From: "Adam Sajdak" <kuja0083@msn.com>
To: "Dalton" <rpd@daltonator.net>
Subject: 40K: The Chaos Dozen
Date: Thu, 4 May 2006 21:59:13 -0400

 
 
Warhammer 40,000: The Chaos Dozen


Introduction


Abaddon was not happy. And when the Warmaster of Chaos was not happy, worlds had a 
tendency to depopulate violently.

He glanced out his window into the swirling void of the Oculus Terribus, what citizens 
of the wretched Imperium called the Eye of Terror. His eyes slid across the enormous 
leviathan that rested within its equally gigantic cradle.

The Planet Killer. The biggest and deadliest ship that the Legions had ever fielded, 
designed in part by himself and constructed by innumerable slaves and warpspawn. It was 
his pride and joy. It was also injured. Abaddon scowled as he felt his already dark 
mood grow blacker. Repair teams swarmed his child, erased the damage it had sustained 
in his last series of battles. A thousand and ten curses upon the Astartes for this, he 
thought acidly. The demon sword Drach'nyen vibrated in its sheath, sensing his foul 
mood and craving blood. Abaddon ignored it – sending the sword into a foul mood of its 
own  and turning back to his desk.

He hated this part of the job. Usually, it was a lot of fun being the Warmaster – 
organize fleet battles, lead ground campaigns, and lately, blow up planets. But being 
the leader of the Legions of Chaos meant that you occasionally had to do some Chaotic 
paperwork. Resigning himself to the annoyance, Abaddon sat down at his desk, his chair 
creaking under the weight of his millennia-old power armor. Picking up his stylus, he 
began writing quickly.

Two hours later, Abaddon sat back and took a breath of relief. The requisitions forms 
had been voluminous, mostly thanks to the Word Bearers' tendency to file everything in 
triplicate. For the umpteenth time since Horus had died, Abaddon promised himself that 
someday, paperwork would be a thing of the past. The distant, largely forgotten past. 
Abaddon started to grin, then remembered that he still had to work through the remand 
cases and his annoyance returned.

Once per year, the Legions offered a few sacrificial lambs to the Warmaster as a way to 
butter him up. It wasn't something he hated, per se, but such things could be time-
consuming as he sat around trying to think up creative deaths. After ten thousand 
years, his creativity was started to reach its limits.

There were surprisingly few cases this time around. The severe beatings that the 
Legions and the Imperial Navy had given each other recently had to have been keeping 
things quiet. All in all, there were only twelve files.

Two from the Black Legion. Damn. Abaddon winced. If the other Legions sensed that his 
own was getting out of hand, they might try to make a play for him. Abaddon promised 
himself that he would come down hard on the two rule breakers.

One each from the Death Guard, World Eaters, Emperor's Children, and Thousand Sons. 
Those four Legions tended to dedicate more souls to their patron gods then the 
Warmaster. Abaddon shrugged.

Two from the Iron Warriors. Abaddon grinned. Good. That might keep the other Legions' 
eyes on them instead of the Black Legion.

One each from the Word Bearers, Night Lords, and Alpha Legion. Those legions tended to 
roam around more than sit on their asses in the Eye and so always sent fewer than the 
others.

And finally, one Dark Angel. Abaddon raised an eyebrow. It was rare to see a member of 
the Fallen cross his desk in any way.

He sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Now came the hard part: deciding 
how to kill them all.

That was when an unlucky slave opened the door and entered, head bowed low. "Your 
afternoon tea, my lord," the drone said.

Drach'nyen leapt from its sheath and shot right through the nondescript's torso, 
launching him backwards into the wall where he dung suspended three feet above the 
floor. Abaddon watched him wail and screech as Drach'nyen slowly rent him from the 
inside. The sword took its sweet time, enjoying every moment of the kill until nothing 
was left but a husk.

"Bodyguard," Abaddon said calmly.

A Black Legionnaire in Terminator armor entered the room and immediately bowed. "Your 
order, Warmaster?"

Abaddon held out his hand imperiously. "My sword."

The bodyguard started to reach for Drach'nyen, then thought better of it. Rather, he 
took the slave's hand, wrapped it around the hilt, used it to pull the sword from the 
wall, and cut the hand off at the wrist so that he could bring it to Abaddon. Kneeling 
before the Warmaster, he offered Drach'nyen up, still using the slave's hand to hold 
it. Abaddon took the sword and resheathed it. "Leave now. Take the meat with you."

"Yes, Warmaster." The bodyguard took the corpse and left. As the door closed, Abaddon 
realized that his mood had brightened considerably. Then he looked back down at the 
desk and an idea started to form. Leaning forward, he opened the first of the two Black 
Legion files and began reading through it. A grin split his features as the idea 
solidified.

Yes, this would do quite well. If they fragmented, so be it. They would have died 
anyway. If they produced results, so much the better. Whatever happened, the results 
would certainly be interesting. Especially if this Captain Cyran was as good as the 
report suggested.
 
Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, Backstabber!" an all-too-cheery voice shouted. Cyran managed to open 
his eyes and react just in time to catch the black object being hurtled at his 
midsection, though doing so caused his arms to explode in pain as the hooks planted in 
them dug in. Ignoring the leers from his jailers, he turned the object over in his 
hands and looked at it in wonderment. It was his helmet. Blinking, he looked up at a 
Black Legionnaire whose bald head glistened in the light almost as much as his 
oversized blue canines did. "Cut him down," the man ordered, and two of the marines 
that had been Cyran's jailers moved to do so as the third unslung his bolter and 
pointed it at the bound marine.

They ripped the hooks out of him none too gently. His nerves seared, but Cyran offered 
nothing more than a minor twitch of the eyelid, no doubt disappointing the jailers. All 
the while, his confused gaze remained on the unfamiliar marine, one who wore the 
markings of a captain. "What is this?" he finally asked.

The captain grinned, an expression that looked vaguely akin to a snarl. He pointed to a 
room down the hall. "You have exactly five minutes to clean yourself up and don your 
armor Backstabber," he said. "One second longer and I get to blow your fool head off. 
Now move."

Cyran moved like a new recruit, swallowing his questions as he hastened to carry out 
his instructions. The only thought running through his mind was that somehow, 
impossibly, he'd been given a second chance to prove himself. He reached the room and 
closed himself away from the world as he washed the already-dry blood from his skin.

The armor came back on like an old girlfriend who'd spent too much time alone. Chest, 
groin, legs, shoulders, arms, boots…the familiarity of the routine took Cyran's mind 
away from his concerns for a moment, although he noted that none of his weapons were 
present and all his rank indicators had been removed. As he reached for his gloves, he 
briefly wondered what he would have to do in order to atone for his mistake.

Without warning he spun and struck the wall. The rock cracked and his knuckles 
shuddered under the force of the blow. Ignoring the pain, he drew back and struck 
again, this time splattering blood when he hit. No! Not a mistake! Never! Never call it 
that! Never let them make you think it! Cyran struck the wall a third time to ensure 
that his mind was in the right place. Bone showed through the skin over his knuckles. 
Ignoring the injury he donned his gloves and retrieved his helmet, sparing a moment to 
look into the eyes before tucking it under his arm and double-timing it out back into 
the hall where the captain was waiting for him.

"Four minutes and twenty-two seconds," the other Legionnaire said with a cruel smirk. 
"You disappoint me, Backstabber."

Cyran stared him down. "It is a pleasure I hope I will be able to continue 
exercising," he said evenly.

"Sadly no." The captain turned and started down the hall. "Follow me." Cyran fell into 
step just behind him as the man began speaking. "You've been given a rare gift, 
Backstabber. The Despoiler has decided to give you a second chance."

"What's the catch?"

"You'll have troops from multiple legions under your command and a good chunk of 
resources. You're also being given your own ship."

"So what's the catch?" Cyran asked again.

"You're also going to be operating away from the Eye. You'll be receiving orders from 
the Despoiler himself, and you'll be completely in charge."

"There has to be a catch here," Cyran insisted.

The captain finally graced Cyran with a smile. "Whatever you take from the Eye, that's 
all you get. And you're never coming back. Succeed in your mission and you'll be given 
a new one. Fail and you die. That's the first catch."

Cyran felt his hearts sink. "And the second?"

"All your troops are screw-ups as well."

Cyran sighed. "When do I meet them?"

"Follow."

-----------------------------

Minutes later, they'd come to a room that consisted of a pane of glass and a few papers 
on a table. Beyond the glass, Cyran could see a small auditorium, built for about a 
hundred but only occupied by ten or so people, all Chaos marines. "That's a one-way 
mirror," the captain explained as he went to pick up to papers.

"I take it this is where I'm introduced to my merry band of lunatics?" Cyran asked.

The captain chuckled. "Indeed. Take care to memorize what I say here. It might prove 
vital for when they rebel against you."

Cyran noted that the man said 'when' and not 'if'. "Will do."

"First among equals is Gulgamesh, your fellow Black Legionnaire."

"I don't see a Black Legionnaire in there."

"Look up."

Cyran looked up. "Bloody hell!" he blurted. Gulgamesh was a Raptor, a crazed Chaos 
marine with a jetpack on his back. At the moment, he was hanging from the ceiling.

"Be sure not to go in there through the back way when you brief them. He's here because 
he apparently gets a kick out of dive-bombing his officers. Not treacherous, just a 
little...loopy. And remember, he's probably going to be your closest ally."

Cyran swallowed. "Got it."

"Next is Ghornal. That's the World Eater in the second row." The marine in question had 
his feet up on the seat in front of him and was absently running his fingers across the 
teeth of a chainaxe. The chainaxe was running. "Reprimanded for a lack of kills."

"You're joking, right?" Cyran said. "He's as bloodthirsty as any Khornate I've ever 
seen."

The captain shrugged. "Figure it out on your own. I don't care." He shuffled a few 
papers. "Jadeite of the Emperor's Children." That man sat farther back and more towards 
the left of the auditorium, but was easily spotted thanks to the bright color of his 
uniform. He sat with a guitar across his lap as he plucked at the strings, occasionally 
adjusting one. "Apparently, he gets cheap thrills out of playing that guitar as loud as 
he can late at night. Unfortunately for him, his ex-commander apparently gets cheap 
thrills from the dreams he experiences in deep sleep. The two don't mix."

"Apparently not."

"After him there's Dalton of the Death Guard."

Cyran looked to the giant green-armored figure sitting near the middle of the room, 
scythe stuck in the seat next to him. "What's his problem?"

"That's just it. No problems."

"What?"

"No diseases. Apparently his immune system was just too good to let them foster. His 
superiors considered it an insult to Nurgle and kicked him."

Cyran nodded. "Next?"

"Kuja Diadron, Thousand Sons." The figure in polished blue-gold armor sat well away 
from the others, one leg crossed over the other and head resting on one hand. A large 
book lay open in front of him. "Technically he was rebuked for insubordination, but I 
have the feeling it was because he never takes his nose out of a freaking book. Every 
time I look at the guy, he's buried in one." The captain took a breath. "Moving on, we 
come to your group chaplain, Nongenti Scalk of the Word Bearers, of course." Scalk was 
a scarred man with glowing eyes who sat hunched over his crozius, subvocalizing some 
prayer.

"I hesitate to ask how he ended up here," Cyran said.

"He summoned a daemon onto the battlefield. It went on a rampage. You can guess the 
rest."

"I can."

"Well then, that brings us to the partners in crime from the Iron Warriors. Sheppard is 
the one in Terminator armor." Cyran saw him immediately. The gray armor was polished to 
a shine. Tusks made of adamantium drooped from his helmet and a servo arm sprouted from 
his back. He sat at rigid attention next to a huge, hulking Obliterator. Guns and 
knives seemed to adorn his every feature; there was even a small dart gun poking out 
from his forehead. "The other one is Duomilleanno Domini."

Cyran winced. "Please tell me that wasn't High Gothic."

A shrug. "He goes by Domini, but apparently, he also answers to 'hey you' and an 
assortment of obscenities. They wound up here when Sheppard – he's a paranoid freak, so 
you know – accused his CO of conspiring against him. It probably would have blown over 
eventually, but Domini decided to end it quick and put a round through the guy's brain. 
Better keep that in mind."

Cyran nodded agreement.

"Now we go over to Typhonis of the Night Lords. He's the one sneaking up on Dalton."

Cyran groaned inwardly as he spied a figure in dark armor creeping through the rows of 
seats. Feeling his hearts race, he watched as the figure slink towards the Death Guard, 
who currently sat leaning back with his head resting on his hands. Once he had vanished 
behind the larger figure, the Night Lord suddenly reared up and although Cyran could 
hear nothing, he could imagine the bloodcurdling screech that sent Dalton leaping into 
the air and coming down on the backs of the seats in front of him, thus starting a one-
marine avalanche to the ground.

Everyone in the room drew a weapon and began gesticulating wildly. The sole exception 
was Kuja, who briefly looked up from his book and then went back to reading.

"Just an all-around fun guy," the captain commented dryly. "As you can probably guess, 
Typhonis gets his kicks by scaring the living hell out of teammates." The man paused. 
"You know, I bet him and Gulgamesh-"

"Just keep going," Cyran muttered as he began rubbing at a headache.

"Certainly, Backstabber. Your next loyal follower is Talen, that's the Alpha 
Legionnaire in the back corner." Talen, although still seated as he watched the 
confrontation, had drawn a dagger that looked like it was made to be thrown. "He was 
rebuked because of clumsiness."

"Clumsiness?"

"Yes."

"I hate specialist legions."

"You and me both, Backstabber. And finally, you've got Seth of the Dark Angels."

Cyran glared at the captain. "Now I know you're joking."

"Not at all. Look up there, past the seats."

Cyran did, and he spied a figure in dark green armor wearing a hooded robe. "A Dark 
Angel," he said.

"Yes, a member of the Fallen. Reprimanded for being a Dark Angel."

"What?"

"Come now, you know most Chaos Marines would blow a Fallen's head off at the drop of a 
hat. I think someone was trying to earn brownie points by offering a sacrificial lamb."

"That makes sense."

The captain closed the files and dropped them back onto the table. "Well, that's all I 
can give you. Good luck with them, your briefing's in fifteen seconds."

Cyran's head swung around. "You can't be ser-"

That was when the one-way mirror dropped into the floor and someone shoved him hard 
from behind. He did an unceremonious belly flop into the room and heard the door 
sliding shut again, trapping him in there with the other eleven members of the new 
suicide squad.
 
Chapter 2

Cyran looked up to the uncomfortable sight of eleven Chaos marines from nearly as many 
groups staring at him. A moment later Gulgamesh, who had been perched on an irate 
Ghornal's back, hopped down towards him, executed an acrobatic midair flip, and brought 
his feet down on Cyran's shoulders, driving him back down to the floor. "Hmm, hmmm, 
what have we here?" the errant raptor enquired.

"It appears to be a fellow member of your Black Legion," a dry voice replied. "Perhaps 
you should remove your weight from his torso and allow him to introduce himself."

Gulgamesh chuckled and stepped off, then offered Cyran a hand up. Cyran took it. 
"Gulgamesh Questrierinal, Black Legionnaire and fast-attack expert," he said by way of 
introduction.

"Cyran Heitzen," he replied as he looked over the group feigning surprise and 
curiosity. "Who are all of you?"

"An eclectic group of so-termed good-for-nothings," the same dry voice replied. "Your 
arrival brings us to an even dozen. And I am Nongenti Scalk of the Word Bearers." Scalk 
began using his crozius to point at the others. "Duomilleanno Domini and Marcus 
Sheppard, Iron Warriors, Kuja Diadren, Thousand Sons, Reckon "Reck 'em" Typhonis, Night 
Lords, Robert Dalton, Death Guard, Ghornal Dire "Consequences" Terresque, World Eaters, 
Talen, Alpha Legion, Jadeite, Emperor's Children and finally Seth, Fallen Dark Angel."

Cyran pretended to go along with the introductions, then turned back to Scalk. "Good-
for-nothings?" he asked.

"In the time we've been here we've been comparing notes, so to speak. I've noticed that 
the one recurring theme is that all of us ran afoul of our superiors in one way or 
another."

"Except-"

"In your case, Seth, the mistake was associating too closely with untrustworthy 
allies," Scalk said without turning his head.

The Dark Angel clenched a fist. "Listen chaplain-"

The door opening violently followed by the sound of marching feet cut off the irate 
marine as all of those present turned to see a double row of Black Legion Terminators 
entering the room. Cyran tensed for a moment as they split and began walking along the 
walls – a classic firing squad formation. But after the ten Terminators came a curious 
thing: a human slave, his eyes dug out and his wrists shackled together. All over the 
slave's body were patches of some kind of pus; a viscous purple liquid that seemed to 
sprout tendrils to sink into his flesh.

"What the hell?" one of the marines  Cyran thought it was Ghornal - asked.

"A Linkor," Kuja muttered.

The slave stopped just inside the room and the door closed behind it. A moment later, 
the slave moaned and fell to his knees just before a spike of violet erupted from his 
chest.

"Shit!" someone blurted. Cyran guessed that it was Jadeite. He wondered just how young 
the man was. Chaos marines saw worse than this on a daily basis.

The slave moaned again as the spike suddenly split open like a flower, eight tendrils 
unfolding to lie across the slave's chest. A bluish glow began to emanate from the 
center of opening and a moment later, a ghostly figure formed in the air before the 
slave. "Kneel!" one of the Terminators barked, and the twelve marines threw themselves 
to the ground.

"Rise," a voice said a moment later. Cyran lifted his head and fixed his eyes on the 
image of Abaddon himself. The Despoiler's image briefly cast its gaze over the small 
assembly and began to speak.

"Once per year, your superiors offer me a sacrificial lamb. A throwaway for me to do 
with as I see fit. For ten thousand years, I have found unique and interesting ways of 
executing these offerings." The shade paused. "However, I am loath to waste resources 
to no good end. So it is that I find myself addressing you." Again the image paused and 
looked over the group. "Understand this. All of you are dead men. There can be no 
question about that. But-" it added with a raised hand, "-although you are dead 
already, there is nothing preventing you from being nasty corpses."

The shade smiled. "So, here is my order. You twelve are to be put aboard ship and 
exiled from the Eye of Terror. You will be given dangerous missions, impossible 
missions, missions that will be sure to kill you. You will be given no reinforcement 
and no support. No one will avenge you if you are killed. Doubtless no one will even 
care.

"Your ship is a former rogue trader, the Black Dart. There is no crew, only a multitude 
of daemons and servitors that have been bonded to the various systems. It has more than 
enough room for the twelve of you and your equipment. It has been safeguarded from 
sabotage, so if you twelve should 'accidentally' get lost, don't expect the ship to be 
coming with you. As to command..." The shade turned to look right at Cyran. He realized 
that this was no mere image, this was a projection of the Despoiler himself. "Cyran 
Heitzen, the Backstabber," the image said. "Before ending up here, you held the highest 
rank of all those present, that of captain. I am reinstating it immediately and placing 
you in charge."

There was more than a little grumbling from behind him, but Cyran's sharp hearing 
picked up a soft yet chirpy 'cool!' that he knew had to come from Gulgamesh.

"All the rest of you please note that aboard your ship is one system dedicated to 
monitoring your captain's life signs. If they should mysteriously cease, the ship is 
programmed to self-destruct."

More grumbling.

"With the issue of command settled, it is time you learnt of your first mission. Be 
seated, all of you." They all scrambled into the nearest seats as one of the 
Terminators set a pad onto the floor in front of Abaddon's image. A hologram sprang up 
from the floor to display a massive Imperial battleship flanked by a large asteroid. 
"This is the Emperor-class battleship St. Dylan's Vengeance," Abaddon said. "The 
asteroid beside it is an Imperial refuel and repair station. After a recent battle 
following the Thirteenth Campaign, the Dylan retreated with its engines heavily 
damaged. As of now it is effectively immobile and will remain that way for the next 
four weeks. It is in a poorly defended system and in fact, it is largely relying on its 
own weapons and ordinance to protect the station. Of course, the Dylan is one of the 
most heavily armed ships in the Imperial Navy, so this in no way means that the station 
is overly vulnerable."

There was a pause that weighed heavily in the air.

"Your mission is to destroy the St. Dylan's Vengeance by any means necessary," Abaddon 
said after a moment, confirming Cyran's suspicions. "Certainly we could send a battle 
group to do the job, but that would entail more resources and casualties than I am 
prepared to spend at the moment. That is all."

The hologram of the ship vanished and Abaddon looked over the group once again. "My 
Terminators will conduct you to your ship once I am finished speaking. You depart the 
Eye in four hours. This is your warm-up mission gentlemen. Make the Imperium tremble. 
DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!"

Cyran and Gulgamesh immediately leapt to their feet, echoing their leader's war cry. 
"DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!"

A moment later everyone in the room was bellowing. "DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR! DEATH 
TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!"

As they chanted, the image of Abaddon slowly faded away. As it did so, the slave slowly 
collapsed to the ground and expired. They quieted and the Terminator with the most 
decorated armor stepped forward. "You will follow me to your ship," he said firmly.

----------------------------

The windows looked thin as paper, but Cyran knew they could stand up to a bolter round. 
Beyond them lay a one-kilometer ship, slim in build and no doubt constructed for speed. 
As they walked, Cyran looked back over his shoulder and motioned to Gulgamesh, who 
promptly caught up to him. "Yeah?"

"You're a flyer, how does she look?" he asked with a nod out the window.

"Um..." Gulgamesh scratched his helmeted head. "In good shape, I guess."

"I've been on ships like it," Talen interrupted. "It looks quick to me but we'd better 
not get hit by anything."

"I'd agree with that assessment," Seth added.

"Can either of you fly it in case of an emergency?" Cyran asked.

The two of them looked at each other. "I'm qualified on landspeeders..." the Alpha 
Legionnaire said tentatively.

"I've never done any real flying, but I usually stand on the bridge when traveling so 
I've seen quite a bit," Seth said.

Cyran sighed.

As they approached the boarding hatch, Cyran stood to one side and waved the others in. 
"Pick your own rooms and meet me on the bridge in an hour!" he ordered, receiving a few 
half-hearted replies. As the last of them went aboard, the captain of the Terminators 
caught his eye and motioned him over. He went cautiously. "What?"

The Terminator glanced towards the ship and back to him. "You might be a screw-up," he 
said softly, "but unlike most of them, you're still a Legionnaire." He reached to his 
belt and withdrew a small holdout pistol, surreptitiously passing both it and its 
holster to Cyran, who quickly strapped it to the small of his back. "Be careful, 
Backstabber. Give the Imperium hell."

"I will. Give them some of your own," Cyran said solemnly. He took the Terminator's 
hand and clenched it fiercely in farewell, then he turned and walked down the boarding 
ramp. As he reached the end, he turned to cycle the airlock.

It was the last time Cyran the Backstabber would be seen in the flesh by any true 
member of the Black Legion.
 
Chapter 3

On the other side of the hatch was a series of large bags, each labeled with the name 
of a different marine. As they boarded, they all retrieved their personal effects and 
went to find a shipboard room that would suit them.

The manner in which they did so was as varied as the marines themselves.

----------------------------

Cyran immediately went to the captain's quarters, a well-appointed room advantageously 
set near but not too near both the bridge and the closest hangar. Looking around, he 
made a mental note to pull down the overly garish decorations at the first opportunity. 
For now, he set the large duffel on the bed and opened it, retrieving his precious 
chainsword and bolter. Once those were in place he immediately began to feel more like 
himself again. With that, he sat on the edge of the bed and began reviewing the 
dataslates of his available resources and time frame.

----------------------------

Gulgamesh wandered through the ship, poking his head into room after room until he came 
to an oversized set of wooden doors. Tilting his head curiously, he approached and 
cautiously eased one of the doors open. Beyond was a large room with rows of pews, 
subdued lighting, and a high, arched ceiling. Gulgamesh realized that at one point it 
must have been the ship's chapel, though all the religious paraphernalia had been 
either removed or defaced. Closing the door behind him, he made his way down the aisle 
and dropped his bag into the first-row pew. Then he laced his fingers together and 
cracked his knuckles before walking over to the wall. Extending his claws, he used them 
to get a firm grip and began to ascend; his hand- and foot-claws helping him find 
purchase where there was none. Once up the wall, he continued up the arched ceiling 
until near the zenith, at which point he pulled his hands away, crossed his arms over 
his chest, and slowly straightened his legs until he was hanging upside down like a 
bat.

Although unable to grin, he nodded in satisfaction. "Perfect."

---------------------------

Dalton picked a room much closer to the ship's engines. Not a proper bedroom at all but 
more like a storage room. An empty one. Dalton strode inside and dropped his bag on the 
floor before turning to the back wall. Tapping at it in several places, he listened for 
the hollow sound of the ducts that carried off the excess fumes. At the fourth rap, he 
nodded to himself, stepped back, and struck the wall with his scythe. The ancient 
weapon punched right through the metal and gases erupted from the puncture. Even 
through his helmet filters Dalton could taste the stink of them. He removed the helmet 
and breathed in deeply. Maybe this way I'll catch something, he thought to himself.

He sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall for a little shuteye.

---------------------------

Jadeite walked into a room and plucked a few strings on his guitar. A few moments 
later, he shook his head and walked out.

----------------------------

Ghornal's choice was the first room he walked into. Unslinging his axe, he used three 
quick strokes to cut a rough triangle into the wall, then added a set of barbs. That 
done, he bared his arm and used the axe to cut a gash into it. Dropping the axe, he 
held the gash open to slow down his coagulation and pumped his muscles so that the 
blood sprayed all over the symbol. Task complete, he put his armor back on and poked 
his head back out into the hallway just in time to see Kuja before he turned a corner. 
"Hey sorcerer!" he barked. "Can I borrow some of your blood?" Kuja's response was to 
glare at him for a moment before turning back around and walking on. "Jackass," Ghornal 
muttered as he retreated back into the room. "And they wonder why Khorne is the bane of 
psykers."

-----------------------------

After his encounter with Ghornal, Kuja walked for some time before deciding on a room 
for himself. Largely ignoring the accoutrements, he instead turned right back to the 
door and began carving runes of protection and warding into it, copying them out of his 
book. Once done with that, he retrieved a few objects from his bag and positioned them 
on the dresser to create a small shrine. That task complete, he checked the time, 
pulled out a small piece of heartwood along with a small knife, and began carving a 
small figurine resembling a man the heavy armor of the World Eaters.

-----------------------------

Jadeite walked into another room and struck a chord. Once again, he shook his head and 
walked out.

-----------------------------

Nongenti Scalk wasted no time in decorating his room with the various symbols of Chaos. 
One wall bore the infamous eight-pointed star while the others displayed the symbols of 
the four gods. Seated cross-legged in the center of the room, Scalk offered a short 
prayer for a safe passage. Standing, he wondered if the ship had a chapel where he 
might hold a proper service. He left his room to begin looking.

-----------------------------

Sheppard and Domini were much more deliberate in their room selection. First, they 
found a pair of rooms at the end of an easily defendable hallway. Second, they used 
Sheppard's power claw to rip a hole in the wall separating the two rooms, after which 
they took the debris, piled up against the door of the second room and melted it all 
together, thus ensuring the door could not be opened under any circumstances. Once that 
was done, they dragged both beds into the second room and pushed every other available 
piece of furniture into the first, knocking them over to create a wall they could hide 
behind in case of a firefight. Once the 'guard room' was done, they retired to the 
'bunk room' to distribute ammunition and work out a guard schedule.

Sheppard and Domini were Iron Warriors to the core.

------------------------------

A moment after entering his room, Typhonis pulled his bolter and shot the light out. 
"Much better," he said to himself as darkness fell. Then he turned his bed up on its 
side and set the end against the back wall, dragged the dresser across the room to 
stand near the bed, lay the mattress across the top of both, and used the small desk to 
complete the enclosure. Work done, Typhonis hunkered down in his little enclosure and 
eagerly anticipated the first fool to come through the door. He hummed to himself as he 
crouched, feeling more in control of the situation already.

-----------------------------

Rather than choose a room and tie himself down, Talen simply crouched in the hallway 
and removed his effects from the bag. Everything within was either a weapon or an 
effect that could be hung off his armor, a result of spending a lifetime on the move. 
Talen decided that he would walk the halls of the ship during the day and retire to a 
different room every night.

It just wasn't in the nature of an Alpha Legionnaire to stay in one place.

----------------------------

Jadeite entered and summarily rejected a third room.

----------------------------

Seth's choice was one he felt to be much more poignant than a simple shipboard cabin. 
He chose the rearmost of the ship's observatories. Although right now all he could see 
was the metal of the ship's dock, he knew that once they were underway he would have a 
direct line of sight to space itself. Pleased with the selection, he turned his mind to 
the coming mission.

---------------------------

Sheppard and Domini both stood bolt upright and ran for the guard room as a knock came 
at the door. Once he had knelt behind the firewall and Domini readied his arsenal, 
Sheppard cleared his throat and said, "Enter."

Cyran opened the door and paused at the sight of the two Iron Warriors and their on-
board fortress. Then he shook his head and entered. "Here," he said as he held out a 
dataslate.

"What might this be?" Sheppard asked as he cautiously reached out to take it.

"You two are Iron Warriors," Cyran replied. "With your reputation, I think you're that 
first ones I should turn to for siege warfare." He pointed to the slate. "On there are 
the blueprints we've got for that Imperial refueling station. We need to get on there 
somehow because there's no way we can board the Dylan itself. If you two can figure out 
a way to crack it open, let me know." With that, Cyran turned and left, closing the 
door behind him.

Sheppard looked at the slate for a moment and then turned to Domini. "He's giving us a 
chance to blow open an Imperial station," he said. "I think I like this guy already."

Domini nodded.

---------------------------

Jadeite entered yet another room and plucked at a string. This time, however, he 
grinned as the sound faded away. A moment later his fingers attacked the strings and 
began a fast-paced solo. Jadeite had definitely found the room for him.

---------------------------

On the way back to his room, Cyran heard angry voices erupt from somewhere ahead of 
him. Launching into a sprint and drawing his chainsword, he quickly found himself 
standing at the entrance to the ship's chapel. Inside, Scalk and Gulgamesh looked ready 
to come to blows. "Hey! What the hell's going on in here?" he bellowed as he marched 
in.

Scalk was the first to recover. "I was inspecting the chapel to see about 
reconsecrating it when this aberration dropped out of the sky and knocked me to the 
floor!"

"Hey, you're nothing special, I do it to everyone!" Gulgamesh protested.

"Oh, I'd love to see what a Bloodletter could do to you, little one-"

Cyran banged his chainsword on the deck. "Chaplain!" he barked. "No summoning daemons 
aboard ship without my explicit permission! And Gulgamesh! No dive-bombing of someone 
who knows how to summon daemons! Are we clear?"

"I was just protecting my roost! He's the trespasser!"

Cyran sighed inwardly. "Gulgamesh, you are not under any circumstances making the 
ship's only chapel your personal stalking grounds. We'll find you another high ceiling 
somewhere. Now, get your effects and let the Chaplain be about his business."

Scalk waited until Gulgamesh was out of earshot before saying, "Thank you captain."

Cyran, reminded of his earlier statement, waved his chainsword in a vaguely threatening 
fashion. "No daemons," he said again.

"By Chaos Undivided," Scalk said with a hand over his primary heart. "No daemons."

"Glad we're clear on that," Cyran said as he left to meet Gulgamesh in the hall. "Now, 
let's see if we've got a mess hall we don't need..."
 
Chapter 4

The bridge of the Black Dart was three stories tall, with the upper two being filled 
with the servitors and cogitators that would be instrumental in keeping the ship 
functioning. Although launch was still two hours away, the bridge was already full of 
the noise caused by their work. Cyran was looking up at them as he entered, gaze drawn 
by the noise they created. So it was that he initially missed the figure pointing the 
gun at him.

"Ye be holdin' it right there, laddie!" the rough and not-quite-sane voice barked. 
Cyran snapped his gaze down and began to reach for his bolter before remembering that 
he was not, in fact, suicidal.

The figure was human, or had been once. A rough, weather-beaten face sporting a heavy 
beard surrounded a pair of surprisingly soft brown eyes. The man wore an old-fashioned 
tricorner hat sporting a multitude of jewels, bangles, and sewn-on patches Cyran 
couldn't identify. The rest of the man's outfit was equally garish, the bright blue of 
his longcoat clashing with various gold and silver chains, multiple weapon holsters, 
what appeared to be pieces of bone, and even a sheathed sword. The man sat in what 
appeared to be a combination of command chair and life-support unit that either encased 
or replaced his legs.

He had bad teeth, too.

"Be tellin' me who y'are lad, or I'm'a gun ye down where ye be standin'," the man said, 
and Cyran noticed the long-barreled laspistol he held.

"Captain Cyran, Black Legion," he said.

"Ah, so you be the one commandin' this little jaunt!" the man said. Cyran tried to 
place the man's accent while he watched him put the laspistol into his coat but with no 
success.

"And you are?" he asked dryly.

"Well blow me down, laddie, I've gone and forgotten me mannerisms!" The man removed his 
hat and swept it down as he sketched what would have been a most handsome bow had he 
not been stuck in the chair. "I been the cap'n of this here lady for nigh on three 
thousand years!" he said grandiosely, "me name be Aran El-Heru! A pleasure and a 
delight to meet ye!"

"I was told my men and I would be aboard the ship alone," Cyran said without coming 
closer.

"Oh, he!" the man laughed as he replaced his hat, "ye men o' the sword be fine soldiers 
lad, but ye don't know yer prow from yer port! An' that's what I be here for! After 
all, ye can't expect this bunch'a clodheaps and caskheads to do it for ye without 
someone watchin' 'em!" he said with a gesture at the servitors.

I take back that good feeling I had, Cyran thought. This is hell. "What happened to 
your legs?"

"Aye, ye've noticed me little handicap, eh? Two year ago, or was it three now? Anyway, 
my dear lady got hit by a boardin' torpedo. Me and the lads had to fight 'em off. Lost 
some good men that day. 'Twas a black one, aye!"

"You're a rogue trader," Cyran said.

"Ah, bless ye laddie, I was for a good long time! Three-hundred and thirty years I was! 
Then I fell into some bad deals and hard days and made a deal what's kept me around 
here ever since!"

"So you know what you're doing," Cyran said.

"Aye lad! I can run rings around any battleship in the galaxy if the engine don't 
overheat and I've had me morning rum."

"Alright then." Cyran finally came forward to shake his hand. "Good to meet you, 
Captain El-Heru."

"Ach, be callin' me Heru lad! I been bored o' that name for long now!"

"Alright then, Heru."

"Ah, you be improvin' already! Now, where be the rest o' the swillers?"

"I planned to discuss our mission here," Cyran replied. "They should be showing up-"

At that moment, Kuja walked in the door. After a quick look around, he made his way to 
the charting table, took a seat, and opened his book to resume his reading.

"Not the most talkative of lads, that one," Heru muttered.

Kuja was quickly followed by Gulgamesh, his upright posture and stiff movements 
transmitting his continued annoyance at the earlier incident. Moments later came Talen, 
followed immediately by a creeping Typhonis who looked like he was trying to pinch one 
of the Alpha Legionnaire's trinkets. Scalk came through the doors next, crozius tapping 
on the floor as he thought.

When Ghornal entered, Cyran was utterly nonplussed to see Kuja look up and beckon him 
over. As Ghornal took the seat next to him, Kuja flipped to another page in his book 
and pointed something out. The two began conversing in muttered tones.

"Well now, there's somethin' ye don't see every day," Heru commented.

Seth, Dalton, Sheppard, and Domini, all came in without fanfare, seating themselves 
around the table. Sheppard pulled out a short stack of papers and placed them on the 
table in front of him.

"That be all?" Heru asked.

"No, one's missing. Has anyone seen Jadeite?" Heads shook. "Damn. Alright, Gulgamesh 
and Talen are with me, let's go find him."

Even as the two of them rose, Jadeite burst into the room. "You're late," Cyran said 
acidly.

"Sorry, I just found a room with these awesome acoustics-"

"I don't want to hear it." Cyran gestured to the table and Jadeite contritely went to 
take his place. As he walked to the head of the group, Cyran was suddenly aware that 
this was his first time addressing them as their leader. He took a breath. "Alright," 
he said calmly. "We're all fuck-ups. We all know it. There's no need to hide it or 
dance around the issue. But here's my deal. I don't care. I really don't give a fuck if 
you pissed off your superior officer, shot a fellow marine, or blew up the wrong 
building. As of right now, you have a clean slate with the only person that counts." He 
jerked a thumb at his chest. "Me. Do your jobs and follow orders. Knowing the disparity 
in our ranks, I'm not going to say 'don't start fights'. I'm sure fights are an 
inevitability here. But make sure they start over something worth fighting for. If I 
catch any of you fighting for the sake of beating on someone from another legion, I'll 
cap you myself and throw you out an airlock. Is that clear?" Heads nodded. "Good. Now 
that that's out of the way, it's time to start planning. Helmets off, gentlemen." Cyran 
reached up and undid the clasps on his helmet, placing it on the table in front of him. 
The others followed suit except for Domini, who had no helmet and Scalk, whose helmet 
was hanging from his belt.

Cyran looked up and down the table, memorizing each marine's true appearance. To his 
immediate left was Sheppard, his bald head sporting a steel plate on the left side. His 
teeth looked like they were made of steel and Cyran was not surprised to find that one 
of his eyes was augmentic. Next to him, Domini remained a hulking presence, his face 
deformed by the amount of equipment that had once been part of his armor and was now 
grown into him.

Jadeite's features were sharp and narrow, framed by his long brown hair. Had it not 
been for the short horns sprouting from his forehead and the fact that his teeth had 
been dipped in some bright red substance, he probably might have passed for a more 
normal marine. Seth's appearance was much the same, his utterly normal features and 
short brown hair betraying his lack of affiliation with true Chaos. Talen's eyes were 
pools of blackness and Cyran wondered if they were all pupil.

Across the table, Scalk's heavily scarred face remained unchanged. A tattoo of the 
eight-pointed star mounted his right temple, just above the red glow from his eyes.

On Scalk's left sat Ghornal who was idly picking at his teeth, all canines. His red 
hair appeared to have been dyed with fresh blood. Closer to Cyran sat Kuja, each of his 
three pairs of eyes looking in a different direction. The normal pair looked at him, 
the pair above that continued to scan his book, and the last pair looked up at the 
machinery. Typhonis' appearance was no less strange. His hair was dark blue, spiked and 
mussed apparently at random, giving him a wild look. His eyes, too, seemed to glow a 
faint bluish color. Strangely enough it didn't look like sorcery to Cyran but natural 
bioluminescence. He wondered what Typhonis had had done to himself.

Dalton's dark skin and hair were unmarred, no surprise when one considered why he'd 
been kicked out of the Death Guard. He looked heavy for a marine, though. Cyran idly 
wondered if the Death Guard bothered to keep in shape. Knowing there modus operandi, he 
doubted it.

But the be-all-and-end-all of weirdness was immediately to Cyran's right. He'd known 
Gulgamesh was a raptor, and he'd known most raptors had mutated since the Heresy, but 
he hadn't expected a literal raptor. Gulgamesh's eyes were the wide and bright hazel of 
an eagle's, the feathers that covered him were a lustrous black, and his nose and mouth 
had grown together to form an honest-to-Hades beak. The flying trooper cocked his head 
just like a bird to stare at Cyran with one large eye. "Are we going to plan a mission 
or just stare at the bird all day?" he asked aloud.

"Polly wanna cracker?" one of the men on the other side of the table – Cyran thought it 
was Seth  asked aloud and the entire table erupted into laughter.

Gulgamesh waited until the gale of laughter had begun to ebb before commenting, "Polly 
wants your mama's sweet ass," prompting another round of laughs.

"Alright, that's enough," Cyran finally said when they had finished. "Let's get to 
work." He sat and gestured to Sheppard. "A little while ago I approached these two with 
the plans for that station we're heading towards. Since the Iron Warriors excel and 
battering down well-placed defenses, I wanted to see what they could come up with. 
Sheppard?"

Sheppard stood and checked his papers. "Domini and I put our heads together and came up 
with a few ideas," he said. "Plan A. We use the ship's lance cannon to punch a hole-"

"Ah, lad," Heru interrupted. Sheppard glared at him.

"This is Heru, the captain of the Black Dart. He's the one keeping us from getting lost 
in the warp, so be nice to him," Cyran explained.

"Yes?" Sheppard ground out.

"Er, this ship doesn't have a lance cannon."

"Oh." Sheppard discarded the top two papers. "Plan C. We come in fast before they can 
bring their guns to bear and make a quick flyby of the bridge, using the boarding 
torpedoes to-"

"Lad. No boarding torpedoes," Heru said sadly.

Sheppard shook his head, muttered a curse, and removed the next three pages. "Plan F." 
He paused and looked at Heru. "Does this ship have torpedoes of any kind?" When Heru 
shook his head, Sheppard grunted and removed three more pages. "Plan I. We use the 
rings of the nearby gas giant to mask our approach, coming as close to the station as 
we can. Then we make the hop from the rings to the station in one of the shuttles and 
sneak on board. We plant the biggest, nastiest explosive we have – by the way, I want 
to look at our weapons manifest  and leave before it blows up."

"The problem is that the blast might not do enough damage to the station or the 
Dylan," Domini rumbled.

"What if we were to plant one on the Dylan itself?" Scalk queried.

"I don't think we could get close enough to the ship without being noticed," Sheppard 
replied. "An Emperor-class battleship is much more aware of its surroundings than a 
podunk asteroid station. We need to come at the blind spots."

Seth spoke up. "Actually, I think there's a way we can board the ship. We come in on a 
nonthreatening course and when we're hailed, we pretend to be Space Marines. They'll 
let us right on board."

There was a moment of silence followed by more than a little laughter. "You're joking, 
right?" Jadeite asked. "I think they'll recognize traitor legions when they see them."

"That's perfectly true," Seth said calmly. "They would recognize traitor legions when 
they saw them. But last I checked, the Dark Angels were still loyal to the Imperium."

He sat back and enjoyed the expressions of astonishment on the others' faces.
 
Chapter 5

A few moments passed as eleven marines and one ship's captain stared wordlessly at the 
Dark Angel.

Sheppard was the first to speak with, "that's crazy."

"No, it could work," Typhonis argued. "They'd never expect it."

"Because it's crazy," Sheppard insisted.

"It strikes me as ironic that a man who has associated himself with daemons and violent 
destruction for ten thousand years is calling a plan crazy," Dalton piped up.

"Shove it," Domini promptly replied.

"Fine, it's not just crazy, it's damned stupid," Sheppard amended.

"But maybe it would get us close enough to plant your bomb," Gulgamesh interjected.

"If we can get that close, I might as well plant a Bloodthirster on their bridge and 
have done with it!" Scalk replied.

"A daemon?"

"You can't trust them!"

"Especially when you're not there to watch over their shoulder!"

"But take out the bridge and the job is done!"

"No," a calm voice interceded. All eyes slowly turned to Kuja. "It is a common 
misconception that the destruction of a ship's bridge entails the destruction of the 
ship itself. While using a daemon to wreck the Dylan's command center is tempting, an 
Emperor-class battleship is more than six times the size of this sprint trader and 
stocked to the brim with weapons and onboard troops. Although a summoned daemon would 
do great damage, even a Bloodthirster could not destroy the Dylan entirely. And while I 
have no doubt that the destruction caused would set repairs back by months or even 
years, during that time the ship would more than likely still be functioning well 
enough to adequately protect the repair station. And do not forget, if we fail in our 
attempt to destroy the Dylan, they will most likely summon aid from the nearest 
Imperial ports. And then we will have no hope whatsoever."

Again the table lapsed into silence.

Ghornal grinned. "You don't say much, sorcerer, but when you do speak up, you sure say 
a mouthful." Kuja shrugged.

"Which leaves us at square one," Jadeite grunted.

"I don't think you're giving my idea enough credit," Seth insisted. "I was a loyal Dark 
Angel for three centuries. In the five thousand years since, they haven't changed a 
bit. I know their mannerisms. Their methods. I can imitate them perfectly. I've done it 
before."

"And they won't ask questions when a lone Dark Angel shows up and asks to board their 
ship? They won't wonder where the hell your battle-brothers are?" Sheppard jabbed.

Seth drummed his fingers on the table. "Yes, that would be a little suspicious. But 
there's a way to counter that." He plucked at his robe. "All Dark Angels make their own 
habits. There's nothing stopping me from making more."

"You want us to masquerade as Dark Angels?" Gulgamesh screeched.

"No, not all of us. I think Captain Cyran could pass for one, so long as we cover up 
his legion insignia. "Talen's armor would require a little work but it's dark enough to 
pass so long as we don't run into another Dark Angel. Same story with Typhonis, 
although we'd have to cut those bat wings off his helmet."

Cyran looked at nobody in particular but rather stared down at the table as a plan 
formed in his head. "If we four were to fake being Dark Angels, we might be able to 
distract the Dylan's higher-ups from what might be going on around them," he said.

Heads zeroed in on him.

Cyran rested his hands on the tabletop. "A plan is forming in my head," he said aloud. 
"We can destroy the Dylan and make it out alive. We split into three teams. Seth, 
Talen, Typhonis and I masquerade as loyal Dark Angels and demand to meet with the 
Dylan's captain behind closed doors. While they're occupied with our meeting, groups 
two and three slip into the Dylan's corridors. Group Two will consist of Sheppard, 
Domini, Dalton, and Ghornal. They'll make their way to the Dylan's genarium and plant 
the biggest bomb we can cobble together on the way there. While they're doing this, 
Group Three will make a distraction. Scalk, Kuja, Gulgamesh, and Jadeite, I want you 
four to make your way from wherever we dock to the nearest port to the station, making 
as much noise as possible." Jadeite visibly brightened. "When you get to the docking 
station, I want Scalk to summon the nastiest, most psychotic daemons he can think of 
and shoo them down the hall. Kuja, you're a sorcerer, you can help him. Once that's 
done, rampage your way back to the ship as quick as you can, where hopefully Sheppard 
and the others will be waiting for you. Meanwhile, we 'Dark Angels' will feign 
complacency and come to intercept you, then we can all get onboard and take off. We run 
like hell, the Dylan blows up, and the station's crew get sliced to ribbons. We have 
the last laugh."

Silence.

"That could work," Gulgamesh said softly.

Scalk steepled his fingers. "Yes, it could be done. I'll start thinking about what I 
can summon to our aid."

"I'll start working on our bomb," Sheppard said, standing. Domini joined him.

"I'd better get to work on those robes," Seth added as he stood as well.

"Hold it," Cyran said. Everyone froze. "Don't think you're all going to go off and do 
whatever you damn well please for the next..."

"Five weeks," Heru supplied.

"Five weeks," Cyran repeated. "You are still Chaos Marines and I am going to work the 
living hell out of you. In between exercises, drills, and inspections, we are going to 
sit down and brainstorm a working plan out of this idea of mine. We are going to look 
at it, break it down, analyze every portion of it, and fashion something that might get 
us out alive. We'll meet here tomorrow at 0200 hours. Until then, consider yourselves 
on free time. Dismissed."

The marines gathered their helmets and departed, all except for Gulgamesh, who remained 
seated. "So, boss," he said. "You really planning on fighting through this?"

"Yes," Cyran replied.

"Good. I'm willing to go down in flames, but dammit I'm taking a few of them with me 
when I do it."

Cyran grinned. "Good." The expression slowly faded away as a thought occurred to him. 
"You haven't heard anyone making statements about just rolling over and dying, have 
you?"

The raptor shook his head. "No, at least, not yet and not where I can hear them. I 
guarantee there will be sooner or later though, when you think about just who this crew 
is and what we're doing." He blinked his large eyes. "And speaking of which, before our 
briefing we were exchanging our reasons for ending up here. Except for you, brother-
captain. Care to share, one Black Legionnaire to another?"

Cyran glared at Gulgamesh for a moment. He'd known this question had been coming, but 
he hadn't expected it quite so soon. Still, maybe it would be better to get it over 
with. "Have you ever heard of brother-captain Mekkalas?" he asked.

Gulgamesh stroked his beak in thought. "Doesn't ring a bell," he finally said. "But 
then I was out of touch a lot."

"He was a fellow captain in my chapter," Cyran explained. "He and I competed hotly for 
prestige. We forced each other to buckle down, work harder, plan better in our efforts 
to outdo the other. We made each other better soldiers, even though we couldn't stand 
to be in the same room."

"So one day, it came to a head?"

"Not exactly. Our commanders liked to play games with us, first placing one under the 
others' command and then the reverse. They wanted to see which one of us would break 
first."

Cyran laced his fingers and looked at them. "It wouldn't have been nearly as bad if our 
styles hadn't clashed so much. If we were given the same target, we would find 
completely different ways of taking it. I got tagged with the nickname Patient because 
I favored careful, stealthy attacks that minimized casualties and kept the mission time 
down. Mekkalas, though, he liked to hit hard from the front, terrifying enemies and 
smashing them flat. Problem was, his method tended to lead to high casualty rates."

"But as long as he did his job, the big guys were willing to overlook it," Gulgamesh 
supplied.

"Right," Cyran confirmed. "Then came one day where my squad was placed under his 
command for a fortress assault. During the fighting, he ordered my squad to proceed 
down something called Corridor Five and take a nerve center. Except that I'd just 
received a report informing me that the position was being held by a pair of Rhinos and 
a Leman Russ."

"You get blown up and he's down one rival."

"Yes and no. He was nearby in Corridor Six with his command squad and a heavy weapons 
team. When my squad jumped out to distract the vehicles, he would take them out. My 
squad would get wiped out first, though. Just another sacrifice for the victory." Cyran 
paused. "I refused, point-blank. Then I commandeered another weps team, fought my way 
to the far side of the Imperials and blew them up from there. Didn't lose a single 
man."

"And that's how you earned the title Backstabber?"

Cyran grinned in a feral fashion. "No, I earned it with what happened next. Mekkalas 
was hounding me over a private communications line and I snapped. I gave my weps team a 
set of coordinates and told them to fire, no questions asked."

"Mekkalas' squad?"

"No, I couldn't be sure they would kill him. I ordered them to fire on their fellow 
weapons team. The lascannons set off the other team's promethium for the flamers, which 
set off the warheads in the rocket launchers. Both them and Mekkalas' command squad 
were blown to shreds."

Gulgamesh nodded. "Cold as ice, boss."

Cyran nodded as well. "It was reported as friendly fire, except someone must have been 
listening in on the communications line. The truth came out after the operation was 
over and I was hauled off for interrogation and punishment. They were still debating 
what to do with me when I was hauled off for this."

"Better than some things I could name."

"Aye lad, could'a been much, much worse'n that! Why, I seen things that'd turn a man's 
stomach done for less!"

Cyran looked over at Heru, realizing for the first time that he hadn't left with the 
others. "Enough," he said. "I have a schedule to prepare and you have a ship to launch. 
Gulgamesh, not a word of this to the others."

Gulgamesh raised a hand, smallest finger and thumb tucked into the palm. "Scout's 
honor, boss."

"Get out of here. Enjoy your free time," Cyran said with a nod towards the door.

Gulgamesh saluted, collected his helmet, and marched out.

Past the first bend in the corridor, he found the other ten all waiting for him with 
great anticipation. "Well, spill it," Ghornal said. "What's his secret?"

"Okay, here's the story," Gulgamesh began.
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Notations from the Files of the Warmaster

NAME: Cyran Heitzen
AFFILIATION: Black Legion
MARINE TYPE: Captain
TIME IN SERVICE: Ten millennia
TRANSGRESSIONS: High Treason of the Second, Third, and Sixth Ranks
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Treason of the Second Rank consists of the murder of a superior 
officer, Third the murder of fellow soldiers, Sixth the undermining of an ongoing 
operation.

NAME: Gulgamesh Questrierinal
AFFILIATION: Black Legion
MARINE TYPE: Raptor
TIME IN SERVICE: Ten millennia
TRANSGRESSIONS: Multiple counts of gross insubordination
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Heavy mutations are common amongst the Raptors. Rugged individualism 
is as well, which is quite possibly why Gulgamesh reacts to unfamiliar situations and 
individuals in such drastic fashion.

NAME: Ghornal Dire Terreque
AFFILIATION: World Eaters
MARINE TYPE: Berserker
TIME IN SERVICE: Ten millennia
TRANSGRESSION: Dereliction of Duty
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Lack of kills is considered a capital crime amongst the World Eaters 
and is actually considered a type of heresy.

NAME: Robert Entil Dalton
AFFILIATION: Death Guard
MARINE TYPE: Plaguemarine
TIME IN SERVICE: 500 years
TRANSGRESSION: Heresy of the Second Rank
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Despite claims of lack of mutation, ultrasound scans reveal a mass 
inside Dalton's chest cavity. It is unidentifiable and may be growing.

NAME: Kuja Diadron
AFFILIATION: Thousand Sons
MARINE TYPE: Chaos Sorcerer
TIME IN SERVICE: Ten millennia
TRANSGRESSION: Insubordination
ADDITIONAL NOTES: The exact nature of Kuja's transgression is unknown, as the Thousand 
Sons insist on keeping their own council and Kuja himself is not talking.

NAME: Jadeite
AFFILIATION: Emperor's Children
MARINE TYPE: Noisemarine
TIME IN SERVICE: Six millennia
TRANSGRESSION: Insubordination
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Wild and uncontrollable. Best used as a distracting element.

NAME: Typhonis Drellek
AFFILIATION: Night Lords
MARINE TYPE: Chaos Marine
TIME IN SERVICE: Nine millennia
TRANSGRESSION: Gross Insubordination
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Typhonis has had his eyes modified beyond most marines' (rumored to 
have been done by Fabius Bile himself) and has unparrelled nightvision.

NAME: Marcus Sheppard
AFFILIATION: Iron Warriors
MARINE TYPE: Terminator
TIME IN SERVICE: Ten millennia
TRANSGRESSIONS: High Treason of the Third Rank, Gross Insubordination
ADDITIONAL NOTES: It is unkown whether Sheppard's CO was actually conspiring against 
him. Given the Iron Warriors' legionwide paranoia, either possibility is equally 
realistic.

NAME: Duomilleanno Domini
AFFILIATION: Iron Warriors
MARINE TYPE: Obliterator
TIME IN SERVICE: Eight millennia
TRANSGRESSION: High Treason of the Third Rank
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Unquestioningly loyal to Sheppard. Origin unknown, he took his 
current name after entering the Iron warriors exactly two thousand years following the 
Horus Heresy.

NAME: Talen
AFFILIATION: Alpha Legion
MARINE TYPE: Chaos Marine
TIME IN SERVICE: Four millennia
TRANSGRESSION: Dereliction of Duty
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Expert at silent infiltration, details of his transgression are not 
clear due to the distance of the Alpha Legion relative to the Eye of Terror.

NAME: Nongenti Scalk
AFFILIATION: Word Bearers
MARINE TYPE: Chaplain
TIME IN SERVICE: Ten millennia
TRANSGRESSION: Dereliction of Duty, High Treason of the Sixth Rank
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Let it be a stern lesson that even the most talented and dedicated 
soldiers must not rely unquestioningly on the vagarities of creatures spawned from the 
stuff of Chaos itself.

NAME: Seth Elexus
AFFILIATION: Fallen Dark Angels
MARINE TYPE: Space Marine
TIME IN SERVICE: Five Millennia
TRANSGRESSIONS: High Treason of the Fifth Rank, Heresy of the Second Rank
ADDITIONAL NOTES: Details of his transgressions are unclear and possibly trumped-up. It 
is well known that the Fallen do not work well with 'true' Chaos Marines. High Treason 
of the Fifth Rank consists of the undermining of soldiers' morale.
 
OPERATION ONE
Target: St. Dylan's Vengeance
Chapter 1

"Are you humming?"

Sheppard looked up from his delicate wirework to see Domini staring at him, head 
tilted. "Yeah, so?" he said defensively.

"I didn't know Marcus Sheppard hummed," the Obliterator said with a shrug as he bent 
back over the payload. Although unable to work with his original pair of arms due to 
the gun barrels and blades sprouting from them, Domini had had a slender pair of 
manipulator arms installed just below his main pair. The two arms folded and stored 
themselves in armor compartments when not in use. Right now they were past elbow-deep 
in the circuits of the bomb the pair was assembling.

"I hum when I'm in a good mood. Like when I get to flex my tactical mind. Or blow up 
something really big. You know what I mean."

Domini stopped working entirely and looked at Sheppard. "You like him," he said flatly.

"He's better than Gratz. That's not saying much, but he's a whole lot better," Sheppard 
said openly. "I mean, look around. He's giving us free reign to build whatever 
explosives we want without having him or his buddy looking over our shoulders. I like 
that."

"So you're saying that if he trusts us, you'll trust him back?"

"More a case of stay off my back and I'll stay off yours."

"Ah."

At that moment, a soft beeping interrupted the two marines. "That's my cue," Sheppard 
said.

"What?"

"Cyran wants the crew assembled at 0200 hours. I want us both to get some sleep and 
it's 1700 now. I'll catch four and spell you at 2100. You get four, wake up at one and 
we'll polish up."

"Polish up."

Sheppard drew himself up. "Dammit Domini, we are still Iron Warriors and we will hold 
ourselves to the standards set down by Perturabo himself at our founding. The others 
might feel tempted to slack off but not us!" He clenched a fist. "We can still show 
them all why the Iron Warriors are feared across the Imperium!"

Domini nodded.

------------------------------

No sewing machine. Seth grunted in annoyance. Back to the old-fashioned method, then. 
There was cloth, at least. What irritated him more was the amount of time he'd need to 
devote to the project. Between that and the time Cyran would no doubt have him kept 
busy with drills and plans, he'd be lucky to get his full four hours of sleep.

He smirked beneath his helmet. Sleep was a luxury, not a privilege. He could do with a 
little less if it meant proving himself to the others.

------------------------------

Jadeite's hearts thudded in his chest as he rushed down the corridor. Cyran was going 
to have his head for sure. Way to go airhead, he thought to himself. The boss gives you 
one order and you blow it. And he certainly wouldn't accept Jadeite's excuse of a wrong 
turn into a dead-end hall – even though it was true. On that thought, he finally 
reached the bridge door and burst through it.

The other marines were already lined up, a fearsome – if motley – display. Cyran stood 
near the head of the line and his helmet swung around to zero in on Jadeite like an 
anti-aircraft battery being brought to bear on a renegade fighter.

"You!" he boomed without hesitation as he pointed at the errant marine. "Down and give 
me twenty! Now!" Jadeite didn't dare disobey. He threw himself to the deck and began 
pumping. Twenty pushups was barely a warm-up for a marine, but his face still burned 
with humiliation as he heard Cyran walk the line. "Let this man be a lesson to you 
all," he said. "I am your captain. I do not simply ask for, or expect your obedience. I 
demand it. You will obey my orders to the letter, with all due haste and diligence 
expected from men of your stature. Down and twenty more!" he snapped as Jadeite 
completed his push-ups. As he again dropped to the deck, Cyran continued.

"However, I am not so stupid as to believe respect is not a two-way street. I will give 
each and every one of you the same treatment and dignity I would expect of my own 
commanding officer. I will respect your individual talents and specializations and I 
will do my best to keep your tasks within them. Fail because of circumstances and I 
will be lenient. Fail because of sloth, or worse, because of intent, and your 
punishment will be severe."

He whirled as Jadeite began to rise and planted a foot in the man's back, driving him 
back down to the floor. "Another twenty you whoreson bastard!" he screamed. "Your first 
order, your single order and you fail to complete it! That goes beyond simple accident, 
beyond simple mistake, and beyond simple stupidity! Your failure is an insult to me and 
an insult to the men of this group who did not fail along with you!" The furious 
barrage of invective continued as Jadeite struggled against Cyran's pressing weight. 
Finally the pinning foot was lifted and he rose just in time to see Cyran draw a 
slender laspistol and point it at the ceiling. "Now," he said calmly. "These corridors 
make for an excellent running track. I've already marked where to turn. You are going 
to run my track and you are going to run as if the hounds of hell themselves are at 
your heels because I will be pacing you every step of the way. Anyone who fails to 
match my pace I will shoot in the leg. This laspistol is toned down, so the shots will 
be more painful than disabling, but if I shoot you, it will hurt. And you will run 
faster. Now run!" he said as he fired the gun into the ceiling. "Ten laps! Run!" They 
ran.

----------------------------------

Ghornal clenched his teeth as the pain in his legs spiked again. "By all that's holy 
and unholy, move your slow ass!" Cyran bellowed from behind him. "You're the slowest 
soldier in this entire outfit! Even Domini's making better time than you, and he's 
twice your weight! My grandmother could run this course faster than you and she's been 
dead since before the exile! Now by Chaos, move!" The laspistol barked and Ghornal felt 
the skin on his legs sizzle as Cyran shot him yet again. His breath came heavy in his 
lungs and his leg muscles felt like they were on fire. He blocked out Cyran's 
recriminations and forced himself to run faster. His armor rubbed against his legs, 
red-hot where Cyran had been shooting him, and would have brought tears to the eyes of 
any lesser man. He tasted blood and knew he'd cut his own gums. He let it distract him, 
savoring it and letting the pain fade away. Cyran shot him again. This couldn't be over 
soon enough.

---------------------------------

Ghornal threw himself across the finish marker and skidded to a halt. Cyran felt 
disgust well up inside. He was barely even winded from the marathon, having slowed 
himself to pace the other marine. A quick glance told him that none of the others had 
encountered any major problems and he scowled behind his helmet. "Up," he said to 
Ghornal as he sheathed the laspistol. To his credit, the World Eater immediately sprang 
to his feet and stood ramrod straight. "Scalk!"

"Aye, brother-captain!"

"Take them on another lap."

"Yes sir!" he shouted as he turned to face the others, already beginning to move 
towards the entryway. "Move, you knaves!" he bellowed. "Move!" Within moments, the 
group was gone, leaving Cyran and Ghornal alone.

Cyran removed his helmet so that he could glare at his subordinate. "I demand an 
explanation for that piss-poor performance," he said acidly.

Ghornal removed his own helmet and Cyran noted that he was sweating profusely and 
actually gasping for breath. "My apologies, brother-captain," he said. "Allow me to 
show you." He dropped to a knee, set the helmet aside and reached for his leg armor. 
The metal where Cyran's laspistol had found its mark had now cooled and was safe to the 
touch, but he had fired it so much that as the metal had cooled off, it had adhered 
itself to the skin on Ghornal's legs. Cyran ignored the sickening tearing noises that 
reached his ears at the World Eater pulled at his armor and cast aside the relevant 
pieces. "This is the problem," he finally said, gesturing to his legs.

Cyran looked and even he found his eyebrow rising in surprise. The femoris muscles on 
Ghornal's legs were huge, swollen out of proportion. They twitched in time with the 
marine's twin heartbeats. Although Ghornal had torn much of his own skin off removing 
his armor, Cyran noted that what was left was translucent, barely managing to cover the 
expanded mass of Ghornal's legs. "When we become what we are," Ghornal said, "we are 
modified in every conceivable way. The mind, the skeleton, the nerves, even the 
muscles. But something went wrong when they implanted these. They grew like mad, 
twisting and wrapping around my tendons and bones until they couldn't be removed. 
They're an agony to run with because they overheat so quickly and the way they attach 
to my joints."

"No wonder you were cited for a lack of kills," Cyran replied. Given the World Eaters' 
preferred method of engagement by charging recklessly into an opponent's ranks, a poor 
runner would lag noticeably. "Why weren't you killed to have your organs harvested?"

"Oh, believe me, they tried," Ghornal said with a fanged grin as he replaced his armor 
panels. "But I make up for my lack of speed by being the best close-quarters fighter in 
the Legion. Not even Kharn could beat me on a good day," he bragged.

"Is that so?" Cyran asked as he slowly drew his chainsword. "Show me."

Ghornal drew his axe and thumbed it on. "As you wish, brother-captain," he said. Then 
he was on Cyran in an instant, chainaxe roaring like a banshee. Cyran barely deflected 
the attack, parrying the blow to his left and sidestepping but before he could maneuver 
himself into position for a riposte Ghornal was spinning to deliver a horizontal blow 
and he had to bring his chainsword up to block. The two weapons sparked against each 
other, but Ghornal kicked out and drove Cyran back a step, then came at him with a 
full-on assault from the chainaxe that left Cyran hard-pressed to simply defend 
himself, let alone attack. Ghornal quickly pinned him to the wall and stood easy, axe 
loosely held pointing at Cyran's throat.

"I see your point," Cyran said calmly.

"What treachery is this?!" a new voice interrupted. Both men turned to see that Scalk 
at the others had returned during their fight. "Not yet a day out of port and already 
an attempt made on our captain's life?"

"Stand down chaplain," Cyran said as he sheathed his weapon. "It was a friendly 
exercise, not an assassination attempt." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed 
Gulgamesh quietly sheathing his lightning claws and suppressed a grin. "Ghornal, get 
your helmet on and rejoin the others."

"Yes sir."

"Line up!" Cyran barked. They complied rapidly as he slipped his helmet back on and 
activated it. Only then did he grin. He had to admit it to himself, he enjoyed this 
job. "On my mark, you kiss that deck and start pushing until you hit my magic number!" 
he boomed. "Last one to finish makes us all dinner! GO!"
 
Chapter 2

"My greetings to you, Captain Garrenheim. I am brother-captain Jerris of the Dark 
Angels chapter."

"Shorter," Seth said.

Cyran cleared his throat. "My greetings, Captain Garrenheim," he said again. "I am 
brother-captain-"

"Stop."

"What is it?"

"You're being too flowery."

Cyran blinked. "Flowery?"

Seth sighed. "Too verbose. Too loquacious. You're used to dealing with superiors who 
want to be larger than life, daemons who demand to have their egos stroked, and a 
general mindset that encourages over-the-top behavior."

"Well then," Cyran ground out. "How, pray tell, do I correct this?"

"Speak shortly. Turn yourself in a little more. Cut your words a little more sharply as 
if you're afraid you might say too much. Try to act as if you've lived in the most 
paranoid and secretive atmosphere for most of your life. Picture it." He waited. "Now, 
try again."

Cyran took a breath. "Captain Garrenheim. I am brother-captain Jerris of the Dark 
Angels. I must speak with you immediately."

"Perfect," Seth said with a nod. "Always police your words, even your actions. Let me 
see you walk."

Cyran shrugged and walked from one end of the room to the other. Seth again shook his 
head. "Too exaggerated. Shorten your steps and keep your arms closer too your sides. 
Bow your head a little bit. Remember, paranoia."

Cyran took a breath and turned in on himself, trying to picture having spent his entire 
life housed in a closed-in asteroid, surrounded by the most secretive marines 
imaginable. When next he moved, he held his upper body virtually motionless, his step 
so fluid he did not bounce at all.

Seth clapped his hands once. "Yes, perfect," he said. Turning to a nearby crate, he 
retrieved a series of roughly-woven habits. "I had to rush the job on these," he 
explained, "but they'll still pass for Dark Angel robes. Put them on." Cyran and Talen 
did so without difficulty, but Typhonis had to leave his hood down because of the bat-
like ears that rose from the crest of his helmet.

"You'll never pass for a Dark Angel like that," Cyran said.

"He will if we cut those ears off."

Typhonis' hands flew to his helmet. "Touch my armor and die," he spat.

Cyran eased closer, drawing a power knife. "We can weld them back on later," he said.

Typhonis backed off. "Nobody has dared desecrate the armor of a Night Lord in ten 
millennia."

"Talen, help me," Cyran said. The Alpha Legionnaire began to close in, arms out to 
grapple the Night Lord.

"You guys are kidding!"

"Typhonis, I am giving you a direct order. Now hold still!"

The Night Lord turned and ran.

-------------------------------------

Kuja and Ghornal had just stepped into the corridor when a marine in a Dark Angels robe 
stampeded past them, yammering. A moment later, three more Dark Angels thundered past, 
one brandishing a knife and hollering, "you don't use them anyway!"

As they turned around the next corner and vanished, the World Eater turned to look at 
the sorcerer. "Did you see that?" he asked.

"No," Kuja said firmly.

"Neither did I."

----------------------------------

Gulgamesh was less able to deny realty when Typhonis slammed into him at full speed. 
The bigger marine knocked the smaller and lighter raptor to the deck before continuing 
without a look back. Flipping over to his hands and feet, he screeched at the departing 
form before being knocked flat a second time by trampling feet. Laying on the metal 
floor, he promised himself that from now on, he'd get around by crawling through the 
damned ductwork. Less chance of random stampedes that way.

----------------------------------

Scalk had nearly finished rededicating the ship's chapel, mostly thanks to Dalton 
helping him with most of the heavy work. He had just completed a rendition of the 
eight-pointed star on the altar cloth when the doors burst open and a robed Typhonis 
ran inside.

"What in the name-" Scalk had started to say when Cyran barged in and pointed to 
Typhonis.

"Scalk! Dalton! Grab him!" the captain bellowed. Scalk leapt up and grabbed his 
crozius, but Dalton was faster, dropping his scythe and launching himself at the errant 
marine. Typhonis tried to dodge the flying Death Guard, but his momentum carried him 
right into Dalton's flying tackle and was carried to the ground. Even then, he 
continued to thrash and had nearly wriggled out of the bigger man's grip when the 
crozius swung down and belted him on the back of the head with a sound much like that 
of a church bell tolling. Stunned, Typhonis fell back to the floor and Dalton, Seth, 
and Talen all piled on top of him. With the marine finally restrained Cyran dropped to 
a knee, switched on his power knife, and began the work of cutting through the ceramite 
of Typhonis' helmet.

--------------------------------------

"Now that that little episode is over," Cyran said, ignoring Typhonis' muffled sobs, 
"what say we get back to our planning?"

"As ordered, brother-captain," Seth replied with a glance at Typhonis. The Night Lord 
was seated, clutching the severed bat ears in his lap and issuing the occasional sniff 
through his helmet. Talen shook his head in derision.

------------------------------------

"Fire in the hole!" Sheppard yelled, then raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired a 
burst of slugs into a steel can situated two hundred fifty feet away. It immediately 
erupted in a burst of flame so intense Sheppard's armor registered the heat and 
concussive wave of the blast even as far away as he was. Lowing the old-fashioned 
rifle, he noted the damage done.

"Impressive," Domini commented. "What was in it?"

"A mixture of promethium fuel and cerosite in a pressure valve," Sheppard replied. 
"Without oxygen, the cerosite stays inert. But disrupt it..." he gestured to the still-
burning flame and grinned. "I call it Tobasco Sauce."

Domini snorted. "You and your code names. How many of these can we make?"

"We've got enough cerosite for six of them. Plant these next to the Dylan's plasma 
reactor, set off the big charge and ka-boom. The chain should take out the whole aft 
end."

Domini nodded. "Very effective. And I'd imagine a blast like that would reduce the 
structural integrity of what was left to nil."

"Ending the Dylan's career as anything but scrap metal," Sheppard confirmed.

"Then let's get back to work."
 
Chapter 3

Jadeite ducked under the sweep and lunged, only to have Ghornal duck left, jam his 
pugil stick into the noisemarine's gut, and knock him on his ass. Huffing, he rolled 
over and pulled himself to his feet. "Your turn," he said crossly as he tossed his own 
pugil stick over to Gulgamesh.

"Hey," Ghornal interrupted. "Did I say I was finished with you? Get back in the ring, 
kid."

The raptor looked at Jadeite, looked at Ghornal, looked back at Jadeite, and finally 
tossed the weighted staff back to the noisemarine. Jadeite sighed and resignedly 
stepped back into the chalk ring Ghornal had scrawled on the floor. The World Eater 
immediately came at him and he dodged left, the metal shafts of their pugil sticks 
clanging as Jadeite blocked Ghornal's swing. The World Eater immediately followed it up 
with a strike that stung Jadeite's kidney and then a bar smash that caught him on the 
elbow. Jadeite stumbled away with a curse and Ghornal shook his head. "Who the hell 
handled your close combat training, kid? You and me ought to go back and give him the 
beating of his life."

Jadeite ducked his head and came in low but Ghornal moved like lightning, dodging three 
blows before swinging his pugil stick into Jadeite's shoulder to unbalance him and then 
swiftly hooking it under his armpit and knocking him to the floor. Jadeite actively 
cursed this time and tried to knock Ghornal's legs out from under him but again the 
older warrior frustrated him by stepping out of the swing's radius and bringing his 
stick down on Jadeite's wrist. Although he managed to hang onto his own stick, Jadeite 
knew the fight was over and he rolled away. Ghornal let him go.

"All right, my turn," Gulgamesh said. Without reply, Jadeite sat up and tossed him the 
stick. The raptor looked even weirder out of his armor than he did in it, his entire 
body being a strange amalgam of hawk and human with arms and legs that ended in 
birdlike claws. Despite only coming up to Ghornal's shoulder blades, he took the pugil 
stick, stepped into the ring, and adopted a flank-forward stance like he was ready to 
fight. Ghornal idly spun his own weapon with one hand and beckoned Gulgamesh forward 
with the other. As the two faced off, the others present began to fill the air with 
catcalls. The raptor sprang, making a prodigious leap through the air and making a 
strike at Ghornal's head. The sticks clanged against each other as the World Eater 
blocked and Gulgamesh was suddenly past him. But the moment the spry warrior hit the 
ground, he was again springing back into Ghornal's face. Ghornal reacted too slowly 
this time, but still managed to strike Gulgamesh a glancing blow on the leg as he 
received a blow of his own to the forehead. Gulgamesh didn't land so well this time, 
the blow to his leg overbalancing him and the leg itself unable to support his weight 
for that crucial moment when he came down, so he was forced to turn his landing into an 
awkward forward roll that deposited him outside the ring's circumference. Hissing in 
annoyance, he tossed his stick away without looking to see where it would land.

The errant weapon flew towards Scalk, who nearly dropped his crozius as he reached out 
to grab it, but before it could get to him, the pugil stick halted in midair. At first, 
it might have seemed that the weapon had done so on its own, but on second inspection, 
one could see a wiry tendril of flesh that had wound itself around the midline of the 
stick and halted its wild course. The long tendril began to pull the stick away from 
Scalk's face and as they all watched, Kuja stepped out of the crowd as the tentacle 
connected to his right hip brought the pugil stick right to his hand. Wordlessly, the 
sorcerer stepped into the ring as a second tentacle unfurled at his left hip and he 
began passing the stick around his four limbs in a hypnotic fashion.

Ghornal grinned. "Bring it on, sorcerer."

Kuja didn't rush in the way the previous two had. Rather, he slowly walked forward, 
continually passing the stick from limb to limb seemingly at random. Ghornal actually 
took a step back as the watch how Kuja moved, gearing himself up for when they finally 
clashed. Suddenly, the sorcerer seemed to blur forwards and an instant later their 
pugil sticks came together in a rapid-fire series of clangs that ended with the two of 
them stepped back almost simultaneously. Before he could reengage, Ghornal felt 
something sting his cheek and saw the edge of Kuja's mouth jerk upwards into a smirk. 
"You smartass," he commented as he realized he'd just been tentacle-slapped. Then he 
closed the distance and began firing blows at the Thousand Son's midsection. Although 
Kuja blocked them all, he was clearly hard-pressed to do so. Then both of his tentacles 
shoved themselves into Ghornal's stomach and pushed him back a step, upsetting his 
balance and giving Kuja an opportunity to go on an offensive of his own. Ghornal kicked 
out but Kuja sidestepped it, sending the two into a whirling melee as they spun around 
each other and lash out at elbows, knees, and other vulnerable areas.

Outside the ring, Typhonis tapped Seth on the shoulder and whispered, "My power sword 
against yours says the berserker wins."

Seth considered for a moment and then nodded. "You're on."

Back inside the "arena" Ghornal and Kuja finally fell apart again, circling slowly this 
time. Whereas before the situation had been a game, some fun, a sort of "Who Can Knock 
Ghornal Down" contest, now the two combatants were deadly serious. Suddenly, there was 
real hate in the air and more than one observer belatedly remembered the animosity, 
even hatred between the Thousand Sons and the World Eaters.

Letting these two get in the ring together had been one hell of a bad idea.

They stepped together and the air was again filled with the sound of metal on metal. 
Kuja was a dirty fighter, using his tentacles to sting Ghornal on the inside of his 
joints or across his face, but Ghornal came back at him with cheap shots at the 
sorcerer's own face and other 'low' blows. Finally, the two just brought their pugil 
sticks forward and pushed as hard as they could, forcing each other apart once again. 
But Ghornal was the one to follow it up, smashing Kuja across the face and dropping him 
to the deck.

"Gotcha," he said with a grin.

"Pay up," Typhonis said triumphantly.

With a wordless cry of rage, the sorcerer dropped his stick and tackled Ghornal, who 
immediately let go of his own weapon and wrapped his arms around Kuja's midsection in 
an attempt to lift him off the ground. Before he could do so he lost his balance and 
the two went over. The distinct sound of large, meaty fists striking larger, meatier 
torsos now replaced the earlier clanging along with seven voices chanting that age-old 
chant&

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"

----------------------------------------------

It was the chanting that attracted Cyran to the scene. Rather than bursting into a run, 
he calmly walked to what he deduced to be the relevant door and opened it to see two 
marines rolling around on the floor and beating the snot out of each other. Rather than 
interrupting this impressive contest of martial prowess, he simply stepped into the 
room and waited to see how long it took before the group realized the boss was there.

In the end, it didn't take that long at all. Gulgamesh was the first to notice him and 
he urgently began elbowing Scalk in the ribs, who passed the message on to Dalton, who 
warned Jadeite, who alerted Seth, who notified Typhonis, who informed Talen. As 
everyone but the two entertainers stood there gawking at each other, Cyran gestured to 
the ring. Almost immediately the audience got the hint and went to pull Ghornal and 
Kuja apart. The two initially resisted, then that instinctual part of the brain that 
tells you, "hey bozo, your fight's over" kicked in and they subsided.

Cyran looked them over. Kuja's eye was already turning black. Ghornal's nose was 
weeping blood. Both looked a little unsteady on their feet. "So," he said calmly. "One 
week from now, we are going to be in a combat situation. So. Would someone like to tell 
me why two of my men are so intent on disabling each other's fighting capacity?"

Kuja and Ghornal glanced at each other, a glance that spoke a thousand insults, quips, 
apologies, jokes, and maybe even a couple physical blows, but mostly centered on the 
concept of "you first."

"I'm waiting," Cyran said.

"Just practice," they blurted almost simultaneously.

"Practice?"

"Pugil stick training," Ghornal explained.

"You look barehanded to me."

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Kuja's tentacles went to the discarded 
sticks and brought them back to their previous holders. "As I said, sir," Ghornal 
finished.

"Kitchen duty. Four hours. Now."

----------------------------------

This was how a World Eater and a Thousand Son ended up in the back room of the ship's 
mess peeling a mountain of potatoes that Kuja thought the Warp had just created for the 
express purpose of humiliating them while a daemon-thing wired to the counter passed 
out food to the other marines. Once the rest of the squad was gone and there was only 
one hour left on their sentence, Ghornal, for utterly no apparent reason at all (not 
the a World Eater usually needs one) stood up and shot the daemon-cafeteria register 
dead.

"Well?"

Kuja set down his peeler and retrieved one of his books from under the potato pile. 
"Well, I found out that if we take your chainaxe and douse it with blood, then apply a 
decent electrical current..."