A/N: Enjoy the extra-length chapter! :D

Book Two: Corruption's End

Chapter 42: Workshop Assault

"One step away from the Astartes," - Lord Castellan Ursarkar Creed, regarding the kasrkin.

As Amat sat and watched Imperial forces stir, the Lady Inquisitor hovered over Sister Mwatabu, grimacing under her skull-mask. Yang still lived, but recovery was not assured.

"My Lady?" The sister said, glancing over her shoulder to face the Inquisitor.

"Yes, Sister?" She asked, trying to contain the note of worry that crept into her voice.

"Trooper Yang is stabilized, but she will not last forever. By the grace of the Emperor, she still draws breath. She should be dead," she added, bloodied hands clenching. "Her stomach has been obliterated. Her intestines have been shredded. A kidney and her liver have suffered severe damage."

The Lady Inquisitor listened in silence, teeth gnawing at her lip. "What is your recommendation, Sister?"

Sister Mwatabu brought up a holographic display on the back of her wrist (what she assumed to be a built-in diagnosticator), tapping a few buttons embedded in her power armor and washing her face in blue light. "A well-stocked medbay will be enough to keep her alive. I know the Steed of the Saint is adequately equipped, and the Scythe of Morning should be as well." Her eyes flicked to Yang's unconscious form, confusion ruling her eyes and contempt twisting her lips. "Beyond that, she will need extensive reconstructive surgery."

"How long until she dies?" The Inquisitor asked.

"The Emperor's hand has touched her wounds, sealing away the worst of the bleeding. She will live for at least another…" she tapped a few buttons on her wrist. "Three hours at least. However, major brain damage could occur if she does not receive required care within the next hour."

"Very well, Sister. You've done your duty with skill and haste."

The Hospitaller bowed, hands clasped together at the front of her waist. "I live to serve, my Lady."

Turning to look at the Forge, the path forward was muddy. There was a choice to make. The skies were still choked with dogfights, and meteors of broken starships still lit up the night - the battle in Uriel's orbit was far from won. Bringing Yang to one of her ships was a tenuous proposition. Scattered reports from General Campbell indicated the outcome would be favorable, but even the most optimistic projections predicted total air and orbital dominance would take another day to win.

Yang's only hope lay in Tyrham's Workshop… and with Magos Prexius. The Inquisitor had seen her laboratories, seen the undertakings she'd conducted. Though she was a flagrant experimenter and her expertise lay... elsewhere, Prexius' skills would be more than enough to keep her friend Lady Inquisitor frowned. Even that would be dangerous, as the Forge was still enemy territory. At least I can offer her some form of personal protection. I pray to the Emperor a Thunderhawk will be safe enough.

Activating her comms with a thought, she hailed Tyrham.

"Ah," the Magos said, his voice appearing as wavering red line on her HUD. "Lady Inquisitor. How may I assist you?"

"I have a wounded member of my retinue that needs Prexius' skills. How goes the defense?"

The red line sat still for a moment. "Hard-pressed. Skitarii are holding, but the enemy has grown desperate." A muffled klaxon blared into existence, punctuating his point. "Suicide bombers. Massed charges."

"Understood, Magos. I will arrive shortly to help relieve you."

"Truly? Fighting is still distant. Readings assure me my Forge has not been reached by Imperial forces."

"General Campbell's forces will not be accompanying me," the Lady Inquisitor said. "Hold firm, and have faith. Make sure Prexius prepares her instruments."

"...Of course, my Lady. Omnissiah protect you."

Switching channels, she summoned Palatine Naja.

"Your will, my Lady?"

"I require a Thunderhawk, and a volunteer task force of your best Sisters," the Inquisitor said, looking back over the refuse of Uriel. "I have a mission for them."

This hiss and whine of hellguns filled the Thunderhawks' loading bay as her kasrkin readied themselves. Next to them stood the Sisters of Battle, their voices joined in prayer. Yang lay in the hold as well, a mask over her chapped lips, her flak armor and tunic replaced with a host of reddening bandages. Sister Mwatabu stood over her, monitoring her vitals.

Palatine Naja bint Mutaa Al'Ibanhi stood with her Retributor squad, the pilot lights of their heavy flamers sparking to life. Sister Eleven was present as well, double-racking her heavy bolter. The bay jarred and shook, shuddering as rounds impacted off its hull. The Sister-Pilot at the Thunderhawks helm was skilled, flying just over the rusted earth. Though it drew the ire of the heretics on the Forge's lower levels, she was able to avoid enemy fighter patrols.

The Lady Inquisitor left Ira in charge of matters outside the Forge. She had faith in him to perform his duty, though she wished she could have overseen matters herself. It is of no concern. This is more important.

"Currently, Magos Tyrham's workshop is under assault by the arch-foe," the Lady Inquisitor said. "His survival is critical to the success of my investigation. Furthermore, my Representative has been critically injured attempting to clear the way for her Regiment." The pale blue glow of her eyes rested on the Palatine, who studied her eviscerator intently. "She is idolized by the Woadians, and her death would devastate them," she said.

"The plan is two-fold," the Inquisitor continued, "locate Magos Tyrham and his assistant, then aid his personal guard in clearing the workshop. Darron," she said, nodding at her Captain. "You recall the layout?"

"Not entirely, my Lady. Enough to get by though, certainly. Where are we landing?"

"Tyrham has informed me the heaviest fighting is on the sixty-seventh floor. We're touching down on a landing pad just below it. We'll cut off the reinforcements below us, and outflank the opposing forces."

A burst of turbulence shuddered the Thunderhawk, rattling the most elite of her war band.

"Since time is of the essence, we cannot assault in force. The fate of the Forge, the war with Josephus, and possibly the Crusade itself hinges on us. The Emperor will protect us, for we are His own."

"The Emperor protects," they intoned, of one voice and mind. A pull of gravity tugged at her stomach as their ascent began.

"Forty seconds to hot-drop," the Sister-Pilot said over the intercom. "LZ is swarming with heretics, still receiving small-arms fire."

"Let loose your fury, Sister," the Palatine replied, gauntleted fingers wrapping around a support hook. The Lady Inquisitor heard the ringing of bullets against the thick steel hull, occasionally punctuated by the deep blare of a belt-fed bolter.

"Copy that Palatine," the intercom replied. "Brace for firing maneuvers." A red light flickered on, the signal for ready-up.

A lurching rocked them in their readiness, and the Thunderhawk vibrated with glee as it opened fire, spraying the landing pad with a rain of death. The Sister-Pilot let loose her missiles as well, the roaring explosions carrying into the insulated hold.

"Prepare for dust-off! The Emperor be with you!" The intercom cried, the craft banking around to disgorge its contents.

The Lady Inquisitor glanced at Yang, the slow rise and fall of her bloodied, ruined chest. She prayed to the Emperor that her friend held on. To ensure her survival, she whispered a few eldritch words into her helmet, casting a net of protection over the gurney, ensuring that any bullets or blows directed at her friend would glance off her aura instead. Once the spell was completed, she readied herself for the slaughter.

The light switched to an emerald green, and the bay doors shot open, vomiting thick steel cables that uncurled and fell to the landing platform below. Darron waved his team forward into the pre-dawn glow, his hellgun strapped across his chest. Uriel beckoned once more.

"Go, go, go!" He cried, slapping their pauldrons as they hurtled past and hurled themselves onto the ropes. "Let's move it out, people!" The Sisters flew past him, a rushing tide of black ceramite and flapping white battle-silk. They had no need for ropes.

Darron left last, throwing himself from the hold and latching onto the steel cable. He rocketed down, pivoting to appraise the landing pad. It was awash in small arms fire, lasbolts lancing across the scored plating.

His team spread out under the withering hail of death, diving to the ground and bathing the entryway with hellbolts. The heretics had locked it down in the hours since its seizure, fortifying the long metal bridges that connected the field of crates and loading equipment to the towering workshop.

Snapping bullets and searing lasbolts hounded him, and he dove into a firing position, hellgun blaring. The remaining Sisters landed, impacting against the landing pad with the crunching wrench of steel.

Roaring, the Palatine pushed them on, her chainsword singing its lustful cry. They stormed past the kasrkin, storm bolters chewing apart machine gun emplacements and the cultists behind them. Chera looked at him, face questioning beneath the reflective visor of her helm.

"After them, kasrkin!" He cried. "Assault pattern talon!" They weren't accustomed to fighting with the heavily armored (and damn near impervious) Sisters, but they couldn't slacken the pace, not even a little. His Lady's orders.

Astrid and Rodric brought their ballistic shields up, heavy slabs of specially-made ceramite. Though the Sister's power armor whickered aside most attacks, his kasrkins' carapace armor was less capable, strong though it was.

"Aye!" His kasrkin bellowed, lining up behind the shield-bearers. Bounding forward, they assaulted amidst the chorus of death around them. Leaning out from behind the shield, they poured forth a punishing hail of death at the cultists, ripping holes in their defensive lines with accurate, sustained fire.

The Sisters met the first defilade, throwing themselves over the scraped-together half-walls and carving apart the foe with ease.

"Forward!" Darron said, pushing them onwards. A lasbolt struck a shield, and Rodric grunted, but soldiered onwards. Always onwards. Harran ducked out from behind him, skewering a cultist with a well-aimed hellbolt that boiled the flesh of its neck away. More bullets thudded into the shield, but their blood was up, their momentum unswervable.

"Defilade reached!" Astrid cried.

"Over the top, keep pushing!" Darron replied. Like a well-revered machine, they vaulted over the bodies and broken scaffolding, careful to stay behind the protective ballistic shield. "Watch the flanks! Don't stop!"

"Aye!" They shouted once more. The thunderhawk swept low, disgorging the Lady Inquisitor and the last few members of their assault party. Darron watched her step in front of the hovering stretcher that contained the wounded form of Trooper Yang. It soured his expression, a frown spreading across his lips. A lasbolt lanced past him, focusing him once more on the task at hand.

"Fuck!" Chera said, her hellgun billowing steam, "C'mon babe, keep at it!" He patted her pauldron in response, pointing her at a team of heretics maneuvering to flank them on an outside support beam. "Right! Chera, Petir, pivot right! Foot mobiles, take 'em down!" They obeyed with lethal efficiency, scything down the shambling brown forms.

As they pressed forward, the workshop seemed to swallow them whole, a titanic rockcrete pylon that pierced the clouds and stood as the epitome of all that was mystical, all that was mechanical. More heretics had entrenched themselves around the wide blast doors that served as the workshop's loading bay, cowering behind shipping crates and equipment by the score.

"Horst!" Darron bellowed, keeping an eye on his Lady as she neared with her wounded charge. "Hit 'em with the plasma! Chera, have your squad provide suppressing fire!"

They exploded out of the line, rolling into firing positions. As they formed a line of death-spewing hellbolts and carapace armor, Horst readied his plasma gun, flicking a switch near the hilt of the archaic weapon. It whirred to life, blue coils in its receiver igniting into a thrumming roar. Lightning crackled around the barrel, sheer power bound within an unstable frame.

"Bolt on the way!" Horst screamed, his voice alight with agony. With a humming crackle, he unleashed the weapon. A glob of crackling blue power burst from the barrel, and for a second, it felt like they stood upon the surface of a sun. Screaming and howling, it shot towards the heretics, past the Sisters as they carved their foes apart, past the enemy entrenchments.

With a wrenching howl, it tore into the blast doors, spewing flash-heated shrapnel across the landing platform and shaking the metal frame under their feet. The heretics nearest to the door boiled away, while others screamed at the white-hot fragments of steed door jutting from them.

Palatine Naja seized the opportunity. Under a blizzard of hellbolts, she dove into the midst of the arch-foe, her eviscerator a screaming black blur. Her comrades' flamers spat promethium, roasting those that ran. There were no survivors.

"Okay, we're good people, push it up!" Darron cried, waving his kasrkin forward. The scrambled to their feet, hustling to catch up with the fleeter Sisters.

"Ah, fucking Emperor," Horst hissed, rank steam pouring from blackened gloves.

"You good?" Chera asked, helping him to his feet. He showed them his hands. The palms and the inside of his fingers had been burnt away, and the scent of cooking flesh rode the vicious wind and filled Darron's nostrils.

"Can you fight, Horst?" Darron asked, glancing at Chera. She shook her head as they hurried along.

"Fuck yeah I can," Horst said, biting the words out from between a clenched grin. His face was invisible behind his ivory mask, but Darron knew a grimace of pain when he heard one. "I mean, it's my job to carry the gun," Horst continued. "She had to turn on me one day or another. Just be glad she didn't blow me up."

"We're all very grateful," Loni said, whipping out a spray can. She doused the exposed flesh in disinfectant, a blue mist that settled onto Horst's sinews. The stormtrooper remained silent. Darron huffed in admiration. Shit hurt like hell, but he knew Horst would be damned if he let it show. "That's it, tough guy," she said. "Don't grab onto anything if you don't have to. Now come on, we're falling behind."

They picked up their pace. A wounded heretic crawled away from them, hobbling on a liquified leg. Casser booted him off the landing pad with his augmentic legs, laughing as the heretic plummeted to his death.

"Quit fucking around, Casser," Chera said, prodding his back. Glancing back at her husband, her helmet shifted in an exaggerated mockery of an eye-roll.

"You know, I'm thinking we already have children," Darron said. Chera giggled at him before pressing on and stomping on the neck of a gurgling heretic. "My Lady, are you ready to push up?"

The Inquisitor's skull-mask dipped in acknowledgement. Rather than lead the way, she'd chosen to stay behind with the Hospitaller, forming a shield for Trooper Yang. He wished a stray bullet would find its way past his Lady and bury itself in the Representative's ear.

He shook the traitorous thought away. Darron, what the fuck? His lips curled into a frown. It's her fault the Inquisitor's been off her game! Although... if Yang were to die, he had a feeling the horrid nightmare on Ranshu would return. He shuddered, despite the heat of his battery pack and the sweltering press of Uriel's toxic air.

His focus returned to the battle.

"Arken, move up with your flamer and clear the entryway!" He cried, waving the stormtrooper forward. Nodding, he jogged on ahead, the pilot light of his heavy flamer sparking as he joined the Sisters. Once he was among them, they pressed forwards, diving into Tyrham's workshop and bathing it in promethium.

At least he could distract himself with battle. Here, he excelled. Chera let loose a whoop of prayer as they entered the workshop, their muzzles sweeping every inch of plasteel. Here, he was at home. Familiar territory.

The loading bay was enormous, a high-ceilinged exercise in mechanical chaos. Piping and wiring by the mile reached under the floor, stretched across the walls, disappeared into the metal arches. Some were as thick around as the Thunderhawk they rode in on, others, no wider than his finger. All of them pumped and hissed, while some spewed steam from hollow gauges. It was a metal nightmare, and it was crawling with cultists.

Falling in between the Sisters, they pressed onwards.

"Foot mobiles, second floor, on the right!" Darron swivelled and fired, Uriel slowing to a crawl around him. The cultists scrambled and bled in slow motion, breaking under the unrelenting force of their assault. Almost a hundred crowded the loading bay, crawling over the scaffolding at the back and dashing between the host of shipping crates.

This is what he lived for. His hellgun roared, supercharged red lances searing the air to flash-cook a heretic, setting the rags he wore alight. Chera and Arden swung their squads around to the flanks, unbidden by any command. Leaping and bounding up the scaffolding stairs, they blitzed forward while Darron's squad and the Sisters stayed the middle.

Sister Eleven let loose her bolter, ripping apart the arch-foe and every inch of the cover they hid behind. Grinning, he watched his wife slide behind a loader at the back corner of the bay. Untouched from their advance and in a prime enfilade, they butchered what remained of the heretics, cutting them down in their dozens until only a heap of smoking bodies remained.

"Exceptional work," the Lady Inquisitor bellowed, her hand clasping her smoking inferno pistol. "We must hurry. If we are to aid Tyrham's guard, we can't let the heretics prepare a defense!"

"Aye!" Darron cried. "Arken, Chera! On me! Breach the door!" He said, pointing to one of the wide doors that hand been sealed shut by retreating heretics. They complied without question or hesitation, readying the shaped charges and lining up behind the breacher. The Sisters waited, slapping new mags into their bolters or screwing fresh tanks into coughing flamers.

"Charges set, Darron!" Chera cried, stepping away from the charge. She tossed him the detonator, which he caught in a ready hand.

"Ready up, people!" They tensed, lining up behind the Sisters and Arken. He pressed the button, and the thermite-pack burst, rending a hole in the blast doors two meters wide. "Go, go, go!" The Palatine was first through, a hymn on her lips. Her power armor hummed as it launched her forwards, her eviscerator growling as it bit into the waiting cultists. They filed in after her, each cleanly leaping over the molten scrap-hole in the door, muzzles sweeping when they emerged on the other side.

Bullets and lasbolts smacked against the door, a torrent a lead and ozone. The Sisters shrugged it off, invincible behind the their armor and fleur-de-lis-emblazoned helmets. The halls beyond the landing bay were just as expansive, just as covered in odds and ends. Why Tyrham needed an entire tower to be his personal workshop, he would never understand. Hell, the Magos made his skin crawl, to say nothing of his twisted underling.

The sloping hallway stretched out in three directions before them, tunneling behind cluttered corners and under purring machinery. Though there only a few dozen cultists remaining, they were heavily fortified, crouched behind thick metal scrap and manning fluted stubguns.

A scream filled the halls of Tyrham's workshop, the first one not uttered by the arch-foe.

Arken slumped over, his flamer clattering to the floor and shooting out dancing sparks. Blood spurted between the fingers clasped around his flank.

"Aw fuck!" he shouted, slumping over. Darron grimaced, shouting orders to his kasrkin as they supported the Sister's advance. They fanned out, slipping around Arken and laying down a barrage of hellbolts. "They fucking got me! Fuck!" Arken hollered, his fist ringing against the cold metal floor. "Where's my- fuck! Where's my fucking flamer?!" His knees shuffled forward, but they found no purchase on the slickening floor. He collapsed, and fell silent.

"Loni, pick him up!" Darron cried. Emperor, he had a feeling they couldn't stay untouched forever. "Petir, get his shit and get over there! This fire is fucking murderous!"

Crouching, Loni stretched Arken's arm over herself before hoisting him over her shoulders. Standing, she bound his wrists together in a tight hand and couched her hellgun against her shoulder. "Good to go, Captain!"

Nodding, he waved them forward, into the jaws of death. One round punched a Sister in her pauldron, the armor giving way with a wrenching cry. She cried out in the name of the Emperor and pressed onwards, her comrades helping her reclaim her compromised flamer. Blood darkened the immaculate white silk that fluttered around her arms, but she ignored it.

"Malik, advance with the Palatine! Frag 'em!"

"Bounding!" Malik cried, dashing between the wounded Sister and her twin. The Palatine followed, blood-soaked eviscerator spewing gore as she revved its engine. Diving down, he hurled a brace of cooked frags into the cultists.

With a muffled whumph and the harsh whistle of shrapnel, they chewed the heretics apart, sending limbs scattering across the hallway.

"Aw fuck." Arken mumbled, head bouncing against Loni's back. "Fuck." His lips were running over with blood.

With the majority of the Sisters moving up, they cleaned out the last of the defending heretics, stomping their teeth into their twisted, blasphemy-marked faces.

"To the lift, Captain," the Lady Inquisitor ordered, emerging from the landing bay. Sister Mwatabu was behind her, Trooper Yang resting peacefully on her gurney, ignorant of the slaughter that surrounded her.

"Right," he replied. "Palatine, activate the lift. Should be a few meters to the left." I think. It had been so long since he'd been on Uriel. Though he'd spent a few months in the building, its layout still seemed confusing and unnatural, pressing down on him like a whirring iron headache.

"Acknowledged," Naja said, cranking a handle. With a rusted groan, the lift doors opened, rusted red doors screeching open. The lift was huge, enough to accommodate a squadron of Aquila landers. They piled on.

"Incoming!" Horst shouted, pointing with a bandaged finger. Down the hall, heretic reinforcements stormed forward, shouting and cursing in a foul tongue. There were hundreds, packed into the hall like rats in a sewer.

"Sister Eleven?"

"Yes, Palatine," the titanic Sister replied, stepping forward. Settling into a firing position, she ignored the bullets that sparked off her towering armor. "KNOW FEAR, HERETICS!" She bellowed, unleashing her massive weapon.

It roared.

Casings rang like cannon-shells against the floor of the lift, hundreds of explosive shells tearing her foes into a rain of offal and shredded flesh. Under the covering fire, the Inquisitor and Mwatabu loaded Trooper Yang onto the lift, careful not to jar her.

"Take us up!" His Lady cried.

Arden punched the button, and the thick metal doors groaned shut. Sister Eleven let her fire die out. Silence reigned for a moment as the lift started upwards. Eleven's chest rose and fell, steam curling out of her heavy bolters.

"Lift should take a minute to reach the next floor," Darron said. "I suggest everyone ready themselves."

His kasrkin obeyed, pumping coolant into their hellguns and catching their breath. Loni let Arken down and did what she could to stem the bleeding.

Chera sidled up behind him, her back to his. "Now I don't know about fear," she whispered, "but those heretics got friendly with death fast enough." Darron huffed, a half-laugh. "Arken should be okay. We're headed to see Prexius, after all. He couldn't be in a better place." Her reassurances took the weight off his pauldrons, and his head stooped for a second.

"For the love of the Emperor, stay safe," he whispered back.

"I will, Darron." Discreetly, she patted his armored rump. "You watch this for me, okay? I might need it later."

"Of course. Lock and load." She nodded, spinning to rally her squad into a firing line. The Sisters did so as well, disengaging from their wounded Sister to form a protective shield at the front of the lift doors.

They opened reluctantly, revealing a hellish battlefield one inch at a time. This floor was some sort of atrium, wide enough to accommodate an entire regiment. The room was split down the middle, where robed skitarii had dug in by felled statues of ancient Magi.

"Thank the Gods!" A heretic yowled as the doors slid open, turning to face its contents. "Reinforcements! Metal bastards are-" his voiced died immediately when he found who he was speaking to. Palatine Naja bint Mutaa Al'Ibanhi was not pleased.

Before he could raise a cry of alarm, her hand enveloped his face, and her fingers twitched. Blood, brains and bits of skull shot out between her knuckles, and the headless corpse fell to the ground.

"For the Emperor!" the Palatine roared, a cry echoed by the entire task force. Even Arken mumbled an approximation, his head still bouncing against Loni's back.

It took ten minutes to clear the atrium. Ten minutes of following the Sisters' gouts of flame, polishing off whatever remained in their furious wake. Darron was the first to reach the skitarii, waving his arms and hailing them with standard challenge protocols.

A clipped mechanical chirping welcomed this, a sound that echoed up and down the battle-line. Behind the felled statues, a single skitarii emerged, his onyx and once-royal robes tattered and worn. A set of printed silver snowflakes ringed the crown of his hood, the swell of his cloak etched in Mechanicus red and trimmed with shining gold. His face was masked behind an all-encompassing mask, its eyes a chilling blue.

"Greetings," he said, his voice flanged and vox-enhanced. "You must be with the Lady Inquisitor." The machine-warrior appraised him, glowing blue goggles parsing over the panting kasrkin.

"That is correct," the Lady Inquisitor replied, stalking over to Darron and the rest of the skitarii. Behind her trailed Sister Mwatabu and Trooper Yang, still bound to the gurney.

"Welcome, Lady Inquisitor. Lord Tyrham mentioned your arrival." His subordinates vaulted over the statue, falling into a perfect line besides their spokesman. "We are honored by your presence." Their fists rang against their armor, a brief, uniform salute. "Hail, the Lady Inquisitor!"

"HAIL, THE LADY INQUISITOR," they droned.

"I trust the way to Magos Tyrham is unobstructed?" She asked, sheathing her power sword.

"Correct. Though this sector is clear for now, our Master's Workshop is far from purged. The heretics are like roaches," he added.

"Very well. My Sisters and a few of my kasrkin will assist you. Now please, make way, I need to reach the Magos as soon as possible."

The skitarii leader nodded, barking a few orders in unintelligible gibberish. They split apart, and a few offered to escort the Inquisitor and company to Tyrham.

Turning, the Lady Inquisitor's mask bored into Darron. "Captain," she said, "Have Loni bring Arken along. With any luck, his survival might still be secured."

Nodding, Darron ordered the medic to accompany the Inquisitor. Thank the Emperor. He might still be saved.

"I'll do everything to ensure he survives," she continued. "He served well."

"That he did, my Lady. Would you like me to accompany you?"

She shook her head, already stomping off towards the Magos' hub. "Remain here and help coordinate an effective defense. I will return to help cleanse the Workshop after speaking with the Magos."

He saluted sharply, but she didn't see it. Chera and his personal squad remained, the rest departing with their Lady.

Sighing, he strode over to the skitarii commander, picking his way across the scarred and blood-soaked atrium. Corpses littered it, their blood forming red rivers that merged and formed a thick lake the center of the floor. Most were brown-clad and marked with heretical symbols. Only a few skitarii lie dead, broken and spent like a busted bolter.

As he approached, the black-robed figures chittered among themselves, exchanging glances as they examined the kasrkin.

"Welcome back to Uriel, Lord Captain," the commander said, "I am Kappa-Sigma-One, a Skitarii Alpha of Master Tyrham's personal guard."

"Well-met," he replied.

Chera dipped her head in acknowledgment as well. "Chera and Darron Marius, at your service." More chittering.

"Lord Captain, Lady Lieutenant, are you perchance members of the Lady Inquisitor's original guard force?" He asked, head cocked quizzically. Chera slackened, preening over her fancy title, no doubt grinning from ear to ear.

However, Darron hesitated, fingers coiling around the hilt of his lasgun. This wasn't how he remembered the skitarii. "That is correct, Sigma-One."

"Then would you do us the brief favor of removing your masks?"

Puzzled, Darron and Chera exchanged a quick glance. Their faces were invisible, but other body language spoke volumes. Her shoulders went taught, and she pulled at the bandolier that sat over her shoulder. The brief trill of pleasure at her title had evaporated. Something was off.

"I will, but we really must be going."

"Worry not, my Lord and Lady," Sigma-One said holding his hand up. "I have just received word from my commander, Master of Skitarii Alpha-Six-Seraph. The heretics are routing. Fear has taken hold of their hearts." His soldiers cheered at this, a low buzzing sound that resonated from under their hoods.

"We must not relent, Sigma-One," Darron reminded him.

"Of course not, Lord Captain. Come, I'll take you Alpha-Six-Seraph's command bunker."

"Very well," Darron said, his hellgun dipping. Looking over at his wife, he nodded. As one, they removed their masks. The skitarii went silent, their binary cant dying away.

"Praise the Omnissiah," Sigma-One said, stepping back. Turning to his subordinates, he barked an order.

They removed their masks as well, and Chera bit down a scream.

Facing them were their mirror images, wrought in the pallid, metal-fused flesh of the Mechanicus. Twenty pairs of augmented violet eyes stared back at them, their visages calm and collected.

"Emperor protect me," Darron whispered, looking at Sigma-One. His eyes were Chera's their angle haughty, their whites pure and bright. The skitarii's chin was his own, devoid of its usual stubble.

"In your image, we were created," Sigma-One boomed, a flicker of a smile stretching across his pale and quivering lips. "With your blood, we were forged. We are the greatest of the skitarii!" His men made the Sign of the Cog behind him, heads bowing.

Chera's hand clasped his own, and he squeezed it as tightly as he could.

A/N: Methinks there's been a few experiments. Hopefully you guys enjoyed that chapter! It's the last bit of action for a while, as the next few chapters are dialogue-heavy, and more focused on character development and set-up for further conflicts.

And yeah, if you're thinking, 'boy, these are some weird skitarii', there'll be some elaboration on the matter later. As for Darron and Chera, they're so damnably cute. Emperor protect me.

Also, holy shit. Thank you guys so much for all your reviews. The amount of support I've been receiving lately is mind-blowing. You guys are the best!

Review Replies:

The Walrus of Eden: I thought about doing the same, but you're right, it wouldn't have served the story very well at all. As for citrus... no comment.

555814: Thank you!

reality deviant: Happy New Year's to you as well!

Victor L: That was a very... insightful review. You pretty much hit the nail on the head, especially when you said that Yang needed it. She needed to get smacked down, since she hasn't really been challenged in a meaningful way since her arrival. Also, very pleased to hear that you like the OCs. Amat in particular is hard to write, and it's always nice to see the time spent crafting him is well spent. As for blanks, she's much too powerful a psyker to survive their presence for long.

snoogenz: Wow! :D You're too kind haha. Thanks so much for all your reviews last year! I've loved reading all your reviews!

redcollecter: Oh, you have no idea.

Nhobody: Hey there, stranger! Good to see a new face! I'm happy to hear you're liking the story. As for the rest of the story, things will start to take shape here shortly. :)

Firehawk242: It was certainly Ruby, but it wasn't 'her' exactly. I'd tell you exactly what was going on, but it'd ruin it!

Kamzil118: I had a blast writing it!

Hypothetical Spiritual Entity: As I said above, I'd explain Ruby's 'presence', but it would spoil a few things. Although the idea of Ruby being the older sister is endlessly amusing.

Parks98: Fuck yeah!

tankbuster626: Goddamn right. It's been so much fun porting her character into the Imperium!

Darkerpaths: Hopefully this longer one makes up for it hahaha

Inquisitor Azreal: Now that, my friend, is a very interesting theory!

blaiseingfire: Sorry about that... haha

Fencer22: I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Galm: Thanks! And yeah, killing her off at the halfway point just seemed... wrong.

OBSERVER01: Thanks! I liked it too, and I hope everyone can enjoy Amat as his own character.

Kidkaboom1: Regarding Amat, there'll be some elaboration regarding that whole thing. ;) And I read it, but while some 'characters born in another universe' stories work out, that one didn't do it for me. Not that it was bad, just the opposite! Just not what I'm looking to read haha

LegionOfMisfits: Haha! Glad to hear you enjoyed the chapter!

Kiyoushu: Well... compared to her compatriots, being needlessly cryptic is the most minor of her sins! XD

Scot911: Love to see that you're so curious about the Eldar! And as I said above, I can't clarify on Rose-o-vision just yet!

SanguinePanguine: Haha loving the enthusiasm! And yes, there will be an Eldar chapter here... but when? It's impossible to say. ;)

Quelthias: That's the hope, isn't it? I wonder what will happen though...

CommandoDude: Hey, thanks so much for stopping by, new friend! Though you're not the first person to praise the balance I've struck, I'm certainly pleased to hear it again - it's something that's balanced on a knife's edge, and keeping it that way is no easy task. Thanks again!

ATP: Thank you! The Paladin would simply be a softer-hitting, more mobile dreadnaught. Not sure if it'd be tougher to kill though... hmmm.

Nemris: It was carefully forged! XD As for more permanent damage, I think Sister Mwatabu laid out the ramifications of tanking A FUCKING SHIELD-BREAKER ROUND pretty nicely! :D

GuntherRiechwald: She'll be missed. :'(

Magnificent Bosh'tet: Oh shit, I should have known that. But yes, blasting Hotline Miami music while watching Yang kick all kinds of ass is very appropriate.

Happy New Year: No problem!

LuckyFractal: Hahaha Weiss is pretty great, although I might be a bit biased if I admit to liking her as an Inquisitor a little bit more. :P Glad you're enjoying Amat! He's a very tough character to nail!

cyclone13: It's been a challenge, but I figured I could slip in bits and pieces. :)

Gafgar: Well, people want to see more Remnant interlopers, so I guess I can't blame them.

Hefster: Haha thanks so much for giving it a read! I'm thrilled you're enjoying the story so much!

A Flying Tomato: It wasn't easy...

theblacklightprojekt: Not really my personal headcanon, just how I think the show's going to turn out. Somewhat. Kinda. It's complicated lol

soupie1394: I guess that's a close approximation, but he was based more off of Sergeant Colbert from the Generation Kill TV series... but with a 'I've been wearing a mask for four years' beard.

Whew! Once again... thank you guys so much. Keep 'em coming! Your reviews fuel my progress! :D