Atreus' battle-brothers swiftly filled the void left by Andrew in the formation.
The Astartes named Anthony now stood on the left. Unlike Andrew, he was no newly inducted neophyte.
Thus, Atreus felt far more at ease. After all, Anthony had survived alongside him the bloody abyss of the Terra Defense War, and he hoped to endure this campaign with his brothers in the same way.
Pushing his shield forward with the strength of his genetically enhanced muscles, the leader of the renegade Space Marines ignored the dull thud of bolter rounds.
Their shield wall and formation held firm under the control of seasoned warriors, while Atreus scanned for a weakness on the attackers' side.
At last, he spotted it.
A small opening, one a well-timed frag grenade could exploit. Once he reached the optimal tactical distance, Atreus did not hesitate.
He lobbed his gift of fire and iron over the shield.
With a deafening roar, the explosion hurled the Imperial Guard soldiers back behind their fortifications.
The Astartes squad pressed forward, suppressing the enemy with no visible emotion through their iron masks.
The battle ended swiftly, the enemy abandoning a yellow-armored Space Marine corpse and retreating.
They had reclaimed this passage, for now. Atreus drew a deep breath of filtered air through his helmet and ordered his men to reinforce the fortifications.
He knew it was futile: in 36 Terra hours, the Imperial Fists would retake this ground.
Yet they were Iron Warriors. Open warfare was not their forte, unlike the World Eaters or Space Wolves.
"Fortification and siege are our creed," he thought to himself, as orders flowed naturally from his lips.
The transhuman soldier's memory held valuable knowledge that a mortal from the ancient 3~2k era could not fully grasp without a veteran Space Marine's experience.
"Brothers! We must hold a little longer!" he declared, his voice muffled by his helmet.
The only responses were nods, but Atreus could read their determination through their masks.
Perturabo's teachings were still etched within them, though Atreus' subordinates were more receptive to their leader's unexpected actions.
…
A week later, Atreus returned alive from the small skirmish of the campaign later known as The Iron Cage.
A miracle by the standards of a mortal like Alex, but the future would surprise him even more.
The following weeks were not as gentle as the former mortal and his brothers had hoped.
War, grief, blood, and flames became their daily reality during this campaign against the Imperial Fists.
This pattern repeated time and again, until they began to run low on equipment, with corpses piling up around them.
Eventually, Atreus and his tactical squad could no longer use their gear and had to scavenge equipment from fallen enemy Astartes.
A cruel shortage of supplies, which Atreus' group faced without flinching.
Their Primarch had already waged wars and won with insufficiently equipped forces.
An inevitable logistical flaw, as the Departmento Munitorum managed an empire spanning millions, perhaps billions, of worlds.
They made do with little, as the Legion had grown accustomed to in that era.
This lesson proved its worth when the Astartes ran short of weapons.
During a clash against the Imperial Army and the Imperial Fists, Atreus stared intently at the fallen Imperial Fist Astartes lying on the ground.
The former human wondered if he, too, would soon die like that nameless transhuman soldier.
A question that still haunts him today.
Yet Atreus knew that for an Astartes, fear of death was not a virtue but a flaw: rust in the unyielding steel of an Iron Warrior's mind.
If an Astartes was to die, he would do so in the glory and dignity of an endless war.
The old Atreus had understood this too, back when he was merely a meat grinder devoid of free will under his gene-father.
"Damn it, I'm sick of this butchery," he thought, surveying his surroundings.
The world of Sebastus IV held no strategic value or precious resources.
All these battles stemmed simply from the stubbornness of two Primarchs, each determined to prove their point.
Perturabo and Rogal Dorn clashed in this endless campaign, which Alex had stumbled into upon his reincarnation.
"My lord, it is nearly time for the meeting." A voice devoid of emotion drew the Astartes' attention.
"Yes, it's foolish to linger in the past… the future lies ahead," he told himself, ignoring the slave.
He soon reached the upper deck of the spacecraft.
Atreus needed a few more minutes to arrive at his private quarters.
Once inside, the man removed his helmet and shook his head to dispel thoughts of the Sebastus IV war.
The veteran Space Marine stood 7 feet 6 inches tall, his genetically enhanced body among the largest of his kind.
His black hair, streaked with gray, gave the veteran a distinctive look, though appearance was hardly a priority for an Astartes.
In this dystopian, apocalyptic galaxy, the only thing that mattered was the strength to fight in this eternal war.
Atreus headed straight to the data-screen, performing a series of actions on the interface to establish a communication link.
"Anthony, inform the others to gather in the bridge's conference room in thirty Terra minutes. We've reached our destination," he said calmly.
The Iron Warriors' helmet usually muffled his voice, which Alex had initially found "cool."
But he quickly changed his mind after weeks under that stifling mask.
"Yes, Captain."
Without hesitation, Anthony's voice responded from the other side of the ship.
The tactical squad leader ended the communication and headed straight for the cabin's side door.
As the hatch opened and automated protocols illuminated the area, two twisted figures in a corner stirred.
The two semi-metallic creatures stood upright.
Their silhouettes appeared human, but their faces were pale and bloodless.
Their arms had been amputated up to the shoulders, replaced with screwdrivers and power claws.
Several cables pierced their abdomens and chests, powering the machines integrated into their limbs.
An opaque tube plunged directly into their stomachs through their mouths, supplying them with sustenance.
Servitors—part human, part machine.
(Image)
Creatures crafted by the Mechanicus, straddling the line between flesh and steel.
Their frontal lobes had been severed, leaving them without joy or sorrow, incapable of feeling anything.
They were mere automatons, the embodiment of humanity's desperate need for compliant labor after the ban on abominable intelligences (AI, or Iron Men).
Beyond these creatures, the tactical squad's armory held various equipment: bolters scavenged from Imperial Fists, combat knives, and assault shields riddled with impacts hung on the wall.
On the table, a respectable number of full magazines and several grenades were neatly stacked.
In a nearby iron box rested disassembled bolters, pieced together from parts salvaged from destroyed but still functional weapons.
Though these items would have made an old Warhammer fan's eyes gleam, Atreus' gaze fixed on something else.
A skull—or rather, an iron skull.
This helmet, forged to resemble the symbols of the Iron Warriors Legion, was but one piece of a larger whole.
What whole? The most important element in this room: a Power Armour MK3 Iron Pattern, standing proudly on a central rack.
Riddled with bullet holes and covered in dents, it had accompanied the old Atreus through countless battles.
Notably during the Taran campaign, the Terra Defense War, and the Iron Cage campaign, with over a third of its components replaced over the course of those conflicts.
Fortunately, the Power Armour MK3 was thicker than standard Astartes models, designed for siege warfare.
Atreus had considered repairing the armor and shield, but given the shortage of materials, he had decided to maintain the status quo as long as it didn't compromise their durability.
For now, he made do with a standard Power Armour.
The servitors raised their arms and silently began removing the components of his current armor.
The Iron Warrior slowly donned another standard Power Armour, assisted by the soulless automatons.
As the left forearm was attached to the armor, Atreus noticed again a number etched upon it.
The number 1.
This mark had appeared after he saved Anthony during an ambush set by the Imperial Fists.
At first, he had thought it a trick of the Chaos Gods, hidden in the Warp.
But he quickly dismissed the idea, as the symbol felt far too familiar.
It was literally drawn from the last anime he had watched before landing in this hell: To Be Hero X.
A universe where people gained powers through the "Trust" granted by mortals.
This hypothesis seemed the most plausible… but Atreus remained cautious.
Who knew? Perhaps Tzeentch was playing another cunning trick, using his memories to deceive him.
He preferred excessive caution to bitter regret watching his brothers perish due to his decisions.
"Hm… the armor is perfectly fitted. Time to discuss the future of this little group," he thought after checking the servitors' work.
He walked calmly toward the meeting room.
"If this Trust isn't a trap, then it will work… once I launch my plan and establish my Chapter world," he told himself, heading to meet his brothers in this life.
The simple tactical squad leader left the room, his eyes burning with ambition.
---
Author's Note:Just for info, a squad leader at this time commanded 15 to 30 Astartes. It wasn't uncommon for an Iron Warriors squad to include an Apothecary, a Techmarine, and a Warsmith (their siege engineering officers).
Note:The Sebastus IV war takes place after the Horus Heresy, in the 31st millennium (after the failure of the Great Crusade).
Additional Note: Like Alex, I'm new to the Warhammer 40k universe, so feel free to add or correct the information from this humble beginner