Raynor could no longer rely on Sarah to obtain precise information and then slowly craft his own plans, as he had done before. Now, he had to "act out" the intelligence-gathering process, and he had to do it quickly and accurately. His performance needed to match his previously high efficiency, or the cold logic of the Sons of Medusa would find him wanting.
Partnering with Sergeant Cassius meant Raynor had to sever all direct physical contact with Sarah. Any meeting could be discovered by the Space Marines' superior sensors. His previous caution became his lifeline. All communication now took place through the "System," which had expanded its range as Sarah's favorability increased. It was cold, concise, and efficient—like exchanging encrypted telegrams across the void.
Having devised a plan, Raynor began to "act."
He dispatched his official patrol teams to conduct a large-scale "grid search" in several peripheral areas of District 7, creating a visible, tense atmosphere of military activity. Simultaneously, he secretly sent members of the Anvil Society to "scour" for clues in a specific sector.
Through Sarah, he had already chosen a target for Cassius: a hideout of a rival Genestealer Cult. He chose a location close to the Anvil Society's search area, ensuring the gang members would "accidentally" stumble upon the truth.
Progress was made in just half a day. A search team of gang members found a small gathering place for Genestealer hybrids. To sell the realism, Sarah dispatched a small squad of Hormagaunts to ambush them. The gang members were driven back with heavy casualties, creating exactly the kind of "bloody lead" a Space Marine would respect.
After handing the coordinates to Cassius, Raynor adopted the persona of a weary commander mourning his men. He suggested that Cassius take it from here, as Raynor had already "paid a heavy price" in blood to find this nest.
As is typical of the Astartes high command, Cassius was indifferent to the loss of low-level human lives. However, Raynor's calculated display of "treating his soldiers like his own children" added a layer of human depth to his cover. Cassius agreed to the request; the clues were sufficient.
As the Sergeant turned away, Raynor's lips curled into a faint, hidden smile. The performance was a success. He had used official troops to alert the enemy and gang members to find them, and then used the losses as an excuse to retreat before he revealed too much of his own hand.
About half a standard day later, Cassius found him.
"Abnormal biomass accumulation and psychic disturbances detected in the designated sector," the Sergeant reported, his voice flat. "Assessment indicates a primary hatching nest. Preparations for purification are underway."
Raynor knew he had passed the test. For now.
"Your team is responsible for perimeter security," Cassius ordered. "Clear secondary passages. Eliminate any low-level stragglers attempting to escape. Access to the core area is prohibited."
Raynor breathed a sigh of relief but felt a twinge of alarm. Being barred from the core meant he couldn't personally verify the battle's details or "recover" any valuable biomass for Sarah. But it also meant the risk of exposure was minimized. He accepted the order with respectful silence.
On the day of the operation, Raynor's patrol team arrived with inflated morale. To them, "fighting alongside the Angels" was a supreme honor. They deployed defenses at the outer perimeter, sealing pipe outlets and installing laser tethers and vibration sensors. The men gripped their weapons, staring into the deep darkness of the Hive's throat.
Then came the vibration—a rhythmic, heavy pulse through the metal floor. Precise footsteps, like the forging of steel, approached.
The Sons of Medusa appeared.
They didn't run; they marched with a steady, unstoppable pace. Cassius led the way, his white helmet a beacon in the dim light. Behind him were the specialists with meltas and flamethrowers, followed by four hulking Terminators in Tactical Dreadnought Armor. These behemoths carried assault cannons and power fists—true relics of destruction.
"No wonder they're so close with the Mechanicus," Raynor thought. "Look at that gear."
The Space Marines ignored the mortals. They walked straight through the defenses and disappeared into the massive tunnel leading to the core. The heavy footsteps faded, swallowed by the silence of the deep pipes.
Then, they waited.
Thirty minutes later, the silence broke. First came a muffled explosion from deep within the earth that made the ground tremble. Then, sharp, inhuman shrieks echoed through the vents—only to be drowned out by the roar of bolters. It was a torrential downpour of explosive rounds hitting flesh, punctuated by the high-pitched whistle of melta-beams vaporizing the air.
Even at a distance, Raynor could imagine the carnage. In the narrow conduits, the swarms would be met with a crossfire that left no blind spots. The bombs tore through chitin and meat; the flames devoured the air; the melta-rays turned metal and biology into boiling liquid.
The battle lasted less than ten minutes.
When the sounds subsided, a strange odor wafted through the ventilation ducts: a mixture of burnt organic matter, ozone, and vaporized metal. Raynor's teammates looked at each other with awe and lingering fear. They realized they weren't there to help; they were just decorations.
The Sons of Medusa emerged from the tunnel. Their emerald-green armor was splattered with green ichor and charred carbon, but their formation remained perfectly disciplined. They passed through the perimeter without a word, marching back toward their gunships.
Only after they had disappeared did Raynor order his team to conduct "battlefield reconnaissance."
What they found was a "baptism of steel." The hundred-meter section of pipe was riddled with thousands of bolter pits and scarred by glassy scabs of molten metal. The ground was covered in a thick layer of ash and carbonized organic matter. There wasn't a single complete Tyranid carcass left to find.
Raynor stood at the entrance of the ruin, the residual heat radiating against his skin. Beside the shock of the Astartes' power, a deep chill rose in his heart. If Sarah's lair were ever discovered, how long could she withstand such overwhelming firepower?
He needed to know more. He needed to find the specific tactical weaknesses of the Sons of Medusa. Because next time, the target might not be a rival cult. It might be his own.