THEMYSCIRA
The silence hung like a held breath. Atrius longed to walk on, but he could not. His way out of this world was limited: it could only be by ship or by the Warp. Here, upon this savage and archaic sphere, there were no vessels he could claim for the journey, nor was he yet skilled enough to navigate the Immaterium without becoming forever lost. He felt its pulse—distant, veiled—yet here he was powerful. Power, however, meant little without the proper means to wield it.
Now he stood before two paths: wait until he could breach the Immaterium from which the daemon had come, to seek his answers there… or follow the will of this so-called goddess.
With a long sigh, he turned his gaze upon Gaia.
"How? Do you possess a ship that can travel the stars?" he asked her, his voice steeped in curiosity. The last time he had measured this world, it had been backward and feudal. For such a vessel to exist here meant only two things: either it had come from xenos hands, or it was the final piece of the puzzle as to why mankind had been seeded upon this world at all.
Gaia looked at him in astonishment.
"So… that is where you came from," she remarked softly.
"I can help you find your way home. But your presence here has cast a shroud across the sight of the Fates. They can no longer see beyond what is already known. There are two paths," she said, lifting two fingers.
She stretched forth her palm, and from it embers of light rose, twisting into a living image of fire.
"War is upon us. From the stars, a new god approaches. You may wait for his arrival, capture one of the ships in his armada, and seek your world step by step… or you may endure until the war is ended, when I myself shall guide you to Hecate. She possesses great knowledge of the stars, and with enough description of your realm, or even its approximate place, she may send you there—or close."
Atrius weighed her words. Should he seize his own path, or trust her hand in this?
"What would you require of me, if you were to aid me in such a task, the war?" he asked at last.
Gaia's eyes shimmered with quiet amusement.
A chuckle, soft yet echoing like a wind through boughs, rippled through the night.
Atrius remained silent, his expression cold.
"No. This war, we cannot lose. He takes on more than he can ever consume," she said, speaking of the god who approached.
"What I desire…" Her tone lowered as she stepped toward him. "I require much."
Her hand extended to touch his breastplate as she whispered:
"I want you to rescue my children. They have been imprisoned by the god-king of the Olympians."
Sorrow laced her voice. Her eyes betrayed more than her words.
"They have been caged for most of their lives—by their father, his son, and his son's son. Three generations of god-kings have ruled over this sphere, my very body, while my children, their very blood, rotted in chains."
Atrius listened, intrigued.
"I've been deceived so many times, with far too many broken promises. No more. I will set them free on my own, but I need your strength to do it.," she said, her fingers tracing the golden lines of his armor.
"The Olympians are too strong for me alone. Zeus has grown fat with power through the ages. To rise against him is to beg for chains, or worse. With each generation, his tyranny deepens, and with it his paranoia. He will never allow my children to walk free."
"You think I'm capable of such a feat?" Atrius asked.
"You are, and more." Her eyes hardened.
"I want you to dethrone him."
WASHINGTON D.C. – THE PENTAGON (EARTH, 2021)
The ground trembled. A thunderous roar split the heavens, followed by the tearing shriek of atmosphere rending apart before a descending craft. Sirens wailed across the Pentagon grounds as floodlights snapped upward, beams converging upon the vast silhouette falling from the stars.
It was no aircraft of Earth. The vessel loomed like a black cathedral turned skyward, its armored belly ablaze with thrusters, its flanks carved in brutal geometry. The Imperial aquila, vast and alien, was emblazoned across its frame.
*rumble*
The shriek gave way to a bone-deep rumble as the lander descended, slamming onto the tarmac with seismic weight. Painted lines and asphalt cracked beneath its mass.
Already the grounds were fortified. Convoys of Humvees and APCs formed barricades. Tanks crouched in firing positions, barrels fixed upon the intruder. Helicopters wheeled in the air like vultures, their searchlights cutting through smoke and night. Rows of soldiers stood rigid in their cordon, rifles trained, faces pale but unflinching as their commanders barked for discipline.
*hiss*
The craft groaned. Pistons hissed and locks clanged as the forward hatch split apart. Metal sheared and slid aside, unfolding into broad steps that rang as boots struck them.
They came in ordered ranks—soldiers, yet unlike any military of Earth. The Astra Militarum marched with mechanical precision, flak armor dull beneath the floodlights, lasrifles gripped but held low in disciplined readiness. They fanned outward, filling the tarmac in formation. Their numbers were measured: enough to awe, but not so many as to seem a conquering host.
At their head strode a single officer. His greatcoat swept behind him, a golden aquila badge pinned to his chest. In his hand rested a staff of office, its sigil indecipherable to human eyes, yet heavy with authority. His bearing was regal, his step unhurried, as though he walked upon ground already claimed.
Flanking him were two figures in baroque armor—the Sisters of Silence. Their helms were expressionless masks wrought in the likeness of judgment, their presence radiating an unnatural stillness. Whispers died in the throats of onlookers. Soldiers shifted uneasily, their nerves raw, for something unseen pressed against their minds and hollowed the air.
Behind them came a figure of crimson and iron. A Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, robes trailing, augmetic limbs clattering faintly with each step. His face was a lattice of lenses and bronze plating, a vox-grille chattering with static as if his flesh alone was unfit to carry thought. A disturbing scene for the spectators.
The column halted at the base of the landing ramp, no more than twenty feet from the bristling line of Earth's defenders. For a heartbeat, silence hung heavier than the sirens. Then a low crackle came, followed by the mechanical hum of a vox-enhancer.
The officer's voice boomed, not merely loud but resonant, every syllable drawn out with the weight of translation.
"I am Lieutenant Lucan Varr, Envoy of Lord Maloris, Tribune of the Adeptus Custodes," he declared, his words echoing across the Pentagon grounds. He raised his hand, gesturing skyward to where unseen leviathans lingered beyond the clouds. "I come to seek audience with your world-governor. We mean you no harm."
The words rolled outward, magnified yet calm, and in their wake the atmosphere shifted. Soldiers who moments before clutched their rifles with white knuckles felt the pressure ease. Some exhaled, shoulders loosening. The uncanny familiarity of mortal men—soldiers, disciplined and human—was strangely reassuring compared to the terror that might have descended in the form of angels of gold or towering giants in ceramite.
Varr let his gaze drift across them—these defenders of Earth, bewildered yet resolute. Their astonishment was plain in their eyes. The tension had not broken, but it bent. Just as Lord Maloris had foreseen, the sight of men rather than towering angels of death had steadied them.
And yet, as the envoy breathed in the air of Terra—of the cradle of mankind itself—there was a strangeness. It was cleaner, sharper, untouched by the smog of a trillion hives. For a moment it felt surreal, as though he stood not on a world of men, but upon a memory long lost to the Imperium.
So… this is what humanity has lost.