Epsilon Octarious, Epsilon Prime
Lord-General Prectis' Command Board Room
Eight days prior to current time
In the far distance, over the hive spires and jutting towers, hive structures and manufactorums, a war waged on. As the sun began to fold below the horizon, plunging the already bleak and cloudy sky into darkness, the far horizon began to look like a massive display of fireworks, such as one that could been seen on Tera for Emperors day or Candlemas. But it was no holiday. It was no day or time to be celebrating. There was no joy out there on that far horizon, no happiness. Only death and fear gripped those reaches of his view, and machines of all kinds played out destruction.
General Fedicious stood on the balcony of the upper hive spire ball room, standing alone. It was a cold and windy night, but with all of the atmospheric disturbances recently, he found himself surprised there were no major rain or lightening storms yet. But he supposed there would be one soon, as it would come eventually. Like the unending tide of heretics. He thought bitterly. The war was going bad. It was going very bad, and Fedicious feared that they would all face their deaths soon by the hands of Chaos, offered as foul sacrifices to dark gods in slow agonizing deaths.
He shivered. His mind was treading troubled water now, and the crisp air was getting to him this high in the sky. It would probably be warmer down in the lower sections of the hive, he figured, and without giving much more thought to the matter, Fedicious turned around to head back into the board meeting which was in a small moment of recess currently, as Prectis found himself dieing of thirst. So, naturally, he orders a selection of the finest amsec to be brought up. Fedicious paused for a moment as he closed his eyes, and he let out a long sigh, which came out as a white puff in the cold air. Prectis was going to be the death of them. That man would lead them all to their deaths in the name of himself, and do so in such a way which would guarantee the loss of Imperial hold of the planet. The Lord-General had already, since his brief time in command, ordered several purges amongst the core command to weed out incompetency. Fedicious shivered again, this time out of disgust. Looking up at the large window before him, he watched as the gathered generals and officials nervously and uncomfortably sipped at their wine and amsec, while Prectis was on his third glass.
Lord-General Prectis was in his middle years, with a stout and noticeable stomach jutting over his belt line. His hair was light and balding, and his jowls were pudgy and pale. He sat casually as if he was at a party, not sitting at a table to speak with the high command of the Imperial Guard and Navy over the situation of the war.
Utterly disgusting. He thought, walking towards the glass door inside, prepared to listen to the nonsense the man would no doubt soon start spewing.
Suddenly, Prectis stood from his spot, and slammed his hands down on the table, causing some glaces to stir and almost fall over. Many of those gathered looked alarmed and eyed Prectis in a shocked way. Then Prectis began to shout and rant, and Fedicious moved his hand off of the door handle to listen quietly.
"-fools, all of you! You have let this all happen! We would not be scared of defeat if you all knew your duties and did not question orders! We would not be in this situation if you all were competent enough to carry out your duties granted to you by the God-Emperor himself! I've had it with this despicable and disgraceful gathering! None of you are worthy of holding your given ranks!" He yelled, and suddenly Fedicious had a terrible feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Something was off; this was not the usual reprimand. Scanning the room, Fedicious noticed the aides were gone, along with Commissar-General Yatenic. Commissar-General Yatenic was missing.
Stepping back, mouth agape, Fedicious began to panic. No one else saw it, but he did. Oh God-Emperor did he see it. Prectis continued raving on, and all of the gathered members looked back at him with their undivided attention, least they were punished. Fedicious wanted to call out, to tell them to save themselves now, but it was no use and he was too late.
There was suddenly a large commotion as the several doors into the hall were kicked down, and armored kill teams of Commissariat Stormtroopers filled the room. Immediately, with deadly precision and accuracy, they began to systematically kill all of the gathered members of the meeting, save for Lord-General Prectis who stood unharmed with a pleased smile on his face, his hands still placed firmly on the long table.
The uproar was tremendous as men, men of all status and experience, invaluable experience, were killed before his very eyes. Men who he had known for years and served beside, all being slaughtered for misplaced failure.
In the time it began, it was over as quickly. Fedicious found himself gripping his chest as his heart raced frantically, and his other hand gripped his chrome ceremonial saber at his hip. He looked on in horror at the dead men sprawled around the room, and a second later, there was more shouting as three stormtroopers rushed their way towards the balcony where Fedicious stood alone.
They fell upon him like birds on the cadavers of a dead animal. His knee was kicked in sideways by one of the three stormtroopers, and his old bones snapped under the force of the armored boot. He cried out, falling down, and then he was painfully jerked upwards by the collar of his dress white uniform.
He looked up with a pained face at the three stormtroopers around him, and he was barely able to stammer out any words. "W-why?!" He choked out, and suddenly he felt the cold barrel of a bolt pistol pressed firmly against the side of his head. One of the stormtroopers stood unmoving, but took a glance at one of the others.
"Orders, sir." He said simply, motioning at the man who held the pistol to his head.
Orders. Fedicious thought, trying to reassure himself. It's only orders.
And every good Guardsmen obeys his orders.
Epsilon Ocatrious, Epsilon Prime outskirts
Present day
The sky was the color of pitched ugly tar, and smoke billowed so thickly in the area, it appeared as if a dusty brown fog had descended down upon the land. The terrible sound of the god-machines themselves was deafening as they fought through the destroyed structures of the lower hive, fighting to the bitter end as they brought destruction to enemy titans or rained down plasma heated death upon scores of Imperial and Chaos forces as they clashed viciously all around the beginning of the hive buildup, or the latter chasing down and slaughtering the routing former. Battle of all kind raged all around the outer sections of the hive, to the distinctive thump of heavy artillery or the high pitched whine of rockets. It was all heard.
Higaran Commissar Gregory Gustav was alone, and he was running. He ran as fast as his body allowed him too, his wounds permitting as well. The destroyed street was empty of any living soles apart from himself as he ran for his life away from the kill teams of Chaos Marines and heretics in this sector, searching for wounded Imperials to capture and bring back for the body pyres or sacrifice pits.
His knee-high boots were covered in a mixture of mud and blood as he moved down the constricted street, which was filled with bodies of the Imperials and archenemy, all in various states of dismemberment and poses of death.
In his haste, his commissar peaked cap nearly fell off of his head, but he quickly caught it before it did, and he felt two holes in the cloth from stub rounds passing through it. That caused him no reassurance.
But he did not stop. Stopping meant death, and he had to find a way to make it out alive, or group up with survivors and mount counter attacks on the archenemy forces.
Breathing laboriously, he stopped for a brief moment to take in the destroyed street and to catch his breath. His hand firmly clutched his bolt pistol, prepared to kill any heretic he found.
