Day 983 . year 988 . 41st Millennium
Opel III
Hive Orion
Lower Hive
"I'm begging you! Please, spare my life! I won't cause any more trouble, please don't kill me! I surrender, I'm begging you!"
A ganger knelt on the floor, bowing his head in surrender, pleading with Omega pathetically. Meanwhile, the rest of his gang had fought with all their might—and died swiftly.
Omega stared down at him with cold, merciless eyes. He didn't waste time contemplating the morality of the situation. To him, these dregs of humanity did not deserve to live, regardless of their surrender. They were lawless barbarians, not even recognized as citizens of the hive city. Butchering them all wouldn't weigh on his conscience in the slightest; furthermore, it ensured they wouldn't return to fight him in a second round.
He leveled his autogun at the ganger's face and pulled the trigger without hesitation, completely ignoring the man's expression of absolute despair and shock.
BANG!
The ganger's body jerked backward, blood splattering across Omega's armor and uniform. Instantly, his two House Guard subordinates fired supplementary rounds into the corpse and drove their combat knives into the body, ensuring nothing would rise to stab them in the back.
Such actions might be considered war crimes or violations of humanitarian law on some civilized worlds, but to him and his men, it was standard procedure—a grim necessity.
"Rear corridor is clear, Commander. No remaining threats," the blood-splattered shield-bearing House Guard reported after checking the hallway they had just traversed to watch their six.
"Good. Advance to the next corridor," Omega ordered, smoothly swapping the magazine of his autogun as if he had used the weapon for years. Although he typically wielded a hot-shot lasgun for combat missions, he still possessed the knowledge and skill to handle various firearms.
"Understood, sir," his two subordinates replied in unison.
The trio pressed on, maintaining a flawless CQB (Close Quarters Battle) formation. This tactical formation was highly effective for rapid assaults in tight spaces, a method Omega and his men heavily favored.
For House Guards who regularly suppressed dissidents, purged rioters protesting against House Korvax, and occasionally fought armed insurgents, fighting in confined spaces was a routine occurrence.
The only issue was that their heavy-hitting hot-shot lasguns had run dry. Because they packed significantly more punch than standard lasguns, the hot-shot variants consumed far more energy per shot, requiring bulky, backpack-sized power capacitors.
Omega had simply discarded his without a second thought. Once drained of power, the weapon was nothing more than a heavy lump of metal and dead batteries hindering his mobility. He had no qualms about using a looted autogun, so long as it helped him complete the mission.
But suddenly, a wave of sheer agony crashed into his body. It was so intense that Omega, a man accustomed to pain, collapsed to the floor, completely unable to stop himself from falling. His limbs felt entirely drained of strength; his heart pounded violently against his ribs.
When he squeezed his eyes shut and forced them open again, everything around him had warped. The floors and walls morphed into indistinguishable, constantly shifting masses. His two House Guards exhibited grotesque, visible mutations... the kind of hideous warp-taint that afflicts humans exposed to just enough Warp energy to corrupt, but not enough to kill them instantly.
Alongside the excruciating physical pain came a flood of indescribable sensations: crippling sickness, blinding rage, bottomless curiosity, and an inexplicable, euphoric bliss all washing over him at once.
And the daemons of the Warp were whispering into his ears far more aggressively than usual.
Omega tried to push himself up, fighting to banish the horrific visions and tune out the daemonic whispers, but he broke into a violent fit of coughing.
Hack! Cough!
Omega clamped his gloved hand over his mouth. He felt wetness and tasted copper. When he looked down at his hand, he saw a thick smear of blood on his glove... and the blood began to pool, transforming into grotesque, translucent maggots. It looked eerily similar to the filth found writhing within the bodies of Nurgle-worshipping heretics.
Fear and hesitation finally began to take root in Omega's mind.
No, he whispered internally, terrified but not completely without hope. He knew his fate. He was turning into one of them. He would become a threat—a danger to his master and everyone around him. His hand drifted down to his sidearm, unholstering the pistol and pressing the barrel against his own temple, ready to pull the trigger.
"Commander, what are you doing?!" the shield-bearer yelled, seeing his leader collapse, cough up blood, and press a gun to his own head. His men feared him because he was a mutant and a psyker, but that didn't mean they wanted him dead.
In an instant, reality snapped back. The grimy, grey metal walls of the base were solid again. His subordinates looked perfectly normal, completely devoid of the severe mutations he had just hallucinated. He looked down at his hand; there was only a patch of blood on the glove. No maggots, no corruption. Everything was normal.
"Nothing... I'm still combat-capable," Omega forced the words out, fully aware that he barely had the strength to move.
He resorted to a highly dangerous and risky gamble: he tapped into his psychic powers to physically prop his own body up, using telekinesis to force his limbs to move as naturally as possible.
Once on his feet, puppeting his own exhausted body, he immediately ordered the advance. He had to eliminate the target, and fast. Otherwise, he wasn't going to survive this.
Constantly burning psychic energy in such a weakened physical state didn't just strip him of his offensive capabilities; it placed an immense strain on his body and mind. It required absolute concentration, all while he had to endure the amplified, tempting whispers of daemons and Warp entities.
As he and his men rounded the corner into the next corridor, they were met with a sight that made them break into a cold sweat. Every instinct screamed at them to run. It wasn't out of cowardice; it was the stark realization that they possessed absolutely nothing capable of penetrating heavy armor.
At the far end of the hall stood a figure clad in grey Power Armor, wearing a horned helm and gripping a massive Power Axe in both hands. A single glance told them this was no Space Marine—neither the armor's design nor the wearer's proportions fit the Adeptus Astartes—but the tactical situation was just as dire.
"You're Valen's lapdogs, aren't you? Think you're tough enough to breach my territory? My base? You're all dying today," Cronos growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. He was furious, hell-bent on slaughtering every intruder in his domain.
Omega and his two guards prepared to fall back. Their current weapons couldn't scratch Power Armor. Standing their ground meant waiting for death. But the armored juggernaut charged forward with terrifying speed, raising his axe to hew them to pieces.
"Running away, you bastards?!" Cronos roared as he barreled down the corridor. Every footstep shook the floorboards. The nearly 200-kilogram suit of Power Armor didn't seem to slow him down in the slightest. While he couldn't match Astartes speed, he was still a fast-moving nightmare for any ill-prepared baseline human.
The shield-bearing House Guard, whose hellpistol still held a charge, raised his weapon and aimed for Cronos's charging head. He banked on the hope that his high-penetration weapon might, with a lucky shot, pierce the helmet. But he was too slow.
The ruby-red laser beam struck the Power Armor, superheating and slightly melting the outer plating where it hit, but it failed to punch through.
In the blink of an eye, Cronos closed the distance. He swung his Power Axe in a brutal, diagonal cleave. The House Guard, driven by instinct and relentless training, reacted instantly, raising his suppression shield to block.
But against strength amplified by Power Armor and the sheer destructive force of a Power Axe, a shield designed to deflect light-to-medium arms fire was utterly useless.
The energy field wreathing the axe blade sheared through metal and flesh with zero resistance. High-grade armor and shielding meant nothing against a power weapon. The House Guard was diagonally bifurcated. The two halves of his body hit the floor, only to be crushed into a gory paste beneath the heavy armored boots as Cronos trampled over him toward his next target.
"Hah! Weak! Is that all you've got?!" Cronos sneered as he lunged at Omega, bringing the axe down in a vertical chop.
But Omega managed to dodge it. He narrowly evaded that strike, and the flurry of blows that followed.
Omega was burning through his psychic reserves and absolute concentration just to force his failing body to sidestep the rapid, crushing attacks. His face was deathly pale. Not only was a massive portion of his focus dedicated to puppeting his own limbs and tracking the enemy, but he also had to endure the ever-increasing volume of the daemonic whispers.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The surviving House Guard opened fire with his autogun. He tried to aim for the unarmored joints, but with Cronos constantly shifting to attack Omega, the solid slugs sparked uselessly against thick ceramite without finding a weak point.
Annoyed, Cronos snapped his attention toward the shooter. He broke off his attack on Omega, closed the gap, and delivered a devastating backhand blow straight to the Guard's helmet.
The House Guard was launched through the air, slamming hard against the metal wall before slumping motionless. The servo-enhanced strength behind the strike had caved in the front of the helmet; thick blood began seeping from the armor's seals.
Now, it was just Cronos and a severely weakened Omega. Cronos stalked forward, a mocking grin on his face beneath his helm as he took in the sight of the swaying, exhausted intruder. The man held no weapons capable of scratching Power Armor. Cronos had expected the invaders breaching his base to be much tougher and more intimidating. Not just Valen Korvax's pathetic House Guard lackeys.
But upon closer inspection, this final intruder looked different from the rest. While the others wore full sets of high-quality flak armor protecting most of their bodies, this man wore only a chest plate, greaves, bracers, and shoulder pads. And a green beret. It was highly likely that the man standing before him was the commander of the strike force.
And he was going to die just like the rest of them.
But before Cronos could make his move, Omega collapsed to the floor, coughing up a massive mouthful of blood. His expression twisted in absolute agony. The hallucinations crashed over him with renewed fury. The pain pushed him to the brink of unconsciousness. To Omega's eyes, the man in Power Armor warped into the terrifying visage of a black-armored Chaos Space Marine—a nightmare he had witnessed once before on Cadia.
Omega fought desperately to hold onto his sanity. He ignored the vision, forcing himself to remember it was just a hallucination. He had no strength or focus left to gather enough psychic power for an escape. If he pushed himself any further, the daemons would possess him and claim his flesh.
But if he did nothing, he would die here. He had a mission to complete.
Omega prepared a psychic assault, manifesting Warp lightning—an attack guaranteed to kill the target, or at least leave him critically wounded.
Yet, it seemed the more power he drew, the brighter his soul burned in the Warp, exposing his vulnerability to the daemons. The whispers grew louder into promises, offering sickeningly sweet deals, trying harder and harder to provoke him.
Blood began weeping from his eyes and nose. The intense sensation somehow anchored him back to reality. For a brief second, he saw the surprised, fearful posture of his opponent before the blood blinded him completely. Omega forced his trembling hand up.
CRACK!!!!
Arcs of blinding white lightning erupted from Omega's hand. But Cronos, noticing the bizarre stance of the final intruder, managed to dive out of the way just in time. The Warp lightning scorched the metal wall and incinerated a nearby corpse, leaving a shallow, smoking crater.
Cronos instantly realized he was dealing with a psyker. Recovering from his dive, he lunged forward, intending to decapitate Omega immediately. He couldn't let a threat like this live. He knew exactly how dangerous and unpredictable psykers were. He had to kill him before he unleashed any more warp-craft.
But before Cronos's axe could reach Omega's neck, the deafening roar of an anti-materiel rifle shattered the air.
BANG!!!
An armor-piercing round slammed directly into the power pack on Cronos's back. The .50 BMG slug shattered the Power Armor's energy source, instantly cutting off the motive power required to drive the impossibly heavy suit.
Stripped of its servo-assistance, the nearly 200-kilogram weight of the dead armor brought Cronos's charge to a grinding halt. He nearly toppled over. Panic flared in his movements; he was completely immobilized. He might have been a massive gang leader, stronger than the average man, but he was still an un-augmented baseline human. He couldn't move the dead weight.
The tables had turned completely. The overwhelming advantage Cronos held moments ago evaporated. He strained with all his might to turn his head and see the coward who shot him in the back. When he finally looked, shock paralyzed him.
His attacker was wearing the gear of an Iron Fang ganger, aiming Russ's anti-materiel rifle straight at his head. A blood-stained chainsword hung at the shooter's waist. Cronos locked onto the shooter's bright blue eyes, which were staring back at him with undeniable, gleeful excitement...
Blinded by the rage of being betrayed by his own gang member—someone he assumed was trying to assassinate him to usurp leadership—Cronos completely ignored Omega. He poured every ounce of his strength into dealing with this traitor first.
He let out a feral roar, pushing his body harder than he ever had in his life. He forced the dead armor to move, lumbering toward the traitor. He saw the glee in the ganger's eyes morph into sheer panic as he closed the distance at a jogging pace. The sheer adrenaline of pure, unadulterated fury allowed Cronos to fight through the 200-kilogram dead weight of the ceramite cage.
Eric panicked as he saw Cronos barrelling toward him with the Power Axe raised. He tried to line up the anti-materiel rifle with Cronos's head, but between the sheer weight of the weapon and the agonizing pain in his shoulder from the previous shot's recoil, his aim wavered. He missed, the massive slug glancing off the shoulder pauldron instead.
"Damn it!!!" Eric cursed, dropping the heavy rifle to the floor. The brutal recoil flared up, making him wince in pain. He seriously wondered if he had dislocated his shoulder or fractured his collarbone.
He unhooked a krak grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it accurately at the charging warlord. The magnetic clamps on the grenade caught the right leg of the Power Armor. Seconds later, it detonated.
BOOM! CLANG!
The explosion blew out the armor's leg joints, sending Cronos crashing hard to the floor, his right leg rendered entirely useless. Cronos struggled to push himself up, but Eric wasn't going to give him the chance. He ripped a second krak grenade from his webbing and lobbed it directly at Cronos's helmet.
BOOM!
The second blast detonated. Cronos's body went completely limp. While the explosive didn't quite breach the thick helm, the concussive force transferred through the ceramite was more than enough to scramble the brain inside, killing the target instantly.
Eric let out a heavy sigh of relief. He couldn't stop a triumphant smile from spreading across his face. The mission was a complete success. He had assassinated the primary target without taking any damage... well, mostly uninjured, anyway.
All he had to do now was exfiltrate to the rendezvous point and go back to his comfortable life in the upper hive. But just then, a thought struck him.
...Wait, what if Vann or Colonel Drago asks for proof that I actually finished the job? Eric thought, his brow furrowing as he looked down at Cronos's corpse. He might actually need to bring back a trophy to confirm the kill.
"Do I really have to do this?" Eric grumbled as he unholstered his assault chainsword and thumbed the activation rune. He needed the target's head.
Eric struggled for a minute to pry the heavy helmet off the corpse. Once it was off, he couldn't help but notice the gang leader looked exactly like a Viking. Anyone who knew what a Viking was would instantly recognize that style of braided beard.
He revved the assault chainsword and quickly went to work on the neck. He turned his face away, grimacing in disgust and deep discomfort. Sure, he had killed people before, but decapitating a corpse? This was a first. He couldn't help but feel that this was excessively brutal and barbaric.
Eric stood up, the severed head in his grasp. He deactivated the chainsword and hastily tied Cronos's hair to his belt. Once he was sure the head was secure and wouldn't get in the way, Eric readied his lasgun. He just needed to raid the base's armory, slip out through the hidden stairwell, and head to the rendezvous point.
But right then, he noticed something... or rather, someone.
Commander Omega was lying on the metal grating, his breathing shallow and ragged. There were no visible wounds on his body, just thick trails of blood leaking from his mouth, nose, and eyes.
Eric hesitated. Should he help him? His mission was over; he was clear for exfiltration. He had no idea how Omega ended up here or what his agenda was. But Omega was severely injured and needed help. And... Omega had saved his life back when he was passed out by the hive city walls.
"I hate the fact that I'm a good person," Eric muttered with a heavy sigh. He walked over to Omega's prone form, glancing left and right for incoming hostiles, while rummaging through his pouches for stimms or a med-kit.
He quickly realized he had absolutely no medical supplies on him. He was going to have to carry Omega to a medicae station, or whatever passed for a medical bay inside this base.
"Who are you?" Omega forced the words out as he heard footsteps approaching. Though blinded, he had strained to listen to the combat happening around him, fighting to block out the daemonic whispers. He had heard the anti-materiel rifle, the krak grenades, and crucially, the absence of Power Armor footsteps. He deduced that the armored warlord was dead, and the person who had saved him was undeniably female.
"Don't you remember me? It's Erica. Erica de la Cruz. Kept you waiting, huh?" Eric said, his tone laced with mild annoyance. He crouched down, grabbed Omega's arm, and hauled the man up to support his weight. They began to limp away together, though internally, Eric couldn't help but complain about how damn heavy Omega was.