The stench was getting worse. The initial shock had numbed Caelan to it, but now, as the adrenaline ebbed away, the full, gut-wrenching bouquet of the slaughterhouse filled the air. He remained crouched behind the rusted sedan, his eyes darting between the kneeling demigod of war before him and the gory tableau spread across the parking lot. His mind was a frantic scramble, trying to process what came next.
The Astartes remained perfectly still, a patient, living weapon awaiting instruction. The silence stretched, becoming awkward, accusatory. What do you do after your newly summoned superhuman bodyguard has just turned twenty-four people—things—into chunky salsa? He was a fan, a lore enthusiast, not a warlord. His grandest strategic command had been ordering a pizza with extra anchovies.
What now? he thought, a wave of helplessness washing over him. The initial thrill of power was fading, replaced by the chilling reality of his situation. He was in a dead world, with a single, blood-soaked killing machine as his only companion.
As if hearing his silent plea, the System chimed in his head.
[Administrator appears to be experiencing analysis paralysis. Typical for organisms with limited command experience and an over-developed sense of self-preservation.]
Caelan's jaw dropped. Did the System just mock me?
[Query: Affirmative. My function is to provide data and assistance. Pointing out observable truths, such as your current state of tactical incompetence and cowardice, falls within acceptable parameters. Would you like a list of potential actions, or do you require more time to... contemplate the futility of your position?]
The condescending tone of the text, so cool and matter-of-fact, ignited a spark of indignant rage in Caelan. How dare you! I'm the Administrator! Your boss! I-I was just assessing the situation! Taking stock! A true commander never rushes into a decision!
He projected the thought with all the fury he could muster, a petty act of rebellion against the omniscient entity in his head.
There was a pause, almost theatrical.
[...Of course, Administrator. My apologies for misinterpreting your profound strategic deliberation.]
Even without inflection, the words dripped with sarcasm. Caelan fumed silently for a moment before swallowing his pride. The System, infuriating as it was, was right. He had no clue what to do. Defeated, he focused his thoughts. Fine. Show me my options.
But before the System could respond, Caelan had a better idea. Why rely on a snarky ghost in his brain when he had a nine-foot-tall strategic asset kneeling right in front of him?
He cleared his throat, pushing himself to his feet. He tried to project an aura of confidence, of someone born to command, but he was sure his trembling hands and pale face betrayed him. He gestured vaguely at the carnage.
"A... a good start," he began, his voice a little shaky. He decided to give the warrior a designation, something suitably grand. "You... I will call you Primus. First among those who will serve."
The helmeted head dipped a fraction of an inch. "As you command, My Lord."
"Primus," Caelan said, finding his footing a little more. "Give me your assessment. What is our next move?"
Primus didn't hesitate. His crimson lenses swept the area in a practiced, analytical arc. His voice, when it came, was the epitome of cold, brutal logic.
"Primary objective is your survival, My Lord. Survival requires three immediate tactical considerations: Shelter, Sustenance, and Security."
He pointed a massive, gore-stained gauntlet towards the ruined supermarket. "Shelter. That structure is compromised but large. It offers cover from the elements and a defensible perimeter. We must clear it of any remaining hostiles and fortify a section for your use."
His gaze shifted, almost seeming to scan the distant, derelict rooftops. "Sustenance. You are mortal. You will require water and uncontaminated food. The store is the most logical source for such supplies. A thorough search is required."
Finally, his gaze swept back over the bloody parking lot. "Security. These tainted flesh-forms are weak, slow, and lack coordinated tactics. However, their numbers are an unknown variable. They are drawn to sound. To preserve ammunition for more significant threats, I recommend utilizing my chainsword for close-quarter purging. We must eliminate all immediate threats before establishing a base." The warrior paused, then added, "My Lord, if the means become available, summoning more battle-brothers would drastically increase our operational effectiveness and secure this territory with greater speed."
Caelan listened, nodding along as if he had already considered all of this. It was perfect. A clear, concise plan. He was saved from having to come up with one himself.
"Excellent," Caelan declared, puffing out his chest. "My thoughts exactly, Primus. We will secure the store. You will clear it, I will… supervise. From a safe distance. Lead the way."
As Primus rose to his full, terrifying height and began a methodical, cautious advance towards the shattered entrance of the supermarket, Caelan followed, staying a good thirty feet behind him. The Astartes was a moving wall of grey ceramite, and Caelan used him as such, keeping the giant's bulk between himself and any potential threat.
They entered the ruin through a gaping hole where automatic glass doors once stood. The interior was dark, smelling of dust and stale, rotting food. Sunlight lanced through holes in the ceiling, illuminating floating motes of dust and casting long, eerie shadows. Toppled shelves created a maze of debris.
Primus moved with the silence of a predator, his heavy footfalls making almost no sound on the tiled floor. He swept every aisle, every shadow, with the muzzle of his bolt rifle, his head constantly pivoting. The purges were swift and merciless. A handful of zombies, trapped inside and drawn by the noise, shambled towards them. CRACK-BOOM. The Astartes conserved ammunition, using single, precise shots to the torso to obliterate them before they got close. The confined space made the detonations even more deafening, and Caelan winced with every report.
While Primus was busy with his grim work, Caelan's attention started to wander. Near the entrance, behind a shattered glass counter, was what looked like a jewelry and watch section. Something shiny caught his eye. While Primus was methodically executing a zombie three aisles over, Caelan scurried over to the counter.
Inside were trays of watches, necklaces, and rings, all covered in a thick layer of dust. He didn't care if they were cheap plastic or real gold; they were shiny. He greedily swept an armful of gold-plated chains and chunky, garish watches into his pockets. He found a particularly ostentatious faux-gold watch with a ridiculously large face and strapped it to his wrist. Then he draped several thick chains around his neck, the cool metal feeling heavy against his skin.
He caught his reflection in a shard of broken mirror. His aggressive, gangster-like features, which had always been a source of annoyance to him, were now framed by tacky gold chains. He looked absurd, a post-apocalyptic caricature of a hip-hop star. And he loved it.
That's right, he thought, striking a ridiculous pose. I'm the king of this dead world. I'm rich! I have a superhuman bodyguard and all the fake gold I can carry! Take that, society!
"My Lord."
Caelan jumped, startled, nearly dropping a handful of glittering rings. Primus was standing at the end of the aisle, motionless, his red lenses fixed on him. The Astartes's head tilted, a gesture that was probably the transhuman equivalent of a raised eyebrow.
"The immediate area is clear. These trinkets... do they serve a tactical purpose?" Primus asked, his voice flat but carrying an undercurrent of genuine confusion.
Caelan hastily stuffed the rings into his pocket, straightening his new necklaces. "Of course, Primus," he said with an air of immense authority. "They are… symbols of command. Morale boosters. Essential for the… overall strategy."
There was a half-second pause.
"...As you command, My Lord." Primus turned and continued his sweep of the store, leaving Caelan to admire his new, completely useless treasures, feeling for all the world like an emperor surveying his conquered riches.