The contact was late.
Dral Beldran scowled. Flanked by the rest of the Menacing Four, Rurke Hale, Skell Draxil, and a few of their underlings, he had been waiting in full armour for close to an hour now.
Being over six foot tall and encased in the customised armour that earned him the "Bastion" nickname, Dral almost looked like a Space Marine, and would pass as one for any person who had never laid their eyes on the real deal.
The Bastion Mk V carapace armour was heavily modified from the Subjugator-Frame meant for enforcers facing heavy civil unrest. Being a custom job and built from reinforced ceramite plating over a shock-absorbing hexagrammic mesh, the armour could shrug off las-bolts like rain on a stormcoat. Add the deployable Vigilance-pattern combat shield, and nothing short of heavy military grade weapons could take him head on. The armour would make most users dominate the streets. For an expert like Dral, it turned him into a one-man mobile fortress, the kind that turned most back-alley ambushes into embarrassing "misunderstandings". All that with further enhancements like servo-assisted joints and a helmet with a cogitator-assisted threat visor had allowed Dral to dominate many gang wars, and it made him an underground legend.
Beside Dral stood Rurke "Butcher" Hale, a.k.a. the knife guy. The close-quarters murderer for the Syndicate, especially active when a message needed to be delivered in the form of a cut out human.
Rurke was tall, just not as towering as Dral. He was powerfully built, heavily muscled and clearly shaped by years of fighting. The man's most striking feature is his lengthy and dirty blond hair, which was tied back with a dark red headband. Several loose strands fall forward, giving him an unkempt, rebellious appearance. He had a pair of haunting blue eyes that made many feel like prey. The man had a knack of getting close to his targets without being spotted and wore a well worn dark green jacket with his prized possession—a Catachan MK III combat blade—on open display. A genuine article from a Catachan Death World veteran, Rurke spent a small fortune acquiring the blade that was said to have beheaded a Tyranid Warrior, and rumour says he had skinned more than a few individuals with it.
Then there was Skell "Rogue Adept" Draxil, the tech head of the Syndicate. While he still bore the outward appearance of a Machine Cult follower - hooded with sickly pale skin and bearing augmetics in the form of a mechadendrite, an eye replaced with a dull red lens, and the rest of his lower face hidden behind a grilled rebreather - but the once-crimson Mechanicus robe was replaced with darker fabrics, with the small cog-skull iconography on his chest partially defaced.
Likely a low ranking adept before he turned to a life of crime, Skell retained the majority of his flesh. As with most self respecting adept, he too owned a servo-skull that floated beside him.
'I heard your brother is coming.' Said Rurke to Dral in his signature rough-edged voice.
'Probably for the spectacle.' Dral snarled with a shrug.
'Hush, I think our contact is here,' Skell announced, his augmented eye picking up movement further than human eyes.
'For real? Why did our perimeter watch say nothing?' Dral complained before putting on his helmet.
From the gloom three figures emerged. Leading the group was a man with an unnaturally narrow frame, his posture slightly hunched as if the air itself pressed on him. He wore an ash-grey coat once issued to Administratum clerks, now reinforced with stitched sigils. His face was hidden by a veil of translucent silk that hung from a piece of headgear. There was an air of uneasiness surrounding the man, a sensation that was amplified by the unnatural appearance of his blackened finger tips and nails. With the disturbing man were two diminutive hooded figures, one had a large book dangling from its neck while the other carried a huge spherical incense burner that leaked a trail of smoke.
The veiled man and his two followers stopped a few paces away from Dral and the others before giving an elaborate bow. 'Greetings to you all. I am the Veiled Scholar, right hand man to the Master, and here for our agreed dealings.'
Dral suppressed the feeling of his stomach turning, stepped forward and got straight to the point. 'Whatever, can you deal with our problem or not?'
'Give me a moment,' the veiled man said before taking a look groundwards at the direction of where the psyker girl would be. After a short while he seemed to smile behind his veil.
'This… problem of yours is a real rare gem. So much potential. And yes, it can be done, it is going to cost—' the veiled man was mid-sentence when he abruptly stopped and his confident demeanor vanished, replaced by the stunned horror of someone witnessing the unthinkable.
He turned, looking straight at the spot where Dral knew Lyssa the sniper would be and exclaimed incredulously, 'that level of power… impossible!'
Just as Dral and his companions were caught off guard from the sudden turn of events, two blurs streaked through the air—one after the other with lethal precision—and slammed into the veiled man's head. An eruption of blood exploded outward, painting the scene bloody in a sudden display of violence. The two hooded figures who accompanied the veiled man looked especially dumbfounded.
'The fuck!'
'What was that!?'
Only then did the group get a clear look at what had struck the veiled man. They were combat knives, and Rurke being the knife freak was the first to recognise their owner.
'These are Lyssa's!'
Just as everyone assumed the veiled man was done for—collapsed on the ground with two knives embedded in his head—a torrent of black lightning suddenly erupted from his body, lashing out at the acolytes who had moved in to check on him. The two diminutive figures screamed before crumpling where they stood. The veiled man convulsed violently, then threw back his head and unleashed an inhuman shriek as something took hold of him. His fingers curled, wrists twisting inward at angles no joint should accept. His legs followed, knees snapping up and outward, feet planting flat against the ground. With another convulsive jerk, his hips lifted and his spine bowed up like a drawn bow, stomach facing the sky. The posture was wrong, insectile, every line of his body reconfigured for a purpose it had never known.
Then he moved.
The man did not crawl so much as scuttle with body held aloft, abdomen still facing the sky. With twisted limbs firing in rapid, alternating bursts, the veiled man propelled backward with terrifyingly inhuman speed. In the blink of an eye he was gone, vanishing into the gloom on inverted limbs, leaving behind a pool of black blood, two dead acolytes and a book that mysteriously combusted in purple flames.
Even hardened criminals like the Dral and the others were stunned by what they just saw. As everyone was still reeling from the development, a feminine voice broke the eerie silence.
'Huh.'
Everyone's head snapped toward the source of the voice. There stood a petite female figure with a head of flowing platinum hair, dressed in a simple white robe wrapped in a grey cloak and most incongruous of all, a pair of vivid pink slippers. Coupled with the delicate appearance of a young woman who had only just stepped out of her bedroom, she looked utterly out of place. One moment she had not been there at all, and the next she appeared as if conjured from thin air, standing in front of the two dead acolytes.
Dral, a veteran fighter of countless skirmishes, took in the girl's unassuming but somehow unsettling frame and froze as an uneasy chill creeped into him. He shot a quick glance at Rurke, one of the most lethal, cold-blooded killers he had known for years, and was struck by the same thing reflected on the latter's face: a seriousness touched by something dangerously close to fear. All that together with his own hands that were starting to shiver validated a screaming hunch, that this was no ordinary girl.
Then to his horror, Rurke's expression changed with a subtle shift of his posture. Dral knew that look—the killer was ready to attack.
* * *
He escaped. That was one fast heretic.
After sending my signal to Xalma by fully going psychically active and hitting the veiled man with knives taken from Lyssa, I rushed here straightaway, but he was already gone. That scene of him crawling away like a giant cockroach was surprising and creepy, to say the least.
While rushing over I saw the downed Chaos sorcerer sucking the life force out of his acolytes with his powers and reviving himself. These two were used like extra lives for him, must be some sort of prearranged dark arts. It reminded me of the ancient retinue tabletop rule, or the Look out, sir! gaming mechanic of late.
Frustrations flaring, I stood in front of the two bodies, both already burning with a strange purple flame that reeked of foul sorcery. I looked at where the sorcerer had gone, and my fist clenched. If not for my promise to Xalma, I would have chased down that heretic. It did make me wonder if he could have been stopped if I had learned to shoot offensive powers like smite and doombolt. Wait, is doombolt a Chaos only psychic spell?
'Girl, identify yourself!' a dry, rasping voice demanded, pulling me away from my thoughts.
Annoyed by the tone, I turned around and came face to face with the rest of the Menacing Four. This was the first time we met, but through Lyssa I already knew quite a lot about the group.
It was Skell the rogue adept who addressed me. He was dressed not in Martian red but a black robe, looking a lot less augmented than expected with a servo-skull floating beside him. To my left stood Rurke Hale, the infamous butcher of the Syndicate, known for skinning people. The man looked like an evil alternate version of Rambo, complete with the headband, but with a head of dirty blonde hair and a crazy stare, looking antsy and seemingly ready to attack me. To my right was Dral, Draeg's brother, the so-called "Bastion" in… Palanite Subjugator armour? He was taller than Draeg, definitely imposing for a human.
I assessed them all in a heart beat, found none registered as a credible threat and decided to end it quickly. Staring them down, I declared the start of a fight with a trash talking statement.
'I am your reckoning.'
Time slowed down as Rurke immediately charged me with his knife. Dral too came at me while taking out a weapon from his combat shield, one step behind in the combined offensive. While looking slow from my point of view, these two were the quickest of the bunch, a few of their lackeys that were close by weren't even so much aware that a fight had started.
Skell was quite fast too, between drawing out a laspistol that looked too hefty to be standard issue, he triggered a "panic button" on his servo-skull to gather all their lackeys.
Wait, that servo-skull came with a signal booster? Nice, just what I needed. With a flick of my mind I took over the control of the servo-skull, transmitted the emergency distress code of my Inquisitorial earpiece into its system and broadcasted my position to the wireless network of the area, signal boosted for the belated backup call of my own. That done, I ordered it to smash into the rogue adept, who was caught off guard at the sudden betrayal of his cyber familiar and dropped his laspistol.
Turning my attention to Rurke, I intercepted the man's thrusting knife by pushing his hand aside, all the while noting its quality. Nice knife. Rurke was pretty fast for a human, but laughably sluggish when compared to Niandra. I grabbed and twisted the killer's hand, causing him to wince and drop his weapon with a grunt, which I picked up mid air.
With the combat blade now in my hand I looked at Rurke and noted the murderous intention written plainly on his face. My mind went through his past crimes, his torturing of slave girls and many murderous sprees known to Lyssa. An understanding came through: given the chance he would have skinned me alive.
A clean death would be too kind.
I flipped the combat blade into a reverse grip and moved to counter attack in one fluid motion. Guided by an instinctive understanding of human anatomy, I drove the blade into Rurke's chest with precise, measured force. The excellent blade went in without resistance and Rurke fumbled backwards. The knife jutted from his chest at a wrong, obscene angle. It looked unreal, like a prop badly fixed to his jacket. Dral rushed past him, swinging a shock maul, his attack slowed down as soon as I concentrated my attention.
Looking at the incoming maul with its lightning sparks, I wondered for a moment how effective this weapon would be if it hit me before deciding that now was not the time for experiments. I easily avoided Dral's attack, picked a spot on his centre mass, braced my back foot on the ground and hit back with a substantial force. My puny-looking fist flew out fast and connected with the impressive-looking armour. There was a sharp, percussive crack, like a slab of concrete split by a piledriver. The armour did not shatter outward; instead it collapsed inwards, plates buckling, the armour's inner supporting structure folded like wet cards beneath a hydraulic press. Dral was sent flying, his massive body hurled away by the impact.
By then Skell had recovered his weapon from the ground and was raising it at me. I instead took the laspistol off from his hand with a flick of telekinesis, and sent it flying to my palm like a Sith Lord. Only then did Dral finally hit the ground several metres away, skidding and rolling, armour scraping and sparking before coming to a stop
This was about six seconds into the fight, and the many Syndicate lackeys finally reacted by drawing out weapons. I saw an assortment of knives, maces, axes, pistols, shotguns and more coming out. My mind went working, mentally assigned a threat value on each based on their speed, proximity, and weapon type before starting to shoot with the dark adept's heavy laspistol.
Shotgun, pistol, laspistol, lasgun, autogun, revolver… starting from the highest value, each registered threat was picked away by precise shots, disabled by a shot the arms, palm or simply by destroying their weapon.
One Syndicate member who was faster than the rest charged in from beyond my field of view, closing the distance while I was still firing. Even without seeing the guy I had enough sensory information to work out his exact position. I didn't bother turning and lashed out with my free hand, backhanding him and sending the man flying. He struck the ground several metres away, a previously clutched weapon clattering loudly across the floor. Every other Syndicate member carrying a melee weapon froze at the sight of his example.
Skell, who just watched with his own eyes how everyone was neutralised in an instant, looked completely stunned. He shot quick glances between Dral and Rurke, the former lay motionless, the latter barely standing with his own knife stuck on his chest.
'Don't-don't touch it!' The murderer gasped with injured fury, the words scraping out of him like broken glass as one their underlings approached to help. Rurke's face was twisted with pain as blood, dark and slow, seeped around where the weapon went in, its handle slick and trembling with each shallow breath he took.
I believe this is called an impaled object scenarioin medical trauma terminology. The presence of the object, in this case his own prized knife, temporarily prevented catastrophic bleeding. Removing it without immediate medical care would rapidly lead to death.
Just as intended.
'You~!' His eye wide, body shaking with both fear and fury, Skell pointed an accusatory finger at me and snarled, 'girl! Are you toying with us?'
I did not answer and simply started walking as his servo-skull floated over to fall in the orbit of its new master—me. Skell's jaw dropped, that much could easily be deduced even when his mouth was hidden behind a grilled respirator, for his sole organic eye had widened to an unhealthy degree. I knew what he was thinking.
To a tech-adept, a personal servo-skull laden with customised subroutines was more than a mere tool; it existed somewhere between sacred instrument, trusted assistant and an externalised fragment of oneself. To have such a profound fragment casually taken away could only signify either a violation of technological sanctity, or the presence of an authority recognised by machine-spirit itself.
Thinking back, I felt some belated embarrassment about "borrowing" both Krypto's and Balpradus' servo-skulls so casually.
'My Lady, are you there?' Herlindya's voice came through on my earpiece, the vox channel was opened since the servo-skull took over. I stopped walking and answered.
'Yes, I need immediate backup on the broadcasted coordinates.'
'I heard shooting, are you hurt? What do you need?'
'I am fine. Send enough to apprehend thirty-plus criminals. In addition, arrange for evacuation of around fifty civilian trafficking victims. I also have a potent awakened child psyker here, if possible bring Zaki over.'
'Acknowledged, I will make the arrangements right away. Herlindya out.' Just as I ended my call Skell was making a scene again.
'How dare you ignore me! You think you have won? Witness my creations!' Skell snarled and with a hand gesture, dropped a wireless command of sorts to the direction of the abandoned station. In the next instance I heard uniformed heavy footsteps coming from the staircase that lead to the underground, as four figures slowly climbed up and came into view.
Gun servitors.
Specifically, standard servitors each with one of their arms swapped with a heavy weapon, in this case three heavy bolters and a plasma cannon. I imagined these were the Syndicate's trump cards, their final line to contain Xalma.
Skell appeared ecstatic about the arrival of his gun servitors. He pointed a finger at me again and started more trash talk. 'Tremble before my marvelous creations! Return my servo-skull now and I might spare you your miserable life!'
In truth these gun servitors were indeed fearsome for street level thugs, considering the weapons they carried could kill even the average Space Marine. As for me, I simply walked towards them without fear, lightly touched the Aquila pendant hidden underneath my vestment and reached out, invoking the ultimate Omnissian authority granted to me by the Emperor.
Kneel.
A briefest moment of silent exchange passed between myself and the servitors. Then it happened, all four gun servitors' threat‑posture ceased, their targeting optics dimmed, guns lowered and as one, they knelt down before me.
I turned to Skell who had witnessed the feat and saw his body started to shake uncontrollably, with what seemed to be a colossal effort he blurted out a question. 'Who… no, what are you?'
My earpiece buzzed again. I picked up the call and a binary cant instead of the expected human voice came through.
'Krypto.'
I recalled the Syndicate did have a plan to blow up the place. So some people guarding the entrance was a good idea while I went down to fetch Xalma.
'Can you deliver it?'
Cantus Logica…? Isn't that his starship?
I looked up, and was shocked to pick up an unnatural elongated object far in the night sky with my eyes. I quickly picked an open spot nearby, and delivered the coordinates acquired with my new servo-skull.
'Coordinates sent.'
A rush of many motorbikes' screeching suddenly filled the street. I looked around and realised the rest of the Syndicate members were rushing over, summoned by Skell's previously activated panic button. Most were on bikes, a few on cars, all abandoning their perimeter watch and coming to reinforce their bosses. Looking at the incoming forces, I believed I made a blunder on underestimating their numbers.
I was checking on how many rounds were left on the heavy laspistol in my hand when there was a sudden change in the air. A gust of wind rose in the spot I designated for Kryptorer, accompanied by a strange pressure that started building inside my head. Before I could react a radiant blue lightning cut the air, followed immediately by a massive burst of bright light that was accompanied by pressure waves ripping through the space.
Holy crap.
In the previously empty space now stood five figures teleported into existence, their massive cybernetic forms radiated the unmistakable presence of elite shock troops. I recognised them straight away—the Thallax Inceptus cohort from when Syrine first met Kryptorer. Each was as tall if not taller than a Space Marine, each having the silent lethal aura of a sentient killing machine with a massive weapon in their hands. The smooth armour pieces on their bodies reflected the incoming headlights of many bikes.
Upon seeing the Thallaxii's sudden arrival, most Syndicate members became scared out of their wits. Skell, being the tech-adept, lost it upon recognizing the Thallaxii for what they were and dropped to his knees.
A Thallax broke rank and stepped forward with its massive reverse-jointed legs, its smooth helmet turned to me as I felt its silent beckoning for orders.
'Secure this spot, suppress any resistance and lethal force only when engaged upon.'
The cyborg trooper responded just as the incoming Syndicate bikers started shooting. As inaccurate small arms shots landed harmlessly around, the Thallaxii dispersed with a shocking speed for their massive size and returned accurate fire, immediately turning a few of the bikers into exploding fireballs.
Kryptorer spoke again just as the action started.
Already amidst the exchange of fire I could hear the many distant resonating roaring engines from incoming Archaeopter Transvectors in the air. With the amount of priceless STC data hinging on my well being, the Mechanicus wasn't playing around.
'I will, and thank you. There is something I must do now, speak to you later.' I cut the call and dropped the heavy laspistol in my hand.
This is already overkill.
Sparing a glance at the rogue adept who seemed to have lost his mind, I walked past the still kneeling gun servitors, vivid pink slippers moving down the stairs as more explosions occurred overhead.
It was time to fulfil my other promise to a traumatised little girl.
* * *
Seated in the backseat of a speeder with the braided lethal woman beside him, Tollian felt like he just transited from an ordinary existence to one where spy thrillers became real life.
Just mere minutes after he told the Inquisition team everything he knew, they had not only identified Draeg's ride through unknown means, they even knew the creed-lich's last heading. Everyone's serious demeanour and snippets of many small details informed him that this case with Miss Mercy was a huge deal. The constant muffled buzz of direct communication he had heard from inside the speeder hinted about teams being relocated, strike forces being mobilised, and even the involvement of Battle Sisters.
Rushing through the night city, the scenery outside was something Tollian had never experienced. Things moved fast and everything went by in a blur underneath them. He looked at the scary people surrounding him and wondered how their lives were like being up here, far from the mundaneness he was so used to.
Eventually they arrived at a fortified tower of sorts and landed. There, a few figures led by a handsome elderly gentleman in a stormcoat were waiting beside another speeder. Around the leading gentleman was two others, one was a trooper fully clad in black armour similar to that of the braided lady but came in full body set, complete with a face covering respiratory mask. In the trooper's hands was a high end lasgun connected to a thick power cord. The other was a pale-skin man in a dark grey robe reinforced with armour pieces, he carried a thin staff that did not look like a walking aid. Especially unsettling was the pale man's unflinching gaze.
Tollian was led out by the Inquisition team, and he watched with disbelief as all three of them bowed respectfully to the elderly man.
'Master Saigonn.'
The man acknowledged with a nod. 'Good, dismissed.'
Tollian's jaw dropped, realising that he was in the presence of somebody high up in the Inquisition. He watched as the team which he was just starting to get used to simply turned around and left, leaving him alone with these even scarier people.
Hey— he almost protested again but stopped himself at the last second as the deeply disturbing pale man stepped forward to approach him. The man stopped right in front of him and looked him over. It was an experience similar to when the bald agent Malchus did the same but this felt much, much worse. Tollian could have sworn the pale man was looking right into his soul.
'Tollian Caulven. About this lady who you have met, Miss Mercy.' The pale man addressed him in a surprisingly respectful tone, his voice soft and creepy. 'What is your relationship with her?'
Relationship? Like hell Tollian wished he could have one with her, all he knew was that she saved his sorry ass, at least twice over.
'Where and when did you first meet her?' the pale man asked again and Tollian's mind went back to the scene when they first met. It was… beautiful.
Before he could answer anything, the pale man asked yet again, 'where did you two go and what did you do?'
Tollian's last few hours flashed before him and the pale man simply nodded before walking back without waiting for him to answer. He then watched as the pale man started reporting to Master Saigonn.
But how? Tollian was dumbfounded as he hadn't said a word yet, it was then he remembered that rumour—they are able to read souls like parchment—and his body ran cold. Just as his panicking mind was about to go blank, he noticed the elderly gentleman was no longer discussing with the pale man but instead talking into a communicator. Straining his ears, Tollian picked up some of the conversation.
'What about… she personally knew him … bring along? … now?' Master Saigonn seemed to have said those words before turning around and looking in a direction. Tollian followed the older man's gaze and caught the sight of a flyer appearing in the night sky.
The flyer came at them with an incredible speed before slowing down, it flew past them with a massive downward draft and hovered onto a slow landing on the tower, all the while its deafening engines growling like a predatory aerial beast. It was a sizable black flyer of a sleek design that Tollian had never seen in his life. Along its chassis and wings brimming with weapons were the stylised "I" of the Inquisition, a symbol he had been seeing a lot today.
'Let's go,' said Master Saigonn, who was suddenly beside Tollian without him noticing his approach, the older man's stormcoat fluttering in the violent airflow.
'To… to where?' Tollian flinched as he asked, unsure where he had found the courage to question an official of the fabled Inquisition.
The older man shot him a quick glance, a slightest hint of amusement in his otherwise stern appearance.
'To go see Miss Mercy, of course.'