[FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

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[FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Wed Mar 10, 2021 1:24 pm

My most popular story. It's by far my longest and it will take some time to me to completely post it all. It is fairly dark and violent so be warned, it's not going to be a happy story.

*Transmitted: Aloreux IV
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217 M45
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Warrior-Saint
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 100000003487862/57920754527.7890
*Thought For The Day: Cruelty is the Compassion of the Wise

Brother-Sergeant Michael cut through the foliage, his chainsword nearly clogged. The dark red power-armour stained and the Great Seal of the Hellsing Order almost obscured by the sickly yellow of the battered plants. The landscape was a twisted nightmare, filled with horrible, pestilent overgrowths of warp-tainted 'life' Michael did not want to contemplate. The air was nothing but rot and decay; the ground was covered in a sickly greenish pus. Still seeking any sign of his Brothers and Sisters he snapped left and right; no sound, no trace. The assault had scattered badly. He raced over the foetid hills; towards the target, a ruined Imperial city, straining to heard any sound.

He stopped; a sound, there! He barreled through the hellish brush bearing down on the noise. Louder and louder it grew, he could pick out the clash of metal, the shriek of claws on armour. The warp-spawned copses terminated abruptly and Micheal beheld the battle. Five Sisters and four of his Brothers fought desperately, hacking and shooting where they could, against the tide of twisted and deformed creatures that dripped with pale ichors. The daemons advanced, slashed with plague-tipped claws and bit with broken fangs, in moments his brethren would be lost.

Michael yanked out a smoke-charge and pitched it into the melee. The tube popped and covered his Brother ans Sisters immediately. He drew his bolt-pistol and charged. The first daemon barely had time turn its head before Michael bought his sword across, sending its head arcing skyward. The second he shot blasting viscera in all directions, it came on regardless. They fell back, momentarily confused by the new attacker.

“Secondary flank left!” Michael ordered as he cut into another creature. He raced forward along the right edge of the mass, slashing and shooting. With a strained shriek the chain-sword finally gave out. Micheal swung the dead weapon in a wide arc and launched himself as far away as he could.

“OPEN FIRE!”, Micheal yelled. Bolter shells ripped into the plague-bearers, limbs tore off and and necrotic blood splattered the ground.

“Brother-Sergeant”, Michael heard as he inspecting the remains of his sword. He turned and saluted. He could see them more clearly now. By their gilded heraldry they were Initiates in the Order of the Valourous Sword. Cultists never held command positions.

“Sister”, he said, ”Have you had contact with the rest of our brethren?”

She shook her head, “No Brother-Sergeant, you are the first.”

Michael looked around, hoping for a Sign. They could not stay, and he didn't have the numbers to assault the Death Guard in the city.

“We must press onwards, we will find the main force.”

“Yes Brother-Sergeant.”

Michael set forth, seeking the rest of their Order and engaging the Arch-Enemy where they found them. He gathered what few that could be found, a few came within range of the vox, several he blundered into. By the time he broke through the tainted jungle, he had found a mere three dozen. The heavy weapons team had four heavy bolters and a plasma cannon, the rest were split between tactical weapons and assault, no power weapons.

It was the sounds of screeching and hollow bangs that caught Michael's attention. He ran forward over to the cresting hill and saw the target. Once this had been the thriving, industrial heart of the world, it was no more. The buildings were rotten and collapsed; each coated with corrupted, blasphemous sigils wrought from what looked to be human flesh and the Marks of the Ruinous Powers of Chaos were burned into the structures. The warped and twisted symbols threated to draw his mind in, but he turned away not willing to waste his effort for no purpose. Michael scanned the area, hoping to see any of the Order. He did not have to search far.

A brutal melee was being waged not a hundred metres from him. The sickly greens and yellows of the Death Guard blurred together, but could not obscure the deep reds and rich blues of the Hellsing Order. Even at that great distance he could determine their heraldry easily. The Agrios Chines, The Saint's Guard. She was near. They stood in a circle around a building, barring all entrance. The Traitors tried, pitifully, to force their way through, each time to be torn apart with lighting claws or smashed asunder with thunder hammers.

A shrieking cacophony to Michael's left pulled his attention away from the battle. Across the streets a tidal force of putrefied bodies, pestilent limbs, and bloated rot poured toward the unhallowed edifice. A plan flared to life. Not ideal but he had nothing better.

“Support, purge the filth!”, he ordered the heavy weapons team, pointing to the wave of daemons, “Tactical, advance ten metres left and screen them, Assault team secondary flank from the right remain unseen, primary with me!”

The heavy weapons teams moved into position and began to rain holy fire upon the obscenities. The abominations shrieked and tried to turn, but there were too many to wheel about effectively. The assault team lined up behind Michael and readied their weapons as the secondary raced into position.

Michael surveyed his warriors, the terrain and the Enemy. He wanted to find more of the Order before the final assault, he wished to find any ranking officers, he hoped for some sign as to what was the best course. He would simply have to trust in the Saints and the Emporer.

“FOR THE LINE OF SAINTS!”, he yelled, thrusting his sword at the Enemy and charged. He heard the echoing chant, hoping it was loud enough to attract all their attention. Some of the Traitors heard and turned from the battle to face the new assault. They shambled into a wavering line and waited, scythes and axes bobbing. Michael began the Litany of Purpose and Being.

“In the Name of the Immortal Emperor”, he began, the warriors around him picked up the Litany.

“Blessed be His Name!”

They thundered down the hill, the chants echoing across the ruins.

“The Debased souls of the Traitor and the Heretic!”

“Cursed are their Names!”

Micheal kept an eye on the auspex, the secondary team was not advancing as quickly as he thought.

“Shall be banished into Eternal Damnation!”

“The Light of His Judgment shall prevail!”

They wouldn't hit in time, he would have to improvise.

“HALT! Open fire! Aim low!”

Slamming to a stop he fire his bolt-pistol at the legs of the Death Guard, he heard his Brothers and Sisters do the same. Catch off-guard they staggered backwards before they tried to counter-charge. By then the secondary had the time they needed. Sparks flew and metal shrieked as chain-sword bit into tainted armour. The line crumpled from the onslaught, but held. It would not do so for long.

“Charge” Micheal ordered. Moments before they hit the traitors, Michael remembered to complete the Litany. “Amen.”

Ground between the two-pronged assault the traitors were slaughtered, chain-blades broke open the battered armour and shredded corrupted flesh and bone with ease. The rest of the Traitors aware of a rear-attack scattered, trying to prolong the battle. Micheal ducked a swing and shot the Traitor in the face. He rushed the next one and knocked it to the ground where an Agrios Chines eviscerated it. He plowed forward, intent upon reaching The Saint.

Suddenly a fell keening shattered the air. The walls of the rotted building tore outward and wave of charred daemons issued forth. Micheal crushed the 'face' of one as it ran to him. So maddened by pain it made no attempt to dodge. He hacked and shot at the rest as he charged through. Unlike their brethren before these collapsed at the merest touch.

Michael broke through the melee, his footfalls heavy on the sludge that coated the ground. He knew that the Saint was in the building, knew that one of the Arch-Enemy captains was there. He was determined to aid in any way possible. Michael turned his shoulder and smashed through the wall. It was over.

Rythun had lost, his deformed armour was charred and pitted from Her Presence, his attacks wild and erratic. The Saint, clad in her death-black power armour adorned with skulls, advanced mercilessly. Her much smaller form easily forced Rythun back. Unable to match her strength he fell back and swung his scythe at her. Almost casually, she twisted around and brought the Eternus Odium upon Rythun's scythe, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Her free hand ripped out the armour plating of his torso, and with a swinging blow smashed the ancient daemonhammer into his chest. He flew across the room, visibly denting the wall he impacted. She launched herself at him, the Eternus Odium raised to strike. Rythun pawed at something on his wrist moments before the death-blow, he spastically jabbed. She brought the daemonhammer down, and hit nothing. Rythun had completely vanished. She paused staring at the spot Rythun had been. Her righteous fury was palatable. The Saint pulled the Eternus Odium back and locked it into place on her back. She turned and faced Michael.

“Sergeant Michael, sweep the compound, kill all the Fallen and take any prisoners to the west courtyard.”

“Yes, Beati.”

Michael saluted and ran to execute Her Orders. The battle outside was finished, a few minor injuries suffered. Quickly he formed a search team and though he scoured the ruins for the Traitors they had all fled by Rythun's warp-craft. Leaving only their deluded followers behind to face the justice they evaded.

He had the last of the prisoners dragged to the appointed courtyard. All told, one quarter of a hundred had surrendered rather than face their wrath. Clothed in rags and covered with filth and grime Micheal forced them to kneel in the dirt and slime and await their reckoning. As the still highest ranking officer he went forth to inform the Saint.

By the runes on the auspex she remained near that desecrated structure Rythun had been bested in, doubtlessly hunting for proof of where the coward had fled. He moved with casual speed through the ruins; able to trace Her path through them by the burned and blackened icons of the Ruinous Powers. The distance was covered quickly and he found himself before a great circle of the Agrios Chines with the Saint sitting in the center. One of his Brothers had fallen.

His armour was rent and torn and his blood seeped into the ground, his shield shattered and stained with daemonic ichors, his hammer splintered with the force he had dealt with his blows. His mind and soul had fought and fought, until his body could no longer support them. She held his head in her lap, breathing quiet words in a language of her youth on Holy Terra. She had removed both of their helmets. Michael knelt, honouring his fallen brother with quiet prayers and exultations before commending his soul to the Immortal Emperor.

“Sergeant Michael”, he heard the Saint whisper.

He started, thinking that he hadn't been noticed. Regaining his composure, he delivered his report. After Michael had finished she moved her fist across her eyes, a gesture he had never seen her initiate before, locked her helmet into place and rose. At a command several of her guard followed behind, the rest stayed to watch over the fallen.

Michael waited a moment, to give a last farewell to his fallen Brother. As he recited the last valedictions he noticed a few drops of clear liquid on his face. He briefly wondered at to its nature, it wasn't sweat, before putting it out of mind. It was not important. With a final word, he turned and proceeded after the Saint.

The prisoners still remained on the earth, shivering with fear. Moving with terrible purpose the Saint drew her ceremonial bolter-pistol, chambered a single round and strode behind the column of the heretics. Leveling it at the back of the first's head she asked:

“Do you ask forgiveness for your crimes against the Imperium?”

The man, who looked like a fish with his wide staring eyes and a gray pallor, took some moments to respond through his terror.

“Y-Y-Yes, I-”, whatever he tried to say was cut off when the Saint pulled the trigger and his head exploded. Screams rose in the throats of the heretics. Now that they truly understood their fate. Even now, after all his years in the service of the Emperor, he still marveled at Her capacity for mercy. Offering these things absolution in death was not something he could do. He would have burned them alive and sent them to the hell they had so willfully bargained for.

Uncaring, the Saint reloaded, walked to the next, and asked again. A woman this time, stricken with a wasting plague, answered faster.

“Pleeeease don't killl mee...”, the Saint quickly snapped her free arm down, dropping the woman to the ground and stunning her. Before the apostate could gather herself two of the Initiates dragged her off. Ready for the long, arduous task of reclaiming her soul for the Emporer. Idly he watched as thick metal pins were hammered through her arms, legs and into the ground. She started screaming, begging for mercy. She didn't seem to realize that the Saint had offered mercy and she spat in Her face. One of the Initiates was trying to work one of the saws. It seemed to be damaged. He'd offer his chain-sword but it was in even worse condition.

“Blades?” another Initiate asked. The first nodded. A long serrated blade was drawn and pieces of the heretic's leg were cut off. Her screams became one long wail. Vox-contacts, Micheal pressed the sending rune and tried to raise them.

“Brother-Sergeant Micheal here, can you hear me?”

Static and pops, but voices underneath. The screaming was making it hard to hear. A loud crack and the wail pitched into monotone shriek. If their work were not so important he'd shut her up immediately. Activating a few more runes the background noise dropped to a manageable level.

Unhurried and unconcerned by all around her, the Saint carried on with her work. As the numbers thinned, Michael sent the unneeded guards to search the ruins for any marks and traces of where the Traitors could have fled to. He turned back and watched the last of the Emperor's Justice be dispensed.
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Wed Mar 17, 2021 3:36 am

Next chapter, this one is rough.

*Transmitted: Aloreux IV
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44 
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Martyr-Saint
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 100000003487862/57920754527.7890
*Thought For The Day: Life is a Prison, Death its Release

The city screamed. Everywhere inflections of the warp, taint, and worse grew. Like cancerous rot it devoured this once glorious city. Lydwida pulled her robe closer as her body ached in sympathy. The minds of the others, the newly landed soldiers and augmented warriors in the first wave, were laced with disgust and revulsion. Her mind cried with them. She watched as the body of an Agrios Chines was carried onto the lander for burial onboard The Song of Hate, and her soul screamed out. 

His eyes, they were peaceful. She remembered when one had lost his helmet in a drill. The pain, the agony had driven him mad. Only She was able to calm them. The Saint's Pain had left his eyes, in death he know peace.

Lydwida turned and looked at the poor city. She had seen dozens places just like this. The causes changed names, but what remained was always the same. Khornate blood-drinkers, Tzeentchian soul-eaters, plague-zombies, it was always the same. The pain, that was to be her penance. She had caused the drop-ship to be five minutes late.

Leaning on her walking staff she limped into the city, dwarfed by the buildings that soared hundreds of meters into the sky, and crushed by everything that had happened in it. Millions and millions of people lived in this city, billions in this planet. None but the forces of Hellsing were here now. Tears flowed down her face. It was no concern to her, it was not the first time and it would not be the last. Soldiers marched by keeping a great distance from her. It was not her unnaturally thin appearance they feared. She was the worst thing a human could be. She was a pysker.

She could not move things. She was of no use in battle. She could not heal or inspire like the Saints. All she could do was feel the past, the thoughts and emotions that still lingered in the air, and here the air was filled with such things. 

She could feel the joy of a factory worker going home. She saw him being pulled down and devoured by plague-zombies . A child skipped merrily down a street as she played with her friends. A moment later she shambled back, crying out for her mother as her flesh melted off. There an old man lie, organs and viscera torn out, his last thoughts of his long dead wife. The determination of a soldier to die fighting as he pulled the pin, but did not throw the grenade. Terror as widow was dragged into a dark alley.

A newer, clearer pain. The few unfortunates left in the city the Saint had granted Peace. Their pain had ended, they were with Him now. As she walked on more and more visions came. She trembled painfully as they rushed through her, but she did not, could not, would not turn away. 

It took the normal men half an hour to run through the city. The augmented soldiers took mere moments. For her it was three hours before she reached the Saint. Finding Her was not hard, She was a great beacon of light in the darkness. 

She wore black armour, Lydwida had never seen it before. No mark or adornment graced it. Her helmet, fashioned in the shape of a fanged human skull, hung from her waist. Her head was wreathed in a halo of iron, five skulls of human and xenos were chained to her armour. Her hammer was locked on her back, the head of which was nearly as large as her. As Lydwida approached She turned to her. 

Involuntarily, Lydwida trembled. Her eyes, Her eyes were filled with terrible agony. All the torments, all the horrors that she had seen and endured. They were nothing, nothing to Her Pain. How many has She seen fall? How many died before Her? Lydwida thought. How much had She seen only to be lost forever? The Saint walked closer and Lydwida moved to kneel. Before she could finish the Saint grasped Lydwida by the shoulders to stop her.

“You are hurt,” Her words were barely audible.

“I... I am still able, Beati.” 

She did not look at all convinced.

“You need rest... it will be difficult.”

The Saint put her arm around her and led her to a bench. “You should not strain yourself, there are transports available.”

“O-Others needed them more”, Lydwida knew from experience that She did not approve of the penances that she and others undertook. 

The Saint still did not look convinced.

“You will need some time to be ready.”

“W-What is Your Will?”

“The traitors have escaped. Several teams are looking for any trace of where they have fled. There are four places that need to be searched.” 

Lydwida 'felt' four small nudges in the direction She wanted her to look. Lydwida cast out and after a moment found them. Four dark maelstroms of horrid emotion and polluted thoughts. Unlike the feelings in the city, these had a purpose. She felt cold. 

“I-I see them.”

“Escorts are at the first one. A transport will run you to it.”

“I-I understand.”

“Prepare yourself; it will be hard.”

Lydwida nodded, and started focusing herself. The Saint helped her up and walked her over to an armoured car. “Be careful”, she said as Lydwida stepped in. As the transport rumbled towards the site she thought of how selfish she had been when she took her penance-march through the city. Others had needed her elsewhere while she walked. She would think of another suitable punishment for her craven actions later. As she waited she constructed her defenses, stopping only when she felt the transport crawl to a stop.

“You're here,” she heard from the driver.

Awkwardly stumbling out, she nearly fell until she managed to get her staff under her. Dragging herself along she saw the soldiers assigned to her and walked over to them. Ten in total, they carried equipment Lydwida assumed was needed. She recognized the vox-caster one of them carried, but nothing else.

“Lydwida?” one asked her. She nodded, still preparing herself. “Where to?”

“That way”, Lydwida said pointing to the closest dark swirl of pain and fear.

“Move out! Cover by numbers!”

They moved out in a pattern that made no sense to her, but she presumed they knew what they were doing. Slowly inching along Lydwida summoned what little strength she had. The places were not far from each other, so the physical strain would not tax her. The mental and emotion strain would leave scars for years. It did not worry her, where She had suffered and even the Emperor bleed for humanity, she would gladly follow.

The buildings were corroded even worse here. Blackened and seared, as if by fire, they were twisted and mutated looking almost organic. Some should not even be able to stand. Lydwida could feel the unholy traces of daemons from their summonings. She did not wish to think about the number of people that had been butchered to allow such a massive breach in real-space.

She could see the first one clearer now. It was a small structure coated completely in strange runes and warding sigils. Even from a distance she could feel the miasma of it. It wasn't until they reached the closest side that her apprehension began to grow.

She stood before that building and trembled. It was not the endless pain and terror just beyond the door. It was the Mark on the threshold. It was not the symbol of the Rotting God Nurgle, the god the Death Guard supposedly venerated; but its antithesis, Tzeentch, the Ever-Changing God. Lydwida shivered as the reason why it might be there tore through her mind. She reached out and pushed the warped door open. A short flash of fleeting and meaningless emotions skittered across her mental defenses as the portal swung wide. The inside stretched nearly a kilometre in width and length and over a hundred in height. Lydwida heard the soldiers mutter benedictions as the impossible dimensions unfolded. 

No words could ever hope to convey the horrors in that chamber. Masses of men, women and children lay strewn upon the ground, mutated almost beyond recognition. Forms twisted into beasts and creatures unimaginable were piled in the center of that vast chamber. Some looked like they had grown and melted together. Dancing runes and sigils twitched all around. 

Gathering her thoughts, Lydwida dove into the layers of warding for any slight piece of evidence of where Rythun had fled. Piece by piece she unwound each thread until that fell tapestry imploded. With no cage to hold back the emotions in that terrible place they exploded at her. She saw countless things, nearly sending her into shock. A mother watching her child ripped open, creatures prancing forth from her innards, an old man tied down and slowly vivisectioned for some obscene ritual, a rotund man pleading for his life to a Fallen Astartes, a young boy's skin flowed off and formed a chittering monstrosity, the animated body parts of the children murdering the broken parents, and on and on, millions upon millions of voices. Nothing, there was nothing of use to the Saint here. Letting go of the breath she wasn't aware of holding, she turned. 

“T-T-There is nothing here.”

The soldier in charge, Sergeant was the word?, nodded and ordered the others out. Lydwida limped out behind them, her mind filled with questions she did not want to answer.

Another door, another Mark. This one was the simple and brutal Mark of Khorne, Lord of Skulls, surrounded on all sides by skull cast in brass dripping gore. Lydwida could fell the insanity and bloodlust beyond, the beating white-hot anger that raged against everything. She reached out to push open the door, bracing herself for the mental whiplash. Pain, hatred, and rage careened against her mind. The simple and brutal assault cracked her defenses; but they held. 

No runes, no sigils, and no wards adorned the walls of that vast altar-room. Mysticism enraged the Lord of Battle. Carnage was the only thing Khorne demanded of his slaves, and carnage was all the described that chamber. Blood soaked every inch of the chamber, even the air was still humid with it. Mutilated bodies were strewn haphazardly, limbs mangled and organs punctured and tossed aside. She had seen the foot-soldiers of Khorne at war, death had come quickly at least. Most corpses looked like they had been savaged even long after dieing. A few looked like they had killed each other. Lydwida gathered herself to dive through the pain once more. 

Something moved. She snapped around; but nothing was there. 

No, it's just my mind, that's all. 

Pushing her thoughts away she descended, searching through the agony. Faces screamed by, terror and madness gripping those poor souls tightly as they were destroyed. She almost was ready to stop when a face flashed by. The man from the first chamber, the pleading one, wounds and bloodlust twisting his features. His efforts to save his life had clearly failed, delivered from one cruel fate to another. 

She drew back. Only two left, she had to bring something to Her. Too much depended on it. They headed for the next site. Lydwida could smell it long before see could the door and knew what Mark was branded there. It did not make her feel any better.

The Mark of Plague-God Nurgle was lazily drawn into the rot, rust and other filth that was its sacrifice-vault. Lydwida reached out and pushed open the door. Despair, helplessness and dysphoria fell into her defenses. The assault enveloped her. The attack pressed heavily into her, the filth seeking a crack to get into her. She nearly collapsed under the pressure of it. Spasms wracked her body, almost throwing her to the floor. Lydwida rallied her minuscule reserves and pushed back against the tide, unconsciously reciting prayers. Moments, minutes, hours went by, she could not tell the time of her struggle. Slowly, so slowly she pushed the flood back. Exhausted from the effort, she opened her eyes and vomited.

Billions of bodies were flung about, all afflicted with hideous rot and decay. Skin and bone had been eaten away by gangrenous plagues. Corrupted organs, bloated and burst from the pus and gases, were exposed and lie about on the floor. The smell was beyond description. The few faces that had not putrefied were locked in expressions of utter terror. The images would forever be seared into Lydwida's mind.

Slowly the spasms ceased and she tried to push herself up. Out of the corner of her eye she saw shadows shift, eyes blink out a second too slow. They were being watched. It would not be long before they decided to do more than watch. 

The sergeant knelt down beside her and handed Lydwida her staff. With a surge Lydwida pushed herself closer to her face.

“We are being followed.” 

Surprised, her head jerked around, scanning the area.

“No,not here” Lydwida said, tapping the ground for emphasis “in the shadows.”

The sergeant tilted her head, but said nothing. Lydwida gathered herself up and began limping into the chamber. She heard the soldiers recite orders and codes, but none of it meant anything to her. She turned her whole attention to the task before her. It would not be easy.

She closed her eyes, so she would not see the people lying there. It helped a little. She took a moment to steady herself, and then stepped inside. 

The last moments of those poor people played out before her eyes. Parents watching their children waste away in front of their eyes. An infant's cry for for his dead mother. A husband trying to kept the rats from eating at his invalid lover. A teen shaking her mother, attempting to wake her. Flies covered their mouths. Vermin picked at diseased flesh. Their cries for help, unanswered. Sobs overtook Lydwida as she shared their suffering. One dissent emotion attracted her attention, joy. 

She knew that only maddened forces of Chaos could find happiness in this plague crypt. She moved closer, and saw two beings. One, a towering figure in power armour, dripping pus and slime, with terrible Marks and obscene runes adorning it. She had never seen him, but Lydwida knew it to be Rythun. The other she had seen. It was the man who had pleaded for his life in the first chamber. He had Fallen. She would waste no more tears for him, the man he once was was no more. She listened to them, picking out words; something about a cult... 

She felt a sudden shift in the atmosphere - a trap! In an instant she was overwhelmed. Despair ripped her flesh off, plagues ate her organs, she was buried under a mountain of corpses, each reaching for and crushing her. She heard the plaintive wails for mercy that each poor soul in that room called out for. The Dead and the Damned paraded before her eyes, each more horrific than the last. She tried to pray, to scream her throat was filled with blood, she saw into the vast corpse pits of Nurgle. 

Just as fast as it started, it ended. She was being dragged, with blurry vision she saw the doors pull away. She saw dark red forms surge around her. Thin red lights lanced out from all around and stabbed into that terrible place. She heard someone scream out and several small objects were thrown into it. 

I failed.

Whoever was dragging her dropped her and left to join the others, leaving Lydwida with her thoughts.

I failed.

Heat washed over her and then all was quiet. After a moment she could hear the sergeant speak on the vox.

I have failed. I have failed the Order. I have failed the Saint. I have failed the Emperor. I have failed everyone. Tears clouded her eyes and spasms wrecked her frail body. She had failed completely and utterly. She was close to sobs when she felt a hand on shoulder.

“Are you alright?”, it was the sergeant.

It seemed like a joke. She had learned nothing, done nothing and her wellbeing was being asked after?

A thought occurred to her, if they believed her unable to continue on then She would learn of her incompetence sooner. Lydwida nodded. More time, that's all she needed. 

“She says she's alright”, the sergeant reported into the vox. Then she turned away and pitched her voice lower, trying to keep Lydwida from hearing. “She looks like she went ten rounds with an Astartes, send a medicae team.”

Lydwida ignored that and concentrated on standing up. Her left arm moved stiffly and her right leg would not move at all. It took several moments before she got her staff under her. She was spared further effort when two hands grabbed and picked her up.

“You need to eat more,” he said. 

“I-I am fine.”

He didn't seem to accept that, but did not argue. Lydwida closed her eyes and began the slow process of rebuilding her shattered defenses and calming her racing heart. It was soon, too soon, that the footfalls stopped.

“Here,” she heard the sergeant say.

Lydwida asked to be put down. She raised her head, hoping that the Mark that she knew was there was not. It was.

The Mark of Slaanesh.

Her hand trembling uncontrollably, she reached out to open the door. Her hand seized up with tremors just before she touched it. She thought of the Saint and all she had endured. Steading herself she tried once more. Her fingers had just grazed the metal surface when she was attacked. 

A thousand poisonous feelings and alien thoughts shredded her mind, eviscerated her soul. The endless gibbering of uncountable souls in rapturous pain and ecstasy assailed her senses and overwhelmed her in their excesses. She stumbled back, screaming and clutching her head. The soldiers reached for her but she collapsed before they could reach her. Sobbing, she fervently prayed to Him for help. 

A scratching noise brought her fractured attention upwards. Across the rune-covered walls and ceiling twisted, horrible forms clawed their way from between the spaces of light and shadow. The daemons set to guard this place sensed a soul to claim.


“We're cut off!”



Screams and noise filled the air. Lydwida clasped her hands and prayed; it was all she could do. Cold resolve flowed through her. She would not survive this. The knowledge gave her little strength. Strength enough to do what wouldn't matter. 

She gathered what small powers she had and threw them at the wards on the ritual-vault. Not caring what happened to her, she forced her way through, leaving pieces of herself behind. Sensations and feelings attacked her, but she ignored them all. She felt them lodge in her mind, leeching filth. She didn't care, she wouldn't live, so what was the point? She tore though the last moments of billions of lives looking for one person. She felt the daemon's presence claw at her mind, felt her mind crack, she didn't have much time. 

There! She saw that fat, deluded cultist speaking to Rythun. It was so hard to hear their words...Itasion, a word, a name, a place? It didn't matter. She whispered it endlessly. Hoping someone would hear. With tremendous effort she forced her eyes open, and saw her death. 

The daemon lunged for her. A thing of terrible lust, its sinuous limbs joining its boneless body in impossible angles, its twisted and warped 'face' held a look of impossible glee as his hand reached out, ready to devour her soul. 

It never made it. It snapped back as flames engulfed it. A moment later a burning sword cleaved in two. Lydwida tried to look around, her neck move stiffly and her eyesight failing. Dark red and blue blurs and pink and violet shadows surged warred against each other, she didn't notice any of it. 

Someone stood before her, a figure in shining golden battle armour. Images of eagles and votive icons chased with pure silver and inlaid with bright and perfect gemstones covered the armour. Lydwida titled her head back as far as the pain let her. As the figure tore through the shadows with speed and ferocity no human could hope to match, she saw her face. She had short, spiked blonde hair and burning red eyes, she could not have been twenty. All around her savior the walls, the daemons, the whole world burned.

Tired, broken and exhausted physically, mentally and spiritually Lydwida slumped over, whispering that word endlessly, hoping someone would hear. Itasion, Itasion... Itasion.......Itasion.
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Wed Apr 21, 2021 11:34 am

*Transmitted: Itasion
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Judge-Saint
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 1000000037614/573198478.7878
*Thought For The Day: Eventually, The Slave Learns to Love the Lash

Itasion was a world in its last days. The seas had long since died from the industrial poisons pumped into them. The earth contained more heavy metals than carbon. The air was choked with carcinogens that the air scrubbers could barely keep below lethal levels.

Itasion was by no means unique.

In Hive City Primoius, Second Block-C among the rusted houses and worn down businesses a homeless man 'lived'. There were untold homeless, but only he regularly attended church. He was over seventy by his appearance, skin tanned and weather beaten, eyes clouded and unfocused, his joints were arthritic and he moved with a pronounced limp. He would wander all throughout the hive bumbling from place to place begging for food, pleading for money, listening and seeing.

As the lights began to cut off he slowly made his way back to his 'home', an abandoned manufactorium just above ground level. No one went there but him, there was no reason to. He rounded the last corner and sealed the door behind him. Away from the eyes of the world, he straightened. Eyes cleared, weakness vanished, and his limp gone he strode forward and peeled the flesh-mask from his face, revealing a powerful man in his mid-twenties. He was Contam Erum, Initiate of The Veiled Dagger, Seeker of The Hellsing Order, dedicated to the Four Saints and the God-Emperor of Mankind.

He marched passed the fallen machinery and debris to his alcove of effects. Unlocking and pushing the compartment open, he arranged the icons and statues for his own ceremony. He placed, lit the incense, knelt before the small statue of the God-Emperor and recited his prayers.

“God is the Emperor and the Emperor is God. The Emperor is Salvation and the Light. Through His Will the Word is Spoken and the Righteous are uplifted. In His Name shall the Unclean, the Mutant and the Deviant be purged.” He grasped the small knife and cut his arm, letting the blood drip into a small basin. ”Blood is the coin of Life. The price paid and the price due. By the blood I am resolved.”

Swiftly, he took out four more icons of virtue and placed them around the statue of the Emperor.

“In the Name of Courage I dedicate myself. Never shall I falter before the Enemy, always shall I remain vigilant. In the name of Wisdom I dedicate myself. The lies of the Enemy shall never blind my sight, ever will I see the Truth. In the name of Purity I dedicate myself, the temptations of the Enemy shall never turn me aside, always a loyal servant shall I be. In the name of Hatred I dedicate myself. Never shall the sin of mercy weaken me, never will I tire in the pursuit of the unholy.”

Finished, but only for that day, he stood and strode over to his interrogation tools. He had taken an impure cultist several nights before. He professed innocence, they all did, and so far had not broken. He would open his secrets before Contam opened his veins.

He opened the old boxes and set out the blades, the saws, the twists of wire, and the acids. He finished when a small mechanical noise caught his attention. The message receiver. He snapped about and shoved aside the rubble hiding it. He plucked the oblong container out and touched the runes in the way he had been taught. The hololithic image flared to life and wrote out words. He rapidly committed them to memory. He started at one point.

The Saint Herself was coming.

Contam stood some distance from the star port landing pad. He had spent the last hours in feverish action. From what the message said She was chasing a cult from some cesspool of iniquity named Aloureux IV. Most of the people had cravenly surrendered rather than die fighting the Arch-Enemy. She had executed the last for their treason.

The breaking of his prisoner had become top priority. The location of the cult and the names of those involved should be what She required. He broke several blades, saws and nearly spent his supply of acids before learned all the cultist knew. Contam left him to bleed out.

A roar overhead. The transport was landing. He knelt, his mind going in circles. He spoke prayers and litanies, recalled the Names and the Deeds of the Founding Saints, The First War, anything to keep occupied. Another roar. The ship was leaving. He wobbled to his feet, lightheaded. He shuffled over to the side access walkways, the designated meeting place. He pushed through the crowds, his heart thundering in his chest. He reached the door to the walkways and opened it, suddenly aware that he was alone. In the corridor he turned and knelt; dressed in black, She was there.

“Holiness”, he whispered, barely able to get the words out.

My name is Seras, she thought, I've said it a million times, no one listens to me anymore. I'm tired of trying. My head hurts. She gestured for him to get up.

“I have found the location of the cult you seek.”

“Good, show me where”, Seras paused. If she didn't spout off some meaningless nonsense he might get upset and think he did something wrong. Usually they started hurting themselves then.

“The light of faith illuminates the darkness.” She never needed to memorize anything. She stopped trying thousands of years ago. She could make up anything and they'd think it important. He looked overjoyed and speed off. She followed close behind, her dark cloak billowing out.

As they pushed through the crowds, Seras listened to the conversations. She needed practice in Low Gothic. She could pick out most words, figured a few more out, but some still eluded her. The words told the same story though, misery. Broken and beaten down, the people of this city trudged on, every movement agony. She was sympathetic to it. The memory of when things were perfect, when Pip was still with her still lingered on. She remembered how and who ended it all. She would make them pay for it.

Abruptly a commotion broke out. Someone was screaming about something. He was speaking so fast Seras couldn't pick out the words. They moved slower now, people were congregating around him now. A long pause in the shouting ended with: “What would the Emperor think?”

He'd have a stroke. He threw people in jail for calling him a god. Everything's a joke.

At a snail's pace Seras and Contam walked through. He was clearly agitated by the delay. Suddenly he moved away from the main thoroughfares and into an alleyway. It was narrower, but empty. They resumed a quick pace, darting over the trash and refuse. A small noise caught Seras's attention. A little girl, no more than five was strewn over the floor. She looked terrible. Even without medical training Seras knew she had hours to live. As she ran by, she reached out with the her powers and removed the diseases that were killing her.

They're not holy powers, Seras told herself, knowing all about the stories surrounding her. It just something I can do, that's all.

Suddenly Contam skidded to a halt and grasped something on the ground. Straining, he pushed away and a hole appeared. Wordlessly he slid into the opening. Seras watched as he climbed down. When he was far enough away, she jumped. The fall was only ten meters, it wouldn't hurt her. It was only after she landed she realized that he might take it to mean something else. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Seras thought, now he's probably thinks he's too slow and will hurt himself.

Contam landed with a thump and ran even faster than before. He didn't appear to be injured. She took off after him, keeping silent, slowly pushing her misery away. Corridor through corridor they ran. Contam led her though endless twists and turns, continually going down. Nearly two hours later, he slowed then stopped before a junction. He listened then turned to Seras.

“Guards”, he whispered, “Three, I will eliminate them.” Without pausing for an answer he swept off, adopting an arthritic gait and ambled down the intersection. Head down, he swayed and stumbled from wall to wall. The sound of footsteps approached.

“Maggie iz zat 'ou”, he slurred.

“No gramps, its just us.” Contam felt rough hands grab his cloak and pull him off his feet. “Now don't you worry none, we'll take good care of you from now on”, a malicious edge cut into his voice.

“'M just an old..”, Contam's hands snapped out, blades drawn, cleanly slicing through the heretic's neck. With unreal speed he pushed the dead man aside and threw his secondary dagger into the skull of the other and slammed his primary under the third's chin and into his brain. All in the space of a single heartbeat. He reached out and grasped the second's dirty overalls and caught the first with his foot. He let all of them down gently.

Seras waited until he was finished before joining him.

“The way is clear, Holiness” Contam stated, kneeling.

Seras nodded and strode down the corridor, into the cultists' nest.

The torch-light was dim, more than enough for Seras's eyes. It looked like an old warehouse with scraps of metal strewn about. Weird symbols had been lazily drawn in the dirt and on the walls. There were five of them, all in greenish-gray robes. One stood away from the others, closer to the corridor she was coming from. He was muscular and covered in tattoos. Three men were circled around a woman, her face ashen. Two of the men were emancipated, one straight and tall, the other hunched over. The third was bloated and diseased. He looked like the leader.

Seras kept her hood drawn forward. The burly one didn't see her until she was close. He seemed unconcerned.

“Have you come to-”, was as far as he got before Seras twisted his head on backwards, snapped his spine and threw the corpse away. The darkest parts of her nature were gone now, but her violence still persisted.

The others noticed her now, trying to react. They were slow and Seras was very fast. The fat one had both legs broken before he knew it, Seras shattered the tall man's hip and snapped the hunchback's spine was before they could turn. The woman looked overjoyed as she raced to Seras.

“Thank the Emperor you came. I...”, uncaring Seras grabbed her by the back of the neck and dragged her over to a wall. Ignoring her protests Seras asked:

“Where is Rythun?”

“I-I don't know who-”, Seras slammed her head into the wall. She asked again. The woman gurgled, her skull cracked. Seras smashed her head into the wall again and again and again. She stopped when the woman died.

Calmly Seras walked over to the man with the broken hip and asked her question again. He did not answer. Seras cast around, then picked up a metal bar. She asked one last time. No response. She hit his foot with all her strength, his shrieks echoed down the lonely sewers. She slowly worked her way up both legs. She stopped only at his lower torso, he was dead several minutes.

She glanced over at the man with the shatter spine. There was no point in talking to him. He would be dead in moments. With a thought Seras ripped out his soul. Distantly she heard him shriek. Her attention was purely internal. She lanced the pathetic tatter with pain. Burned the edges of its awareness with hate. Over and over she slammed its remaining consciousness with her question. For amoment Seras's headache was gone. The soul twitched and cried, but no answer came. Unfeeling, Seras rent it into thousands of pieces. Whatever after-life it had been promised it would never get it now.

The fat lump had made no attempt to move. Seras picked up a torch, walked over, and asked once more. He babbled on about his 'gods' instead. She reached out, sensing the corruption rife within his body. His body was so diseased he would never feel anything she did to him, so she simply healed him. Only enough so that he could feel what had been done to him. His screams were long and agonized. Nausea, pain, and confusion racked him. Slowly his cries faded and were replaced by whimpers.

“Your gods are fake.”, Seras stated, her tone merciless, “The little delusions in your head won't save you.” She held the torch over his shattered legs and asked for the last time: “Where. Is. Rythun.”

“You- You will see. On Oidera III Lord Rythun will Ascend. And then-”, he would never finish. Seras dropped the torch and watched him burn.

Background Information:
Previous to his interment to the Golden Throne, a life-support system, the Emperor (he doesn't have any other name) was actively tossing people in jail for starting religions based on him. Since the Imperium's official religion is called “The Cult of the Savior Emperor” it's fair to say he failed utterly.
Emperor worship is split into two manners: veneration as the greatest human being to every have lived(principally the Space Marines) or worship as a deity(everyone else).
Currently he spends every moment of his time fighting all four Chaos Gods, directing the Astronomicon(a galactic navigation beacon), and sending out Living Saints to oppose the Chaos Gods' champions, and being a desiccated almost-corpse.
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Sun May 09, 2021 2:06 pm

*Transmitted: The Song of Hate
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: The Calm
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 5040001459247/4512689753.47836
*Thought For The Day: Never Forget, Never Forgive

Seras watched Lydwida closely. Her breathing was slow and even. The machines quietly beeped and buzzed, keeping track of her vital signs, administering pain-killers, food or others as necessary. The poor woman had barely survived the ritual chambers. Before that soul-stealers had nearly killed her. Seras had taken away the worst of the damage, but she still needed rest. If she hadn't been sedated, Lydwida would be up trying to hurt herself again. She pushed herself too hard.

Seras carefully pulled the blankets over her, so she wouldn't get cold. Lydwida would need to rest for another few weeks before she recovered. She had whispered 'Itasion' for hours until the medics sedated her.

Seras quietly left the frigid medicae section and went to discuss the battle-plans with Duran. Or more appropriately have strategy talked at her and agree with whatever he came up with. She swept by soldiers and functionaries, receiving and returning salutes. No one really spoke to her. Seras was dressed in full battle gear. The sort of gesture a “saint” like her should make. Her headache started to throb. Despite her pain and disgust she kept her face straight. Any twitch, flutter or blink they'd take and find a thousand different meanings in. She hated having to act like this. She hated being this thing, this object.

Most of all she hated having to need it.

So many of them, clinging to hope, because she was there. They endured pain after pain, witnessed the most terrible of things. All because of her. They believed in her. They followed her no matter what. If she was a 'saint' it meant that all of it was for a reason. That there was a grander purpose in life than madness and violence. Without that purpose they would die. With it, nothing could stop them. So Seras let them call her saint, and hated every moment of it.

She walked out into the main corridor. It went on for kilometres, and was at least one hundred metres tall. There were dozens of people moving through it, non-military personnel just going through their day. All along the walls were tapestries, murals and paintings 'illustrating the history of the Hellsing Order' from Abraham to now. She hated this too. Having every lie she'd told thrown in her face. Artisans had spend most of their lives painstakingly weaving painting and crafting them based on what she said. They were all wrong.

The ones at this end of the ship were the oldest, the ones about events before even she had been born. Thirty thousand years had faded the memories. She guessed the Hellsings looked right. The events were probably wrong. With Abraham's life she knew was wrong. She lied about every detail.

Next were the ones about when she was young. They were as accurate as she could remember. When they were not, it was because she lied about it. There were parts of her life they did not need to know.

This one, one drawn about the fight against Millennium, always drew Seras's attention. It was the sum of all she had to lie about, omit, and hated. It was second only to another she hated the most. On the right it had Integra standing on a hill, wearing armour that never existed and wielding a glaive far too large for a human to lift. Below her were over a hundred men painted in exacting and loving detail. Seras was amused that everyone else considered them holy. She'd never had the heart to tell them. The left was a garble of darkness, fangs, appendages and Chaos symbols. It wasn't technically right, but now Seras understood more. Above both was a rendition of herself, in silver armour descending on wings of light.

After Millennium's defeat there were fewer murals. The Golden Age, The Age of Strife. They were not as bad, there was little to lie about, little to know. The other events she wouldn't tell anyone else. Those memories were private.

She still had to walk by a few more before she got to the training grounds. The Unification, the Great Crusade, better days. Before she turned into the training grounds her eye caught a glimpse of the painting about That Day. Her a crystalline figure of silver and light, against a red daemon of flesh and metal.

It was wrong.

She swept onto the balconies overlooking the area. Duran Fides, the commander of the Hellsing military, was there overseeing the training regimes of the officers. He was in full battle dress as well.


He turned and saluted. He had a face that may as well have been hacked from stone. Piercing eyes and sharp angles, he looked the same as he did when he joined two millennia ago.

“Your Holiness.” Her migraine bounced at the words. “The psykers and Seekers have completed their inquisition on Aloerux IV. Purifiers Alexi and Xajeo have confirmed their theory. Rythun has created a new type of undead. They believe that its capabilities would be comparable to a vampire.”

Vampires, after all this time, Seras thought, but did not voice her amusement. Duran continued, “their troop strength: three thousand Legionaries, two thousand cultists, forty APCs and ten MBTs. They have concluded that Rythun was attempting to beseech the Ruinous Powers for deamonhood. We interrupted him, but he will try again.”

He handed her a dataslate. Seras glanced at it. The names concerned her the most. During the Great Crusade she had kept careful track of all the deeds and all the pain the members of the Legions went through. She would see all the traitors dead.

Duran continued on as she read, “Training of the officers goes well. Sergeant Michael preformed admirably during the time he was separated from his squad.” Seras had meant to ask why he had the drops scatter deliberately. Apparently this was why. “I have sponsored his promotion to Lieutenant.”

“Are you sure about this?” Seras asked. It was an old question.

“Yes, He has been strong in personal leadership in his squad. On Aloerux he demonstrated his ability to keep calm in trying situations.”

He was avoiding the question. Both knew it.

“That wasn't what I was asking.”

For a moment the warrior in him slipped away. He looked so old. His eyes unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere. He grasped a rail for support.

“Yes. I am sure.”

Seras nodded, but said nothing.

Both watched the exercises below. Both thinking of other things.

Then the battle-plans were drawn.
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Sun May 16, 2021 1:47 pm

*Transmitted: Oidera III
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Planetstrike
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 504000651968736/4942198.8512
*Thought For The Day: Wisdom is the Beginning of Fear

Seras sat in the center of a drop pod, alone. She slumped forward, her daemon-hammer slung on her back, deep in thought. Her solid black armor reflected no light, gave no trace of her thoughts. The skulls, her reminders of all that was lost, adorning her armor were dull and cold.

A sharp movement, a dull clang, the pod had been launched.

The drops gave Seras a few moments of peace. Her memories, her pain, her hate, she had nothing else. A few moments to put on the mask of their 'saint' of war, hate, suffering or whatever else they decided she was.

The drops gave her time to think. Time to wonder who wouldn‘t survive. Time to count the names of the fallen. Time to remember when things were Right.

Twenty thousand metres.

Memories of the far past were especially painful to her. The perfect past, Pip still with her, the long hunt for vampires at an end, all the long suffering and strife at an end. Dancing on Cyeili, Pip's crystal flowers, simply being in his arms. The vast, endless expanse of the stars. The limitless possibilities.

Then it all ended.

Fifteen thousand metres.

The War

Ten thousand metres.

Istvaan IV

Five thousand metres.

The Siege of the Imperial Palace

One thousand metres.

That Day.


She shot out of the drop-pod; her 'mask' affixed. A necrotic pus weeped out from the ground, whatever was in her armour kept it from adhering. Six buildings in total, the front four had human remains plastered on the walls. Veins and organs stretched out and grew across the structures. Congealed blood seeped from their many wounds. In time they would become incubators for plague vampires. Their awareness was still intact. One was still screaming. The fifth structure she couldn't see. The main building, the one that had a direct line to the AdMech bunker deep beneath the plateau, was directly in front of her. That one had graffiti made of bone and greenish liquid, likely infected blood, daubed all over it.

It was clear, for the moment. She raced forward, the sounds of the other drop pods slamming down behind her. In moments an artillery barrage would hit the area, detonators in the pods would ensure there would be no trace left of their arrival.

She crashed into the facing wall, the corroded metal gave way immediately. There was little light, more than enough for her. It was surprisingly intact, far moreso than what she expected from the rotting forces of Nurgle, oily masses clumped together in the corners, a pale brackish liquid seeped down the walls, and spilled artillery shells strewn on the floors. She was not alone.

A small bobbling lump careened at her. Seras took aim at it and fired. The brief illumination revealed a pile of mucus with legs and eyes. An almost comic expression of surprise warped its features before it was splattered. More movement. The shadows bounced toward her. She drew her bolt-pistol and opened fire. Light flashes, rotten, mutated things came apart. Hunks of filth smeared the floor as they exploded. Seras charged, determined to stomp them once her magazine ran out. They fell back from her rush, howling in pain.

She was saved the trouble of smashing them when the assault team broke through and incinerated the rest. The support and tactical teams raced in next. She felt the jump pack team hit the roof. Everyone was in.

Wordlessly the teams moved, taking assigned positions. Seras sprinted to the nearest lifts just ahead of the assault squad. She was used to hand-signals and didn't notice she was alone until she she opened the first one.

Her Agrios Chines were needed elsewhere, Duran mentioned something about drawing the enemy out. It was the first time, ever, she had been without them.

“Cinzia, Perez, Maliq, Inez, Leov in there”, she pointed to the biggest lift, “Erich, Kateri, Maisie in those” she said stabbing her finger at the auxiliaries “The rest wait for the lifts to come back.”

They descended, the lift rattling and groaning from the sudden use. Slowly accelerating they slid down the shaft deep into the once-factory. Floor after identical floor passed by without change until suddenly they broke through. Once, it might have been a factory, with all the slime and rust it was difficult to tell.

The bay extended out for hundreds of meters before them. They were hit with the foul and rotten odors emanating from the corrupt beings down there. The same iconography adorned the walls as the buildings outside. The floor and walls were coated in flesh, likely taking from those who had resisted. Dozens of meters below various slave-things laboured, placing and taking weapons and munitions in the machines. Mutated and broken, the creatures toiled away at weapons and shells. A few were recognizable as human. The only exit lie on the far side of the expanse.

For the moment they were still unseen. Raising her plasma-pistol Seras said, “Pick your targets”, each raised their weapons, bolters and plasma guns all, and waited. The metallic screeching would keep the sounds of battle to this bay. Seras picked the 'foreman' and waited as he slowly inched forward…closer… closer.

“Now”, the foreman’s torso exploded, bone shards and boiling blood cut and burned those standing around him. A look of disbelief reached the foreman's face before he slumped to the ground. The shock had barely registered in the cultists before the closest were torn apart under the hail of fire. The rest scattered as the bolt-shells slammed into them, leaving behind nothing but a sticky haze of gore. A few managed to make it to cover.

“Go”, Seras screamed and vaulted the final ten meters to the ground. She snapped her free hand behind her to unlock the Eternus Odium. She got one more shot off, melting a cultist. She hit the ground hard, the flesh shrieked and retreated from her. Rolling forward, Seras pulled the massive daemon-hammer forward and charged the nearest cultists. None even attempted to fight, they begged and pleaded for their lives. The closest she brought the daemon-hammer straight down on. Viscera burst out as its body collapsed. The next she back-handed into one of the machines, she died quickly. The last, it appeared to be a xeno for all its mutation, was on its knees begging for its life. Seras shot in the head.

Behind her the assault team landed. Seras signaled positions. When no-one moved she called out where she wanted them. The lifts finally screeched to a halt. Seras picked up a piece of metal and lobbed it at the button, sending the lift back up. She turned on her arm-sensor. The whole compound was heavily flooded with the taint of the Warp, making it difficult to tell what was where. Still, she could detect no human life in the adjoining rooms, none further to the east, at least not on this floor. She still had five more to go down.

Lieutenant, I am Brother-Lieutenant Michael now.

Breathing deeply he patrolled around the perimeter. The additional comms and auspex unit in his new helmet weighed a mere three grams. The difference between his old chainsword and the new powersword was negligible. It felt like all the stars in the sky were pressing down on him.

Jump team in place, heavy weapons set-up and pre-sighted. The scout team had been dropped some distance away. It would be some time before they were in position. He patrolled around, trying to effect a confidence he did not feel. The Cult given over to him to command, the Cult of the Silver Soul, he knew was among if not the best of the Order. He wanted to believe he deserved the honour of commanding them in the field of battle.

Idly he watched the the tactical monitor. Blips ten kilometres out, the landing forces, five hundred strong. Closer, too close, blips slowly marching out to them. The Traitors, a Death Guard warband, at least twenty five hundred strong.

Waiting, waiting, terrible waiting, that was all he could do right now.

Part of him wished to be with the Saint as she brought the Emperor’s Justice to these vile heretics, or to be with his brothers and sisters on the beachhead. Anything to not be waiting. This was a great honor though, Promoted to Lieutenant and given the mission of guarding the Saint's way and ensuring that She could complete Her Work undisturbed.

He would not fail. He could not fail. He hoped he didn't fail. He prayed he wouldn't fail and embarrass the entire Order in front of the Emperor.

Waiting, waiting, and watching the battle begin on the read-out.

It was a wasteland. The planet's meager defences had tried to storm the desert plateau Rythun held. Shattered armour and broken bodies were all that remained of Oidera III's armies. The fires from the burned out tanks were still going, covering the sky in a dark blanket. They fought, and died, as valiantly as any servant of the Emperor. There was no sign of even an attempted retreat. They had done damage with their sacrifice. Scout teams reported ten Rhinos and one Predator among the wreckage. No sign of Fallen Marines.

The Commander raced around, ducking small-arms fire, yelling orders and given fire missions. Things were going as well as they normally did. Purifiers Garibaldi and Heinrich vanished without a trace. Half the armour was still waiting to be dropped and being chased by a grand cruiser with three destroyers. The drop-site was missed by about two kilometres and no-one could raise Lieutenant Micheal.

Come to think of it things were actually going better than they normally did.

“Tactical Armus and Support Easus advance left three hundred metres and lay down suppressive fire. Assault Sila and Droska take point. All others begin advance by numbers”, he ordered. The Agrios Chines knelt in the dirt, staring straight at the plateau. He didn't dare give them a move order. They obeyed only the Saint, only Her Words kept them here and not flying into battle. Any command otherwise might send them rampaging to reach Her.

Tracers rounds streaked out into the sickly green mass. Return fire was sporadic, they were confidant in their numbers. They would simply advance out and kill all in their path. A Brother nearby took a bolt-round to the chest plate and fell, his squad-mates pulled him to cover and called for an apothecary. Two rockets lanced out from two hundred metres to the left and impacted the Death Guard's forward advance.

He slammed into the back of a destroyed Leman Russ, and looked at his auspex. Principle contacts marching out of the plateau. Large blips behind that. He had their attention, now to keep it. “Artillery: Range Eight thousand metres, angle thirty degrees, full charge on my mark.... fire.” Behind him the Whirlwinds fired, missiles arcing into the traitors. Blips scattered and broke up, seeking cover. When the salvo finished they started moving out again.

He could see no difference in the number marching.
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Markus1985 » Sun May 16, 2021 3:39 pm

It's an interesting experience reading this crossover.
Familiar and new at the same time. :thumb:

"Not even a million enemies where able to make Rome afraid!
Yet Rome trembled whenever she heard the name of Hannibal!!"
- Scipio Africanus
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Wed May 19, 2021 5:11 am

Thanks, it was actually a fair bit of work to keep things similar to Seras's conflicts in Hellsing. Glad you like it.
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Thu Jun 17, 2021 10:41 pm

*Transmitted: Oidera III 
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44 
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Contact
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 504000651968736/4942198.8512
*Thought For The Day: Hope is the First Step on the Road to Disappointment

Senior Purifier Garibaldi and five of his storm-troopers stalked the ruins of the battlefield. The quiet hiss of the rebreathers was the only sound. The sniffers said that the air was clean, but Garibaldi had ordered internal reserves only. The forces of Chaos were resourceful and taking chances was never a good idea. They had enough air for a twelve-hour deployment, plenty of time. 

Silently they advanced by the wrecked transports and shattered corpses. There were so many bodies, some in the uniform of the planet's PDF, some in aribites carapace. Some of the bodies had been partially eaten, the gnawed bones pale against the dead and rotten flesh. Long gouges in the dirt marked where others had been drug off, their location unknown. In places hard deliberate footsteps marred the ground. These were more recent. They didn't have enough hawthorn stakes to ensure that the bodies left behind hadn't turned. Their silver knives were going to need resharpening after this. 

The auspex bleeped. In an instant it was re-routed to Garibaldi's heads-up-display, three runes, no heart-beats, clustered around a Chimera fifty metres west of his position. Maybe plague-ghouls, maybe these new vampires Alexi and Xajeo found. Only one way to know, Garibaldi thought. 

“Contact. Fifty metres. Three.” Garibaldi whispered into the vox. They raised their weapons ready to fire. Their steps became perceptively more cautious. Forty, thirty metres. Garibaldi gave the sign to spread out. Twenty, tanks and parts of tanks still blocked the line of sight to the targets, ten. “Halt. Abzin, point, Kraly and Dao flank left, Lino and Euclea right.” 

They broke off to their positions. Abzin crept forward to the wreckage of a Chimera. She looked through a hole in the armour. Her hand shot out, two fingers, fist held out, one finger and dropped her hand. Two plague-ghouls, one unknown, Garibaldi thought, and Abzin knows 'em all.

“In position” the vox chimed, “Ready” a moment later.

“Abzin, your call” Garibaldi said. Abzin was ready for promotion. She'd need the practice.

“Lino, Euclea take down the ghouls, Dao stake, Kraly hammer, I have trip. On my mark” Abzin ordered, her voice low. Garibaldi nodded in agreement. Kraly was very muscular, he best be able to put the stake through in one hit. Dao was fast and small, he could get into position fast. Trip was the most dangerous spot. Better to take the risk yourself, than someone else. Garibaldi shifted over to view the targets better. The two ghouls, bodies sallow and intestines swinging from massive lacerations in their frames were stooped over the body of a fallen PDF soldier. He could heard the ripping and tearing of flesh from here. The vampire stumbling into view. Maggots writhed its skin. Insects crawled in and under its sagging tissues. Hands terminated in broken claws. The head was thinly wrapped in yellowed flesh, red eyes wide and staring. Blackened fangs extended from a jaw that hung open, a greenish liquid dripped from its mouth. Abscesses and lesions dotted the creature where its tissues drooped from the blue and gold uniform that still dangled from the vampire's body. Not our forefather's vampire Garibaldi mused. It lurched forward toward the ghouls. Abzin unlocked a long hook and held it ready.

“Now!” she snapped and raced forward. Las-fire lanced out and hammered the ghouls. They tried to wheel about, but their bodies collapsed before they could. Dao and Kraly ran out, stake and hammer ready. Abzin slid the last two metres, catching the vampire just above the ankle. Its legs flew out and it hit the ground hard. Dao skidded in knees first, positioning the stake just above the heart. Kraly swung the sledgehammer hard smashing the stake through the rib-cage. Nearly putting it through the vampire completely. It spasmed briefly, then lie still.

Abzin drew her pistol and held it under the vampire's chin, just in case. It did not move. She took out a silver aquila and placed it on its forehead.

“Spirit be at place. Go with the Emperor. Amen.”

Garibaldi took a moment to review the action. A good team, all around. 

“Good work”, he said, “let's keep moving”. He expanded the auspex reading out. That ominous cloud of contacts was still drifting toward them. They wouldn't have much time to release all the Death Guard had turned.

Heinrich and his team strode forward, their storm-coats furling out and as they ran. He doffed his helmet valuing his vision higher than any protection it afforded. If it became necessary he had holy water and silver injectors. His cold eyes examined every speck, every iota of detail of the terrain. His lean face was dour, a perpetual frown twisting his mouth.

The target slipped just out out of sight. The plague-vampire kept shuffling between the wreckage. He brought his stake crossbow up, aiming where it should amble out in moment. It plodded out into the open and Heinrich pulled the trigger. The stake lanced out and took it just below the shoulder, impaling its heart. The vampire spun and dropped, dead on impact.

“Secondary, advance left to the rocks. Primary with me.” Garibaldi had the north, so he was not overly concerned about his right. He said a quiet prayer for the poor dead soldier and moved west. The rocks and dirt crunched under his boots. The auspex suddenly lit up as four contacts stumbled into range. 

“Contact” the secondary team called out followed by the sound of las-fire.

“Primary take the right-most target, I have the center two” Heinrich ordered.

“Affirmative” he heard as more las-fire blasted out.

He darted forward, taking out his blessed aquila and readying another shot. As he turned around the remains of a tank the first vampire sprang. Without pause he shot in through the chest and it tumbled to the ground. A small hiss gave away the presence of the other. Heinrich snapped around the aquila held out. It was nearly at arm's reach when the holy symbol was jammed into its face. It jumped back shrieking as its eyes melted. Maggots and worms surged around its face to protect it from the holt symbol. He dropped the crossbow and drew his silver dagger. A quick jab and the vampire was dead once more. 

“Status” Heinrich stated into the vox-link, collecting his equipment.

“Secondary: Contact silenced, no casualties.”

“Primary: Contact down, still fighting, will silence momentarily, armour's scratched, no casualties.” 

“Good, Rally on me when finished. Secondary advance forty metres west-ward and watch for hostiles.”

Captain Jun kept a close eye on the data-streams. He sat in the command throne, devotional scenes of gemstones inlaid with sliver and etched in gold surrounding him. Wires delicately ran to and from him. He was as much a part of the ship as the engines. The ship screamed around the planet in low orbit, just scraping the upper atmosphere. The larger grand cruiser and its escorts couldn't follow too closely without risking their orbit. He had signal scramblers and electronic decoys deployed every five minutes. Anything to maintain the Chaos fleet's attention on him and not on the ground forces.

And to keep them guessing.

“Lieutenant Elsa any word from the ground?”

“None sir.”

“Mr. Andrews stress on the hull?”

“At forty-percent, sir, holding fast.”

“Lieutenant Ige time to drop-site?”

“Nine minutes twenty seconds.”

“Who hasn't launched yet?”

“Captain Jome, Captain Ya, and Captain Savva.“

Jome has infantry company, Ya the armor regiment, and Savva commands the scouts, Jun thought, most of the infantry is down, scouts shouldn't be needed.

“Prep Captain Ya for drop.” 

“Aye sir.”

Seras waited calmly, staring at the projected display of the map. Studying routes to and from the command centre. Since his injury on Ullanor Rythun had moved away from the front-line and more into reserve-command. He would not get away this time. She'd brought along a chip that would keep the teleporter he had from working. 

A screech brought her attention upwards. The lifts were moving downwards carrying the remainder of the assault squad. She motioned for them to jump the distance, hoping it was the correct signal. She turned to the great doors at the end of the bay. The steel doors were locked. Seras keyed the decoder function on her wrist computer. In moments the lock was defeated and slowly opened. Revealing five of the Death Guard.

Seras knew them all, Iythai, Durih, Byiun, Xunai, and Uiyn. Xunai joined the Crusade before Mortarion was found. He was cautious because of it, always trying to put distance between himself and any targets before firing. Durih and Iythai were friends long before their recruitment. They dueled for hours with any weapon available, to prove themselves worthy in the eyes of their superiors. Byuin and Uiyn were brothers on Barbarus, among the first to join the Legion. She remembered the child-like wonder when they were given their bolters. For days at a time they trained on accuracy and speed. 

Seras killed them first. The daemon-hammer slammed down onto Uiyn's skull, sending fragments of bone and greenish blood in all directions. She fired her plasma pistol into Byuin's chest. Both fell to the ground soundlessly. Durih and Iythai reached for their swords. Xunai was taking a step back. Seras twisted around shattering the back of Durih's head with the hammer. He crumpled under the impact. She kicked out Iythai's leg and brought the Eternus Odium for an overhead swung, crushing Iythai's face with the strike. Seras took a step to close the distance, ready to execute Xunai. Dozens of bolter-shells tore into him first. His armour and flesh ripped opened and he collapsed in pieces. Seras winced as the sounds echoed down the hall. Distantly she heard the alarms sound off. And there goes surprise, she thought bitterly.

She brought up the map again and sought a less direct route. The maintenance corridor, quick enough and not likely to be heavily guarded.

“This way” she said, leading them down a westward passageway.

The last of the traitors had filtered out and onto the plains. Michael started another circuit around. He had taking in all the details of the buildings. The flesh and organ covered ones disturbed him deeply. When the Saint was finished he would personally set them a blaze. There was a low scream, but he could not place its location. He asked questions, passed confirmations around and tried inspire confidence in his warriors. Michael hoped none could tell how badly he was shaken he was.

“Brother-Lieutenant” called a voice.

He turned, it was his Sister Elega in the tactical squad. She was peering through a small hole in the east wall, “Heretics approach. Six.”

He looked at the auspex. Thirty metres away. He touched the rune on the vox-caster that would allow all the jump-pack squad to hear him.

“East wall, on my command attack. Target is approaching squad” he whispered.

He watched the display. They approached slowly. They might turn away. He magnified the area, a larger return on the screen appeared. He waited. 

Twenty metres.

Ten. Past the closest structure.


Fire incinerated those in the front. Bolt-shells shredded the back rank. They still managed screams. Idiot! I should have waited for them to get inside, he thought belatedly. It was too late now, his auspex caught flashes of movement. He had given their presence away. They would be here soon.
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Mon Jun 21, 2021 8:00 am

*Transmitted: Oidera III 
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44 
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Loss
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 504000651968736/4942198.8512
*Thought For The Day: No-one Who Dies in His Name Dies in Vain

Return fire increased. The forward elements of the Death Guard were off the plateau and advancing. Sila and Droska hadn't engaged contacts or seen Garibaldi and Heinrich yet. The predators had run to the north to begin their long flanking maneuver and would be out of range for some time. The teams were slowly getting in place.

“Support Easus in position. Pre-sighting finished. Commencing fire mission.”

A thin line of white-hot energy lanced out and one of the larger runes flared out. More streams of white impacted the advancing tide. 

“Whirlwinds: Range six thousand metres. Arc: sixty-”, a flash of light, an explosion. The enemy had gotten lucky, one of their lascannons struck the launcher on one of the Whirlwinds. As he watched the flames spread out rapidly. “OUT! OUT! Evacuate!”

The crew burst out of the doors moments before the ammunition cooked off. The back half of the Whirlwind tore open sending shrapnel flying out. The others were unaffected. “Fly! South-east five hundred metres!” he changed vox-channels to the advance squads, “Look out for infiltrators, maintain fire superiority.”

“Did they see us?” Euclea asked.

A sudden torrent of fire blasted the shelter of the wreck they clustered around.

“Yes, yes they did.” Garibaldi stated. He unclipped the locater beacon from his belt, activated it and tossed it in to the metal ruins. “This is as far as we go. Back up cleanly. Smoke.” Kraly threw his down, the air filled with black haze. It won't take them long to compensate. We'll make it quick. 

“Dao, Kraly, Abzin first. Take that position at that Leman and cover us as we fall back.” He calmly ordered, “Eulcea, string det-charges.” As the team complied Garibaldi fired blindly at the approaching horde. 

“Set” Euclea said. Garibaldi motioned for her to go. He took one last glance at the auspex. Five possibles. Five souls still waiting to be released. Regretfully, he turned away. He would free them as soon as he could. Lino took a few last blind shots and ran with Garibaldi to the wreck. Sporadic fire pelted the ground, none sincerely aimed. They were almost there when a bolt-shell hit Lino in the shoulder. The explosion knocked him out and slammed him into the dirt, his arm flew off in a bloody arc. Without pause Garibaldi unclipped his hook and caught a plate in Lino's chest armour. Twisting around he crouched, leaning towards the tank, using his momentum to pull themselves into safety. 

“Abzin lead the retreat.” Garibaldi calmly said as pried off the plates near Lino's ruined shoulder. 

“Right, Dao, help, Kraly that crater there, Euclea set a trap” she briskly ordered. Dao yanked out his med-kit and jerked out the contents, Kraly dove for the crater, Euclea chirped out an over-joyed response set to work. Abzin snatched another smoke grenade and threw it far away from where they were running. Small-arms fire immediately chased the cloud. 

She'll make a great Purifier.

Michael ducked as part of the wall exploded, the shrapnel pattered against his armour. Popping back up he shot a running cultist with his bolt-pistol. 

“Location on the rocket team” he yelled out. A stream of negatives answered. Where can it be? “Assault prepare to jump.” Without knowing where the heavy weapons were it would be dangerous, but the structure could only take so much before it collapsed. “Scouts position.”

“Climbing, ETA five minutes.”

More fire poured in, periodically the crump of a grenade could be heard. Michael risked a glance out. Through the rising dust and smoke he could see nothing. How long can I wait?

“More contacts. Light infantry, light weapons” another report came in. Michael brought up the auspex. A cloud of runes surged up from the east most building.

“Support chamber hellfire rounds, target far east structure.”

“Affirmative!” A brief lull in firing then came the staccato banging of the acid rounds. Even over the mayhem he could heard the screaming as the cultists melted. A wave of lethargy hammered him. Dizziness threatened to drop him to his knees.

“WITCH!” Michael heard over the comm. Even though it was yelled out it seemed to be coming from a great distance. His eyes swam.

“Target... the witch... all... units” he could barely get the words out. He hoped someone could hear. Suddenly the lassitude left and his strength returned. “Status.”

“The witch is pinned, warpcraft is blocking fire, no causalities, ammo fine.”

An explosion. Another part of the wall tore open. Instinctively Michael fired out into the breach. The cultist holding the tube launcher exploded and dropped his weapon. He fired at the tube, but another cultist dove on it and took the shell. A mob of rotting cultists piled onto the launcher to extract it. Michael shot at them, killing several, but they made it into cover with the heavy weapon.

I cannot spare any fire from the sorcerer, and I cannot let them keep firing. What choice do I have? Michael thought and he drew his powersword.

The corridors passed by quickly. The farther down they went the more warbled and broken the world became. Fatty lumps dripped down the walls. Sucking maws grew into the walls. They might have been doors. Fleshy tubes hung from the ceiling and weeped an oily substance. They twitched away from Seras, but she could hear the wet slaps and squishes from where her soldiers hit them. Why don't they put whatever is in my armour in everyone else's? It would save them the trouble of cleaning it after times like this. A small electrical click caught her ear. 

She snapped her hand up for them to stay back. For her the four assault-cannons slowly inched out of the walls. Seras smashed the front two with a quick swing and with a quick stomp fouled the barrels on the third. The last was starting to cycle, it would open fire in a moment. It had no chance of hurting her. Seras readied her daemonhammer for an overhead strike with right hand and put her left out to block the shots. Something slammed into her. As she fell Seras caught a brief glimpse of Kateri behind her. The assault cannon roared to life. Scrambling to get her feet she lunged at the weapon. Seras could heard the tearing of armour and flesh from behind her. The hammer careened down into the machine and broke it. She snapped about, throwing herself at the fallen woman.

Seras tossed Kateri over onto her back. I can fix it. I can... Too late. Her throat and helmet were riddled with holes. She was already dead. Shaken, Seras stared for a moment. She swallowed and placed her hand on Kateri's armour. Wordlessly, Seras gathered her soul up. Silently she placed it with all the others, bound to her forever. They expected her to say something at times like this. Seras turned her head so they could not see her tears. They would not react well if they saw her crying. She whispered out something only she understood. In moments Seras forgot what it was. She wiped the tears from her eyes. She had to keep going. 

“Inez, Erich carry her. Maliq take rear-guard”, Seras ordered. Then they started off again.

Magister Uloc watched the contact runes flare, shift, and bloom. The servants of the Corpse-God were incredibly frustrating. All they seemed to be able to do was hide. Another dozen contacts, wonderful. 

“Order Grel and Uioc to take the northern hemisphere. Jrek and Sdik take the southern. No more racing around, one clean sweep to find them” he called out. His rotting flesh swung as he spoke, pieces of meat broke off, the thin filth-encrusted wires and needles that hooked him into the ships systems danced under their own weight. Why can't they just turn and fight? I could be bombarding the invading ground forces, but nooooooo Gyxthax wants to kill them. Instead I get to chase phantoms. Please Papa Nurgle give me something to do... Besides watch the nurglings play cards, they're terrible at it.

“Sir, traitor ship changing course, concordance in five!” Lieutenant Ige suddenly called out.

“How long until we can drop?” Jun asked as he wheeled about.

“Three minutes.”

That's too close

“Break off drop, continue evasive maneuvers.”

Next time around.

Heinrich and Garibaldi slammed into the back of the tank at the same time.


“Vezérezredes Garibaldi. Where's Fyr and the rest?”

“They're getting the blood-maggots flushed out. How's prospects in your group?” 

“A few could make apprentice.”

“Good, good, how's things on your side?”

“Same old same old, horrible abominations beyond description, angry enemies of mankind everywhere.”

“They just haven't gotten to know what wonderful people we are. Kraly take Lino and go! COVERING FIRE! SMOKE!” Kraly heaved Lino over his shoulder and darted off. The vox-link clicked on.

“Contacts: five coming in nor-” a loud explosion and a flash of light cut off the report, “correction two contacts coming in north-west of us.” Euclea's low psychotic giggling could be heard over the line. Heinrich turned to Garibaldi.

“She isn't a Redemptionist is she?”

“Fortunately no, they kicked her out.”

“...I'd ask, but then I'd know.”

“Banner. Two hundred metres. Someone's on it”, someone from Heinrich's team called out.

“Daemonvessel”, Garibaldi said, “Dao, take the shot.” 

“On it.” He unscrewed the regular barrel to his hell-gun and spun the longer one in. Then he took out a over-charge magazine and slapped it into place. He lined up his eye to the scope, his breathing slowed. He leaned the gun on the tank. Aiming, searching for the target. Traitors Marines, ignore; tank, ignore. A flash of red, there. With his free hand he upped the magnification until features resolved. 

A tech-priest was nailed spread-eagle to an impromptu flag-banner. His flesh jumped and rolled, like something lived under his skin. He was screaming something, it sounded like 'kill me'. Mercy you shall have. Dao stopped breathing, then fired. The tech-priest's head exploded, the remains of his skull bounced off the banner and dropped to the ground. For a moment everything was still. Even the Fallen Marines stopped marching for a second. Suddenly the priest's body expanded. Flesh distended, bones cracked open. The corpse shuddered and then rent open. A torrent of filth poured out. Rotten meat, pus and other fluids unidentifiable spewed forth and pooled on the ground. The smell was beyond description The body shriveled as more of the midden vomited out. 

“Euclea fall back to Kraly and cover us.”

“Secondary cover primary. Primary fall back.”

The mass began to congeal and rise up. Bloated eyes bobbed around and finally centered. A 'mouth' formed. Streams of foul meat poked out and became its arms. 

“Saturate with smoke.”

“Do not look.”

The river of grime slowly and tapered off. With it hand it reach into the body and pulled out a blackened bone. It raised it high into the air and started signing a jovial war-song. A wet-sucking sound and it took its first step.

“Stay back.”

Seras silently plucked the melta-bomb from her belt. She twisted the arming clamp. Soundlessly she crept up to the command room door. Placing her hand on the handle she jerked the door open and flicked the bomb in. She threw the door shut and leaned into in. Her soldiers raced up and slammed into the door. Pounding and screaming started from the other side. A sudden wash of heat she could feel even through the door and her armour terminated their resistance. 

Seras pulled the door open. One of the traitors came with it. Its arms and hands were fused into the metal. Liquefied skin and flesh dripped down the body and onto the floor like wax. There looked like ten cultists in the room. The majority were huddled around the edges of the room. One had tried to disarm the charge. A greasy stain on the ground was all that remained. The rest were partially wielded to the floor from the heat; cooked, grey meat sagged away from bone and thin pale fluids seeped out of tears. Most were dead, some still lived. None were Rythun. Seras stepped over the body of one and into the room.

Were is he? “Look for a trap-door!”

Seras turned on her own detector to search. The sound off ripping panels, thrown machinery and screeching metal filled the room. After a few minutes Erich called out. Seras hurried to him, he had found a small shaft in the side of the room hidden from the back. The opening would just barely fit the fallen Marine. The lift was at the bottom, she alone would have to jump. “Wait for my return.” 

She jumped. She could have used her powers to slow her descent. She would not wait a second to kill Rythun. Even still it was several moments of free-fall before she smashed into the bottom. Someone was waiting for her. If Seras cared to remember him it was the same fat cultist she killed on Itasion. If.

He started to speak. She snapped the Eternus Odium free and charged. The first strike shattered his ribs and popped his lungs. He pitched forward, trying to breath. She quickly spun around, cracking his head open with her trailing hand. Reversing her spin she smashed the hammer into the other side of his skull. His brain pulped he started to slip to the ground. Unfinished Seras raised the hammer overhead. With all her strength she brought it crashing down. Bones snapped, skin bulged and split open. His putrefied organs spewed out from his wounds, blood splattered everything.

As the corrupted blood burned on her armour Seras took a moment to scan the area. It was some type of mining column. Small at this end it widened out into the main line. She raced out to it. The main excavation's ceiling was twenty metres above her head. The opening ran off into the distance to her left and right. The rock here was melted, pale-blue pus leaked from the cracks.

A roar. The rock in front of her crumbled. Rythun stepped out. Far more massive than he was the last time, his gangrenous bulk surged forth, nearly filling the mining column. In places the armour was broken and rancid, maggot-ridden rolls of green flesh swung free. His helmet had burst and his face melded to it. Moldering eyes that barely remained in his skull bobbed about, unfocused. Across his reforged scythe worms danced. Masses of fetid plants and tainted lichens grew into and through his skin and armour. They swayed against every movement. He raised his scythe in challenge.

Seras did not even break stride.

Being in command means there is never a dull moment.

“Armus fall back to rally point beta. Syus cover him.” Briefly switching to the long range channel he stated “Now” and then flipped back to local channels. “Sila cover Droska as he falls back. Whirlwinds minefields at co-ordinates 87.03, 86.09 and 88.78.” He checked his auspex. Still have time, need to be quick.

“Explosion. Four hundred metres west of my position.” Easus reported. He looked up and saw the massive billowing of smoke. 

“That would be Euclea, Droska cancel last order, advance and pick up Purifier team.”

He consulted the auspex again, setting it to the farthest magnification. A quick calculation gave him the rough location of their progress. “Rana take position thirty metres south-west of Sila. Ygi move up to the north-most edge of the debris field. Forthus go to the craters twenty metres south-west of Ygi.”

The Emperor is with us. Hell's Gate arrested. 
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Re: [FIC] Dark Future (Hellsing/40k Crossover)

Postby Chris_Stork » Thu Jun 24, 2021 10:58 pm

*Transmitted: Oidera III
*Destination: Holy Terra
*Date: 2 217.M44
*Telepathic Duct: CLASSIFIED
*Author: Chris Stork
*Title: Merciless
*Clearance: Vermilion
*Path: 504000651968736/4942198.8512
*Thought For The Day: Fear Denies Faith 


Kes'dni'vn'gon'af the Jovial bounced forward. Notes of the song it sang echoed in the splats and burps it made. It had shamefully forgotten some of the words, but casually winged it regardless. A good effort was all that counted anyway. The Death guard happily sang the chorus just as tunelessly and out of sync. All bubbled with morbid enthusiasm. They spread the Gospel of Grandpapa Nurgle. Soon even the servants of the Corpse God would.

Its miasma corrupted the air. Reality shifted, bent and finally broke. Plaguebears and their kin shuffled forth. Blobs of pus and mucus splatter down form the daemon. They rose in turn, rotten eyes and infected limbs bubbled out. The Beasts of Nurgle slithered and lumbered down the battlefield, looking for friends to play with.

Micheal vaulted out, blasting at random, trying to force the heretics to keep their heads down. A quick glimpse. A foul creature with a shimmering aura around it to the right, twenty metres. Randomly firing with his bolt-pistol he picked off few targets and forced the remainder down. The boxes the cultists with the rocket launcher hid behind raced up. He lowered his shoulder and smashed through. Shrill screams of dismay sounded. He caught one with his elbow. Bursting the cultist's head. A sweep of his sword sliced two more in half. They broke apart. There! The one with the launcher staggered back. Holding out the tube as if to block his attacks. Micheal obliged it. Both the cultist and weapon fell to the ground in bloody chunks. 

He task complete, he snapped around and darted for the safety of the building. He had been spotted and rounds plinked off his armour. He was almost at the opening when one caught the gap between greave and boot. His knee and sinews splintered. He stumbled badly, but kept his feet. With his good leg he jumped forward. He just cleared the gap. He rolled father into the ruin. With a twitch Michael brought up the med-auspex. Patella destroyed, a tendon and two ligaments served. He felt no pain. He'd need to eat before regenerating the damage.

“Two contacts moving quick.” Abzin called out.


“About three.” Garibaldi took a snap look around.

“We make our stand there!”, he said, pointing to a group of vehicle hulls. “Heinrich! Ammo count!”

“Three-quarters charge. First-alpha fall back. Four frags, two krak.”

“Euclea how much ordnance?”

“One melta, one claymore, not blessed.”

He'd come up with something, he always did.

“Right. Kraly, drag Lino back and work on waking him up. Euclea hand me that melta.”

“Signal from the surface!” called out the comm's officer.

“Come about to point five-five mark eight three sun-ward. Dispense all markers and bafflers” Jun snapped out.

“Coming about.” More calls requests and commands. The officers were more than able to handle the task. Captain Jun reached deep into his ship. Past protocols, beyond the data-streams; to the roaring heart of the ship. To ready the void shields and weapons.

Commander Larion stole a fast look at the auspex. Units in position. Droska moving closer to the Purifier team. Intercept in ten. 

“Greater Daemon! Co-ords 32.71!”

Larion calculated its position. It would never make it.

“Hold fast Brother and Sisters. Battle will be joined soon.”

Distant bangs and screams told him the the main thrust had reached the minefields. A moment of relative quiet and the bangs increased in frequency. 

“Enemy deploying mine-clearer's.” Explosions, much louder and far more continuous drifted in. Chaos cultists and prisoners were being ordered forward to detonate the mines. Either slowing the assault or stopping it made the same difference. 

“Units in position take cover and hold. Engage suppressive fire. Timers set for five.” 

“Contacts Magister.” Ulioc had heard dozens of them in the last few minutes. 

“Ouuhh joy!! More of 'em.” Chasing phantoms was just as much fun as it implied.

“Confirmed return! Bearing zero one six seven.” Ulioc was a wonder that he did not explode from relief.

“Finally! Take us to intercept, prime weapons. Tell the others to follow along.”

“At once!”

Thank you Father Nurgle.

It was a hard struggle to get standing, but Michael managed. He flipped back to the battle scans. Situation unchanged. He couldn't keep wasting ammo on the witch. He needed to do something now, he knew it in his soul. He'd have to risk sending in the jump squad to eliminate it. He was about to conmit when a transmission came in. 

“Scouts in position, awaiting fire mission.”

Finally! A moment to make a decision. One last try on the witch.

“Target: Enemy witch. Location: twenty metres from my position, south-east.”

“Confirmed, psy-bolts loaded.”

Michael didn't recall them having psy-bolts. Another twitch and he brought up munitions list. Yes the scouts had them. 

So did tactical. 

Idiot, idiot, idiot! Incompetent fool! Failing horribly already.

A small pop.

“Target down.”

“Assault team jump into cultist group east twenty metres. Tactical prepare to move out.”

“FOR THE EMPEROR!” The scream of turbines destroyed the air. A moment of almost stillness. Then the thunderous slams of power armour impacting ground. 

“Tactical move to cover behind closest building.”

“Moving Brother-Lieutenant.”

“DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE DIVINE RULE OF MAN!!!” The roar of chain-swords and the traitor's screams was audible even over the gunfire. 

“Support clear a path between structures.”

“At once.”

“Dao stims, then morpha.”

Dao poked the hypos one after the other into Lino's neck. Kraly started shaking him.

“Lino, Lino, Lino wake up, wake up!” Grunting Lino slowly came to and sat up.


“Lino, we need you to bless a claymore.” He bobbed his head heavily.

“'Kay.” He started the intonation and tried to bring his hands over it. He stopped, twisted his head to look at his missing arm. “Where'd m' arm go, sir?”

“We lost it. We'll try and find it later.”

“Okay”, he said as he bobbed his head. He turned back to his work. “In the Names of the Line of Saints: By the Name of Bravery may you never falter in the face of evil.-”

The long version, great.

“Get setup, how long?”

“In the Name of Insight the illusions of the Enemy shall never deceive you.-”

“One and a half.”

“Heinrich you got the left, I'll take right. Be ready to shift to where they move.”

“In the Name of Purity the temptations of the profane shall not turn you.”

“Put the claymore there, Kraly one side of it.”

“I'll take point.”

“By the Name of War may you never tire,”

“Watch it watch it watch it!” 

“Her Example a lesson to us all. Amen”

The first Plague Marine, Guxelt, strode ahead of his companion, Dyioc, assured that the minions of the False Emporer were near. The tracks in the dirt were getting fresher, they were carrying an injured man. Soon they would all accept the blessing of Nurgle. The trail curved around the back of a destroyed Leman Russ. His auto-senses detected nothing. He grasped the chassis and leaned around. A small metallic 'clink' brought his attention upward. A melta-bomb had shot out from the wreck and attached itself to his hand. Guxlet quickly snapped his hand down smacking it off; bouncing it onto his helmet. An anguished cry and he reached up to tear it- too late.

Dyioc witnessed Guxlet's death. Too far back to help, but close enough to see. His friend of ten thousand years, nothing more than a smoking stain of grease in the dirt. Blinded by wrath he slammed forward, determined to avenge the slaughter of all his friends. He stormed forward, crushing debris under his boots. Thundering out challenges he smashed aside part of a wreck. Too late he saw the soldier to the right. A stake slammed into his helmet and pulped that part of his head. Screaming curses and fury he chased the dog through the tank-corpses. A bang, he collapsed to his knees. Something, some explosive had nearly ripped out both his legs. He struggled to rise. He would not let these murderers get away- His auto-senses rang out. Target on the right. He twisted to fire-

Kraly swung his hammer with all his strength, catching the protruding stake head-on. It sliced the rest of the way into the Fallen Marine's head, killing him. 

“Good job, let's get back to our lines.”

First Officer Dmitri approached the Captain's cupola. He saluted and handed the captain a data-slate.

“Captain we are in position.” 

“Good. Enemy arrival is in?” 

“Two minutes. All the decoys are launched.”

“Turn to present. Target lock as soon as she faces.”

All is in readiness. They had played their part to perfection. Fides and Theodus will take over shortly.

Droska ran into the Purifier teams half way back to their lines. All accounted for. 

“How much time?” Garibaldi yelled out.


“Call out every thirty. Shoulder arms! Double time!” Their crashed forward, gear banging and clattering. Breath catching in the re-breathers. Wrecks crawled past. The count down coming in at regular intervals. Garibaldi scanned back and forth, looking for suitable cover. All too soon thirty seconds were called out. “There!” he yelled jabbing at the remains of some crawler. They piled into whatever cover they could take. “Dig! Dig! Dig!” Shovels out they scrapped meager holes and trenches. Tossing themselves in they bunkered and waited.

Magister Ulioc watched as the little dot on the screen slowly resolved into a ship. A Sword, nothing more than a frigate. That had been what caused him all the grief today. He wanted a kill shot. He wanted to blast their little toy ship to pieces. Pity they would never see their stupid 'saint' die. 

A thought and he dove into his own ship. A mere thought and he brought forth all the power to forward shields and weapons. He was a god with this at his command. He could raze planets to dust with this at his fingertips. Not even Rythun, even if the Gods gave him their blessings, could match this. Unconsciously he leaned forward, leering. The little Sword class was going to be a drifting cloud of vapor in a moment. The targeting reticule got smaller and-


His left side ripped out as claws of black pain tore his body open and pulped his mind.


Organs ripped free. Nerves shredded and ignited. Breathing stopped, his heart exploded.


The world faded to a merciful nothing.


Flicker. Bridge crew hammering at the controls. Darkness. Flicker. A face. Darkness. Slowly, so slowly he came to. His right hand instinctively went his left half. No, no he was intact. 

My ship.

My ship. 

Port sectors two through five were ripped open and bleeding into hard vacuum. Crew sectors destroyed. All but two of the energy lines from the engines were destroyed. The engine itself was crippled. Gellar generators gone. Warp drive shattered. The very frame of the ship distorted. Weapons and shields non-functional on port-side.

“Adjust orientation one hundred eighty degrees” he slurred. His brain felt like cold grease. Blood and pus seeped down from where the wire and cables had tore free. A surge in his inner ear told him his ship was spinning in place now. A thought and he pulled up what meager scanning data was available. The image set into his eyes. It blurred with reality. Ulioc shut his eye lids to concentrate on the picture.

One ping a cloud of contacts hundreds of kilometres to the relative west narrowed. A few clouds in orbit cut down by half. Second ping and the clouds in orbit were winnowed away, and the cloud to the west resolved. 

A battlebarge. 

Two strike cruisers. 

Nearly a dozen escorts. 

Spear formation. 

Ulioc felt all sensation fade away into the aether. It was like watching a holovid, he just wasn't there.

“Contact the surface,” he said quietly, “load torpedoes, all power to starboard void shields, ready weapon batteries.”

He watched helplessly as the attendant destroyers broke off to engage his own fleet. The Restful Innocence stopped rotating. Battle-plans came to life and died as quickly. His options were limited, Papa Nurgle was with him. He would find a way. He had to.

“Magister we can't raise the surface! Dead on all channels!” Uloc snapped his head around to stare the comms-officer.

No, no that's not possible. Gythax is playing a joke. They were winning half-an hour ago. They can't be all dead. Comms is playing a joke. Nurgle would have let me know. 

We're the last ones alive.

“Order fleet to disengage and run.” Cold, precise. There was nothing in it.

It wasn't enough. Rythun failed. That bitch killed him.

A pair of hands clamped around his leg. One of the nurglings was wailing, his friends all dead. It screamed for him to make the bad people go away.

Not today, not today little one. I'm sorry Grandfather Nurgle. I did the best I could. Forgive me?

“Open fire with all available batteries. Lock down and de-power all non-essential syst-”

Ping. More contacts. Much closer. Much faster.


“Brace for im-!”

They smashed into the hull. The engine was ripped apart. The frame warped and broke . A few coughing explosions cut the last of the grand cruiser into chunks, but it was already dead. Some parts began the slow and rapid crash to the planet below.

Unopposed The Song of Hate strode forth. 

Commodore Theodus surveyed his bridge. The marble wrought scenes of the Saints, pre- and post-Imperium adorned the walls surrounding the bridge. From behind him an image of the Founder surveyed his command. Data passed to and fro. Clarifications, questions and requests filled the air; a jumble of movement, perfectly economical, precise and unhurried.

“Arch-enemy capital ship burning, sir” reported Tactical. Theodus nodded.

“Good. Set drop-assault sequence for two minutes.”

“Sequence is set”, said Niciloi.

“Begin reloading bombardment cannon.”

“Orbit will be reached in thirty seconds” rang out the Navigational.

“Flanking units report readiness for deployment”, Adai stated through the vox-link. 

“One minute forty-five seconds until drop assault” chimed the cogitator.

“Companies one through three report readiness.”

“Orbit in twenty seconds.”

“Void shields to stern” Theodus ordered.

“Bombardment cannon reloading at fifty percent.”

“Orbit made. Position centering.”

“One minute to drop assault.” Seconds lengthened to moments. The buzz of conversation intensified.

“Launch flankers.” Theodus told the launch staff.

“Launching flankers. Away.”

“Companies four through eight report readiness.”

“Forty-five seconds until drop assault.”

“Flanker launch completed.”

“Bombardment cannon reloading at eighty-percent.”

“Locater beacon locked on.”

“Set maximal spread for one hundred and fifty metres.”

“Thirty seconds until drop-assault.” Moments stretched out to hours. Movement was faster, more direct.

“All companies report readiness.”

“Twenty seconds until drop assault.”

“Bombardment cannon reloading complete.”

“FIRE!” Theodus commanded.

“Fire mission inbound.”

“Fifteen seconds.”

Theodus leaned over and strike the runes to bring up the appropriate litany.

“In the Name-”, the cogitator systems began.

“Target impacted. Casualties: heavy.”

“-of the God- Emperor-.”

“Ten seconds.”

“-the unclean- ”


“-the impure-”

“Fighters launch!”


“-and those who traffic-”


“Bombers launch!”


“-with them-”

“Five.” Hours to days. The knife's edge balanced, awaiting a fall.

“Aerial craft launch complete.”


“-shall be cleansed-”

“Launch armour contingent.”

“Three.” Days to forever.

“Bombardment complete.”


“-in Fire.”

“One.” An eternity breached at last. Silence. Stillness. 

“Amen.” they all concluded.

“All forces: Launch.”

Michael limped out and trudged toward the battle. The cultists hiding with the now-dead witch were almost completely destroyed. He stumbled out of the way of the last one's arm as it arced through the air. Body-parts and organs lie strewn about. Blood stained the ground. A quick glance down the field of battle brought more heretics taking badly aimed shots at them. 

The screaming he identified earlier was found. Some one, gender had been stripped away, was stretched out onto one of the buildings. Skin, muscle, vein and nerves were slowly being pulled away from it. As Michael watched intestines were yanked out and spread. Michael lined up a head-shot and pulled the trigger. The screaming stopped. 

The fate of all traitors.

“Assault take the traitors there”, and jabbed with his sword. A moment later he added, “twenty-five metres east”, realizing they probably couldn't see.

“PURGE THEM!” The squad leader screamed as she shot off. Michael glanced at the auspex. The enemy troops didn't seem to be coming from the buildings. There must be tunnels of some kind. He reached the metal detritus and stabbed a still twitching cultist. 

“Tactical sweep between the structures. Drop grenades down any openings.” A cultist jumped from behind a building and something lashed out at her just as fast. Coils of muscle bound her up and pulled her in the mass. Four long bone-like fangs oozed out and stabbed her in the chest. Putrid substances were pumped into her and she pitched forward. Unceremoniously the tainted flesh drug her the rest of the way in. “Stay away from the buildings themselves. Support get ready to move.”


He stumped further up the field, trying to keep up with the assault team. He was not going to make it. Most of the enemy was in pieces. The last mistakenly though surrender was an option. A quick glance at the auspex brought up the most likely hiding spots.

“Assault, sweep south to the edge of the plateau and circle back to north. Kill anyone not on our side” he said gesturing with his sword.


I need to stop doing that, Michael thought, right after I do this. He pointed to a small mob of cultists that had poked their heads up for a shot. With a terrified scream they boiled out of cover and scrambled away.

“Tactical: target the cultists that just vacated cover.”

“At once.”

Wailing the nurglities realized their mistake. They through their hands out as if to ward the shots. A few bangs and they were cut down. The runes on the auspex were much fewer now. Almost no firing now. He took a few moments to observe the battlefield. Chunks and viscera dotted the ground in clumps. Markers of brief struggles. One of the structures caught his eye. Unlike the others one to the far north was a small rockcrete hut. He brought up the scout team.

“Scouts: send a team to recon structure to the north edge. Be careful it may be trapped.”

“Confirmed and on route.”


A second sun dawned. 

The purest white white light saturated everything. Michael could see nothing. The noise was so loud he didn't even recognize it at first. He thought he yelled out 'take cover', but he could not honestly tell. Moments past. The light slowly faded. The sound was crushing. 

Then the sky fell.

Fire careened down from the heavens. A massive fireball tore through the sky. Smaller lines of flame surrounded the inferno. The main assault had commenced. His task, as badly as he had mangled it, was nearly over. 

“Support, move up to the plateau slope and cover.”

“Moving out.” 


What could that be? Michael twisted around to see the assault team launched themselves at the new enemy. They were human-form. Rotten and decomposed they drug exposed organs in the dirt. Blackened talons grew from weird point on their hands. Most of their faces seem to have been torn or bitten off. As soon as assault hit it was over.

The front rank of the creatures were bowled over and shattered. Chainswords roared and bit into corroded flesh. Limbs and greenish blood flew out. Assault hit the back half. Litanies met with bestial growls. Movement. Michael watched as the downed horrors regenerated. Innards and muscles shot out. Sticking to severed parts and drug them back to the whole. They stumbled to their feet.

“Assault behind you. They're reforming.”

“PURGE THE FILTH!” They smashed the rising creatures back into the dirt. Their claws scrapped against ceramite armour, but found no purchase. One vampire was picked up and slammed head-first into the ground. Another vampire was annihilated when a warrior fire his jump-pack and slammed into it. Heads flew, bodies smashing into the dirt, brutal stomps crushed bone and organs. No matter the abuse they kept on living.

“Tactical load psy-bolts and advance to Assault's position. Assault disengage.” 

A roar from the team leader and they jumped off. The vampires knitted themselves back together and were immediately cut down by tactical. Bodies melts and flared. Consumed by holy fire, they did not rise again. Michael slowly stomped up to the east end of the plateau. As he moved up he saw movement from the vampires. 

Only one, it lay on its face, trying to stand. He stormed over and stepped on its back, viscera burst out of its sides and kept it from rising.

“Flamer on my position.”

The ground stopped shaking, dust slowly settled, sound ceased. Garibaldi popped up first. A snap look confirmed every one was uninjured. Giant crater in the middle of the field.

“Up! Moving out! Watch the pods! Abzin, all yours.” Garibaldi ordered. Heinrich had his team moving. 


Abzin took point and rushed her team forward. Garibaldi hung back, covering them.

Flanking drop-ships raced over the battle, assault ramps opened and jump teams ready to drop into the war below. Reclusiarch Sarah Laelia of the Unerring Blade glared down at the clouds and smoke. She usually commenced assaults by visually sighting the target. With the cover she couldn't see. She glanced over at the auspex showing a rough approximation of the ground. It gave her no sense of place or proximity. She waited until she thought they were in the right spot and jumped. Behind her all three hundred of the cult's adherents followed her plunge into the gloom. 

The free-fall swept away all noise, all sensation. They spent these few moments in prayer. 

Gyxthax struggled to his feet. He wobbled for a moment and staggered upright. He was a good twenty metres from his last position. He blinked back the haze in his eyes and looked at his auspex. Even counting the double-vision he had maybe half of his forces left. None of the daemons survived. Ulioc can't you wait for a firing solution first? He opened a vox channel to comms.

“Comms, get me Ulioc!”, he paused momentarily before launching into a tirade. “Ulioc do you know what 'friendly fire' means? Give you a hint, it's not! Do I need to explain-” He cut himself short. Ulioc had always argued back with him now. All he heard was static. “Ulioc? Ulioc? ... Comms?” Great, I'm being jammed. Noise, he looked up and saw the descending drop pods and thunderhawks,

“Awww hell”, he jammed the rune that would allow him to address what was left of his army. “Fall back.” 

Drop pods screamed down into the atmosphere, trailing streams of fire. Warriors sang out joyous hymnals of hate and retribution. An avalanche of sound and violence and fire. The force shredded the atmosphere, crushing and burning all before it. The noise was a onslaught against the senses. The craft bounced and rocked about as it careened to the earth. Thunderhawks with attached Valkyries tore through the sky, alight with flames at the speeds they traveled. Speeders fell even faster, a suicidal drive the destroy the Enemy. Thousands and thousands of hearts, all searing with righteous hate. Weapons tore open, smashing down the Death Guard. Ave Immortalis-Imperator.

At ten thousand metres the Valkyries detached with percussive bangs. They wobbled for a moment before righting themselves, descending a slower pace. The Thunderhawks continued their murderous pace to the ground.

Retro jets on the drop pods slammed to life, jolting the warriors. Songs ceased, ammo checked and blades readied. War was here, the Emperor's Justice, so long denied, demanded to be delivered. With a shriek the pods crashed down, the very ground trembling under the impact and ripped open. 



“DEATH!”, they screamed as they opened fire into the Death Guard. The sound blanked out and became a single endless roar. Forward they charged, a tidal wave of destruction directed at the Traitors. They slew with contempt. They advanced without pity. With hate coursing through their veins the forces of the Hellsing Order crushed all those before them.

Valkyries finished their descent. Hatched popped. Landing ropes were shoved out and the stormtroopers vaulted out. Each slammed into the ground and rolled out of the way of the next. Squads formed up and advanced into the battle. Captain Verria hung back, watching the battle be joined. Armour coming in from the north. Augmented warriors all on the south. The Unerring Blade would land to the west, and his stormtroopers to close the vise. 

“Vox” he said. A moment and his vox-operator stumbled over and handed him the caster, “Sit-rep.”

“STORMTROOPER ALPHA ENGAGED!” came the joyous shout from first company.

“Beta is in position and setting up” the staccato tones of second company's commander.

“Gamma's movin' in” the strained yell of third company.

“Delta down” from the notoriously quiet lieutenant of fourth company.

Lieutenant Feroi crashed into the back of the Chimera first platoon had advanced to. Mortar pops could be heard from behind them. The frag-mortars arced high and came down nearly vertical on their targets. First platoon was all present, ready and able. He turned to his master-sergeant and said:

“Hey. How about 'Who wants to live forever?'” Feroi knew that Malcolm hated that particular battle-cry above all others.

Sergeant Malcolm faced Feroi, knowing full well that a smile was splitting the lieutenant's face in half.

“Emperor, please grant me the strength not to strangle the fool in front of me.”

Feroi laughed. He motioned with his chainsword.

“ALL FORWARD, ADVANCE AND DESTROY!” Their echoing cry surged above the sounds of battle for a moment, then they advanced into the Death Guard. From cover to wreck, wreck to cover the forward advance of Alpha company relentlessly hammered the retreating enemy. Feroi caught one staggering to his feet. His chainsword lanced out hitting the traitor in the neck. Blood fountained out. Obscene screams issued from what was left of its throat. It tired to push the blade away. With a kick Feroi sent the sword completely through, decapitating the creature. Its compatriots had abandoned it. A quick tap on the comm-bead brought up delta company.



Another tap connected him to the platoon leaders. A fast warning about the fire mission and he ordered them around and in.

Abzin caught a vampire in the throat and slashed out its chest with her long-dull silver knife. Kraly and Dao were engaged in running fire-fights and could not assist. Euclea lobbed the last few of her grenades, wishing she had brought fifty kilos of high-ex instead of thirty. Abzin slapped an aquila into the vampire's forehead, and started looking for the next target. Garibaldi took a few peremptory shots, snapped up an aquila and flipped into the air. He shrugged his hellgun to his shoulder, unclipped his hook and pulled a stake.

The plague-vampire burst out from its hiding place and lunged at him. He ducked and swept its legs out from under it. As it crashed to the ground, Garibaldi reversed the swing and slammed the stake under its rib-cage and into its heart. A spasm or two and it died. The aquila Garibaldi flicked out landed on its forehead with a small 'plink'. 

“All clear?” Abzin called out. A short list of confirmations and they moved on.

Commander Larion turned yelled to the Agrios Chines “Go!” Before he could twist back to the battle they had already raced away and were smashing through everything that stood in their path. “Command Squad move up!” Fire from the Death Guard was much less now, they knew they were surrounded. He jabbed the runes on his vox to bring up the captains in the assault. “Verria status.”

“All companies deployed and fighting.”


“Speeders dropped, Unerring Blade has jumped. Land Raiders coming down.”


“In attack pattern, will be in range in moments.”

“Any sighting on enemy commander?”

A long list of replies, all negative. “Keep searching.”

“FORWARD! IN NAMES OF THE LINE OF SAINTS!” Feroi screamed, blasting at anything that did not swear allegiance to the Golden Throne. A storm of fire strobed near him and he crashed into the the treads of a chimera.

“Baise! Fallen Terminators at ... 52.56, mortars, AT, artillery!” 

“Confirmed. Ra-”, Beta's commander suddenly burst on the line.

“Chines comin' up hot!”

“LET 'EM THOUGH! LET 'EM THOUGH!” Feroi dove deeper into cover as the armoured giants bashed through the scatterings of metal and burned hulls. Not noticing if anything got in their way. Bolter fire pattered off the maelstrom shields and power armour. Feroi stuck his head out to watch.

The first line of Agrios Chines smashed into the corrupted Marines. Pus-coated powerfists scrapped on the shields, thunder-hammers beat Traitors down to the ground. A Chines with lighting claws slashed at one. Her claws were caught and crushed only for the Terminator to have his arm ripped out and beaten down with it. Another took a thunder-hammer to the chest and sailed back several metres. His companion was tore limb from limb. Feroi ducked a flying leg. The Chine's onslaught was spectacular. Feroi tapped his vox.

“Delta. Scratch previous.” Another poke brought up his company. What battle cry to use? One he hadn't used in a while... yes that one! “FOR THE TWIN SAINTS!” and careened forward.

Feroi sighted a still alive Fallen Terminator missing his lower half and burst his head with a vicious salvo. Their firestorm continued. The assault carried onto their grudging retreat. Las-bolts rang against tainted armour like water. Enough water to drown a desert. Holes slowly formed in the Enemy's plate. Arms, legs and organs rent off piece by piece. 


A clatter, the small tubes landed in the middle of their formation. Light and blessed silver cut whorls of agony in the ranks of Plague Marines. Screaming praise to the Immortal Emperor Alpha company charged into melee. Sluggishly the Death Guard met the attack. To Feroi's right seven of his stormtroopers grappled a Marine and slashed at his throat and knees to bring it down. On his left Malcolm got behind one and shoulder tackled his knee. A wide sweep knocked two troopers away, but a third jammed her bayonet in the Marine's neck and opened fire. His neck disintegrated. Feroi launched himself at another. 

The twisted mockery of human life thrust with his tainted sword and Feroi pivoted to the side. Swinging hard he arced back and cut off the Marine's hand at the wrist. He ducked the snap punch and rolled to the side of the enemy. He spun with his weight and tried to sweep the Marine's legs. He smacked his foot against power armour, only succeeding in hurting himself. Annoyed he dropped his pistol and drew his knife; stabbed a small break in the plates. 

The creature gave no indication it felt the attack and rounded about. Feroi grabbed his gun and flipped back to his feet. It rushed him, hoping to crush Feroi with its bulk. Feroi backed up slashing with his chainsword. Sparks flew, but the armour held. Feroi took a step forward, to smash his bolt-pistol under it chin and burst it head. Before he could a small explosion crippled it right leg. The Traitor staggered and dropped to a knee. Feroi sliced its head off cleanly.

Malcolm closed his grenade pouch looking weary as always.

“Could you please wait for backup before going one-on-one?”

Feroi gave a jaunty bow and then ordered everyone forward again.

“Brother-Lieutenant the Enemy advances this way.”

“Support load kraken rounds and cut down any who attempt to climb. Tactical move to assist them. Assault prepare to counter-charge.”

“Brother-Lieutenant Michael” the scout leader called out.


“Rockcrete hut contains mining explosives, no visible traps or targets inside.” A plan began to form in Michael's mind.

“Any flammables?”

“Yes, several.” A quick check of the ammo count revealed that the scouts had firestorm rounds.

“Bring as many as you can to the east of the plateau.”

The bombardment finished. The smoke and clouds forced aside. The Unerring Blade were off course. Sarah slammed the vox-rune and screamed out, “Missed!” She straightened up, ready to engage the jump pack. Behind her all of the cult formed up, awaiting combat. She mentally counted down and with a thought brought the jets roaring to life. Even for all its power she impacted the ground hard. Keeping the engines burning she launched forward, crashing into a Fallen Marine. 

“Blessed are the Fires of Purgation!” Caught unawares the plague creature tumbled away, its spine snapped. “Damnation falls upon the weak!” Another twisted around to had its head cut off. “As a blade the Righteous strike true!” The first ranks of the assault wave smashed down and launched shot forward, hacking and shooting any traitor they could reach. Screaming out hate-filled chants and litanies.

Gyxthax propped up their faltering lines. Bolstering morale where it threated to collapse. The vise was closing only the way back to HQ was still open. A group of plague terminators were surrounded further up the field. He could do nothing for them. The pressure on all fronts compressed them closer and closer. Gyxthax waved and gestured theatrically. If they were all to die, they'd die a death to make Papa Nurgle proud.

The Traitors were not the only ones to watch him.

“Stormtrooper Beta Two One here. Enemy commander sighted. Co-ords 43.65. Heading west three kilo.”


The Song of Hate launched the last three drop pods. They streamed down quickly and without fanfare. They impacted twenty metres from Gyxthax. Hatches popped. Twenty warriors in ornate power armour drove forth. 

Supreme Commander Duran Fides took the field. He stood up and reached back for Excalibur, his long companion in wars. A Plague Marine screamed and charged him, chain-blade revving. Casually, Duran back-handed it out of the way. The broken traitor landed in a heap, never to rise again. With his out-stretched arm Duran pointed to Gyxthax, a cold challenge. The once-Astartes stood unmoved for a moment. Then he slipped away.

“COWARD!” Duran roared and charged after him, cutting down all in his path.

“Brother-Lieutenant the enemy has reached the incline.”

“Understood.” Micheal drug himself over to the assault team and the scouts with the appropriated flammables. “Assault take these canister and throw them as hard as you can into the air” he pointed to the incline, “scouts when they are just above the ground fire incendiaries into them.” A chorus of confirmations. He stumped back to the overlook. The putrid tide of greens had the bottom of the plateau and were advancing up. The Unerring Blade had not managed to cut off their retreat yet. He brought up his auspex. Contact runes swirled about. The Blade's advance was stalled. Keiv and Jelani were not in position to aid. 

He brought the display closer. Trying to find someway to completely cut off their retreat. Rune swarmed against the Blade. As he watched a a few more enemy squads broke off to engage. That's it! Michael activated the longer ranges for his vox and scanned for the Unerring Blade's line. After a moment he found chatter that was consistent with their battle catechisms.

“Unerring Blade, this is Brother-Lieutenant Michael. Disengage current target and assault at position 24.50 parallel to plateau.”


Michael saw the flashed of jets and watched as they bounded in place. A few more transmissions to the other commanders to let them know what he was planning. For a moment the enemy milled about uncertainly, then the closest surged up the incline. 

“Support fire at will. Assault NOW!” A scream of turbines and bestial roar and the impromptu bombs were on their way.

“Targeting...” The canisters arced lower and lower. A few of the Death Guard saw them and scattered. Too late. A staccato bang and they exploded, fire blazed out and engulfed dozens. Few fell, but the sticky fuel latched on and continued burning. In the craters it pooled and several more tumbled in. Support team opened fire, the lower pitched noise cutting out all other sound momentarily. Scouts and tactical fire off precision volleys.

Gyxthax rumbled up with the remnants of his army. Burned, smashed and being shot at, he recalled much better days. Thunk. Ow. He tossed out orders. Thunk. Ow. He didn't think anyone was listening anymore. Thunk. Ow. Getting to the tunnels and fighting there was his best, and only option at this point. Thunk. Ow. His two plague-Brothers in front of him suddenly dropped and he was in front. Thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk. Ow ow ow ow ow ow- stop shooting me! A burning impact smacked into his right side. He felt his right lung turn into mush. He almost dropped, but he kept going.

Michael directed the fire into the last. They stampeded forward in near mindless fashion. They fell, but a few would make it. 

“Assault prepare to counter-attack!” The one in front, his armour was different than the rest. The commander? “Tactical vengeance rounds into the leader!”

Gyxthax surged through the last of the weapons-fire and launched himself at Michael. Michael parried low and Gyxthax swung high, aiming for his head. Michael released the locking mechanisms on his wounded knee and fell backwards. Gyxthax staggered, trying to regain his balance and bring the scythe around for another attack. Michael drew his bolt-pistol and fire a single shot into his enemy's head. 

Duran idly watched the incoming reports. Resistance broken, mop-up operations commencing. Plague-vampires killed in total. Purifier teams notified of undead artifacts and unknowns.

Another victory for you my Emperor.

Rythun's scythe crashed down. Seras's deamonhammer arced up. Impact. Hate. The scythe twisted back. Ready for it Rythun flipped the pole of the weapon around his wrist and swung two-handed at her. Seras snapped the hammer back and hit the blade dead-on. Hate hate. The daemon-weapon shot back against his chest. Pus-slicked boots slid across the ground. Popping the scythe up he brought it down with an overhead smash. Seras slammed it back, the blade singing in agony. Hate hate hate hate hate

He flipped it around again, coming at her with the end of the pole this time. Seras smacked it away hard and brought the bell of the hammer into the rapidly descending daemon-weapon. Metal chips and splinters flew from tainted scythe. Rythun struggled to keep his grip on it. She charged and he stumbled back before getting the weapon under control. He swept the blade at her and she slammed it into the ground. Seras pinned it to the floor with her boot and smashed the Eternus Odium into the flat. It held still, but their were cracks were wood joined metal. 

Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate.

Rythun jerked the weapon up and Seras flipped off it. Quickly Rythun brought the tip of the blade down, but Seras veered to the side. Another attack and the Daemon-Prince slide further back down the tunnel. He feinted at her feet and before he could draw the scythe back she jumped forward and smashed it back into his face. His hands wrenched back, the weapon was starting to bend. He twirled the weapon and launched himself forward. Seras bashed the assault back. Rythun lost his grip and the pole crashed into his chest. The Greater-Daemon bound to the blade wailed in agony. Seras charged and Rythun hastily back-pedaled. He replaced his handle on the scythe and readied another strike. 

The sounds of the violence echoed endlessly in those confined quarters. Clashes of metal continued to live on after the moment had passed. His attacks were relentless, but Rythun could not break through her guard. Another swung, crash, he slide back. Side-attack, the screaming of metal, the blade was warped farther. The mine-shaft was narrowing, interfering with his swing. He shoved the scythe out, blunt end first. Seras blocked the attack, spun around and bashed it with murderous force. Rythun's fingers could barely keep the weapon from flying away. This time he was not pushed back very far.

He had hit the end of the tunnel. Abandoning his power attacks he tried a flurry of quick strike to back her up. Each was smashed aside. Each hit on the scythe pushing him father into the back wall.

Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate

The last hit that nearly wrenched the scythe free and he brought it back to his chest, and swung it at full extension. Seras readied a swing, and back-flipped over the blade. Unprepared to stop his attack, the scythe slammed into the wall and stuck. Seras grabbed a krak grenade and when her feet hit the floor lobbed it at the hands pinned between wall and the pole. Rythun made a jerking motion to pull away from the grenade, but it was stuck. The charge smacked into the pus-coating and detonated. Seras charged.

Rythun leaned back, pulling with all his weight to get the scythe free. It refused to budge. Seras slammed the daemonhammer into his left knee. With a terrible crack and scream from Rythun the armour shattered and his leg broke in half. Twisting about the hammer careened into his right leg snapping it to pieces. He dropped to his knees, legs ripping in half. Seras tumbled out of the way and he crashed to the ground. With an upward swing she crushed his falling arm. She snapped up her plasma pistol and fired into his shoulder. Tainted ceramite and flesh vaporized. Only a thin line of bone and sinews kept the limb on. When another strike even that was torn away. 

Rythun struggled to rise, his damaged hand could not support him for long. Seras darted at his remaining arm. He lashed out at her desperate to hurt her as he was hurt. She smacked his claws away, shredding his hand to bits. She beat the remains of his arm into the ground, shattering every inch of bone, armour and flesh.

Unable to balance himself Rythun toppled helplessly to the ground. Seras rushed him. The first swing pulped the right half of his face. The next ripped out his jaw. 

Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate 

The daemonhammer slammed Rythun's skull into the rock, shattering what was left of his head. A side hit forced his remaining eye from him. Another crushed into jelly. She hammered his head in the dirt. Seras smashed his neck. Destroyed any part of him she could reach. He died slowly and grudgingly. Still desiring to kill her. He forced his shattered legs to push him forward; intending to bite or crush her. A brutal back-hand swing ended his frail hope. Seras spun around and obliterated his throat with a rising strike. The Daemon Prince was flung bodily upwards. Another battered him into the wall. 

His armour burned with the force of Seras's hate. He slumped were he landed, indented into the tunnel. She smashed the plate covering his chest, fragments of the armour lanced out. Slivers lacerated his internal organs. She beat him over and over again. His viscera bashed into paste. Seras hit him relentlessly, no pity, no compassion. 

Rythun's mortal shape slowly and finally collapsed. Warp-fire spread over his ruined body, his patron ready to reclaim him.

Seras was not finished. There would be no immortality, no here-after, no future for him. She lashed out with her powers and seized his soul. A shriek, he knew what she planned. She pulled, Rythun fought back. Inexorably the rotten thing Seras grappled stretched, it frayed. A dismayed roar. He threw the last of his strength at her, hoping to distract her. Nothing could sway her. A tear, more panicked cries, it spread and then his soul ripped in half. Furiously Seras tore chunks of it asunder. Tossing the pieces aside and shredding larger parts she had discarded.


Nothing, nothing remained. A few drifting tatters in the eternity of the Immaterium. Seras watched his corpse smolder and turned. She locked her hammer in place and jabbed the vox button.

“Niki. Situation?”

“Battle concluded. Complete destruction of the Enemy. Minimal causalities. No reports of non-combatants.”


She shut off the communication line. She couldn’t think about the past or present now, only the future. 

There were still more names to be killed.

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