The drop pod was, Marcus had decided, the single worst method of transportation ever devised by any species in the history of the universe.
This was saying something, because Marcus had once taken a seventeen-hour bus ride from Cleveland to Pittsburgh that had involved three separate mechanical breakdowns, a passenger who had brought a live chicken on board in a duffel bag, and a rest stop that had been actively on fire. That experience had been, until approximately thirty seconds ago, his personal benchmark for "travel experiences that made him question the fundamental nature of existence."
The drop pod had surpassed it within the first ten seconds of launch.
"IMPACT IN THIRTY SECONDS," announced the servitor-voice that controlled the pod's systems, its tone completely unbothered by the fact that the pod was currently plummeting through the atmosphere of a planet at velocities that should have reduced everything inside to a thin paste.
Marcus gripped the restraint handles with fingers that could now, according to the Techmarines, exert enough pressure to crush solid steel. The metal groaned ominously but held.
Around him, his brothers—his squad, the squad that had apparently been assigned to him specifically because the Chapter Master had determined that "the Exemplar deserves to serve alongside the finest warriors available"—sat in perfect, serene calm. Sergeant Tarkus was actually humming. Brother Korvaedis, the young warrior with the scar who had apparently decided that his purpose in life was to follow Marcus around and provide helpful commentary, was checking his bolter with the casual air of someone waiting for a bus.
"Brother Marcus," Korvaedis said, glancing up from his weapon inspection. "You appear tense."
"WE'RE FALLING," Marcus replied, his voice somewhat louder than he had intended. "WE'RE FALLING VERY FAST. IN A METAL BOX. THROUGH FIRE."
"Yes," Korvaedis agreed. "Standard insertion protocol. Is there a problem?"
Marcus wanted to explain that everything was a problem—that falling through fire in a metal box was not standard anything where he came from, that his previous experience with rapid descent had ended with his skull making terminal contact with a floor, that he was fairly certain this entire situation was going to end with him dying again except this time in a significantly more dramatic fashion—but the servitor voice chose that moment to announce "IMPACT IN TEN SECONDS" and Marcus's ability to form coherent sentences temporarily abandoned him.
"BRACE FOR IMPACT," the voice continued, as if this was helpful advice and not a statement of the blindingly obvious.
Marcus braced.
The pod hit the ground with a force that Marcus felt in his teeth—and he was fairly certain his teeth were now made of some kind of enhanced ceramic compound that should have been immune to such sensations. The restraints released automatically, the pod's doors blew outward with explosive bolts, and suddenly Marcus was no longer in a falling metal box.
He was on a battlefield.
And the battlefield was screaming.
The planet was called Typhon Septimus, according to the briefing Marcus had received approximately six hours ago while trying very hard not to have a panic attack.
It had been a nice planet, once. An agricultural world, covered in golden fields of grain and dotted with modest settlements populated by hardworking Imperial citizens who wanted nothing more than to grow their crops, pay their tithes, and live out their lives in peaceful obscurity.
Then the Tyranids had arrived.
Marcus had not known what Tyranids were before the briefing. The hypno-indoctrination had apparently included information about them—technical specifications, tactical weaknesses, recommended engagement protocols—but the actual knowledge had been buried under layers of confusion and disorientation that Marcus had not yet managed to sort through. What he had gathered from the briefing was this:
Tyranids were bugs.
Very, very, very large bugs.
Bugs that ate everything. Bugs that existed only to consume and reproduce. Bugs that had, according to Captain Sicarius's grim explanation, stripped entire worlds down to bare rock and then eaten the rock too.
"They are the Great Devourer," Sicarius had said, his voice heavy with something that Marcus had realized, with dawning horror, was respect. "An enemy worthy of our blades. The Ultramarines have faced them before, and we have prevailed. We will prevail again."
He had turned to look directly at Marcus, then.
"Brother Marcus," he had said. "I am assigning you to Squad Tarkus for this engagement. Stay close to your brothers. Follow the Sergeant's orders. And remember: the Emperor is with you."
Marcus had wanted to say "but I don't know what I'm doing" and "please put me somewhere safe" and "has anyone considered that maybe I should stay on the ship and provide, I don't know, moral support from orbit?"
What he had actually said was: "Yes, Captain. I will not fail you."
He still wasn't sure why he had said that. The words had just... come out. As if someone else was speaking through him, someone who actually belonged here, someone who wasn't a thoroughly confused former insurance professional with a history of banana-peel-related mortality.
And now he was here.
On a battlefield.
Surrounded by the screaming of humans and the chittering of creatures that made his enhanced skin crawl with instinctive, primal revulsion.
"CONTACT FRONT!"
The shout came from somewhere to Marcus's left, and he turned just in time to see something emerge from the smoke and chaos and lunge at him.
It was— it was—
Marcus's brain, enhanced though it was, struggled to categorize what he was looking at. It was vaguely humanoid, in the sense that it had limbs and a head and moved in a manner that suggested some form of intention. But beyond that basic framework, it was a nightmare given physical form. Its skin was a mottled purple-black, glistening with some kind of viscous fluid. Its head was elongated, dominated by a mouth filled with more teeth than should have been anatomically possible. Its limbs ended in claws that looked like they could carve through steel.
And it was fast.
"BROTHER MARCUS, DOWN!"
The warning came too late. The creature—a Hormagaunt, some buried part of Marcus's brain supplied, a basic assault bioform of the Tyranid swarm—was already in mid-air, claws extended, aiming directly for Marcus's throat.
What happened next occurred without conscious thought.
Marcus's body moved.
He stepped to the side—a motion that should have been impossible given his size and the weight of his armor but happened anyway, smooth and fluid and faster than anything that large had any right to be. His left arm came up, deflecting the creature's lunge with a backhand strike that sent it spinning into the dirt. His right hand was suddenly full of something—something heavy and mechanical and thrumming with power—and he was bringing it down before he even registered what he was holding.
The chainsword tore through the Hormagaunt like it was made of wet paper.
The sound it made was— was—
Beautiful.
Marcus stood there, panting slightly despite the fact that his enhanced respiratory system should have made such exertion trivial, staring at the bifurcated remains of the creature at his feet. The chainsword was still running, its motorized teeth whirring with a sound like a particularly aggressive motorcycle, flecks of purple-black ichor dripping from the blade.
"Brother Marcus!"
He looked up to find Korvaedis staring at him with an expression of naked awe.
"That was— that was—" The younger warrior seemed to struggle for words. "I have never seen anyone draw and strike that quickly. The creature was mid-leap! You moved faster than the creature!"
"I just—" Marcus started, and then stopped, because another Hormagaunt was charging at him from the left, and his body was moving again without consulting his brain, and the chainsword was singing as it carved through the air, and suddenly there were two more bisected corpses on the ground.
"THREE," Korvaedis announced, apparently keeping count. "Three kills in less than four seconds. Brother Marcus, you are—"
"FOCUS ON THE BATTLE," Sergeant Tarkus's voice cut through the vox-network. "ENEMY APPROACHING FROM THE EAST. FORM UP. STANDARD DEFENSIVE PATTERN."
Marcus tried to move toward his squad's position. He really did. But the Tyranids seemed to have decided that he was their primary target, and no matter which direction he turned, there were more of them—Hormagaunts and larger creatures he couldn't name, all chittering and screaming and throwing themselves at him with suicidal abandon.
The chainsword moved.
Marcus moved with it.
Cut. Dodge. Parry. Strike.
The motions were automatic, ingrained so deeply in his muscle memory that conscious thought was almost an impediment. His body knew what to do, even if his mind was still screaming "WHAT IS HAPPENING" on a continuous loop. Every time a creature lunged at him, he was already moving to counter. Every time he swung the chainsword, something died.
It was, he realized with growing horror, enjoyable.
Not enjoyable in a "this is a pleasant recreational activity" sense. Enjoyable in a primal, visceral, "this is what I was made for" sense. The weight of the chainsword in his hand felt right. The sound of its teeth tearing through chitin and flesh was satisfying. The motion of combat—the dodge and weave and strike and parry—was like a dance he had always known the steps to, even if he didn't remember learning them.
This is wrong, Marcus thought, even as he decapitated a creature that had tried to flank him. I shouldn't be enjoying this. I should be terrified. I should be running away. I should be—
A Tyranid Warrior emerged from the smoke.
Unlike the Hormagaunts, which were roughly human-sized (if "human-sized" could be applied to something with too many limbs and too many teeth), the Warrior was massive. It stood at least ten feet tall, its body armored with thick plates of chitin, its arms ending in organic weapons that looked disturbingly like they could fire something dangerous. It fixed its multiple eyes on Marcus and screamed—a sound that seemed to bypass his ears entirely and stab directly into his brain.
Marcus felt his squad-brothers moving behind him, raising their bolters, preparing to engage.
He felt himself step forward.
"BROTHER MARCUS, WAIT—"
The chainsword met the Warrior's primary set of claws with a clash that sent sparks flying. The creature was strong—far stronger than the Hormagaunts—and for a moment Marcus found himself locked in place, the whirring teeth of his weapon grinding against organic material that refused to yield.
The Warrior's secondary arms came around, reaching for Marcus's exposed sides.
Marcus headbutted it.
His helmet—the same snarling skull-faced helmet that had made him feel faintly ridiculous when he first put it on—met the creature's elongated skull with a crack that echoed across the battlefield. The Warrior staggered, its grip on his chainsword loosening for just a moment.
Marcus pushed.
The chainsword carved upward through the creature's torso, through the chitin armor that should have resisted it, through the vital organs that pulsed and twitched as they were severed, through the secondary brain that sat in the creature's upper chest, and finally emerged from the top of its skull in a spray of ichor and bone fragments.
The Warrior collapsed.
Marcus stood over its corpse, breathing hard, covered in purple-black fluid that was already being sloughed off by his armor's auto-cleaning systems.
Behind him, Squad Tarkus had gone completely silent.
"That..." Korvaedis said slowly, his voice faint over the vox. "That was a Tyranid Warrior. A synapse creature. You just... you just killed it in single combat. With a chainsword."
"I got lucky," Marcus said immediately.
"Brother Marcus, the average kill-time for a Tyranid Warrior, when engaged by a full squad of Battle-Brothers, is approximately forty-three seconds. You killed it in six."
"It was distracted."
"It was trying to kill you. That is the opposite of distracted."
"The chainsword is very good—"
"The chainsword is standard issue. It is exactly the same as every other chainsword in the Chapter. The difference is not the weapon. The difference is you."
Marcus wanted to argue further, but the sound of more chittering was rising around them, and he could see movement in the smoke—more Hormagaunts, more Warriors, things that were even larger and more terrible moving in the distance—and there was no time for debate.
"PUSH FORWARD," Sergeant Tarkus commanded, and even in the chaos of battle, there was something strange in his voice. Something that sounded almost like awe. "MARCUS, TAKE POINT. EVERYONE ELSE, SUPPORT HIM."
"Take point?" Marcus repeated incredulously. "Sergeant, I really don't think—"
"You have killed more enemies in five minutes than the rest of us combined, Brother. Take. Point."
Marcus took point.
He really wished he hadn't.
The battle became a blur.
Cut. Dodge. Strike. Parry. Kill.
Marcus moved through the Tyranid swarm like a force of nature, his chainsword carving paths through creatures that should have been overwhelming, his body performing feats that his mind kept insisting were impossible. Behind him, his squad-brothers followed, their bolters barking as they picked off the enemies that Marcus's rampage left behind.
He killed Hormagaunts by the dozen. He killed Warriors by the handful. He killed something called a Lictor that had tried to ambush him from behind—a creature specifically designed for stealth assassination, according to the screaming tactical data in his head—by spinning at the last possible second and driving his chainsword through its throat before it could complete its attack.
"IMPOSSIBLE," he heard someone say over the vox-network. "THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE. LICTORS HAVE A NINETY-SEVEN PERCENT SUCCESS RATE AGAINST UNSUSPECTING TARGETS."
"He wasn't unsuspecting," Korvaedis replied, his voice carrying the tone of someone who had given up on being surprised. "He's never unsuspecting. It's Brother Marcus."
"But how did he—"
"It's Brother Marcus," Korvaedis repeated, as if that explained everything.
And somehow, terrifyingly, it seemed to.
The objective was a series of hab-blocks near the center of the settlement, where Imperial civilians had fortified themselves against the Tyranid assault. Squad Tarkus's mission was to break through the swarm, reach the civilians, and evacuate them to the extraction point before the creatures could consume them.
It should have been a difficult mission. According to the tactical briefing, there were estimated to be over a thousand Tyranid bioforms between the landing zone and the objective. Even for a full squad of Ultramarines, that would be a challenging fight—hours of combat, significant ammunition expenditure, probable casualties.
They reached the hab-blocks in forty-three minutes.
Marcus had killed approximately two hundred and seventeen Tyranids.
(Brother Validus had been keeping count. He had started doing so ironically, after Marcus's thirtieth kill. By the hundredth, his voice had taken on a quality of quiet desperation. By the two hundredth, he had stopped providing commentary altogether and simply announced numbers in a flat monotone.)
"Contact established with civilian survivors," Sergeant Tarkus reported over the command channel. "Beginning evacuation procedures. Squad Tarkus is... intact. No casualties."
There was a pause on the command channel.
"No casualties?" Captain Sicarius's voice was sharp with disbelief. "Squad Tarkus advanced through the primary Tyranid concentration and suffered no casualties?"
"Correct, Captain. Brother Marcus took point and... cleared the path."
Another pause.
"Define 'cleared.'"
"Approximately two hundred hostile bioforms eliminated. Including seventeen Warriors, three Lictors, and a Carnifex."
"A Carnifex?"
Marcus winced. He had been hoping that particular incident would go unreported.
"Yes, Captain. Brother Marcus engaged it in single combat while the rest of the squad secured the civilian entrance. The engagement lasted approximately twelve seconds."
"Twelve seconds."
"The creature attempted a charge. Brother Marcus... sidestepped and removed its head."
"With his chainsword."
"Yes, Captain."
The silence on the command channel stretched for several long moments.
"Squad Tarkus," Sicarius said finally, his voice carefully controlled. "Proceed with evacuation. Command out."
The channel clicked off.
Sergeant Tarkus turned to look at Marcus, his expression hidden behind his helmet but his body language radiating something that Marcus had come to recognize as "exasperated admiration."
"Brother Marcus," he said. "When I told you to take point, I did not intend for you to personally eliminate every threat between here and the objective."
"I was just trying to help," Marcus protested weakly. "They kept attacking me. I couldn't just let them kill me."
"No one is suggesting you should have. But there is a difference between 'defending yourself' and 'engaging a Carnifex in single combat.'"
"It was in the way!"
"Brother Marcus, there are heavy weapons teams specifically trained to deal with creatures like Carnifexes. There are tactical protocols. There are—"
"It was going to step on those civilians," Marcus interrupted, gesturing toward the entrance to the hab-block where a group of terrified-looking humans had gathered. "I didn't have time to wait for heavy weapons."
Tarkus stared at him.
Then he sighed—a sound that was somehow audible even through his helmet's external speakers.
"Of course you didn't," he said. "Of course. Brother Korvaedis, begin organizing the civilians for extraction. Brother Marcus, you're with me. We need to secure the perimeter and—"
"CONTACT!"
The warning came from Brother Validus, who had moved to cover the southern approach. His bolter was up, tracking something in the smoke, something big—
The creature that emerged from the swirling grey was unlike anything Marcus had seen so far.
It was huge—at least twenty feet tall, its body a twisted amalgamation of organic weapons and armored chitin. Multiple sets of arms ended in an array of biological weaponry: cannons that dripped with corrosive fluids, blades that looked like they could carve through tank armor, tendrils that whipped through the air with hypnotic menace. Its head was a nightmare of sensory organs and gaping maws, and its eyes—dozens of them, clustered across its skull like a disease—all fixed on Marcus with unmistakable recognition.
"HIVE TYRANT," someone announced over the vox, their voice tight with fear. "SYNAPSE CREATURE. TACTICAL PRIORITY EXTREMIS. ALL UNITS FALL BACK TO—"
The Hive Tyrant screamed.
It was not a physical sound. Or rather, it was not only a physical sound. The scream resonated in Marcus's skull, in his thoughts, in his very soul—a psychic assault that hit him like a truck and left him staggering.
Around him, his squad-brothers were falling to their knees, hands clutching at their helmets, their enhanced physiology struggling against an attack that bypassed all physical defenses.
Marcus... was still standing.
He didn't know why. The psychic assault was hitting him—he could feel it pressing against his mind like a physical weight—but something was pushing back. Something deep inside him, something he didn't understand, was resisting the creature's mental attack with a force that matched and exceeded it.
The Hive Tyrant noticed.
Its many eyes focused on Marcus with increased intensity, and the psychic pressure doubled—a crushing weight that would have killed an ordinary human instantly and should have at least staggered an ordinary Space Marine.
Marcus took a step forward.
The Hive Tyrant actually flinched.
"HOW," it said—or rather, projected, the thought appearing directly in Marcus's mind with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "HOW ARE YOU RESISTING? YOU ARE MERELY A SOLDIER. A SINGLE NODE IN A LESSER COLLECTIVE. HOW ARE YOU STILL STANDING?"
"I have a lot of practice ignoring things that try to hurt me," Marcus replied, his voice steady despite everything. "I worked in middle management for five years."
The Hive Tyrant did not understand this reference. Neither, for that matter, did any of Marcus's squad-brothers who were conscious enough to hear it. But the distraction accomplished its purpose: for just a moment, the creature's psychic assault wavered as it tried to process Marcus's response.
Marcus charged.
Later, when the battle was over and the after-action reports were being compiled, there would be significant debate about exactly what happened during the next ninety seconds.
Some accounts, based on the pict-recordings from surviving squad members' helmet feeds, suggested that Marcus had engaged the Hive Tyrant in single combat—a feat that should have been suicide, given the creature's size, power, and psychic abilities. These accounts showed Marcus dodging psychic blasts, weaving between scything talons, and landing blow after blow with his chainsword against chitin armor that should have been impervious to such attacks.
Other accounts, based on orbital observation data, showed something different: a blue blur moving so fast that the recording equipment struggled to track it, surrounding the Hive Tyrant in a whirlwind of motion and violence that reduced the creature's armor to shreds in what appeared to be a matter of moments.
The Hive Tyrant's own perspective, had it been able to be recorded, would have shown something else entirely: a human—a single, impossibly small human—radiating a presence that felt less like a "soldier" and more like a "force of nature." A being that the Hive Mind, in its vast and terrible intelligence, had never encountered before. A threat that registered on the creature's tactical awareness not as "enemy combatant" but as "DANGER DANGER FLEE IMMEDIATELY DANGER."
The Hive Tyrant had tried to flee.
It had not been fast enough.
Marcus's chainsword had carved through its primary cortex approximately six seconds before it could complete its attempt to disengage. The creature had collapsed, its massive body crashing to the ground with enough force to shake the surrounding buildings, its many limbs twitching in the random patterns of a severed synapse connection.
Around it, the lesser Tyranids—the Hormagaunts and Warriors and other bioforms that had been connected to its psychic network—had immediately lost cohesion. Some had fallen into confusion. Others had begun attacking each other. Most had simply stopped moving entirely, their biological systems shutting down without the guiding intelligence of the Hive Mind to direct them.
The battle, for all practical purposes, was over.
Marcus stood atop the corpse of the Hive Tyrant, breathing hard, his chainsword dripping with ichor, his armor scored and scarred from the attacks that had actually managed to land.
He was pretty sure he was going to be in trouble for this.
"Brother Marcus."
The voice came from behind him, and Marcus turned to find Sergeant Tarkus climbing up the side of the Hive Tyrant's corpse. The Sergeant's movements were slow—the psychic assault had clearly taken a toll on him—but his voice was steady.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"You killed a Hive Tyrant."
"...yes?"
"In single combat."
"It seemed like the thing to do?"
Tarkus stared at him. His helmet was off now, revealing a face that was struggling to process what it had just witnessed.
"Brother Marcus," he said slowly. "Hive Tyrants are among the most dangerous creatures in the entire galaxy. They are the command organisms of Tyranid hive fleets. They possess psychic abilities that can level buildings. They have killed Chapter Masters. They have killed companies. They have been known to survive orbital bombardment."
"I... didn't know that?"
"Obviously." Tarkus took a deep breath. "Brother, do you understand what you have just accomplished?"
"I killed a big bug?"
"You have singlehandedly broken the back of this Tyranid assault. Without the Hive Tyrant, the swarm will lose cohesion across the entire combat zone. The creatures will become disorganized, easy prey for cleanup operations. You have saved this world."
Marcus blinked.
"I was just trying not to die," he said honestly. "It was attacking my squad. I couldn't let it hurt them."
Sergeant Tarkus opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head slowly.
"Of course," he said. "Of course that's why you did it. Because it was attacking your squad. Not for glory. Not for recognition. To protect your brothers." He laughed—a sound of genuine, if slightly hysterical, amusement. "The Chaplains are going to have a field day with this. 'Humility in the face of greatness.' You really are the Exemplar, aren't you?"
"I really, really am not—"
"SQUAD TARKUS."
The booming voice came from above, and Marcus looked up to see something descending from the sky that made his enhanced heart skip several beats.
It was a Space Marine. That much was obvious from the armor, the insignia, the general "I am an eight-foot-tall killing machine" aesthetic. But this Marine was different. His armor was more ornate than anything Marcus had seen—covered in gold filigree and purity seals and decorations that spoke of centuries of service. His helmet was shaped like a snarling eagle, and he carried a sword that seemed to glow with its own inner light.
And he was flying.
Actually flying, using some kind of jetpack mounted on his armor, descending from the smoke-filled sky like an angel of death.
"Captain Sicarius," Sergeant Tarkus said, snapping to attention.
The Captain landed on the Hive Tyrant's corpse with a grace that seemed impossible for someone in full power armor. His helmet turned, surveying the battlefield—the scattered Tyranid corpses, the stunned-looking squad members, the massive hole in the Hive Tyrant's skull where Marcus's chainsword had ended its existence.
"Report," he said, his voice carrying the tone of someone who was very carefully not jumping to conclusions.
"The Hive Tyrant emerged approximately two minutes ago," Tarkus said. "It launched a psychic assault that incapacitated most of the squad. Brother Marcus... resisted the assault and engaged the creature."
"Engaged."
"And killed it, sir. In single combat."
Sicarius's helmet turned to look at Marcus.
"Brother Marcus," he said. "Is this accurate?"
"I— yes, sir. It was attacking my squad. I didn't have time to wait for support."
"You didn't have time to wait for support against a Hive Tyrant."
"It was very aggressive, sir."
The Captain was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached up and removed his helmet.
The face beneath was weathered with age and scarred with centuries of combat, but his eyes were sharp and clear—and currently fixed on Marcus with an intensity that made the Hive Tyrant's psychic assault feel like a gentle caress by comparison.
"Brother Marcus," Sicarius said. "I have served the Ultramarines for over two hundred years. I have fought in campaigns across the galaxy. I have faced Tyranids, Orks, Chaos, and countless other threats. I have seen warriors of great skill and greater courage."
He paused.
"I have never seen anyone do what you just did."
"I'm sorry, sir."
Sicarius blinked.
"You're sorry?"
"I should have waited for proper support. I endangered the squad by engaging alone. My actions were reckless and—"
"Brother Marcus." Sicarius's voice was flat. "You killed a Hive Tyrant in single combat. You broke the back of a Tyranid assault that was on the verge of consuming this world. You saved countless civilian lives and ensured the success of this entire operation." He took a step closer, his eyes boring into Marcus's. "And you're apologizing?"
"I... yes?"
Sicarius stared at him for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
It was not the laugh of someone amused by a joke. It was the laugh of someone who had just witnessed something so absurd, so completely outside the bounds of normal reality, that laughter was the only appropriate response.
"Chapter Master Calgar was right about you," he said, shaking his head. "You really are something else, Brother Marcus." He turned away, raising his voice to address the rest of the squad. "All units, begin evacuation procedures. The primary threat has been neutralized. We're going home."
As the squad began to organize the civilian extraction, Marcus stood atop the Hive Tyrant's corpse and tried to understand what had just happened.
He had killed a giant bug monster.
He had saved a planet.
He was apparently being praised for this.
And somehow, despite everything, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had messed something up.
The extraction went smoothly.
The civilians—approximately three hundred of them, ranging from elderly farmers to small children clutching at their parents' legs—were loaded onto transports and ferried to the waiting ships in orbit. The remaining Tyranid bioforms, leaderless and confused, were easily dealt with by the cleanup teams that followed in the Ultramarines' wake.
Marcus helped where he could, carrying the elderly and injured, providing cover for the transport convoys, and generally trying to be useful in ways that didn't involve killing things. It was, he discovered, a pleasant change of pace.
The civilians stared at him with expressions of pure, undiluted awe.
"You're the one," an elderly woman said, clutching at his arm as he helped her into a transport. "You're the one who killed the monster. The big one. The one that was in our heads."
"I just... did what needed to be done," Marcus said, trying to gently disentangle himself from her grip. "It was attacking people. I couldn't let it continue."
"You saved us. You saved all of us." Her eyes were wet with tears. "The Emperor sent you. He sent you to protect us."
Marcus had no idea how to respond to this, so he just nodded and patted her hand awkwardly.
"Okay," he said. "That's... yes. Okay. Please get on the transport now."
The woman climbed aboard, still looking at him like he was some kind of divine intervention.
I am not divine intervention, Marcus thought desperately. I am a confused person who got lucky. Please stop looking at me like that.
No one stopped looking at him like that.
The return to the strike cruiser was uneventful, which Marcus appreciated because he desperately needed time to process everything that had happened.
He had killed hundreds of creatures. He had fought a giant monster in single combat. He had saved a planet.
He had enjoyed it.
That last part was the most troubling. Because as much as Marcus wanted to believe that he was still the same person who had died slipping on a banana peel—the same ordinary, unremarkable person who had been completely content with spreadsheets and microwave dinners and his slightly depressed houseplant named Gerald—the evidence was increasingly suggesting otherwise.
His body was different. His abilities were different. And somewhere deep inside him, in a place he couldn't quite identify, there was something that loved combat. Something that had awakened during the fighting and didn't want to go back to sleep.
I'm turning into something, Marcus thought, staring at his hands—hands that could crush steel, hands that had ended dozens of lives today, hands that didn't feel like his. Something I don't understand. Something I'm not sure I like.
But even as he thought this, another part of him whispered: But you do like it. You liked the fighting. You liked the feeling of the chainsword in your hand. You liked protecting your brothers. You liked being good at something.
Marcus decided to stop thinking and focus on getting clean instead.
The armory was quiet when Marcus arrived to return his equipment.
The battle had been declared a complete success—the Tyranid assault broken, the civilian population evacuated, the planet declared secure for re-colonization. The Ultramarines would be leaving soon, moving on to the next war, the next battle, the next opportunity to serve the Emperor.
Marcus was looking forward to finding a quiet corner somewhere and having a small existential crisis in peace.
He was not expecting to find a weapon waiting for him.
"Ah, Brother Marcus," said Techmarine Maximus, emerging from behind a rack of bolters with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting for this moment. "I was hoping you would return before the fleet departure. There is something I wish to show you."
"I'm just here to turn in my chainsword," Marcus said cautiously. "It's probably damaged. I used it on a lot of things."
"The chainsword is fine. Enhanced durability, remember? I designed it specifically for your level of... enthusiasm." Maximus's mechanical eye-lenses whirred. "But that is not why I wanted to speak with you. Come. Come see."
He led Marcus to a workbench at the back of the armory, where something was waiting under a cloth covering.
"After your combat performance today, I realized that standard armament would be insufficient for your needs," Maximus explained, reaching for the cloth. "Your combat style is... unique. Aggressive. Close-quarters oriented. You need something that complements your approach while providing flexibility at range."
He pulled the cloth away.
Marcus stared.
"What," he said flatly, "is that."
"I call it the Conflagration-Dominus," Maximus announced proudly. "A fusion of heavy flamer and rocket launcher technology. The primary barrel channels promethium at temperatures sufficient to melt ceramite, while the secondary barrel launches krak missiles for anti-armor engagements. The fuel system is self-contained and auto-replenishing, drawing from a subspace storage dimension that I have— well, the technical details are not important."
"That's not a weapon," Marcus said. "That's a war crime with a handle."
"I will take that as a compliment." Maximus pushed the device toward Marcus. "It was designed specifically for you. The weight distribution accounts for your enhanced strength. The firing mechanisms are calibrated to your neural patterns. No one else in the Chapter could even lift it."
Marcus looked at the weapon.
It was, objectively speaking, ridiculous. It was the size of his entire previous body, covered in baroque decorations and skull motifs, and its dual barrels were actively glowing with what appeared to be barely contained destruction. There was no conceivable reason for such a weapon to exist. It violated every principle of reasonable armament design.
He picked it up.
It felt perfect.
"I have many questions," Marcus said, hefting the weapon experimentally. It responded to his movements like an extension of his body, natural and intuitive in a way that made no logical sense. "Primarily: why?"
"Because you are the Exemplar," Maximus replied simply. "And the Exemplar deserves the most exceptional wargear we can provide. This weapon will serve you well, Brother Marcus. It will burn your enemies and destroy their war machines and generally cause the kind of devastation that your fighting style seems to demand."
Marcus wanted to argue. He wanted to explain that he didn't want to cause devastation, that he was just trying to survive, that every successful combat encounter was just as surprising to him as it was to everyone else.
But the Conflagration-Dominus was humming softly in his hands, and something deep inside him was whispering that this felt right.
"Thank you," he said instead, because apparently he was now the kind of person who accepted ridiculously overpowered weapons as gifts. "I'll... try to use it responsibly."
Maximus's mechanical face somehow conveyed skepticism.
"Brother Marcus," he said. "I have reviewed the combat footage from today's engagement. I have seen what you did to that Hive Tyrant. I do not believe 'responsibly' is a word that applies to your combat methodology."
"That's... fair, actually."
"Good. Now, there is one more thing." Maximus gestured to another covered object on the workbench. "Your chainsword performed admirably today, but I noticed some inefficiencies in the power transfer mechanism. I have made modifications."
He pulled away the second cloth.
Marcus's chainsword was waiting underneath, but it was different now. The blade was longer, the teeth more aggressive, and the entire weapon seemed to vibrate with barely contained energy. Blue lightning crackled along its edge, and when Marcus reached out to touch it, he felt a shock of power run up his arm.
"Power field integration," Maximus explained. "The blade now carries a disruption charge that will allow it to cut through materials that would normally resist chain-teeth. Energy shielding, force fields, demonic wards—nothing will withstand it."
"This is too much," Marcus said, but he was already picking up the chainsword, already feeling it settle into his grip like it had been made for him—which, he supposed, it literally had been.
"There is no such thing as 'too much' in service to the Emperor," Maximus repeated, and Marcus had the distinct impression that this was a philosophy the Techmarine lived by.
He stood there, holding the modified chainsword in one hand and the Conflagration-Dominus in the other, feeling like a walking armory and still somehow convinced that everyone was going to realize their mistake any moment now.
"Thank you," he said again, because it seemed like the appropriate response. "I'll... do my best not to disappoint."
"You are incapable of disappointment," Maximus said confidently. "You are the Exemplar. Now go. The Chapter Master wishes to speak with you before the fleet departs."
Marcus's heart sank.
"The Chapter Master wants to speak with me?"
"Yes. Something about commendations, I believe. And possibly a promotion."
"A promotion? But I just—I only just—I've been a Battle-Brother for three days—"
"Time is relative, Brother Marcus. Excellence is absolute. Now go. You should not keep the Chapter Master waiting."
Marcus went.
He was pretty sure this was going to end badly.
The Chapter Master's quarters were located in the most heavily fortified section of the strike cruiser, behind layers of security that included at least three different varieties of armed servitor and what appeared to be an actual squad of Terminators standing guard.
The Terminators saluted as Marcus approached.
They saluted at me, Marcus thought with mounting hysteria. Terminators. The elite of the elite. They saluted at me.
The doors opened, and Marcus stepped into the presence of Chapter Master Marneus Calgar.
"Brother Marcus," Calgar said, rising from behind a desk that was covered in papers and tactical displays. "Please, enter. I have been looking forward to this conversation."
"I'm sorry for any inconvenience, sir," Marcus said immediately. "I know my actions today were unconventional, and I should have waited for proper support before engaging the Hive Tyrant, and—"
"Brother Marcus."
"—and I understand if there need to be disciplinary measures, because I definitely violated several tactical protocols that I probably should have—"
"Brother Marcus."
Marcus stopped talking.
Calgar walked around the desk, approaching Marcus with the measured steps of a warrior who had fought for centuries and learned patience the hard way.
"Do you know," he said slowly, "how many Battle-Brothers I have lost to Hive Tyrants over the course of my command?"
"No, sir."
"Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven warriors, each of them veterans with centuries of experience. Each of them fallen to creatures like the one you killed today." Calgar stopped in front of Marcus, looking up at him—and Marcus realized with a start that he was actually taller than the Chapter Master, which seemed fundamentally wrong. "And you killed one in single combat. On your first deployment. Without casualties to your squad."
"I got lucky, sir."
"No, Brother Marcus. You did not 'get lucky.' I have reviewed the combat footage. I have consulted with the Librarius about the psychic aspects of the engagement. I have spoken with every member of Squad Tarkus about what they witnessed." Calgar's eyes were intense. "You resisted a psychic assault that should have left you comatose. You engaged a creature that should have killed you in seconds. You emerged victorious in a battle that should have been impossible."
"Sir, I really don't understand how—"
"Neither do I," Calgar admitted, which was somehow more terrifying than anything else he could have said. "Neither does anyone else. The Librarians say your psychic resistance is 'anomalous.' The Apothecaries say your physical capabilities exceed any recorded standard. The Chaplains say your faith is 'pure beyond measure.'" He paused. "Brother Marcus, there are discussions happening at levels of the Imperium that you cannot imagine. Discussions about what you are. What you might become."
Marcus's blood ran cold.
"What I might become?"
"You have potential, Brother Marcus. Potential that exceeds anything this Chapter has seen in ten thousand years. And there are those who wish to... cultivate that potential." Calgar's expression darkened slightly. "The Inquisition has expressed interest. The Administratum has opened files. There are rumors that the High Lords themselves have been briefed."
"I don't want any of that," Marcus said, his voice cracking slightly. "I just want to serve. I just want to be a normal Battle-Brother. I don't understand why everyone keeps acting like I'm something special when I'm just—"
"Just what, Brother Marcus?"
Just a guy who died slipping on a banana peel, Marcus thought desperately. Just someone who doesn't belong here. Just a mistake that somehow keeps getting treated as a miracle.
But he couldn't say any of that. So instead, he said:
"Just someone trying to do his duty, sir."
Calgar studied him for a long moment.
"That," he said finally, "is exactly why you are special, Brother Marcus. Any warrior can be skilled. Any soldier can be powerful. But true greatness comes from humility—from the willingness to serve without seeking recognition, to fight without expecting reward." He placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder, the weight of his power armor making the gesture feel like being pinned by a small vehicle. "You embody everything the Ultramarines are supposed to be. You are, in truth, exactly what your title suggests: the Exemplar."
"Sir, I really don't think—"
"I am promoting you to the rank of Sergeant," Calgar continued, as if Marcus hadn't spoken. "You will be given command of your own squad. You will be expected to lead by example, to demonstrate the virtues of our Chapter to those who serve under you."
"I've been a Battle-Brother for three days!"
"Time is relative, Brother Marcus. Excellence is absolute."
That's exactly what Techmarine Maximus said, Marcus thought with mounting horror. They're all reading from the same script. A script that I definitely did not write and do not understand.
"Sir, please," he tried one last time. "I'm not ready for this. I don't know what I'm doing. Every successful action I've taken has been more luck than skill, and eventually that luck is going to run out, and—"
"Brother Marcus." Calgar's voice was gentle but firm. "I understand your concerns. Truly, I do. But you must trust in the judgment of those who have served longer than you. You are ready. You are capable. You are exceptional." He squeezed Marcus's shoulder. "And you will lead your brothers to glory. Of this, I have no doubt."
Marcus wanted to scream. He wanted to explain that there had clearly been some kind of cosmic mix-up, that he was the wrong person for this, that everyone's faith in him was going to end in disaster.
But Calgar was already turning away, already returning to his desk, already moving on to the next item on his agenda as if the conversation was finished.
Which, Marcus supposed, it was.
"Dismissed, Sergeant Marcus," Calgar said. "Report to the training halls at 0600 tomorrow. Your new squad will be waiting to meet you."
Marcus saluted—a gesture that felt increasingly automatic—and left the Chapter Master's quarters in a daze.
Sergeant.
He was a Sergeant now.
After three days.
Because he had killed a Hive Tyrant.
Which he hadn't meant to do.
I'm going to get everyone killed, Marcus thought as he walked through the corridors of the strike cruiser, past servitors and Chapter serfs and Battle-Brothers who all stopped to salute him as he passed. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm pretending to be something I'm not. And eventually, someone is going to figure it out.
But even as he thought this, another part of him whispered: But they won't figure it out. Because every time you try to prove that you're inadequate, you accidentally prove that you're exceptional. Every time you try to fail, you succeed beyond anyone's expectations.
You're stuck, the whisper continued. You're stuck being the Exemplar whether you want to be or not. And there's nothing you can do about it.
Marcus found a quiet corner of the ship, sat down, and put his head in his hands.
The Conflagration-Dominus rested against the wall beside him, its barrels still faintly glowing with contained destruction.
The power chainsword hung at his hip, crackling with disruptive energy.
And somewhere far away, in a dimension between dimensions, on a throne that was a prison and in a body that was a torture device, the Emperor of Mankind continued to watch.
This one, He thought, His vast consciousness touching the edges of Marcus's awareness for just a moment—a moment that Marcus would later remember as a strange sense of warmth and approval that he couldn't explain. This one is definitely going to be interesting.
Marcus, completely unaware that the God-Emperor of Humanity had just given him the psychic equivalent of a thumbs-up, continued to have his quiet existential crisis.
Tomorrow, he would meet his new squad.
Tomorrow, he would begin his duties as a Sergeant.
Tomorrow, he would probably accidentally do something amazing that he didn't intend to do and couldn't explain.
But for now, he just sat in the quiet corner of the ship, holding his head in his hands, and wondered what Gerald the houseplant would think if he could see his former owner now.
Probably nothing, Marcus decided. Gerald had been a houseplant. Houseplants didn't think.
But if he could think, he would probably be very confused.
Which, Marcus reflected, was entirely appropriate.
Because so was Marcus.
So was Marcus.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Marcus has discovered that chainswords are therapeutic and that Techmarines have no sense of proportional armament. The Conflagration-Dominus will never be explained. It simply exists. It is a heavy flamer that is also a rocket launcher because that is the kind of weapon that the Exemplar deserves. Don't ask questions. The Warp provides.
Next chapter: Marcus meets his new squad and accidentally inspires them so deeply that they all swear lifelong oaths of loyalty to him. He will attempt to convince them that he's not worthy of such devotion. He will fail spectacularly.]