Pain—that was the first thing Marcus felt as sight returned. Everything was tinted red, and then came the realization: his head, his body, these weren't his the clothes. No it was something else. Heavier. Sturdier. More powerful.
Power armor. The words came unbidden, but he knew them to be true.
He rose slowly, and then his hearing returned. The sounds of explosions and gunfire were everywhere. He should have been afraid, should have immediately thrown himself to the ground, yet his response was to grab at something. He felt it in his hands—the weight familiar and comforting.
A boltgun.
Gripping it tight, Marcus walked forward, unsure of what was happening. But his body knew what to do. It was clear he was in danger and needed to find safety. Then he could try to understand.
As he walked, sticking to alleys and what buildings still stood, each step seemed to echo in Marcus's ears despite the battle raging around him. He moved slowly—everything was off, yet not in a negative way. His senses were far better than ever before. It was amazing. Empowering. Overwhelming.
Marcus saw two diverging paths. One led out to more open ground—possibly a better place to look around and get the lay of the land, but that risked getting attacked by whoever was fighting. The other led underground, perhaps a sewer or subway that would allow him to avoid the fighting, but he could easily get lost down there.
He didn't know what to do and wished he could just flip a coin to decide. The thought caused a new memory to surge forward. Marcus searched his pouches and found it—a coin. On one side was a man's face.
Father.
He didn't know why, but the title felt right.
Finding a clear spot—Marcus didn't want to lose the coin if he dropped it—he flipped it into the air. He caught it effortlessly, which almost surprised him. He often ended up dropping coins when he tried this, but this time it was easy, requiring no effort at all.
Marcus looked at the result and sighed, moving forward toward the more open ground. He stashed the coin away in a pouch for safekeeping and brought his bolter to the ready as he stepped into the light, under war-touched skies.
As Marcus left the alley and moved onto the street, signs of battle filled his view. Bodies of soldiers and burning wrecks made a path of destruction that Marcus, with no real other option, followed toward the setting sun—west, he assumed.
Eventually he reached a central plaza, all roads leading to a building that towered over its neighbors. It appeared to be a church, a twin-headed eagle emblazoned upon it.
A sense of anger filled Marcus upon seeing it, which he was quick to shake off. The feeling was worrying—while he'd never much cared for organized faiths that held power, he'd never outright hated faith in general. Another thing he would have to figure out.
It took him a moment to realize there was smoke coming from the church. Marcus looked around, hoping to find another building, but it was clear the church was the only structure close enough that didn't have active fighting around it. He could only hope the fire wasn't too bad and the building would hold long enough for him to get a grasp of things.
When he reached the door, Marcus gave it a light push, but it barely moved. It wasn't barred from the looks of it, just stuck. Without thinking, he gave the door a hard kick. This did two things: knocked one side off whatever was keeping it up, and made a lot of noise.
Marcus quickly looked around to check no one was nearby before moving into the church. After repositioning the fallen door panel to make a makeshift barrier, he turned to see the source of the smoke.
A Thunderhawk.
The Thunderhawk was riddled with damage. Marcus looked at the breach that must have been responsible for taking down the craft—punched clean through the hull. The original paint was hard to guess; the entire surface had been scorched black. The only identifying design was the symbol of a fist on its flank.
Marcus searched the ship for a way inside. He found the front entry ramp partially open, enough to slip his gauntleted fingers into the gap. He began to pull. Metal creaked and groaned until eventually the damaged ramp gave way with a bang.
Marcus kept his bolter at the ready as he entered the ship. The smell of burnt flesh was the first thing he noticed. The second was the bodies, and the fire at the back of the ship. The armor of the giants inside was a mix of blues and reds where it wasn't burned black.
By one of the bodies lay a weapon—a chainblade, held in a death grip. Marcus looked at the dead Astartes and his weapon before kneeling down and prying the blade from the dead man's hands. He searched each body for anything of use, finding mostly ammunition, though he was fortunate enough to recover a bolt pistol. The rest was no longer usable without repairs.
As the fire grew, threatening to consume the bodies of the Astartes, something inside him said to leave and finish what he needed to do. Instead, he dragged the bodies out of the Thunderhawk. The fire was growing rapidly now, so Marcus moved anything flammable away to buy himself time.
With that done, he ascended to the highest point of the church. What he saw was a world dying slowly, like death by a thousand cuts—battles scarring the surface. It was beautiful, in a way. He stood captivated for a moment before he began cycling through his vox channels, not fully aware of what he was doing but knowing enough that it would get someone's attention.
Static-filled voices shouted over the vox. A name was being called.
Varik.
The name was foreign, and yet it resonated with him as he answered the call of his brothers.