Global Vox Transmission – Priority Alpha Omega
> Transmitting from: Battle Barge Unyielding Resolve
Clearance: Librarian Alexander, Codex Dominus – Sigil Imperialis
Encryption: Sigma-Fortress-Iron
Status: Planetary Loss Confirmed
> 📡 +++ BEGIN VOX TRANSMISSION +++
> "To all loyal forces still holding ground on Ishvan II — this is Librarian Alexander aboard the Unyielding Resolve. Hear these words, and stand firm."
> "The planet is lost. We were delayed by the warp, and in our absence, the enemy has dug in. The noble houses were traitors. The Astra Militarum is broken. The heretics are legion."
> "BUT YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN."
> "All loyal units are to transmit coordinates and situation reports immediately. Whether Astartes, PDF, or remaining Guard, send your signal. Hold position if extraction is impossible — reinforcements are inbound."
> "Cruiser squadrons will assume high orbit and commence danger-close bombardment. You will feel the wrath of the Emperor in the skies above."
> "Brothers unable to retreat are ordered to dig in and buy time for others. Do not break. Do not fall. Let the enemy come. Make them pay in blood and ash."
> "All others: fall back to secondary rally points. Prepare for extraction."
> "This world may burn… but your valor will be remembered forever."
> "For the Emperor. For Dorn. Hold the line."
> 📡 +++ END TRANSMISSION +++
Hive Ishvan II — Lower Sub-Spire 38-B | Defensive Kill-Zone
The air reeked of ozone, rot, and vaporized flesh.
The once-grand transit corridor of the lower hive had become a slaughter alley, slick with blood and heaped with bodies — loyalist, traitor, mutant, all indistinguishable beneath ruin and smoke. The only clean sound in the chaos was the thunder of ceramite boots and the screeching grind of a chainsword soaked in marrow.
Captain Catalin II, last Astartes in the sector, stood unmoving at the mouth of the kill zone. A colossus, even by Space Marine standards, he towered over the crumbling barricades — his armor once gold and orange, now drenched red from helm to greaves.
The enemy came in waves — traitor Guardsmen, warp-twisted cultists, shrieking things that were once human. They surged toward him like a tide of filth and madness. And still, Catalin held.
With every breath, his power fist crushed bone and metal like parchment. His chainsword howled, sputtering with gore, its teeth dulled from overuse but no less deadly. His bolt pistol and plasma repeater now slung or silent — ammunition rationed for armored targets only.
Behind him, what remained of the PDF dug in, rallied by the Space Marine's unshakable presence. The heavy las-storm bolter chattered — then clicked.
> click-click…
Catalin knew that sound. Dry. Double red. Critical munitions failure. The last heavy weapon had just died.
A PDF officer — barely older than a cadet — slammed a bayonet onto a scorch-scarred lasrifle. Around him, the last twenty Guardsmen did the same.
They were ready to die, and they would die beside a legend.
> "They'll come through us like rats in a sewer line," the officer muttered.
Catalin didn't respond. He turned slightly, just enough for the young officer to see his bloodied helm.
> "Then we close the pipe," the Space Marine growled, voice like a thunderstorm breaking over a fortress wall.
He took two steps forward, into the open corridor, and lifted the corpses of two traitors — one in each hand — and slammed them into the bulkheads to form a crude, macabre blockade.
The hole in the ceiling above, blasted open during the last orbital strike, flickered with light. Red tracers stitched the sky, casting everything in hellish twilight. The screams of the heretic horde echoed deeper within the hive's twisting guts.
And still… they came.
Catalin stood ready, blood-soaked and immovable. The Emperor's fury incarnate.
---
SUDDENLY:
His vox clicked. A burst of static.
> 📡 "—this is Thunderhawk Lion's Mercy—priority extraction inbound to Ishvan II. Signal locked. Catalin, hold position. Two minutes. Extraction imminent."
> 📡 "Brothers en route. For the Emperor. Hold."
Catalin didn't flinch. He looked down the corridor as another wave of heretics surged forward, maddened and fearless.
Behind him, the Guardsmen rose to their feet.
> "You heard them!" the young officer shouted. "Two minutes! Stand with the Astartes! Fix bayonets!"
The corridor echoed with the battlecry of men who had no hope but still fought like lions:
> "For the Emperor! For Hive Ishvan! For Terra!"
Location: Hive Ishvan II – Sub-Spire 38-B
The vox crackled with the voice of the Thunderhawk pilot:
> 📡 "Extraction inbound. Two minutes. Hold position."
But Catalin's mind moved at a speed a mortal could never fathom.
In a flash of thought, he calculated dozens of possible outcomes: angles of approach, traitor force patterns, munition stock levels, escape vectors, the blast radius of hive-issue krak charges… and the structural integrity of the corridor.
He turned to the PDF lieutenant, his voice sharp and commanding:
> "Gather explosives. Collapse the side corridors. Funnel them here — into a single lane of fire."
The lieutenant nodded without hesitation. "Yes, my lord!"
Catalin pointed upward toward the ruined ceiling.
> "That breach. Clear it. Large enough for a Thunderhawk. Make room. Dig fast."
PDF engineers scrambled to obey, planting charges, dragging rubble, and shaping a makeshift kill funnel. The narrow corridor would become a grave for heretics.
Then the vox shrieked again — a new signal, far colder.
> 📡 "—bombardment imminent. Danger close. Bunker down. Impact in 20 seconds."
Catalin raised his voice — not in fear, but in unyielding command:
> "Down! Brace behind wrecks! Anchor yourselves! Fire only on targets that breach the flame line!"
The corridor fell silent… save for the rising scream of atmospheric entry — shells falling from the sky like judgment.
---
🚀 Scene: "Orbit Burns Red"
Location: Battle Barge Unyielding Resolve – High Orbit over Ishvan II
The command bridge shuddered violently.
> BOOM.
Lights dimmed, klaxons howled. A blinding red flicker painted the steel walls as the ship was slammed from the side.
Captain Noxa Xinoxis, her sharp eyes glowing with fury, gripped the command rail.
> "Report!"
A Magos of the Machine Cult — his voice metallic, layered — responded:
> "We've been struck by a proton blast, Captain. Origin: planetary defense array. Void shields down to 76%. Emperor protect us — this world should not possess such technology. The Machine God was not informed."
Xinoxis cursed in Low Gothic. "Those bastards planned this."
Librarian Alexander strode forward, his psychic aura blazing with fury.
> "This was a trap from the beginning."
> "All cruisers: maintain orbit. Begin danger-close bombardment. Target all known anti-air batteries. Erase them."
> "Thunderhawks and bombers — stand by. As soon as the AA nets are crippled, deploy."
> "And those defense ships?" Alexander pointed toward the outer radar arcs.
> "Those with warp drives — burn them. Order them to jump out. They will draw enemy fire, allow the Thunderhawks to enter atmosphere unhindered."
Xinoxis raised an eyebrow. "Suicidal distraction."
> "Necessary," the Librarian said. "Every second bought means a brother survives."
"Understood." Xinoxis turned to helm. "Full burn. Bring the battle barge to the proton cannon's position."
> "Angle our broadside batteries. When we see it... we erase it."
> "I want that cannon gone before it gets ideas about turning this ship into slag."
The bridge shook again — not from impact this time, but from the rage of the battle barge's ancient plasma engines roaring to life.
> "Fire at will," Alexander said coldly. "Execute."