared down astonishedly at it, one word that fully encapsulated the awe he was feeling at how damn lucky he was.

Shit.

"WARBOSS!" Ellen shouted, her voice augmented by vox cast as her power blade sliced through an ork's torso, parting the two halves of its body with ease. "FACE ME!"

She couldn't be sure she was close to the warboss, but her challenges were being heard by all kinds of orks. Surrounded by her Tempestus Scions, their chimeras abandoned as they pushed into the chaotic melee the battle had devolved into, she was in her element.

No more politicking, no more schemes. Just destroying the enemies of the God-Emperor of Mankind, one corpse at a time.

Another pair of orks charged her, but they were as swiftly cut down as the nob had been and she passed them by without a second thought, her eyes searching through the mob of orks, looking for the largest.

She spotted it, but it was clear this was not the Warboss. All the same, a xenos to be expunged from His galaxy and she moved towards it, her crackling power blade a whirlwind of death and blood as she pushed forward, every stroke cutting down one or more of the vile greenskins.

The ork nob spotted her in turn and roared a challenge as it rushed forward, its own blade falling to slice her skull in half. She moved nimbly even in power armor, darting to the side, her own blade slashing through the dull choppa with utter finesse before following through the nob's own skull, ending it in the same strike.

"WARBOSS!" Ellen shouted again, even louder this time. "COME AND FIGHT, YOU COWARD!"

"OI!" Came a cry as equally as loud as her own and filled with equal parts rage and, somehow, indignity, despite lacking any augmentation of its own. "WHO YOU CALLIN' COWARD, HUMIE?!"

The Ork Warboss was a towering monster, taller than her by half and bulkier by far even in her power armor. It was covered in metal plating and wielded a choppa that was as long as she was tall and covered in whirling saws with wicked teeth already soaked in blood. Its face was square and ugly with long tusks and dark green skin. She thought she could see stitching around its neck, but she wasn't sure.

"Come and fight, monster!" Ellen said, no longer shouting but still able to be heard thanks to the vox caster. She leveled her blade at the ork in challenge.

"ALRIGHT!" The Warboss seemed both angry and pleased and rushed forward, moving blaringly fast for such a large creature. Lensk and his men opened fire on the approaching ork, but even their hellguns were incapable of dissuading the beast or even doing more than burning its flesh, most of the energy bolts being absorbed by its heavy armor.

Ellen rushed forward to meet the beast, her power blade slicing through the air to meet the Warboss' choppa. She expected it to part through the blunt weapon as easily as it had the nob's, but instead it met resistance as it caught against the whirling blades, the power field met by a similar energy that wreathed the saws.

Ellen was not deterred, however, and she brought her blade up for another blow that fell upon the ork's side like a lightning bolt, only to be met by the ork's choppa once more.

Lensk and his men fired again and the Warboss grunted in annoyance, levelling its freehand at the Scions, revealing an underslung barrel hidden beneath its wrist. The first three shots took out two Scions in explosions of gore and they scattered under fire, searching for cover.

Seeking to take advantage of the momentary distraction, Ellen struck again and again, but the Warboss parried her every blow with frustrating ease. More orks began to arrive around the Warboss, but they stayed away from their fight, instead moving to engage the Scions, removing Ellen's support.

She snarled. She wouldn't need them to deal with such a creature. She didn't need anyone.

The Warboss grinned back, cackling with cruel laughter as it resumed its attack on her. She could not block the strength of the blows, only redirect or evade them. However, now that it was focused on attacking, it seemed to give up all concept of defense and she found her own attacks able to get through.

A single, shallow cut sheared off the ork's shoulder plating, sending a chunk of scrap to the ground and revealing a grisly sight. Sown onto the skin of the ork's shoulder, she saw a set of human lips, cut from the face, tipped upwards in an unnatural smile.

"LIKE MY TROPHIES?" The Warboss somehow combined a whisper with a shout, still grinning viciously. "THAT'UN WAS A GOOD FIGHT. GIMME A GOOD'UN TOO AND I'LL ADD YOU!"

Ellen suppressed a shudder of disgust and redoubled her attacks. She would not become such a thing. She refused!

Yet, all the same, she was being pushed back by the ork's attacks. The monster was faster, stronger, and had further reach than her. And, worst of all, she could tell it was toying with her even as she tried her hardest to slay it.

God-Emperor be with me, she prayed, even as she began to take step after step back, slowly making her way towards the burning wreck of numerous tanks and other vehicles.

Corren could have sworn as he ducked and rolled under the swing of the ork nob, raising his newest sidearm and vaporizing the vicious xeno. Fresh pain shot through him at the feeling of his broken bones being jostled, but his stims were running out and he had no more to deal with the pain.

Around him, his makeshift squad had changed once more. They were now six in number, but he was the only one of those who had been in it when he'd discovered the plasma pistol who wasn't dead. The orks had returned in numbers, but they'd managed to survive thus far through either the grace of the God-Emperor or sheer dumb luck.

A part of him begged him to stop, to rest, to hole up in one of the wrecked vehicles and simply defend that position, but he knew that was a futile hope. If they stayed in one spot, the orks would flock to their position until they were all dead. He'd already seen the aftermath of eight squads of varying sizes who had tried to hold out. Their only hope was regrouping with their main force, if there even was still such a thing.

Unfortunately, what that meant was moving slowly towards where the most fighting could be heard.

A new explosion rocked the ground and nearly sent him tumbling to the ground and he tensed for some new orks to arrive, but none did. Instead, what he saw was a dark shape that flew through the air and slammed into a pair of his poor squadmates, the loud snaps of shattering bones and squelching of ruptured organs easily reaching Corren's ears but failing to even make him flinch at this point.

Rising from the pair of fresh corpses, Inquisitor Catherine Ellen, bruised, bloodied, but alive rose up, covered in her black power armor and still wielding a crackling power sword. She seemed entirely unaware of the fact that she'd inadvertently been used to kill a pair of guardsmen, her gaze never wavering from the source of where she'd been thrown.

Emerging from around another tank, a walking behemoth emerged, the largest ork Corren had ever seen, one whose armor had been partially sliced away, piece-by-piece, to reveal a horrifying sight: dozens of human mouths had been sown into its green hide, lips drawn upward in unnatural grins.

This was not an ork. This was a monster.

Corren froze, the icy grip of terror seizing his heart, as the monster moved. Nothing that large should be able to move as fast as it did, but it lunged forward, knocking aside another of his adopted squadmates with a fist as it charged the Inquisitor, killing the man instantly as his skull was crushed by the force of a hammer blow.

The Inquisitor met him blow for blow, but it was clear she was on the losing side of this fight, unable to do more than slice off more and more of the monster's armor, revealing ever more grins.

His two remaining squadmates were able to move and fired upon the ork with their lasguns, but their attacks did no more damage than anger the Warboss and make it momentarily pull its attention from the fight at hand. Another backhand and a swift strike from its choppa saw both men crumple to the ground, dead.

Corren wanted to run, to drop his weapon and flee, but his legs were frozen in place. He'd slain more orks than he could remember in the last few hours, but now he wanted this to be over. He wanted to be a PDF trooper again, to deal with riots and hive-gangers, not… this.

He wasn't sure what made him move next. His training, perhaps. The God-Emperor, maybe. Or even something more base than that, something primal. Regardless, the result was the same.

He stepped forward and raised his plasma pistol, aiming squarely for the form of the Warboss. The Inquisitor saw him and, eyes widening, she suddenly leapt back just as he squeezed the trigger.

There was that familiar flash and a shriek of rage and pain. Corren blinked the spots from his eyes, but even that moment of distraction was too long.

"YOU GIT!" The Warboss roared, its half-scorched body smoking, but not close to being dead. The mouths of several humans had either been vaporized in the blast or peeled away as they were charred by the heat. "MY TROPHIES!"

Shi-

Corren didn't get to finish that thought as the ork's blade descended down upon him. Only instinct saw him move to the side, saving his life at the cost of his arm, the whirling saws sheering through his shoulder. There was a feeling of being lighter as he fell over onto the ground, before darkness took him.

Ellen leapt forward at the Warboss' distraction; however, the machine spirit of her power blade chose that moment to lose power. Her blade buried itself deep into the scorched side of the ork's back, eliciting a fresh shriek of pain, but unable to deal a finishing blow. She tried to wrench her sword free again, only for the Warboss to whirl around and knock her away again.

The Warboss roared wordlessly, a deep madness in its eyes as foam began to form in its lips. Ellen rose and drew her hellpistol, but she knew it was hopeless.

She would die here, remembered only as a failure on every level.

The Warboss charged… and the Vindicare squeezed.

There was a thunderous clap that threatened to deafen Ellen's hearing as the skull of the Ork Warboss simply disappeared, replaced by a shower of gore that splattered everything, covering the ground and her armor with dark blood and pinkish brain matter.

The Warboss's body, already dead but perhaps not yet aware of that fact, took another step forward, stopped, then teetered over, slamming to a shivering rest at Ellen's feet, limbs twitching wildly, but harmlessly.

Ellen stared at the fallen warboss with wide eyes, uncomprehending of what had just happened. She waited for her death to come, but it never did. She wasn't sure how long she remained there, but once she slowly rose to her shaky feet she realized the battle was already and suddenly over.

The Orks, discouraged by their Warboss' death, fled terrified into the wastes. The Guard, exhausted and battered, did not give chase.

They had won. Yet it did not feel like a victory to Ellen.

By the time the Orks had finally fled from the sight of the walls millions of their xenos filth were dead, piled in mountains of corpses that oozed rivers of dark blood. However, just as many Guardsmen were mixed in with those mountains as Orks.

Fully half of the twelve remaining Guard regiments were gone, two million men dead along with all but a handful of damaged tanks and vehicles. The cunning Ork trap had not defeated them, but it had managed to tear open a great wound. Deimos would stand, the head of the Ork horde had been cut off, but the Imperium's hammer was broken.

Ellen withdrew into her personal chambers as the Guard returned to Deimos to lick its wounds. She shut the door behind her and strode over to her bed, the mud and blood of her battle-tarnished power armor ruining its fine silks as she collapsed wearily onto it, taking a seat on its edge. Dark thoughts raced through her mind.

She had failed in every conceivable manner. She had failed to ready and maintain twenty regiments for the mission to Ervak. She had failed to deal with the genestealer uprising. She had failed to respond properly to the Ork assault. She had failed to see the Chaos traitors. She had failed to keep the Sisters on her side. She had failed to understand whatever was happening in Malum. She had failed to even defeat the Ork Warboss herself, having to be saved by some mysterious sniper who she knew was not one of those under her command.

She had thought she was doing the God-Emperor's will. She had been so self-assured of her own rightness, of her infallibility, that she had lost control of an entire planet. Had her faith not been strong enough? Her zeal?

In her armored hands, she was still holding her hellpistol, she realized. She considered it for a long while, a blank expression on her face. Its lines and barrel, the grooves of its grip. The purity seal that had been affixed to its side was gone, ripped off somehow in the heat of battle, and there were small dents on the grip where her powered fingers had nearly crushed the handle from holding it too tightly. She checked the power pack and found it still held charge. It had remained unfired throughout the battle, after all.

She held the barrel of the hellpistol to the temple of her skull and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

She sobbed a laugh. She had even failed to maintain the machine spirit of her own weapon. How… typical.

A knock on the door to her chambers interrupted her thoughts. It was light and tentative. Familiar. Purilla. Her Scion guards had not alerted the Inquisitor and Ellen realized she had not seen them since her fight with the Warboss. So, they were dead too.

Ellen did not want to hear the psyker's words, but she didn't have the strength to tell the woman to leave. The knock came again, slightly louder this time. Still, Ellen said nothing, simply returning to staring at the hellpistol in her hands.

The door creaked open and Ellen glanced up, feeling a glimmer of surprise. She had not given permission to enter, yet Purilla had chosen to intrude upon her anyways. That was bold and certainly punishable, yet the psyker showed no fear as she entered Ellen's abode.

Another failure on Ellen's part then, for not instilling the proper respect within her agents. The fact that Ellen did not even try to respond to the act only added to that failure.

"Catherine…" Purilla said, a look of concern and sadness on her face. Her eyes slid down to the hellpistol in Ellen's hands and there was a marginal tightening in her jaw.

"Wh-," Ellen choked on her words and she realized there was something wet on her face, something that wasn't blood. She tried to speak more clearly, but she couldn't manage it.

Purilla approached, slowly, cautiously. Ellen just stared, having given up trying to talk.

Purilla kneeled in front of the Inquisitor, not as a servant might kneel before a master, but as a mother might do so to comfort a weeping child. Was that all she was now? A child, a foolish brat who'd thought she could play at being a servant of the God-Emperor?

Purilla's hands wrapped around Ellen's own powered ones, gingerly pulling them off their grip on the hellpistol. Catherine had no strength to resist her.

Purilla placed the hellpistol aside and took a seat beside Ellen, saying nothing, just wrapping her in her arms.

Ellen broke at last, her quiet sobs filling her chambers as the stress of all she had done finally caught up with her. Through it all, Purilla said nothing, just sitting there and stroking her fingers through Ellen's hair.