Footsteps echoed through the underground passage, each impact of boot against metal floor creating hollow percussion that bounced off bare walls. The sound repeated endlessly, overlapping with itself in the confined space, creating an acoustic signature of isolation.
The lighting was dim, inconsistent. Some sections of the corridor blazed with full illumination while others had been reduced to emergency lighting or darkness entirely. With David departed to establish the second base, no one remained to manage the facility's energy distribution systems. Equipment had been switched to power-saving modes, reducing consumption to absolute minimums.
Nolan walked through this patchwork of light and shadow, his form alternately visible and obscured as he navigated the familiar route. Two hours of circling through New York's streets in wind and snow had finally concluded. He'd returned to the empty, silent underground base, leaving winter's baptism behind him.
Seven days had passed since Bucky and Old John departed.
They'd led two hundred Gang Dogs, all disguised in civilian clothing and carrying forged documentation, escorting his aunt toward new lives far from New York. She'd packed everything she owned, reducing decades of accumulated possessions to a manageable collection of suitcases and boxes.
Imperial Heavy Industries had arranged passage on an ocean liner, a ship large enough that a group their size could travel without drawing particular attention. The ship would carry them across the Pacific toward Japan, where new arrangements awaited.
Originally, May had expressed interest in returning to her homeland first, visiting family she hadn't seen in years. But homesickness and practicality had warred within her, and ultimately she'd followed Nolan's advice. Japan would serve as her temporary settlement, a place where she could eventually reopen The Evening Hearth in safety, far from anyone who might use her against him.
Surprisingly, Jason going to accompany them. The young man who'd worked at the restaurant had mentioned going home for the New Year holidays, his tone carrying a wistfulness that suggested he'd been away too long.
Auntie Wu, always generous, had felt terrible about his travel expenses. She'd insisted he join them on the liner, treating this as a farewell gift for his loyal service.
Nolan had simply agreed. As long as his aunt was happy and safe, the specific arrangements didn't matter.
With nearly half the personnel departed, the base felt cavernous. Empty. The echoes were more pronounced now, sounds carrying further without bodies to absorb them.
Two hundred thirty-one Gang Dogs remained, spread throughout the facility on rotating shifts. Dr. Connors continued his work in the laboratory, absorbed in his regeneration serum research to the point where he barely noticed anything beyond his immediate experiments.
Including Nolan himself, that made two hundred thirty-three living humans occupying a base designed to house considerably more.
Raditus and its growing army of intelligent machines didn't count toward that total. They weren't human, required no food or rest, existed in a separate category entirely.
Nolan's thoughts wandered through these mental calculations as he approached the base's main hall. The lighting grew brighter here, one of the few areas maintained at full power for security and operational purposes.
Something moved in his peripheral vision.
The Fist of Belia scuttled across the corridor like an enormous dark green metal rat, its five fingers creating rapid tapping sounds as it propelled itself along. The power gauntlet moved with disturbing organic quality despite being entirely mechanical, disappearing into a side passage before Nolan could properly track its trajectory.
He raised his eyebrows, exhaling slowly through his nose. The mysterious artifact had been exhibiting increasingly strange behavior lately, but he lacked the energy to investigate. Let it do whatever it wanted. As long as it didn't actively interfere with operations, he could ignore its peculiarities.
Nolan removed his woolen coat as he walked, the garment still damp from snow that had melted against his body heat during the journey home. He draped it over one arm and continued toward the material storage warehouse.
Inside the cold storage unit, he located several Grox steaks. The meat was still frozen solid, rock-hard slabs that would require time to thaw properly. He selected a few pieces and carried them to the base's small kitchen area, beginning the process of preparing dinner.
Half an hour passed.
The scent of cooking meat filled the air, mixing with the smell of hot oil and the char from seared surfaces. Nolan worked through the preparation with mechanical efficiency, his mind elsewhere even as his hands performed familiar tasks.
When finished, he carried a large plate laden with perfectly cooked steaks to the metal round table in the main hall. The meat still crackled slightly, fat rendering and creating small pops as internal heat redistributed.
He sat down heavily, the metal chair creaking under his weight. The steaks sat before him, steam rising in thin wisps, the aroma rich and appetizing.
But as he stared at the food, his appetite simply... vanished.
His brow furrowed. He continued looking at the plate, willing himself to feel hunger, to experience the desire to eat. Nothing came. The meat might as well have been plastic for all the appeal it held.
With a soft sigh, Nolan slumped backward in the chair, his posture abandoning any pretense of proper form. His hand moved almost unconsciously, pulling out the simulator interface and scrolling through its pages.
The designated salvage page still showed active countdown timers
But the simulation option had completed its natural cooling period. The function was available again, ready to be activated.
Nolan reached for his wrist, untying the red prayer rope that held the small jar of illusion dust. The disguise faded immediately, revealing his true appearance.
He studied the simulation interface for a moment, considering whether this was the right time. The base was quiet. No immediate threats. No pressing obligations requiring his attention for the next several hours.
Decision made, he extended one finger toward the simulation startup option.
The interface responded to his touch, beginning its activation sequence. Status indicators shifted, preparations commenced, reality started bending to accommodate his consciousness transfer to another universe.
Several seconds passed.
Then Nolan's eyes snapped wide open, pupils dilating with sudden realization. His mouth opened in a gasp of horrified recognition.
"Oh no! I forgot to pray to the Emperor!" The words burst out in a rush, panic coloring his tone. "Emperor protect me, Emperor..."
[SIMULATION STARTED]
The text blazed across his vision, cutting off his desperate prayer mid-sentence.
[Current Identity: Space Wolf Blood Claw Warp, Inquisitor, ….]
[Please choose identity to descend]
[If you refuse, descent will occur immediately]
[Identity selection refused]
[SIMULATION STARTING]
[You have descended to the Warhammer Universe]
[Time Period: [M31, Great Crusade Era]]
[Location: Warp, Death Guard Fleet Flagship "Terminus"]
Reality twisted, consciousness fragmenting and reforming across impossible distances.
Awareness returns in stages.
First, sensation. The feeling of tremendous weight encasing your body, ceramite and plasteel and adamantium layers creating a shell that should have been immobilizing but somehow feels natural. The armor responds to your thoughts as if it were a second skin, servos humming softly with each micro-adjustment.
Second, smell. Even filtered through the helmet's rebreather systems, the air carries a pungent chemical stench. Cleaning solvents mixed with something organic, something rotten underneath. The scent makes your eyes water despite the environmental seals.
Third, sound. Screaming. The wet sounds of blades cutting through flesh. The crash of metal on metal. Crying, pleading, desperate voices begging for mercy that will not come.
Fourth, sight.
Your vision clears, adjusting to the helmet's eyepiece displays. Auto-senses calibrate, providing targeting data and tactical overlays that your mind instinctively understands despite never having used this equipment before.
You stand in what appears to be a lower deck cargo bay. The space is vast, high-ceilinged, designed to hold massive quantities of supplies or equipment. Crates and containers have been shoved against walls, creating an open area in the center.
And in that open area, a massacre is occurring.
Hundreds of people huddle in one corner, pressed together like frightened animals. Most are human, or human-adjacent, their features largely normal except for one critical detail. Each possesses a third eye positioned vertically in the center of their forehead. Navigators, those rare mutants whose unique gift allows faster-than-light travel through the Warp.
Mixed among them are their servants and attendants, ordinary humans whose terror is absolute. They scream and weep and try to push further into the corner, as if the metal walls might somehow open and provide escape.
Before them stands their killer.
An Astartes in Iron Cavalry-pattern Terminator armor, the massive suit making him tower over his victims like a giant from nightmare. The armor is painted in muted colors, Death Guard livery marked with personal heraldry you do not immediately recognize.
In the Terminator's hands, a massive scythe swings with casual, almost lazy efficiency. Each arc of the blade harvests lives. Limbs separate from bodies. Heads tumble from necks. Blood sprays in arterial fountains, painting the deck in spreading crimson.
The Terminator works methodically, without hurry or emotion. Just steady, patient killing. Another swing. Another dozen corpses. The screaming intensifies, but the slaughter continues unabated.
Your mind processes this information with crystalline clarity. Navigators are irreplaceable. Their gift is genetic, rare beyond measure, essential for any fleet operation. Killing them en masse is tactical insanity, crippling any ship's ability to travel effectively.
This is not combat. This is sabotage.
Your body moves before conscious thought finishes forming.
The Terminator armor you wear is different from the killer's. Cataphractii-pattern, you know somehow, the information simply present in your mind. Gray-white metallic finish, reinforced plating, systems optimized for close combat and environmental protection. The armor is exquisite craftsmanship, bearing the particular quality that marks it as equipment reserved for elite units.
In your hands, a weapon. The Manreaper, two and a half meters of killing edge mounted on a reinforced haft. The weight should be tremendous, but the armor's power assistance makes it feel light, responsive, an extension of your will.
You charge.
The Terminator armor's servos scream with sudden acceleration, propelling your massive bulk forward with speed that defies physics. Deck plating cracks under the force of your footfalls. The distance collapses in seconds.
The Manreaper sweeps through the air in a horizontal arc, building momentum, energy bleeding off in visible distortion of atmosphere.
The weapon collides with the killer's scythe with a sound like a bomb detonating. Metal shrieks against metal. The impact sends shockwaves rippling outward, strong enough to knock nearby navigators off their feet.
The killer's next swing, aimed at executing another cluster of victims, is stopped completely. The blade hangs frozen in space, trapped against your weapon.
The Terminator's helmet turns slowly, ponderously, the motion carrying theatrical deliberation. Cold eyes glare from behind the eyepiece, filled with fury at this interruption.
"Death Shroud!" The voice emerges through external speakers, distorted and harsh. "How dare you interfere with Lord Typhus's orders! Even the Pale King himself won't tolerate your usurpation!"
Your mind processes that information. Death Shroud. Mortarion's personal bodyguards, the silent warriors who speak only to their Primarch. And Typhus... First Captain of the Death Guard, the Traveller.
You hold the Manreaper motionless with one hand, matching the other Terminator's strength without apparent effort. When you speak, your voice emerges calm, measured, carrying no trace of the shock you feel internally.
"Typhus's orders? Are you from the Death Guard?"
The killer jerks as if struck. His entire posture shifts, radiating sudden confusion mixed with alarm.
"Who are you?" The question comes out as nearly a roar, processed through the helmet speakers into something inhuman. "The Death Shroud remain forever silent! They never speak! Never question! What are you?"
Your response is immediate and brutally practical.
Your free hand, encased in the Terminator gauntlet, clenches into a fist. The powered servo-motors add tremendous force to what is already enhanced strength. You swing from the shoulder, putting your full weight behind the blow.
The metal fist crashes into the Death Guard's helmet with catastrophic force. The sound is beyond deafening, a concussive boom that makes mortal eardrums rupture. Several navigators closest to the impact collapse, blood streaming from their ears.
The sneak attack, delivered while the Death Guard was distracted by confusion, proves devastatingly effective. The massive Terminator staggers backward, his stance breaking, balance disrupted.
You press forward immediately, giving no time for recovery. Your hands shift grip on the Manreaper's haft, sliding along the reinforced pole with practiced smoothness. The weapon rotates in your grasp, blade repositioning from defensive block to offensive strike.
You move faster than should be possible for someone in Terminator armor, the speed suggesting either exceptional skill or something supernatural accelerating your reactions. The scythe's tip reverses direction, angling down and forward toward a specific target.
The weak point between helmet and gorget, where armor plates meet and leave minimal gaps for flexibility.
The blade drives forward like a spear thrust, penetrating through the narrow opening. Ceramite fragments under the force, plasteel barriers crumple, and the wickedly sharp tip punches through into the space beyond.
The Death Guard's head.
The scythe's blade destroys everything in its path. Bone shatters. Brain tissue pulps. The tip emerges from the opposite side of the helmet, trailing gore and fragments.
Above the Terminator's power pack, the Death Cloud launcher, that specialized weapon system designed to disperse toxic gas across battlefields, begins activating. Dark green mist starts emerging from the nozzles, wisps of chemical death preparing to flood the chamber.
Then it stops.
With the Death Guard's brain destroyed, all armor systems receiving neural commands shut down simultaneously. The launcher's emission cuts off mid-activation, leaving only a few tendrils of poison gas dissipating harmlessly in the recycled air.
You pull the Manreaper free, the blade withdrawing with a wet sucking sound. Blood and cerebral fluid drip from the edge, pattering against the deck in thick droplets.
The Death Guard's corpse stands upright for one impossible moment, held vertical by the Terminator armor's locking joints. Then the suit's machine spirit registers pilot death and releases all restraints.
The massive body topples backward, crashing to the deck with tremendous force. The impact dents the metal plating, creating a shallow crater in the floor. The sound echoes through the cargo bay, final punctuation to the brief, brutal combat.
You hold the Manreaper ready, prepared for additional threats. Your breathing comes controlled and measured despite the adrenaline flooding your system. Through the helmet's rebreather, you draw in another lungful of that pungent, chemical-laden air.
If you had been even half a second slower in your intervention, the Death Cloud launcher would have activated fully. The navigators would have died screaming as toxic gas dissolved their lungs and liquefied their internal organs.
You turn slowly, the Terminator armor's servos whining softly with the motion. Your gaze, filtered through the helmet's eyepiece displays, sweeps across the huddled crowd of survivors.
Navigators and their mortal servants stare back at you, frozen in terror. They watched one Terminator kill their companions with mechanical efficiency. Now another Terminator stands before them, weapon still dripping blood, having just killed the first.
They have no way to know if they have been saved or simply acquired a new executioner.
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