Chapter Interlude: Senior H?
In the end, the Ultramarines departed—reluctantly, but they did leave. Before going, however, Roboute Guilliman personally presented small gifts to both Mortarion and Hades.
Mortarion didn't even bother unwrapping his. He tossed the little blue-silk-wrapped box straight into storage. He had no reason for curiosity, and his regard for Roboute Guilliman wasn't nearly enough to make him open it.
Hades, on the other hand, was absolutely delighted with his gift: a massive Macragge tapestry. Delighted to the point of smugness.
It was hand-sewn, clearly the work of some Ultramarine himself—tight stitches, soft and plush in texture. On a lake-blue background, an entire scene was embroidered: warm sunlight falling across a white plaza, a solemn fortress rising in the distance, and lively birds scattered throughout.
Hades guessed it was a view from Macragge, though he wasn't sure of the exact location.
From both an aesthetic and a political perspective, the tapestry was flawless.
So, naturally, Hades hung one panel of it in his office.
This caused a small stir—one Hades didn't care about at all. Garro, reporting in, glanced at it and fell into silence. Vorx looked devastated. The other Death Guard who entered his office usually froze for a moment, taken aback.
Mortarion, however, had the strongest reaction. The Lord of Death entered the office, and his gaze locked on the tapestry as if it were a witch not yet dragged to the gallows.
He slowly walked up to it, prodded the cloth with a finger, then recoiled instantly in disgust, as though he might vomit on it.
"Is there a problem?"
Hades' tone was clear: if there's an issue, say it. If not, get out.
[No.]
Mortarion finally dragged his eyes away.
That period, the Death Guard were suddenly awash in jokes involving the Ultramarine. Mortarion, in turn, held several war games simulating large-scale engagements against humanoid enemies.
Enrique, the quiet Master of the Forge, showed the least reaction. Having already seen through Hades' true nature long ago, he treated the tapestry as though it were invisible, calmly continuing his reports.
Not long after, Rust sent word about how the ship they had been building for Hades was essentially complete. What remained were decisions on interior fittings. If Hades made no special requests, the Mechanicum Magos would handle the details themselves.
Hades waved it off. Let them. He wasn't a man for details—so long as the armaments were in place and the firepower overwhelming, he was satisfied.
Let the Tech-Priests follow the standard templates. It wasn't like they'd actually decorate his ship with pink shag carpets in fluffy bunny style.
Meanwhile, the second batch of Techmarines dispatched to Mars had returned, and the fourth had already been sent off.
As the first veteran to return from Mars, and both de jure and de facto Master of the Forge, Enrique asked Hades if he'd like to inspect the new batch of recruits—maybe give a speech, maybe test their professional standards.
Hades stared at him. He knew what the real emphasis was: the "test." He still remembered when he himself had just come back—when the Master of the Forges, one after another, had challenged him with technical problems under the pretense of "assessing professional standards."
In truth, it had been a hazing ritual—a way to make freshly returned Mars-trained recruits more obedient. For the normally dry and joyless Armoury, this was their idea of fun.
Unfortunately for them, Hades had crushed them all. Which had somewhat ruined the entertainment value.
And because of that precedent, the Armoury had treated this second batch with unusual caution.
So they decided to invite the Armoury's strongest man—Hades himself—to give the new recruits their "lesson".
And for such a source of amusement—no, request—as the Master of the Armoury, Hades naturally agreed without hesitation.
. . . . .
Among the second batch of Death Guard sent to Mars, Pasteur was very clearly the most skilled of the lot (at least in the core subjects).
On the mock battlefield, even as missiles detonated all around him and the ground trembled violently, he could calmly replace a three-millimeter No. 0 gear in a Stormbird as if nothing had happened.
Or, in a high-pressure, high-temperature, high-radiation environment, with his display completely destroyed, he could still rely on experience and the faint scraps of broken signals to reinstall the system of a massive servitor engine.
No extreme environment could shake his composure in the slightest—he worked like a perfectly tuned machine, flawlessly completing every repair.
But in certain more obscure classes, such as the proper rites of the Mechanicus cult, the standard procedures for procurement across Forge Worlds, or even the basics of different dialects spoken by various Tech-Priests, Pasteur flunked completely.
(Side note: in all these obscure subjects, the record-holder for best grades was none other than Hades.)
However, because Mars practiced "holistic education," they didn't withhold graduation over failed courses. And so, despite failing several, Pasteur was casually shipped back with his certificate.
Pasteur's interpretation of this was: he didn't understand, but since he was back, he would devote himself to the Death Guard anyway.
And along the way—track down that senior known as "H."
In truth, Pasteur's own academic achievements had already earned him considerable respect at the Martian technical base. Both Iron Warriors and Iron Hands praised this Death Guard who seemed to be missing a screw in his head. Some even said he carried a trace of that same scholarly aura as the legendary "H."
But Pasteur knew better. To anyone who had actually studied Senior H's works, the gulf between them was like heaven and earth.
The more they praised him, the more it deepened Pasteur's obsession: he had to find that senior!
Unfortunately, even in a place like the Armoury, bureaucracy and ritual existed. No sooner had they disembarked from the ship than they had to undergo the Rite of Cleansing before the Omnissiah, and then they were herded off to listen to a speech from the Master of the Forge—Hades.
Expressionless, Pasteur stood in the front row of the new recruits. The words flowed into his left ear, then promptly out his right, like a meaningless stream.
Such events never held his interest. He didn't care for them, didn't like them.
What he really wanted was to seek out a Master of the Forge and ask: was there anyone in the Armoury whose name started with "H"?
Or perhaps someone whose surname started with "H"? Or even someone with a particular fondness for the letter "H"?
One moment he was rehearsing in his head how to approach this mysterious senior, the next he was worrying whether the man had already died in battle, then imagining what mechanical component he ought to offer at the grave if that were the case—
Meanwhile, up on stage, Hades was still blissfully unaware that this stone-faced new recruit had already written him off as a dead man.
Hades, for his part, cared only about the entertainment to come.
It was obvious that no one in the Armoury enjoyed bureaucracy or sermons. So after a few perfunctory remarks, he let the eager Techmarines take the recruits away for their "vocational aptitude assessments."
He was curious himself—could these newcomers even last until they reached his challenge? Because after his own display the previous year, the Master of the Forges had decided to pull out all the stops. The tests this year were each more absurd than the last.
From repairing a "temporarily awakened" irritable Dreadnought, to manufacturing a civilian ration production line with limited parts under a time limit—Hades saw the list of test and could only mutter, what the hell are you people smoking?
And his own challenge? Repairing the external crash-landing system while trapped inside a free-falling, out-of-control drop pod—and manually recalibrating the descent coordinates at the same time.
Enrique's response: You really are the newborn dawn, aren't you. Out of control is bad enough, but repairing the outside of the pod while falling? Are you trying to invent miracles now?
Innocently, Hades blinked at Enrique. What? Isn't this just an assessment?
Of course, no one actually believed any of the recruits would ever make it all the way to Hades' final challenge.
So that day, the Master of the Forges sat together, sipping tea while watching the "friendly" Dreadnought they'd rigged in advance gleefully beat the recruits to a pulp.
They all nodded sagely. Ah, yes. This is youth.
After all, who here hadn't been pummeled by a Dreadnought before?
—Then, almost as one, everyone's gaze shifted toward the figure sitting among them: Hades.
Predictably, the very same Hades—happily munching snacks and sipping tea—was promptly kicked out to go "patrol," his job now to drag off the poor Techmarines who'd been flattened.
Though Hades grumbled at losing his snacks, the chance to watch the recruits' struggles up close wasn't bad either. This, after all, was the Armoury pastime. A joy no other Death Guard could ever hope to understand.
Before long, a chorus of groans filled the hall as the recruits collapsed one by one, unable to continue. The Master of the Forges strolled over, smiling broadly, chatting loudly as they sighed about how weak this batch was—
"I've finished. What's the next trial?"
A voice cut sharply through their banter.
Pasteur was standing by his newly constructed assembly line, silently double-checking his design. No issues. It held. He thought to himself—
A shadow fell across his thoughts.
"So fast? You actually finished it?"
Pasteur looked up in silence. It was the man who had given the speech earlier—watching him intently now, eyes gleaming with interest.
Pasteur had already forgotten his name.
He gave a stiff nod.
"The front end of the line dismantles the standard Type-3 layout. The back end borrows and improves on a Martian design—"
"No, that's not the key point."
The man cut him off softly. His left eye glowed red, scanning the line.
"You used a wheel structure I've never seen before, didn't you? That's new."
Pasteur hesitated, but finally gave the smallest of nods.
Inwardly, he was already making calculations. If this man was the leader of the Armoury, then surely he would know of Senior H. As long as H hadn't died, someone of such brilliance would certainly have risen to prominence here.
Please don't let him be dead.
All he had to do was make a good impression now, then ask. A flawless strategy. For the first time in his life, Pasteur felt he was on the brink of a major breakthrough in human interaction.
But before he could piece together the words, Hades noticed the kid's silence and prodded him himself.
"I know you, don't I? Pasteur, right?"
Pasteur nodded wordlessly.
Hades nearly choked. At least say something back, damn it!
Forget it. He was used to this. So Hades tried again, testing the waters.
"Your forgecraft talent is quite impressive. Where do you plan to continue your studies after this?"
Then, to his utter shock, he saw Pasteur shake his head. Firmly.
For the first time in a long time, Hades' mind went completely blank with question marks.
"My lord, I don't need that."
Wait. What? Just what exactly had this recruit understood from his words??
"My lord,"
Pasteur swallowed hard.
"I want to find someone. A Death Guard Techmarine."
Hades blinked, utterly lost, but still answered honestly.
"All right. Tell me—what's his name? What does he look like? I'll help however I can."
Slowly, Pasteur shook his head.
Suddenly it hit him how impossible it was to ask this. He didn't know the man's name. He didn't know what he looked like. Yet here he was, blurting it out straight to the Armoury's leader.
"I don't even know his name. But… back on Mars, he left behind a book. A book that anyone could contribute to. And his signature was just… H."
Pasteur looked up—only to see the leader staring at him with an expression of sheer helplessness, like he was holding back words too absurd to say.
Pasteur's heart sank. He'd chosen the wrong person again. Asked the wrong way. He was finished.
He remembered the time he'd bungled the sacred Mechanicus rites on Mars, chased down by furious Magos, and locked in a chapel for a whole month of "reflection." If not for Senior H's manual, How to Fake Piety, he might still be stuck there today.
"What do you want with him?"
Hades asked, straining to keep a straight face. Then he saw Pasteur's expression—resolute, almost heroic, like a man about to sacrifice everything.
"I want to become his apprentice. Or at least thank him. Senior H's writings taught me so much… they gave me the very meaning of life."
"I'm grateful to be a Death Guard. I'm grateful to be a Techmarine of the Death Guard. But the one thing I will never regret is going to Mars, and discovering those words."
Pasteur spoke with grave solemnity:
"So please, my lord—at least allow me to meet him once."
Hades almost burst. The beginning, fine. But the meaning of life? What in the Omnissiah's name had this recruit actually understood?!
"…I know who you're looking for."
Pasteur's eyes lit up with joy—quickly followed by worry.
"You've already met him."
Hades forced his face into the flattest, calmest expression he could manage. He watched Pasteur's reaction—elation crumbling instantly into disappointment.
"My lord, I… I didn't recognize him. Please, tell me who he is! I won't make the mistake again!"
Hades lowered his head, staring at him silently. Pasteur stared back, tense and expectant.
Slowly, Hades raised a hand and pointed to himself.
"…My name is Hades. H-A-D-E-S."
"…H."
And then Hades witnessed it: Pasteur's delayed, dawning realization. His face froze, then he staggered backward—backward—until he toppled completely.
Pasteur's head rang with a deafening buzz. The last thing he heard before blacking out was Senior H—no, Hades—shouting for the Apothecary.
I couldn't even recognize my own mentor when he stood before me, Pasteur thought dimly. I should just volunteer for a death mission now.
. . . . . . . .
Note: Sure enough, no one survived all the way to Hades' trial. The most promising recruit had been personally knocked out by Hades himself.
Enrique declared this year's vocational assessment of the recruits to be the most entertaining yet—more than making up for the lack of fun in last year's event.
<+>
If you want to see more chapter of this story and don't mind paying $5 each month to read the latest posted chapter, please go to my Patreon [1]
Latest Posted Chapter in Patreon: Chapter 351: The Onlooker Sees More Clearly Than the Player[2]
Link to the latest posted chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520[3]
https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed[4]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520
[3] https://www.patreon.com/posts/145213204?collection=602520
[4] https://www.patreon.com/collection/602520?view=condensed