[The fourth week brings harvest time. Plump fruits hang heavy on every branch, their purple skins glossy and perfect. The fields should be full of workers, the air full of songs and celebration.]
[But the cargo ship never arrives.]
[Zoya had called them "fat birds," a term of endearment for the bulky vessels that symbolized bounty and prosperity. The fat birds should have landed three days ago.]
[You pace through the crops, purple fruits brushing against your shoulders. Your grip on the lasgun tightens until your knuckles go white. Something is very, very wrong.]
[Now you sit wedged into the sidecar of Zoya's hoverbike as she guns the engine, the wind whipping past your face. The crops blur into a purple and green smear on either side.]
[Behind you, Old Man Wade follows on a second bike, windproof goggles covering his eyes. His hands are steady on the controls, his posture that of someone who's ridden through worse than this.]
[Wade had listened to your warnings this time. No eye-rolling, no dismissive jokes. He'd simply nodded, begun gathering supplies, and announced your destination: Blessing Town.]
[It's one of the few population centers on this agricultural world, and the only place with a transportation hub capable of getting you off-planet.]
[You shift in the sidecar, the metal frame digging into your hip. Your eyes drift to Zoya's profile. Her jaw is set, her focus absolute as she navigates the terrain. Then you glance back at Wade.]
[The old man is no simple farmer. Everything about him, from the way he checked the bikes before departure to the casual competence with which he handles the weapon at his hip, speaks of military training. A veteran of the Imperial Guard, perhaps. Someone who's seen real combat, real war.]
[The thought is oddly comforting.]
[Your gaze returns to the path ahead. A small smile touches your lips.]
[Zoya's voice cuts through the wind, close to your ear so you can hear over the engine's roar.]
[The supernova explosion, she explains, has done more than paint the sky. The energy surge has torn through the planet's communication networks, shredding them like paper. You can't reach her brother.]
[Her brother serves in the Planetary Defense Force in Blessing Town. He has the authority to arrange passage off-world. But if you can't contact him, if something has happened...]
[Her words trail off, but her worry is palpable. She's torn between her desire to escape and her fear for her brother's safety. You know she won't abandon him, no matter the cost.]
[You remain silent, letting her voice her concerns. You're not sure all three of you will make it onto a ship, even if you reach the town. But Wade doesn't seem worried about that particular problem.]
[The old man must have a backup plan. You decide to trust his judgment.]
[After a day and night of non-stop riding, your body aching and your eyes burning with exhaustion, you approach the first waystation on your route.]
[The hoverbikes are overheating, their engines making unhealthy grinding sounds. They need fuel, coolant, and replacement parts, or they'll die before you reach Blessing Town.]
[But when you arrive at the station, no one comes out to greet you.]
[The buildings stand silent and dark. No lights in the windows, no smoke from the chimney. Not even the distant clank of machinery or the bark of a dog.]
[Your muscles tense. The lasgun hums to life in your hands, its power cell fully charged and ready.]
[Wade's voice drifts across the quiet space between you, low and measured.]
[The stationmaster is an old friend of his, he explains. A man with a withdrawn personality who treats this isolated place as his home, his kingdom. He would never leave, not willingly.]
[You take a slow breath, steadying yourself. You turn to Zoya, whose eyes are wide with barely concealed fear, and tell her to be ready to run if things go wrong.]
[When Wade moves to accompany you inside, you wave him off. Better that one person scouts ahead than risk all three.]
[You slip out of the sidecar, boots touching down silently on the dusty ground. You approach the station like a predator, every sense alert, the lasgun sweeping ahead of you.]
[The door hangs open. That's the first bad sign.]
[Inside, the factory floor is a tomb.]
[A corpse lies in the center of the room. At first, you think it's wearing red clothing. Then you realize you're looking at exposed muscle, glistening and wet. The skin has been completely removed, peeled away with surgical precision.]
[Around the skinned body, several servitors lie in pieces, their mechanical components scattered, their biological parts torn and ravaged.]
[You search every corner, every shadow, weapon raised and ready. But the enemy has vanished like smoke, leaving only death in its wake. Whatever did this took what it wanted and disappeared without a trace.]
[You emerge into the sunlight and deliver the news to Wade. Then you tell Zoya to work fast, to replace the parts and refuel while she can.]
[Inside, Wade stands over his friend's body. His face is a thundercloud, dark and heavy with grief and rage. He stares down at the skinned corpse for a long moment, saying nothing.]
[Finally, he speaks.]
[He believed your warnings, he says, for two reasons. First, because you invoked the Emperor's name. Second, because old soldiers develop instincts, senses that prickle when danger approaches. His instincts have been screaming for days.]
[The sight before him confirms what he's feared: the peaceful agricultural world they've known is gone. Something has awakened, something terrible.]
[Outside, Zoya works with practiced efficiency. Her hands fly over the hoverbikes' engines, replacing burnt-out components and refilling fuel tanks. When she's finished, she begins harvesting ripe fruits from the plants growing near the station. Food for the journey ahead.]
[Wade finds you and lays out the next phase of the plan.]
[Once you reach Blessing Town, you'll take Zoya to find her brother. Wade will pursue other avenues alone. If her brother can't secure you a ship, then you're to go to a place called Broken Corner Alley. Find a rogue trader named Red Hand. Wade has some arrangement with him, something that will ensure passage off-world even in Wade's absence.]
[Wade hesitates, his jaw working as he considers his next words. When they come, his tone is carefully neutral.]
["If... I mean, if I don't make it, I need you to take care of Zoya. Can you do that?"]
[The question hangs in the air between you.]
[You look across the station yard to where Zoya stands, holding up a particularly large fruit with a triumphant smile despite everything. She's so young, so full of life even in the shadow of death.]
[You turn back to Wade and nod slowly. It's a promise, one you intend to keep.]
[The journey continues.]
[Every settlement you pass is the same. Either completely abandoned, the inhabitants fled or taken, or left with nothing but blood and bodies. The pattern is clear, undeniable.]
[Days blur together. Ride, hide, rest for a few hours, ride again. Your body moves on autopilot, fueled by fear and determination.]
[Finally, you reach the outskirts of Blessing Town.]
[Even Zoya, with her limited experience of war and violence, recognizes that something is catastrophically wrong.]
[On the roadside, a Chimera transport and a Leman Russ battle tank sit abandoned. They haven't been destroyed or disabled. They've simply been left behind, as if their crews vanished mid-operation.]
[You dismount, lasgun raised, and approach cautiously.]
[The vehicles are fully fueled. Their engines show no signs of mechanical failure. When you touch the Chimera's hull, you can feel the machine spirit within, agitated but very much alive.]
[Inside the troop compartment, you find equipment scattered across the benches. A hellgun, still connected to its power pack. Pieces of armor and protective gear.]
[You call the others forward.]
[You place an Planetary Defense Force helmet on Zoya's head. It's too large for her, sliding down until you can barely see her eyes. You adjust the chin strap carefully, your fingers gentle despite their urgency. Her face is pale with exhaustion and fear, dark circles beneath her eyes.]
[You press the lasgun into her hands. Your voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.]
["If you see anything dangerous, shoot first. Don't hesitate. Don't ask questions. Just shoot."]
[She nods, swallowing hard.]
[You shrug on the hellgun's battery pack, feeling its weight settle across your shoulders. The hellgun itself is a familiar comfort in your hands, a weapon you've used before. Your expression hardens, becomes the mask you wear in combat.]
[Old Man Wade flexes his mechanical prosthesis, servos whirring softly. He bends down and retrieves a fallen laspistol from the ground near the tank. His fingers close around it with obvious familiarity, and for a moment, his eyes are distant, lost in memories of other battles, other wars.]
[Everything is ready. You abandon the dying hoverbikes and proceed on foot into Blessing Town's streets.]
[Devastation greets you at every turn.]
[The streets are cratered from explosions, chunks of rockcrete torn up and scattered. Buildings lean at precarious angles, their walls pockmarked with las-fire. And everywhere, everywhere, there are bodies.]
[Corpses with their skin peeled away, leaving only red muscle and white bone. Men, women, even children. All flayed with the same terrible precision.]
[From the direction of the Planetary Defense Force garrison, you hear the thunder of artillery. The resistance isn't over yet. Someone is still fighting.]
[Zoya, who has been so brave until now, falters. She presses close behind you, trying to make herself small. You can feel her trembling.]
[Your grip on the hellgun tightens until the metal bites into your palm. Your eyes sweep constantly, checking every window, every doorway, every shadow.]
[Wade surveys the carnage with a practiced eye. His frown deepens. He leans close and speaks quietly.]
["The Defense Force is in bad shape. We should skip Zoya's brother and head straight for Broken Corner Alley. It's our best shot."]
[Zoya stiffens at his words. You can feel her resistance, her desperate need to know if her brother still lives. But she doesn't argue. She stays at your back, following where you lead.]
[At the corner ahead, figures burst into view.]
[Seven or eight humans, armed with autoguns and crude clubs, run toward you in a panic. Their clothes are torn, their faces wild with fear or madness.]
[You open your mouth to call out, to identify yourself.]
[Then you see their eyes. Empty. Wrong. They fix on you and your companions, and without hesitation, they raise their weapons.]
[Your expression goes flat. Your finger finds the trigger.]
[The hellgun roars.]
[Searing las-fire cuts through the air, brighter and hotter than a standard lasgun. In seconds, the corrupted humans are reduced to ash and scorched bone, their screams cut short.]
[But the damage is done. The hellgun's distinctive sound echoes through the empty streets like a bell, announcing your presence.]
[From the shadows, things begin to emerge.]
[They move with an unnatural, jerking gait, their bodies bent and wrong. At first, you think they're ghouls, corpse-eaters risen from some mass grave.]
[Then one steps fully into the light, and your blood turns to ice.]
[Its head is a metal skull, bloodstained and ancient. Its body is constructed from living metal that shifts and flows, reflecting the dim light with an oily sheen. Instead of fingers, it has narrow razors, each one stained dark with old blood.]
[Wrapped around its limbs and neck are strips of human skin, still wet, still fresh. They hang from it like a grotesque cloak. Behind it, tied to its back, a human skeleton dangles and sways with each movement, bones clicking together in a horrible rhythm.]
[Necron Flayer.]
[The word surfaces from your memory, from briefings and warnings you've heard. One of the most twisted and cursed of the ancient machine race, driven mad by an eternal hunger for flesh.]
[Your eyes widen. Your finger is already on the trigger, squeezing before conscious thought catches up.]
["RUN!" you bellow, your voice cracking with urgency.]
[The hellgun screams, pouring fire into the Flayer. Las-bolts hammer into its living metal body, each one hitting with enough force to vaporize a human.]
[The creature doesn't even slow down.]
[Your attacks burn away the skin draped over its frame, and this seems to enrage it. The Flayer's skull head tilts, regarding you with whatever passes for hatred in its ancient, corrupted mind. Then it surges forward with terrifying speed.]
[You grit your teeth and hold the trigger down, praying the hellgun doesn't overheat, praying you can buy even a few more seconds.]
[Behind you, Wade draws a deep breath.]
[There's a mechanical whirr. His prosthetic arm splits open, and from within emerges a weapon far larger than the laspistol he'd been holding. Heavy. Brutal. Unmistakable.]
[A bolt pistol.]
[Wade, still wearing his windproof goggles, his muscular frame coiled with tension, strides past you. His voice is iron, brooking no argument.]
["Go! Get to Broken Corner Alley! Find Red Hand!"]
[He doesn't wait for your response. He raises the bolt pistol in a two-handed grip and fires.]
[The weapon's roar is deafening, a thunderclap in the narrow street. The bolt shell strikes the leading Flayer center mass and detonates, the explosion staggering the creature. It crashes to the ground, its advance halted, if only for a moment.]
[You stop firing. The hellgun is dangerously hot, emitting a high-pitched whine of protest.]
[You don't think. You act. You spin, grab Zoya around the waist, and hoist her over your shoulder. She's light, too light, and she doesn't fight you.]
[Her eyes are swimming with tears. She bites down on her lower lip so hard that blood wells up, a thin line of scarlet against her pale skin.]
[Wade's back is to you now. He's already engaging more Flayers, the bolt pistol bucking in his hands. He looks like what he truly is: a warrior, a soldier of the Imperium, standing his ground against impossible odds.]
["Grandpa!" Zoya's cry is torn from her throat, anguished and raw.]
["Be obedient, child! Try to live!" Wade's voice carries back to you, strong and unwavering.]
[He pulls a frag grenade from a compartment in his prosthesis and hurls it with practiced precision, aiming for the joints of the nearest Flayer. The explosion won't kill it, but it might slow it down. Might buy a few more seconds.]
[You carry Zoya into the depths of the side streets, running between ruined buildings. Your boots pound against broken pavement. Your breath comes in ragged gasps.]
[Behind you, Wade's bolt pistol continues its steady rhythm. Boom. Boom. Boom.]
[Then, after perhaps thirty seconds, silence.]
[You blink rapidly, forcing down the grief that threatens to choke you. You can't afford emotion now. Not yet.]
[On your shoulder, Zoya shakes with silent sobs. Her hand is clamped over her mouth, stifling any sound. She knows, just as you do, that crying out could mean death for you both.]
[You find shelter between two half-collapsed buildings and set Zoya down carefully. She leans against the wall, tears streaming down her face, but she's regaining control. After a few minutes, she wipes her eyes and begins giving you directions in a hoarse whisper.]
[Broken Corner Alley isn't far. You can make it.]
[You navigate the ruins, Zoya leading the way through shortcuts and alleys she knows from childhood. The sounds of battle from the Defense Force garrison are louder now, closer.]
[Then you hear it. A scream in the air, rising in pitch.]
[Incoming artillery.]
[You have just enough time to recognize the sound before the shell impacts somewhere ahead of you, close enough that you can see the flash of detonation.]
[The shockwave hits like a physical blow. You and Zoya are lifted off your feet and hurled backward. The world spins, filled with fire and noise and pain.]
[You hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs. Your head rings. Your vision swims with dark spots.]
[You try to move, to push yourself up, but your body won't respond properly. There's too much pain, too much wrong.]
[When you manage to focus your eyes, you see why.]
[Your left leg is gone below the knee. It's simply not there anymore, severed cleanly by shrapnel. Blood pumps out in rhythmic spurts, pooling beneath you, soaking into the thirsty earth.]
[The pain hasn't caught up yet. Shock is a mercy that way.]
[You force your head to turn, searching desperately.]
[Zoya lies several meters away, motionless. The Defense Force helmet has split apart from the impact. A gash on her forehead leaks blood, mixing with the dust on her face.]
[But she's breathing. You can see her chest rise and fall.]
[Relief floods through you, almost as powerful as the blood loss.]
[You begin to drag yourself toward her, using your arms and your remaining leg. Every movement is agony, leaving a smear of red behind you.]
[Dust swirls in the air, thick and choking. And through that dust, something moves.]
[A shape. A silhouette. Moving with purpose toward Zoya's unconscious form.]
[You look up, and your heart stops.]
[A Necron Flayer stands before you. But this one is different, wrong in a new and horrible way.]
[Wrapped around its metal skull is an old man's face. Weathered. Scarred. Still bearing the marks of windproof goggles pressed into the flesh.]
[Wade's face.]
[Fresh human skin adorns its body, still bleeding, still warm. And from somewhere within that mechanical skull, a voice emerges. Distorted. Broken. But recognizable.]
["Zoya..." the Flayer whispers. "Zoya... Zoya..."]
[It's not Wade. It's not. Wade is dead, his body desecrated, his skin worn by this abomination. But the voice, the name it repeats over and over, comes from some corrupted echo of the man who died protecting you.]
[You can't accept this. Won't accept this.]
[Your hand fumbles at your belt and finds a frag grenade. You pull the pin and hurl it with the last of your strength. The explosion rocks the street, and the Flayer staggers, momentarily disoriented.]
[You use those precious seconds to close the distance. You reach Zoya and gather her into your arms, cradling her head against your legs.]
[You try to wake her, shaking her gently, calling her name. But she doesn't respond. And then you see it: dark red blood trickling from her nose, from her mouth, from her ears.]
[Internal injuries. Massive trauma. Fatal.]
[Your lips begin to tremble. Your vision blurs with tears.]
[You know what this means. You've seen enough battlefield casualties to recognize death's approach.]
[You pull her closer, supporting her weight, letting her rest in what comfort you can provide.]
["I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice breaking. "I can't save you. I'm so sorry."]
[Blood fills your eyes. From your wounds, from your tears, you can't tell anymore.]
[For a moment, you forget about the Flayer. You forget about everything except this young woman who laughed at your clumsy hoverbike riding, who placed a yellow flower behind her ear, who deserved so much better than this.]
[Heavy metallic footsteps approach. The Flayer, wearing Wade's face, comes closer.]
[You don't look up. You reach into your webbing and pull out your last frag grenade. Your fingers close around it, slick with blood.]
[If you're going to die, you'll die with her. You won't let this thing take her skin, won't let it desecrate her the way it did Wade.]
[You pull the pin.]
[The explosion consumes you both in fire and sound.]
[In your final moment, as the flames rush inward, you see something impossible.]
[Zoya's body begins to lift into the air. Her hair streams upward as if caught in an updraft. And from her back, spreading wide and beautiful, a pair of wings unfolds. White. Pure. Radiant.]
[An angel.]
[Or perhaps just a dying man's hallucination, a last kindness from a brain shutting down.]
[Your consciousness fades.]
[Darkness takes you.]
[You are dead.]