章 29: No Named Marines… are Still Marines 2
The sound of metal grinding. It shrieks, uncomfortable to the ears. The blast of fire, the recoil of firepower. A line– trail of resistance from the opposition.
"FIRE THAT DAMNED RAILGUN!"
"Target locked… firing…"
—Phoom–Puff!
Like connecting dots, the shot was good. From the gunner's seat, the gunner's sightline yielded a metal man. Of silver it towered, of gold it yielded to none, of black it forsakened pain.
It stood– a flinch unseen. Clear as day– its cover crumbled.
"By… the Angel…" the tanker's gunner whispered. A new sort of horror within his voice.
The Epsilon, these railguns had finally been deployed in battle against the new found enemies of the Faceless Angel. Today, outside from chinking the armor of an astartes, the Ikons drew blood for the first time.
With blood, comes a dire consequence, one the young astarte himself will come to find. A disbelief in their ability to inflict any sort of pain. A glance of its arm blown to smithereens from one shot of the railgun. Too fast to dodge, too strong for the armor to withstand. It could've died.
Death… as the astartes stares at his missing left limb– shoulder and all– as it drips– death was all it could think of.
Death… by these heretics… how humiliating…
That shall not stand!
"RELOAD DAMNIT!" said the tank crew's commander.
His bark was met with the realization: the target was still alive. Quickly, under the heat of the current battle, they reloaded. Realize the word 'quickly' is applied loosely here. As another round was being 'chambered' the gunner eyed the target– like a pig to the slaughter. One more shot should do… if only they know the workings of the body of a genetically modified super soldier.
"SHIT!" the gunner cussed in panic, "RELOAD QUICKER!
—THUD THUD THUD!
A well warranted panic as the once shocked astartes was quickly barreling towards them. Head on it charge– bolter destroyed alongside its arm from the shot. Its bolt pistol was available on his hip… but it wasn't a personal solution to the amount of silent rage it was raging towards right now. An eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, blood for blood, it'll have its mitts on their heads.
"Fuck!," the tank loader fumbled in handling the ammunition.
"By his sight– JUST PUT A ROUND IN!" the gunner shouted. Not out of frustration… but in dread.
That feeling of trepidation was a self fulfilling act as he watched a giant wearing armor the size of an SUV leap unto them–
—Krick!
The top armor creaked at the weight and force of the astartes. But that wasn't the worst of it.
—Bang!
—Bang!
—Bang!
In quick succession, metal on metal banging sounded above them. From Above, the astartes reeled back his right arm– hand balled into a steely fist– and brought forth the anger of a whole world. Each impact dented the top armor. It struck but never in the same spot. Don't mistake their anger for something blind. Harness, it was a drive to something sickening. Each strike was deliberately random. It wanted the crew to see the dents. A sick sense of drive from the anger and a sweet satisfaction of the fear it brewed to anyone it was pointed at.
The crew silently watched as the dents spread faster and faster– bent the metal deeper and deeper. The astartes couldn't see it, the eyes void of solutions. The cursed eyes– knowing that each strike it brought down towards them left them nothing… not even surrender.
It wasn't only them. Outside, taken a defensive position, the tank's infantry support watched in blankness. To see such a being hammer down a tank from the top. To hear the sound it radiated. In their heads, they see none attached to the torso if provoked. Even the heavily armored fencer operator could only watch in terror. The sound of gun fire around them, the burning cries of their somewhat distant comrades were a far cry to what was in front of them. Each punch– no, calling the strikes of this astarte simple 'punches' is nothing short of heretical nonsense. Each… 'fury fisting' flashed each and everyone of their lives before now.
—RIP!
Four metal fingers and a thumb came through, followed by a forearm the size of a semi-truck.
"DA—MMFFF!"
The gunner couldn't even finish the air he was exhaling before the entire hand muffled him. Each finger and thumb wrapped around his skull like tightly gripping a baseball. The crew– wide eyed– watched in terror and in bated breath as the giant hand yanked a crew member above. As the astarte lifted its first victim, it created a bigger hole on the roof of the tank.
From the gap of the fingers, he saw death. Silent; no heavy breathing as if the astartes didn't just sprint, jump, and break the armor on a tank with just its fist. Its radiating black visor pulsed his future of solitude… and pain.
Aside from the surrounding battle, all they could hear was the struggling of a veteran. That veteran is nothing more but a child under the hand of an angry space marine. They couldn't really hear, but what they saw was enough to know. The hole brought about light, but it also brought shadow. Flailing legs, hands balled and punching. The remaining crew members were given a free shadow play of sorts.
Like lightly tossing a knife to change grip, the man was no longer muffled as the giant hand threateningly gripped his left shoulder. He wasn't given a chance to be a smartass as the astartes gripped to crush.
"AHHHHH!" the gunner serenaded anyone with his screams of pain.
Excruciating pain. It only continued. The astartes continued to crush everything underneath his hand. Nerves, bone, muscle, skin tissue, ligaments– nothing was left but mush. But before the astartes could lose any more grip or hold of the man squirming, the marine tossed him up higher than before. To the horror of the crew silently watching, they watched the shadow of the astartes grab the mid air gunner by the right ankle and bring him down like a hammer.
What was the marine hammering? The barrel of the tank.
—Crrck!
The sound of bones being crushed as the man was forcibly turned into a vegetable.
But the astartes didn't stop.
Down and down again the marine slammed the man. Blood was a common commodity. The crewmates grew numb to the sight and waited their turn. The onlookers… they smelled of puke. The marine kept slamming the gunner until the leg the marine was holding onto was completely ripped.
The astartes were surprised, believe it or not. Hard to tell being a helm. But the astarte stopped and looked at the leg it had on hand with a questionable tilt. Like a bored child, he tossed the bloodied foot and ankle. Like a greedy child, he reached down into the tank and yanked another poor sod. Rinse and repeat until there are none. The tank itself was painted anew.
No interruptions for fear of their lives, the onlookers, the so called tank support just watched. Some did more as they smelled of puke and piss… all had the common thought of staying out of it would lead to a safer passage… how wrong they were.
Tossing the last of the crew out to the side, he slowly turned his lens to those watching. A loathing to the lot of them… a cowardly lot that didn't even try to put up a resistance to save the crew.
A bolter round is too good for them, a blade is too much of a mercy…
…
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It didn't take long for the tactical marine's squadmates to find him standing. No left arm, half of his torso was drenched in blood– not his. His right knuckle dripped in crimson tear drops.
A marine will always be a marine… even if never to be named.
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A void, a realm constantly being filled with adventure. A realm of experiences, the spectrum of good and bad– harsh and soft does not exist. Only… just.
It just is, it just are, it just exists. From once a time was nothing, until a boy entered the realm.
From within the marble of being, a woman comfortably slept. Her silver hair sprawled out on the sheets. Her long eyelashes highlighted her closed eyes. Her cheek hugged on the soft contents of the body pillow she hugged like a koala. Bliss, her smile was bliss. The curve of her closed eyes followed the very same upward curve of her lips. Her hands gripped the cloud onto her warm and soft body. The blanket was thick and comfy; laid on top of her, it did not hide her natural sensual curve. It showed a glimpse of her physical appearance– a tease only her unknowing type of woman can only pull– a natural flirt.
Time did not exist here, but something told her to wake up. Her eyes, a replica of Duraeus. Vibrant and light– the original.
"Mmmmmfhmm–d!"
Sitting up– briefly closing her eyes– her arms out wide as her slumbering body awakens; each muscle stretched in ecstasy. She groaned cutely; satisfied, she went about her day.
She does as she did… back in the little world she created for her son. The very same world that birthed her she created.
"Hmm– hmm. HHMM– hm," she hummed a tune, singing with the rhythm of water hitting her bare white skin. The eyes of the storm, calm before the shit show.
—Crackle.
The sizzling snap of cooking bacon. The aroma no short of the world a man named Soma would reside in. Like mentioned, all part of her routine.
"Ah shucks… made too much…"
Vibrant as they may, a shadow of sadness lived within her joyous eyes. A habit she'd formed. Waking up early, doing her basic hygiene and quickly making breakfast for her boy… she sat alone on a table manifested out of nothing. She sat alone with two sizzling plates of perfect toast, crispy bacon strips, and two eggs cooked sunny side up. Her hair– long enough to reach her waist– dangled like her droopy mood. Left hand balled into a fist, her face laid somberly against it. The other limb was occupied with fiddling the eggs, a fork releasing the yoke wastefully.
…
Her thoughts are her own… she didn't need to do this. The eggs– food in general. The bed, blanket, the routine hygiene in the morning, the table– even the chair that's holding up the personified sadness– none was needed for a being such as her. Not even her physical appearance.
But something about it made her more… humane. Humane… not in the sense to dissuade the fact that she was both physically and mentally inhuman– that's something she knows all too well. The routine… the nostalgic sense of it all. Funnily enough, she was experiencing something all of humanity feels at some point in time.
"I miss him…" she mumbles.
Figuratively and literally, a light bulb popped in her head. She stood up, nothing on beside undergarments and a large t-shirt, the surrounding effects disappeared like smoke. The table, the walls, the room… the abode she and her son used to live in… like nothing.
With a swipe of her hand, the entire world around her turned black. No texture, no nothing, just a void– and she at the center of it all. Another swipe, multiple dimensional screens popped around her. One, two, five… slowly they multiplied. Movies if one were to compare the contents of each screen. Only they weren't. Each one had a member of Duraeus's Legion– front and center. Each marine varied in action. Some were posted on a checkpoint. To a normal extent, some marines were maiming their opponents.
…
Not so marine behavior. Not to call a fellow brother a heretic… but some of the actions these individuals were partaking bordered those of the Chaos gods.
In the eyes of Alicia… they oozed their aura. The revving of a chain sword, the crackle of a powerfist, the crack of a bolter… it filled the surrounding void around her like white noise.
—Click!
Until she had enough. She saw what she wanted to see. This… was all unprecedented. A surprise– out of the blue. No hint whatsoever. Vibrant blue eyes– livid. Livid at her own fault. Livid in the meddling of the Chaos fucks. Livid in seeing her boy get played. Livid in what she has to do.
Yet she smiles. A crack of dawn out of nowhere as if her smile and the sun were one. Yet the smile on her eyes was wicked. They burned a cold vigor. Taking a deep breath– slowly, with her right hand, her thumb and middle finger meet. The index finger ready for the impact– ready to snap…
But just before she does, she let's go of her manifested air–
"Return to me–"
—SNAP!
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