As the Rhino pulled up, Marcus gripped his bolter tight as his "brothers" stepped out.
The first was a Night Lord in Mark IV power armor—a Sergeant. Decarion. Yes, that was his name. Boring. Pain in the ass. The thoughts came with a vague irritation that felt familiar, like an old grudge he couldn't quite remember earning.
After him came Vosk, wearing Corvus pattern armor, his stalker bolter already raised and scanning the surrounding buildings. Always the quiet one, though his sarcasm wasn't appreciated. Was that true? Marcus couldn't remember specific incidents, but the feeling was there—annoyance mixed with... respect?
The third brother to emerge wore Mark III pattern armor, and the smell hit him immediately—ash and burnt flesh. Kael. With his flamer and trophies of blackened skulls dangling from his armor. The stench made him want to grab the bastard and dunk him in water just to get rid of it. The urge was so strong, so specific, that it took him a moment to wonder why he cared so much about how someone else smelled.
Marcus heard the fourth brother before he saw him emerge from the Rhino.
"Brother! So glad to see you alive, and you got quite a haul—mostly intact, too. At least we'll get something out of all this mess. Damn Vandred doesn't even enter the battlefield anymore."
Malith. The most tolerable one. At least a little bit funny, by comparison. The thought came with an ease that felt like familiarity, like Marcus had known this for years. Except he hadn't. Had he?
Decarion looked at Varik and noted his armor—Mark V Heresy pattern, wearing the ceremonial helm of the Legion. One of the bat wings on the helm was broken, and a clear dent marred the upper right side.
Malith and Kael moved to inspect the haul Varik had recovered. At least the squad would have plenty of spare parts to repair their war gear if needed. Malith could be heard commenting on Varik's ruined pauldron, which drew Decarion's eye. Another thing to add to the list.
Varik's slow, quiet responses didn't instill confidence in just how okay he actually was.
Varik was quiet now, not talking as much, but it was clearly still Varik. Decarion could tell something was off and decided to have his brother checked out when they got back to the Covenant of Blood. For now, though, the haul needed to get loaded onto the Rhino. It would be a bit cramped, but such a haul with none of the other claws present was too much of a chance to pass up.
"Varik, Kael, Malith—load those bodies into the Rhino. Vosk, with me. We need to make sure no one sneaks up on us. Solm, call the Thunderhawk. We're heading back to the Covenant."
As the claw set about their tasks, Decarion looked to the sky and imagined the void war above—the Covenant, one amongst the many warships battling over Galvor Prime. He knew why Vandred had agreed to aid the Red Corsairs in this raid, but what he didn't like was just how far Vandred had fallen to corruption. The captain had lost what it meant to be a Night Lord, and the company was suffering for it.
There were days he imagined driving his blade through the bastard's chest and ending him, but such fantasies were always quashed by reality. He would be dead before he even got close.
Marcus was loading the bodies onto the Rhino. Kael, whose voice was a rasping growl, complained as they worked—angered that they were doing the work of servitors, or so he said. Malith was making a joke, something about the squad's armor. Marcus wasn't listening, just moving the bodies in silence.
As he lifted the body of the Crimson Fist he'd killed, something welled up inside him. Not anger, but annoyance. Before he realized it—
"A waste."
The words came unbidden, but despite that, he didn't feel they were wrong.
Malith agreed with his brother, misunderstanding what the words meant. "You have a point. Some of the gear was damaged in the crash, but hey, this is still a haul and it's all ours. You'll be able to replace your pauldron as well. Don't think I didn't notice you got yourself a replacement chainblade." He clapped Varik on the shoulder, which reminded him of how Malith never seemed to acknowledge that everyone in the squad was always moments away from striking their talkative brother. "Now come on. The Thunderhawk will be here soon, and Decarion wants us all on high alert until we can get out of here."
Marcus nodded and took out his bolter, gripping it tight as he joined his brothers to stand ready for the Thunderhawk's arrival. Behind them, the church was consumed in flames, and the twin-headed eagle of the Master of Mankind fell from its housing into the fires below.