Capítulo 19: Hell Jumpers– Oops, Wrong Name
In the gap of space, stars alone in the vast emptiness. A formally prepossessing impression sullied by a fragmented frenzied corollary of an immense strive. Ultimately, one shall stand and the other shall fall.
"Lord father, we can't keep this up!"
"Ammunition is running low, we're down to 25%!"
"Armor is holding up, they haven't even reduced it to 98%!"
The techmarine shared their findings, some sounding more detrimental than most. The Primarch has some strategic points to take care of. Munitions are running low and he can't keep on summoning the same marines towards their deaths. No glory to a death when it gains nothing to no one. No glory to a fallen son no matter how much his sons boast about it.
Suddenly, more news comes in as the heavy thuds of power armor rapidly approaches. The automatic doors open, presenting a marine before the bridge crew. His armor was pristine, showing his virginity in combat. A newly summoned marine. Even though the marines that fought the mobile outpost had themselves recuperated both in gear and health, not every marine was made present. It wasn't until Dureaus sounded the retreat did the rest of the marines land on solid ground. This was one of said marines.
"Lord father," the marine begins, "we've found grave news; it contains the current state of the surface."
Dureaus's face scrunches up at the mention of it. Having to now deal with surface affairs whilst dealing with space invaders does not bode well in his mind. Having a two front war is never a good option. In most cases at least, this is not one of them.
"I'm listening," Dureaus replies.
"My Lord, EDF is fighting amongst themselves. The opposing forces are calling themselves "Ikons of the Faceless Angel" as they ravaged the western hemisphere. So far, most of the west is either conquered or in the process of such. The eastern states show no signs of taint."
"Traitors," Dureaus sighs solemnly, "nothing like I've played… my existence here is not normal either." He mumbles, none present could hear him.
He stood from his chair, a plan in mind, "Hear me, return whence you came and bring news to the Keepers: Ready themselves. Dembit, Frymrorth, and Xarvass are to be dropped in Europe to quell unrest and traitorous scum. Aze is to be dropped smackdown in the middle of Japan."
"As you will it," the marine responds.
"Hey, Ithran," Dureaus adds suddenly, causing the marine named Ithran to stop in his tracks. A found surprise, these youngins were just born. They haven't spoken their generated name to their Lord Father yet, but to be called by name is an honor within itself– even if it's not him giving young Ithran a new name. To them, they knew of their generated name yet seem to not care about it. To them, it's all they've ever known. Like now, Ithran was him and he was Ithran; but he knew of the feeble glass-like reasoning behind his name. To be named like the Keepers is like a rebirth, a new meaning to life. But, being called out by his Lord Father– his generated name being spoken– at least he's known to his father. That alone is enough.
To Dureaus, it was simple. Each and every marine he's had the pleasure of summoning had their name instinctively engraved within his mind. Though, naming a marine is still an option, having to keep track of four character sheets was a daunting task– even for him.
"Yes?" his voice was surprised at the call of his name.
"Tell them I'm sorry to cut their hour break short."
"Will do."
He ran off, the doors closing behind him as his rapid footsteps wane in sound– growing distant.
Dureaus turns back around and faces his bridge crew, "retreat, set engines to max. Make a pass around Europe first, then make your way to Japan. We'll be dropping righteous justice upon the non-believers of humankind. I want all attack crafts to return to the hangar bay. Cover their retreat, too many good sons died this day."
"Aye!" they all respond.
The ship's thrusters and navigation systems flared up. Their guns still hot as they fired. A swarm of missiles signaling out drones into a ball of inferno, rendering them useless hunk of junks. The aliens seemed to have noticed the ships intent to flee and maneuvered most if not all motherships in place– right in front of them.
Dureaus smiles as he gave his order with much enthusiasm, "RAMMING SPEED!"
Like a semi-truck to a barricade, the ship met metal on metal. CRUNCH– the sound of motherships and pinned drones. Dureaus's capital ship barely felt it, like a declawed cat punching for your attention. The only paint scratched is the opposition… and that's the least of their worries. Hitting max speeds within seconds, the ships modified engines made short work of not one but five motherships and so much more. Their armor folded, caved in by the SDF. Hitting five is hardly a worthy feat as the SDF out sizes them by a large amount. It being nine miles wide, the mothership is about a seventh or a ninth of that, easily bulliable. Inside, the ship's residents hardly felt a thing. If anything, more of a gentle nudge.
At this time, the SDF is surrounded by a fleet of them. Each one deploying drones by the second. The amount of motherships here is enough to cover the eastern side of Earth alone.
Breaking through, Dureaus's marines made ready for the situation.
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"I see… ALRIGHT BROTHERS, WE'VE GOT TRAITORS TO CUT DOWN!"
"TRAITOROUS SCUM!"
"NONE MAY LIVE IN OUR RIGHTEOUS FLAME!"
"BY FLAME, WE REACH ENLIGHTENMENT– BY BLADE, WE SOW DEATH– BY THE DRAGON'S WILL, WE… SHALL… TRIUMPH! GO ON BROTHERS, SHOW THEM THE MIGHT OF THE DRAGON– THE MIGHT OF ITS SONS! HERE WE SHALL SPREAD THEIR TAINTED BLOOD FOR EXISTING WITHIN THE VERY REALM AS US– AS OUR LORD PRIMARCH AND FATHER!"
In the inner workings of the ship, Dembit leads a charismatic call. His brothers answered in ardor chanting. A blend of class and barbaric slang they curse the traitors for their existence. Alongside Dembit was Xarvass, matching Dembit's and the rest in terms of energy. They scrambled to their respective drop pods. The pods were loaded with malicious embodiment, behind the visor of each marine was met with murderous resolve. The betrayal in Tempest may have sparked this flame as they were injected with the summary of the event as they were made, hearing of actual traitors only enlarged the radius of their rage. Dembit and Xarvass said their farewells as they went their separate ways.
Aze was alone in this, he already said his goodbyes. Now, facing the enclosure of a pod, he was ready to complete his objective. If only he knew how it would start.
While this was all happening, Frymrorth was with their resident human guest. The 15 former EDF members were told of the circumstances of their Legion. How they came to be and their purpose– of course, it's all surface level information. Can't tell them all of their secrets. But the one thing they weren't told of is what's to become of them.
"What you'll do? I'm afraid I have no such insight. You'll have to take it up to our Lord Father," Dembit answered when presented with such a question.
He as well as the other marines were surprised when they appeared. Shows the lack of communication when it comes to future prospects. But, at least it was due to forgetfulness unlike a certain golden figure of human light.
Frymrorth wasn't much for speeches or the loud roar of masculinity. A quiet, deadly approach is more his speed– but don't mistake that silence with meekness or weakness. Something within burns a cold hew within his mind. Inside that terminator armor was "something" else entirely. Of decimation it is made.
"So much masculinity oozing off each and everyone of them," Esmeralda comments. She sat atop of boxes, along with a handful of her companions.
"It gets my blood pumping," Chris fidgets within his boots. The aura the marines are giving off was setting him to a higher level.
"Why can't you be that manly in bed?" That sentence alone sent his aura down into the depths of the abyss.
"Wha–"
Frymrorth listened in, same with the rest of the group. Some laughed, snickered, shook their heads in disappointment. Most, though, joined in on the fun. Helmet off, his eyes speak of curiosity.
In the midst of the beet red Chris's agonizing humiliation of unpleasing sensual jokes, Frymrorth spoke his mind, "What is this bed you speak of?"
"Yeah!" Jone and Lanesra chimed in, "what does being a man have to do with beds?"
Aside from the masses of space marines scampering to drop pods, a pin drop would be louder within the group compared to the silence they gave. Dezmond had a surprise look on his face, Esmeralda was more intrigued, and Chris… more relieved than anything now that he's not the topic of questionable satisfaction. The other 12 had varied expressions– Lannette had a worried and intrigued expression.
"Oh you sweet summer child," Lannette expressed, her face all motherly and endearing, a hand on her cheek as she leaned into it with a tilt; she found it oddly cute for such a massive being to be so innocent of the finer things in life.
"You don't know about the bees and the birds?" Dezmond and Esmeralda simultaneously enunciated.
One by one they cooed on Frymrorth. For the first time in a while, Frymrorth was at a loss for words.
'Is this common knowledge?' Frym thought.
"Birds?" Jone questioned.
"Bees?" Lanesra questioned too.
'Maybe not… this is vexing.'
Flustered, Frymrorth retreated, "Excuse me, I have a war to attend to."
He thudded away in his chunky armor after saying his piece much to the group's disappointment. They had their laugh, but it was time for business. Their next destination was the bridge. When brought up the question of birds and the bees, the group deflected the question as they have a rule with the children. Lannette scolded both Chris and Esmeralda– mostly Esmeralda for making adult insinuations with children around.
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Despite the ship's size, it was a speedy giant. It was above Europe within minutes– above Japan within seconds. Nothing that big should go that fast, makes one wonder what else was modified within the SDF. It's no longer comparable to its blue and white original counterpart. This silver and gold variant was a monster of the largest proportion. Piloted by another monster of equal proportion.
As they 'visited' the two countries, they rained down malevolent desire– each contained by a pod. Today, the Legion rained down on its foes as guidance to the afterlife of hell.
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Craters made by human ingenuity. Large corpses of frogs and armored aliens– nothing but torso was left. The aftermath of the recent battle left the state of the region like a bombarded town during WWII. EDF forces in blue and gray, traitors in red and orange; their bodies scattered. Smoke hung in the air, blocking out the night sky. Smoky, foggy, the limited vision plus the buildings ripped asunder by the two opposing forces left a lasting desolate expression. The saddest part, among them bodies, was the future of the human race. Some were cuddled until the very end by adults, others were secluded with only a brown, ripped up teddy to hold them. Frilly dresses dirtied by the spark of war. Some, meaning most, were unrecognizable. Their bodies blown to bits, the only evidence left of their youth being one torn shoe– child size.
The European theater of the remaining EDF forces were exhausted. In the field, rubble wasn't the only thing worn out. Rangers, divers, fencers, raiders. Teams dwindled from their original numbers. They were thinned out. Casting a wide net, about half of Europe was theirs. Not in sovereignty, but to protect. They were the last as well as the only line of defense between the horde of monsters and aliens alike. But their most feared opponent are those that wear their same skin– same genetic advantages and weaknesses. Their own kind is their most apparent foe now.
The last line… worn out like a single parent working two or three jobs for their golden light. Blackers, charred and running low on ammo and fuel. Nixes weren't faring any better. They were beaten down and barely working as sparks and smoke came from their chassis. The footmen, eyes blood-shot, dark circles underneath their eyes, showing their lack of sleep. Hunger seeping in. Thirst leaking into their bodies' crevices. Ever since the attack from what they considered allies, they were reduced into this mess.
Morale at its lowest, it was further pushed lower by a now familiar cry.
"For the Angel!"
Those in the field flinched, some teetering between sane and sanity. 'For the Angel,' a battle cry they've grown to hate and fear.
"EDF!" But not all buckled.
Within the rubble, within the soil, soldiers thrived. Their eyes showing the innocence of protecting something they hold dear. A ranger– no– a FATHER raises his rifle in defiance. Each shot is like hope for another day. A raider– no– a HUSBAND controlled his one armed nix and fired upon the incoming reds. His mind is preoccupied by none other than his wife. A picture of her dangled on the nixes control panels. A beautiful young lady, a smile worth protecting. The air-raider grit his teeth as he let it rip, answering the call of EDF.
Nothing but human determination. EDF still stands. Earth shall be defended, even against its own inhabitants.
On the other side, the Ikons had blood-shot eyes. Not due to lack of sleep or emptying the tear reserves. These eyes had a more sinister calling to them. They were seeing red– heretics even. To them, the EDF is no more than peasants with unseeing eyes to the truth that is: the Faceless Angel. Their one true god. Now, they exact his will. Can't expect god to do all the work.
The battle rages once again. The brief respite like fleeting comfort of a mothers embrace. Bullet trails like rain drops, shells like sonic booms, explosions rang like an acceptable part of life. Bodies crashed, blades drawn. Hell in the western front all over again.
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"Sir! Incoming RADS!"
"OPEN FIRE ON THEM BASTARDS!"
Closer in the field, a team rancored on as they laid out hate upon the range. They were stationed just north of Europe, in Poland specifically. Strong German, Poland, and Russian spirit within this team. A surprising alliance, somewhat comical. The raider, the resident German. Two rangers: Russians. Lastly was the fencer, the lone Polish man. Upon seeing the former EDF members in red armor charge at them as they fired their guns, the two rangers returned the favor.
RADS, short for radicals. The troops have taken a disdained liking to calling their former colleagues that. The two rangers returned fire, a courageous act as the\ two were induced in massive amounts of bullet storms. The only difference: the enemy had more guns. Bullets whizzed past their heads, they were answering death's call with defiance as they dumped mag after mag down range.
They were a sure shot, even in the foggy mess, their eyes had surprising perception. To be fair, wearing bright red and orange uniforms doesn't do the enemy any justice. But it was their sick sense that they did. A red cleansing wave to cull the weak, an orange uprighting wave to set those willing to listen. They wanted to be seen, to be noticed like a starving child deprived of their parent's love. To them, the Angel is watching; so, they shall do what is expected of them like a desperate kid.
The RADs were gunned down round after round, the two rangers alone doing work enough for a whole squad. Originally, they had a wing diver… God rest her soul. She was a cherished soul by the team. Fondness rang amongst the boys. Four brothers protecting their little sister… she was only 17. Now, half her top lay wasted by a FANG round, a round more than enough to destroy two or maybe four tanks in a row with one shot. Overkill, a tragic yet quick death for the resident cinnamon roll.
"FUCK YOU ALL!" their fencer shouted out. A distinct pain within his Polish accent. He wields with him two miniguns of a massive proportions. A walking A-10 with twice the Brrrrrrrt. Unlike the other two, he was upright and uncovered. The rangers had a makeshift trench going on and the air-raider–
"Die," a quiet declaration as he guns down the charging monsters and humans alike with his Nix. All guns were red hot, his missile pod, machine gun roaring, and spread-shot cannon doing more than peppering the masses. He and his mech stood over the other four, a reassuring symbol of resistance.
Seconds turned to minutes–
"Running low," one of the rangers declared. The rest felt that; they too were on the low side.
But he and the rest kept fire, suppressing fire and all. Tracers like a light show in the middle of the depressing fog and smoke– a vail created by their very own hands.
—Prink!
"Hrngh!" the raider grunted.
A different sound compared to the 'blinks' that were bouncing off his armor. A ranger looked up only to see the shoulder mounted cannon ripped completely off.
"Cannons are down, they brought the heavy weapons," the raider calmly assessed and conveyed over comms.
Wanting to return the favor, he scanned the field. Not for very long as large, mechanical footsteps ominously and steadily headed towards them. It soon came to view. From the fog came a titan… this world equivalent of an Imperial Knight at least. Boasting two buster cannons and a missile pod, it was not to be trifled with.
A towering gray fear washes over them.
"IT'S A PROTEUS!" the fencer warned.
There was no beating that thing with their current armaments. Their only anti-armor solution was quickly disposed of– but even then, what good would it have done to its thick armor.
Its two buster cannons quickly set their sights on the already damaged nix. The two gunners pulled the trigger.
Time seemed to slow for the rangers and fencer. Time counted, their faces disheveled into fear as they scampered off to safety. But, a little two late as the buster cannons fired simultaneously.
—BOOM!
The explosion rocked their world. A large radius, sending the two rangers blasting off a couple of feet away. The fencer fared better in that regard, only being sent tumbling compared to the hard impact the rangers felt. Enough to crack their backs into disability as they hit a half-wall– crumbling it on top of them.
That seemed to knock them out– worst case scenario… they're dead. The fencer came too from the impact; he landed pretty safely– only sent rolling on the ground. Surveying the land, his face was distraught. The rangers were nowhere to be seen and the Nix– god the air-raider. The man couldn't hold it any longer. A silent scream to the world, but a pained and scratchy– dehydrated cry reverberated within his suit. Tears ran down his face as the nix solemnly smoked, and dwindling fire like that of this war. The smoke added on to the veil of what is right and wrong.
On his knees, he looked up at the proteus.
"YOU BASTARD!"
Standing in contumacy, his adrenaline blocked out the aching pain his body was in. His rage amplifies the effect. His suit groaned but obeyed as he aimed both guns at the large mech.
"DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE!" he chanted while holding down the trigger.
A barrage of bullets assaulted the giant, prompting its attention to the lone black fencer. Inside, they snickered and laughed amongst themselves. The four pilots in the proteus then had this sick joke that stirred in their minds. They didn't aim or fire any of their guns. The sound of dinks rang true as the fencer continued to fire, seemingly without a care for ammo. Instead, they walked. The ground shook, steadily they came. The fencer had no fear. Instead, his rage was calm. He wasn't going down without a fight.
—Click! Click! Click!
But, reality is often disappointing as he runs out. Each dry click was like a foolish reminder of how weak he was. He looks up from his weapons, the mech towers over him. Then, the joints flared and the hydraulics fired as it lifted its right leg. What a killing joke as the pilots had this flare of… pleasure. A sick distinction this side of humanity.
Accepting his defeat, accepting his inability to avenge his squad mates, he closes his eyes. Waiting for his life to end. He waited and waited, but the inevitable became avoidable. Who asked? The whistle in the air. The crackling of fire. Inside the mech, their alarms flared. It warned them of an incoming projectile… above them.
Above? How can that be?
What's more baffling was the size of the projectile, it was enough to crush them. They retracted the lifted leg as they craned their mech to look up as far as they could. The two side pilots piloting the buster cannons ready to fire at what's ever coming at them. The shaking of the ground prompted the fencer to open his eyes. He looked up again, it was the same demoralizing sight. But a curious glint in the sky made the scene change drastically. A small glint of fire, it grew larger and larger—
—Crash!
—Boom!
–until it came, touching down on the Earth's surface. Like a large bullet from heaven, a drop pod crashed itself onto the proteus. Time seemed to slow for the old fencer as he couldn't believe his eyes. The mech was reduced into a ball of fire as the pod cleaved through like butter, brutally cutting the proteus in half like cutting with a blunt blade– almost impossible, but with the right technique and speed and force… achievable.
The two halves of the mech came crashing down on opposite ends, the fencer in disbelief. Standing up once again as he had dropped to his knees in acceptance, the doors of the pod opened. From within, came towering giants. Clad in silver, gold, and black, they came: his dragons. They exited out of the pod with efficiency. He hadn't noticed before, but the area was now flooded with RADs and their toys. Not only that, the monsters and aliens came too as they fought side by side. Looks like they left him alone for the pilots to toy with… sick fucks.
As they came out, bolter fire ensued. With this, a different kind of firepower was fielded. As all of the giants came out, the pod exploded and burned into crisp. Screams, brief and satisfying to his ears. Each shot from them popped them like bubble wrap as half their bodies exploded, their intestines exposed to all. Humans and aliens quickly recovered from the shock, however. They were, afterall, former EDF members– and the aliens showed much in the mental aspect of battle. They quickly returned fire. A feeble attempt as their bullets bounce off the giant's armor. An alien shot a burst of laser fire, which was quickly dodge by the targeted individual. He returned fire of his own as he charged up his plasma gun, releasing a ball of blue destruction. Popped like a grape, the headshot did wonders as the body went limp. From behind the body however came a swarm of ants. Suppressed, to be sure, but a lot, to be certain.
The fencer came too and offered its assistance… at least that was his intent as he was met with familiar clicks of his minigun. Not to fear though as another pod dropped a couple of feet away from him. Similarly, the doors popped open. This time, a giant wielding a bolter larger than the others he saw from the first team that came. This was belt fed as a long chain or connection came from his backpack and attached to the bolter. Three of the same followed him, with one being an outlier. With him he wielded a longer cannon–
—Bizzzion!
–scratch that, it was a laser of some sort. The four laid down firing support that covered the first group that dropped. From the pod beside him came six more, similar to the earlier group. They entered firing their bolters. One, though with a black helm, noticed him. The fencer and the sergeant locked visors. Unbeknownst to him, the sergeant assessed the fencer. He gazes at the battle, the downed nix, two life signs underneath rubble– none serious by the sound of their heart beats yet still grievous in its own right. Then, back at the fencer. He made his way before the fencer and reached out a hand.
"You've fought well, let us handle this," stern yet oddly calming, the sergeant voiced his thoughts as his right hand gently grasped the soldier's shoulder. It was only for but a brief moment, but war called, and the sergeant answered as he raised his plasma pistol and fired at the incoming traitors.
Tears, another dam broke from within the black suit. The operator inside cried tears of sadness. He was tired, broken, lost. To hear such a mechanical, gruff, stoic voice reassure him… he couldn't help but cry silent tears. Silent tears as he watched those giants slaughter the enemies of mankind. Those tears quickly turned to joy.
"Don't worry," he mumbles to himself, "I'm still in this."
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