-Simulation-
Your initial confrontation with the Primarch came to a temporary end.
The massive form of Mortarion lowered his giant scythe Silence without hesitation, the weapon's corrupted edge no longer poised to strike. The threat had passed, at least for now.
You hesitated for a moment, awareness of your vulnerable position warring with pragmatic necessity. Finally, you lowered the Bloodthirsty Manreaper still gripped tightly in your palm. The weapon's weight seemed heavier now, as though reluctant to be sheathed while standing before a Primarch.
"Nameless demon." Mortarion's voice cut through the fetid air like a blade. "Although the machine spirit of Silence has assured me of your origin, and Typhus is being resurrected as you said, I still cannot believe that you are my heir."
He paused, and those cloudy yellow eyes opened slightly wider, fixing upon you with an almost lifeless gaze that seemed to see straight through ceramite and flesh alike.
"Who are you?"
The Primarch's majestic and low questioning voice carried across the chamber, drawing the attention of every Death Guard present. Corrupted heads turned, plague-riddled eyes focusing on your blood-red form. Even through their endless suffering, curiosity pulled at what remained of their awareness.
You raised your metal helmet with its crimson horn, adjusting your grip on the Bloodthirsty Manreaper. When you spoke, your tone was calm, measured, revealing nothing of the calculations racing through your mind.
"Just like the twenty-one Primarchs all have their own unique abilities or life experiences, the same is true for me. I am just a tool of the Emperor." You paused, letting the words settle. "If you really want to know my name, then call me Twenty-Two."
Your words seemed to cause a small commotion among some of the Death Guards. Murmurs rippled through the corrupted ranks, voices distorted by plague-swollen throats and corroded vox-grilles. Even now, while they suffered from the endless pain caused by the Destroyer Plague, such shocking news allowed them to temporarily escape their focus on their torment. The revelation of a twenty-second Primarch was enough to pierce even the fog of agony.
However, the massive Mortarion seemed to have no emotional reaction at all. His pale face remained an impassive mask behind the breathing apparatus. He simply looked at you carefully with those yellow eyes, studying you as one might examine a specimen of unknown origin.
Your mouth, hidden inside the metal helmet, opened slightly. You let out a slow breath that fogged briefly against the interior of your visor before the recyclers cleared it away.
You had not told the truth to this Pale King, this fellow Primarch, as you had with Corax, the Raven King. Even if you ultimately succeeded in saving Mortarion from the corruption of the Chaos God Nurgle, he remained a rebel Primarch who had betrayed both the Emperor and the Imperium of Mankind. Trust could only extend so far.
"The twenty-second Primarch?" The silent Pale King was the first to break the heavy quiet that had settled over the chamber. His majestic and deep voice reached your ears slowly, each word deliberate. "It seems that Father's old habits of secrecy are hard to change."
You seemed to have keenly captured something in that moment. A fleeting series of complex emotions flickered deep within Mortarion's yellow eyes, visible for only an instant before he buried them again. Hatred. Disgust. Jealousy. Arrogance. And perhaps, just perhaps, a small measure of nostalgia for something long lost.
"Twenty-Two, is it?" Mortarion's gaze sharpened, boring into you with renewed intensity. "You do not seem to be lying, but you are not telling the truth completely either."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of grim pragmatism.
"However, solving Typhus is the first problem you and I need to face."
Mortarion, who had quickly hidden his mood swings behind that emotionless mask, suddenly lowered his head. He looked down at you with those yellow eyes, waiting for your response.
The blood-red horn above your metal helmet's forehead caught what little light remained in the chamber, reflecting it in a dull gleam. You nodded heavily toward the Primarch, acquiescing to what he had said. There would be time for truth later, if you both survived what was to come.
At that moment, the Pale King Mortarion once again surveyed the ancient hall with eyes so indifferent they seemed to view death itself as merely another passing curiosity. His gaze swept across the large number of his heirs scattered throughout the corrupted chamber.
When his eyes reached the edges of the hall, where some of the Death Guards had been so thoroughly eroded and tortured by the Destroyer Plague that they had begun to beg for death, something shifted in his expression. It was subtle, barely perceptible, but it was there. Even Mortarion, who had always maintained such cold indifference, could not remain entirely unmoved by the sight of his sons reduced to such suffering.
It was this, more than anything you had said, that solidified his decision to believe your actions and choose cooperation.
You exchanged a few words with Mortarion, your voices low and clipped. The conversation was brief, tactical, focused entirely on the task at hand. You decided together to find a way to eliminate Typhus once and for all, to save the Death Guard Legion from this endless pain that had claimed so many of them.
The Pale King, wearing the ancient armor of Barbarus, turned and led the way without further ceremony. The giant scythe Silence was held loosely in his palm, the weapon swaying up and down with the measured steps of his massive frame. Each footfall was deliberate, purposeful, carrying him deeper into his own corrupted flagship.
You took one last glance through your helmet visor at the Death Guards remaining in the auditorium. Plague-ravaged faces stared back at you, some with hope, others with mere curiosity, many with nothing at all in their eyes save pain. You committed the sight to memory, then drove the Terminator armor forward without hesitation.
You followed the huge figure of the Pale King under the silent gaze of countless anguished eyes, your boots leaving deep impressions in the corrupted deck plating.
The two of you quickly left the ancient auditorium behind, moving through corroded passages toward the bridge. Your path took you deeper into the heart of the vessel, into regions where the Warp's touch had grown stronger.
As you progressed, you discovered with keen awareness that the signs of Chaos corruption were becoming progressively more severe. The atmosphere itself seemed to thicken, growing heavy with malevolent presence.
Green mist floated randomly through the air, coiling and writhing as though alive. It clung to every surface, leaving trails of moisture that hissed faintly when touched by your armor's heat. The stench was overwhelming even through your helmet's filters, a mixture of rot, bile, and sweet decay that seemed designed to turn mortal stomachs.
You also witnessed the horrific changes that had overtaken the metal equipment in the upper cabins. Bulkheads and support structures that should have been solid steel had undergone terrible transformations. Some metal parts were rotted and foul-smelling, weeping green pus that pooled on the deck and ate through the plating beneath. Others twisted and trembled as if alive, their surfaces rippling with impossible movement. Occasionally they released very strange sounds, shouts and groans that seemed to come from throats that had never existed.
You could even vaguely hear something else threading through the corrupted corridors. The joyful laughter of countless Nurglings echoed in your ears, high-pitched giggles that spoke of innocent malevolence. The daemon-spawn were close, celebrating the suffering they had wrought.
Deep within the wide passage leading to the bridge, new horrors emerged into view.
Mortal crew members, their bodies transformed into shambling Nurgle zombies by the plague, shuffled through the green mist. Their movements were jerky and uncoordinated, flesh sloughing from bones with each step. But it was not these wretches that drew your immediate attention.
Dozens of tall Death Guard Librarians advanced behind the zombie horde. These psykers were immediately recognizable by their abdomens, swollen grotesquely until they resembled balls barely contained by their corrupted power armor. The psychic warriors had proven almost immune to the initial erosion and corruption of Chaos, their mental disciplines providing some protection.
This resistance had only made them more susceptible in the end. Without the immediate physical suffering their brothers endured, the corruption had time to work more subtly, more completely. Now they were perhaps the most thoroughly lost of all.
The Death Guard Librarians drove their green power armor forward despite the multiple rotted and ulcerated wounds covering their bodies. Fluids leaked from gaps in their plate, leaving trails of filth in their wake. They waved the corrupted weapons in their palms vigorously, force staves crackling with diseased psychic energy. With smiles stretching across plague-swollen faces, they launched a slow but utterly determined attack in your direction.
Mortarion remained silent, offering no commentary on the tragedy of his sons' fall. He simply allowed the giant scythe Silence to tremble slightly in his tight grip, the weapon's machine spirit awakening to the promise of violence.
The next second, his huge body erupted into motion like a volcano finally giving way. He rushed forward with overwhelming force toward the enemies ahead, each step shaking the deck beneath him. The Primarch became a pale avalanche of death and fury.
You took a deep breath, the recycled air sharp in your lungs. Subconsciously, your hands clenched tighter around the Bloodthirsty Manreaper until the weapon's haft creaked in protest. The living eyes embedded in the blade seemed to gleam with anticipation.
You immediately drove the Khorne Terminator armor into motion and launched your own battle charge.
Instantly, the chamber filled with terrible sound. The giant scythe Silence and the Bloodthirsty Manreaper screamed horribly as they cut through the fetid air, the noise echoing in the entire corridor for long seconds. Metal shrieked against metal. Ceramite crashed against corrupted flesh. The Nurgle zombies were smashed into fragments by the combined battle charge, rotten flesh and putrid blood flying in all directions.
A dozen of the corpulent, smiling Death Guard Librarians suddenly swung their corrupted weapons forward to meet Mortarion's assault. Force staves crackled with green energy, psychic power gathering for desperate strikes.
It made no difference.
They were smashed repeatedly from top to bottom by Mortarion's giant scythe Silence, the Primarch's strength cleaving through corrupted power armor as though it were parchment. Bodies split in two, becoming rotten corpses that collapsed to the deck in pieces. Green ichor sprayed across the walls, hissing where it struck bare metal.
You suddenly arrested the heavy momentum of your charge, boots grinding against the deck as servos screamed. The Bloodthirsty Manreaper with its blood-red living eyes turned forward in a wide, devastating arc.
Five or six Death Guard Librarians who had not intended to dodge, either through corruption-induced madness or simple inability to move their swollen bodies quickly enough, were torn into two halves by the powerful force and sharp blade. The scythe carved through them effortlessly, sending countless gouts of disgusting green pus splashing across the corridor.
At this moment, whether it was you or the Pale King Mortarion, there was no intention to hold back when facing these completely corrupted Death Guards. Mercy would serve no purpose here. These warriors were beyond salvation, their souls already claimed by Nurgle's garden.
The two of you moved through the corridor like reapers harvesting a field of corrupted grain, your weapons rising and falling in brutal efficiency.
However, just when you and Mortarion were about to completely eliminate and clean up the last of the corrupted Librarians before you, something new emerged.
Deeper in the corridor, at the far end where shadows pooled thick as oil, a swarm appeared. Black flies, each the size of a human fist, erupted from the darkness with terrifying buzzing sounds that filled the air like a physical force.
They attacked, a living cloud of pestilence rushing toward you both with single-minded hunger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~