As the Thunderhawk arrived, it slowly descended to attach the Rhino. Solm had gotten out, wearing a set of Aquila pattern armor that he'd taken off a Loyalist he killed seven years back. Marcus watched as Solm practically micromanaged the servitor piloting the Thunderhawk as it landed.
A memory flashed—Marcus remembered that Solm was never satisfied with the work of anyone else when it came to any gear he used. The memory felt like his own, but was it? Seven years. Had he been there when Solm killed that Loyalist?
When Decarion called for the squad to board, Marcus could hear Solm as his brother went to the cockpit.
"Alright, get out of the chair and into the copilot seat. Now."
Varik shook his head as he sat and locked himself in, as did the rest of Fifth Claw. It took only a minute for Solm to get the Thunderhawk into the air. Marcus looked out a viewport and gazed down on a city—no, a world—at war.
The city burned, and Marcus finally remembered what kind of world Galvor was—a shrine world. As Red Corsair ships flew down to the surface, the Thunderhawk finally breached the atmosphere, and like stars, the warships of the Red Corsairs battled the remaining Imperial Navy assets.
Varik couldn't help but smile beneath his helm, watching the flashes of light from weapons fire and the deaths of ships in the void. There was beauty in it—terrible, magnificent beauty. The thought disturbed and exhilarated him in equal measure.
Then the shadow of the Covenant of Blood loomed before the Thunderhawk. Solm could be heard requesting landing permission, and the ship began its slow deceleration.
When they landed, Decarion told Varik to get himself looked at by the medical servitors. Varik remembered that the only Apothecary in Tenth Company was Talos, and he hadn't played that role for a long time. The memory came with a strange mix of respect and... something else. Resentment? Envy? He couldn't tell.
As Fifth Claw exited the Thunderhawk, Marcus decided to get the trip to the medical servitors out of the way and headed for the Apothecarium. His brothers took their prize back to the claw's arming chamber to strip the armor from the bodies and stash the weapons.
As Varik walked the dark halls of the Covenant of Blood, it was both a familiar yet exciting sight—a real space vessel floating in the void, taking part in a battle against Loyalist forces. Marcus had always dreamed of going to space as a child, and upon joining the Legion, that dream was fulfilled. The thought came naturally, as if it were true. But I've never joined the Legion. Have I?
Upon entering the Apothecarium, he ordered the servitors to perform a basic medical check. As the flesh-machine hybrids set to work, he stared at them, disgusted. Lobotomized humans, reduced to tools. Part of him found it efficient. Part of him found it horrifying.
When he removed his helm for the first time, the face he saw reflected in a glass canister nearby was unfamiliar—not just in looks, but in expression. Varik's face was calm, showing no real anger or emotion beyond the most basic amounts. The face was younger than expected, scarred, with pale skin and dark eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Nostraman eyes.
It was his face. It wasn't his face.
The time spent in the Apothecarium was dull and, if he was honest, a waste of time. In the end, the servitors found nothing of note.
He just looked at his face. The pale skin, the black eyes—both familiar and alien at once. When he thought of his youth, he saw a dark-skinned boy, memories clear and vivid. But when he thought of his adult life, centuries stretched before him—the Legion, the Long War, Nostramo's ashes.
Like pieces sliding into place. Parts being assembled inside a machine. Not one consuming the other, but both forging something new.
Marcus didn't know if that should frighten him or not. He didn't feel fear anymore, something both of his memories pointed to being true.
He didn't know which was real anymore, and if he was honest, he didn't think the question mattered. As a boy, he was Marcus. As an adult, he is Varik. Both are true. Both are him. The difference between them was fading, not because one was winning, but because they were becoming indistinguishable.
Varik left the Apothecarium and headed to Fifth Claw's arming chamber to get repairs done to his armor. He stalked the halls—not walked, stalked. A difference he would never have noticed before, but now it was plain as day. It felt natural. Another oddity to add to the list of many.
The halls of the ship were dark, yet he was able to navigate them with ease. In his youth, he would have been blind or straining his eyes to see. Now his eyes pierced the darkness effortlessly, picking out details in the shadows—scratches on bulkheads, stains on the deck plating, the faint outline of a service panel.
Marcus didn't see anyone on his way, though he could smell that one of the mortal crew had been through here recently. The scent lingered—sweat, fear, promethium residue. A sensation that stuck out to him, fascinating and disturbing in equal measure.
He reached the door of Fifth Claw's arming chamber and paused, his hand on the access panel.
The door wouldn't open—not because it was locked, Varik remembered, but because it had been damaged over fifty years ago and no one had bothered to fix it. Solm had tried once, and it worked for about a year before a boarding attack damaged it again. After that, the claw gave up on fixing the stupid thing.
Marcus decided to give it special attention in the form of a hard strike. The impact echoed through the corridor, and the door grudgingly slid open with a grinding screech.
Only Decarion looked at him when he entered. Varik could only shrug as he moved to get his armor checked and repaired. Marcus could pick up part of the conversation his brothers were having before he came in—enhanced hearing catching words that should have been too quiet to hear.
It was mostly Kael complaining about Vandred's leadership and his refusal to prosecute the war himself—staying in the ship and throwing the claws at the enemy like expendable assets. Malith made a joke about Vandred's leadership, or lack thereof, and suggested that maybe they should wake up Malcharion to lead the company again. "It would be better than what we have now."
This got a rare chuckle from the rest of the claw, Varik included. Only Decarion and Vosk didn't laugh. Something told Varik it wasn't because they didn't see the humor. Vosk was always quiet, but Decarion... Decarion had seriously considered removing Vandred from power. The thought came with absolute certainty, though Marcus couldn't remember how he knew that.
Then Marcus remembered something from his youth—a series of books he'd read. The realization hit him like a bolter round to the chest.
He knew where he was.
He tried to scratch at the fog coating his memories, desperately reaching for what happened to Tenth Company. What happened to them. The pieces were there, just out of reach, blurred and indistinct.
Varik realized he was screwed.