THEMYSCIRA
Whirr… clank… whirr…
A line of gears sprang to life with every step Atrius took. At fifteen feet and one inch tall, his silhouette blotted out much of the dim forge-light, a colossus stitched together with iron, cogwork, and psychic intent. His movement was ponderous, rigid at first, as though his body and the machine were still negotiating their union.
He flexed his gauntleted hands, palms rotating with the faint shriek of steel joints sliding against one another. Every twist of his wrist sent a ripple down the lattice of interlocking plates and whirring gears that ran his arms, as though the armor itself was adjusting its musculature to him.
The forge was dark—only the faint embers of smelted ore glowed in their pits—yet his eyes, sharper than human sight, pierced the gloom without hindrance.
He halted. Silence. The gears stilled.
Then, with mechanical grace, his giant frame sank low into a squat. Cogs along his spine spun with a strained cadence, the sound like iron teeth grinding over bone. The motion was not smooth, and Atrius's jaw set as he noted the flaw. Still, this was all he could forge with the alien tools scattered across Themyscira's forges, a creation birthed from necessity and refined under relentless scrutiny of both hand and mind.
The armor tensed. His own muscles tightened within, like a bowstring drawn to its breaking point.
He leapt.
WHOOOM!
Fifteen feet of steel giant cut through the forge air. Sparks flew as a chain snapped against a pulley overhead. Atrius's bulk rose nearly twenty feet before gravity seized him.
He fell.
The whistling howl of a descending projectile screamed around him until—
BANG!
The ground split beneath his one-knee landing, a crater blooming outward in a storm of dust and grit. Tools clattered from benches. Chains swung from their hooks. A cloud of powdered stone enveloped him, choking the forge in smoke until, slowly, it cleared.
He rose.
The cogs along his spine realigned, each tooth slotting into its brother with the precision of a cathedral clock. They spun as he stood tall, their rhythm now smooth, as though acknowledging his control.
Atrius gazed down at the cracked floor. His expression was unreadable, but his words were flat and cold:
"Must be heavy."
His torso twisted left, then right. The segmented plates at his waist flexed like heated steel bending yet never breaking. The gears shrieked, drawing in energy with each whirl. His right arm reared back. The machinery locked, teeth biting teeth, pressure coiling. Then he struck forward—
FWOOM!
The punch tore through the air with the thunder of a cannon shot. The shockwave rippled outward, scattering rubble and blowing lingering dust from the crater. Yet his eyes narrowed. Still not enough.
He brushed rubble from his massive shoulder plate with a dismissive tap, the sound like iron striking iron.
Turning, he strode to the great bench designed for his scale. Each footfall landed like a drumbeat—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The forge shook with the cadence of his march, no longer clumsy, but deliberate, each step a statement of control.
Upon the bench rested his helm. Its form was kin to the Custodian helm he once bore, though this one was blackened, scorched by foreign fire. Strange Themysciran metals laced its structure, their alien hues standing out like veins of bronze and violet against the dark steel. Sigils of his caste—the Aquila foremost among them—were etched into the brow, a reminder of what he was.
With a long, resonant sigh, Atrius lifted the helm. He studied its twin lenses: one genuine, salvaged from his original helm, the other nothing more than tinted glass, stained red by his own hand. Useless in function, but vital to completeness. His perfectionism demanded it.
"Wow… look at that. What a beauty. If you were a woman, I'd ask your father for your hand."
The voice rang out casually, echoing through the broken forge. Atrius did not need to turn. He knew the speaker.
Heracles.
The demi-god strode forward, circling the crater as though admiring a work of art. His eyes trailed up Atrius's colossal frame, lingering on the armor that swallowed the giant's form in an exoskeletal cathedral of metal and motion.
"Why don't you make one for me?" Heracles smirked, tugging at his fur cloak. "Maybe I'll ditch this old rug and finally look civilized."
Atrius lowered his gaze. The demi-god was powerful, yes—but to Atrius, he was a curiosity. A man of contradictions: invulnerable flesh, yet still subject to the mortal failings of hunger, fatigue, and pride.
"It takes a toll," Atrius replied, his voice a low rumble. "For you, it would be… counter-efficient."
Heracles arched an eyebrow. "You don't think I'm strong enough to wear what you're wearing?"
Atrius's response was calm, unyielding:
"It requires not only strength, but the endurance to bear it—until it becomes second nature. It demands mastery of one's body to move with precision, not waste. Both of these you lack."
The words were not insult, but observation. Heracles's power was undeniable, but his body still obeyed mortal law: greater strength demanded greater energy, and energy burned away swiftly. He was formidable, but his flame consumed itself too fast.
Heracles's jaw tightened. "You look down on me too much."
Atrius set the helm back on the bench. "If you truly require armor, I will forge one for you."
The demi-god leaned on the table's towering leg, watching Atrius's impassive face. Not a flicker of expression betrayed the colossus's thoughts. His silence was as heavy as the armor he wore.
Heracles exhaled. "…You treat me well. Why? I've done nothing to earn it. I haven't even taken this task seriously—I've given you nothing but riddles and half-truths. And yet…" His brows knit with rare vulnerability. "Yet you're… kind to me."
Atrius glanced down at him, eyes hard as forged iron. He said nothing. His gaze returned to the helm, to the Aquila etched upon it—a relic of home, a beacon of duty.
Heracles could not know. He could not know that his very stature echoed the Emperor's other sons—warriors molded to be humanity's guardians, cursed and revered in equal measure. The Custodians may have scorned them, but even Atrius could not deny it:
the Adeptus Astartes—the Emperor's flawed, mighty children. A catastrophe… but one whose will had carried the Imperium's flame across millennia.