Cassian's chainsword roared as it carved through the last cultist, flesh and bone yielding beneath its relentless teeth. The corpse crumpled, blood pooling at his feet, mixing with the rivers of crimson already staining the earth. His breath came in ragged gasps, the machine spirit of his power armor whispering faint warnings into his mind — vitals unstable, ammunition low, power reserves draining. But the machine's voice felt distant. Drowned beneath the pounding in his skull.
He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his eyes, but the world remained painted in shades of red. Blood sprayed across his visor with every kill. The sound of flesh tearing beneath his chainsword was almost... intoxicating. He felt his body move without conscious thought, each motion a perfect blend of violence and efficiency. Every kill felt right. Every life taken felt earned.
And he wanted more.
Cassian blinked again.
No. That's not right.
He staggered back, his breathing ragged. The battlefield stretched endlessly around him, bodies piled high, blood soaking the ground. He could barely hear the distant gunfire anymore. The cries of the dying faded into white noise. His hands trembled, the weight of his chainsword unfamiliar, foreign. He looked down at himself — his armor was drenched in blood, some of it his, most of it not. His gauntlets, once polished ceramite, were slick with gore.
He tried to steady his breathing, but his heart pounded in his ears. The machine spirit nudged at him, faint and distant, almost... worried.
What am I doing?
The realization hit him like a hammer. He'd been killing without thinking. Without reason. He'd let the fight consume him, the bloodlust driving his every action. Cassian clenched his teeth, shaking his head violently. The influence was subtle, insidious — like a whisper in the back of his mind, pushing him to kill, to revel in the slaughter.
He slammed a gauntleted fist into the side of his helm, the jolt clearing his thoughts.
Focus.
The rage subsided, retreating to some dark corner of his mind. He forced himself to breathe. Slowly. Steadily. The battlefield around him came into focus once more — and for the first time, he truly saw it.
The world was dying.
Blood soaked the ground, rivers of crimson winding through shattered streets and broken structures. The sky burned, clouds of ash blotting out the sun, casting everything in a sickly red hue. Fires raged unchecked, smoke rising into the heavens like a funeral pyre for the entire planet. The air stank of death — coppery and sharp, mixed with the acrid tang of burning flesh.
In the distance, shapes moved through the haze. Daemons — hulking forms of muscle and rage, their eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Mutants and cultists roamed the ruins, chanting praises to dark gods as they feasted on the fallen. The land itself seemed to writhe, the ground pulsing with dark energy, veins of molten rock cutting through the soil like open wounds.
And then he saw it.
Far across the ruined city, past the endless hordes of cultists and daemons, a dark figure stood atop a broken cathedral. His power armor zoomed in, enhancing his vision, bringing the distant figure into sharp relief.
The Chaos Champion.
The figure stood tall, clad in dark, baroque armor, blood-red runes etched into its surface. A massive, serrated blade rested across his back, dark energy swirling around it. The Champion raised his arms, chanting in a guttural tongue that made Cassian's skin crawl. The earth trembled beneath him, and from the ground rose twisted pillars of bone and flesh, forming a grotesque altar beneath the Champion's feet.
The ritual had begun.
Cassian watched in silence, his fists clenched. He could feel the power radiating from the Champion even from this distance, dark tendrils reaching out, twisting the land, warping reality itself. The sky darkened further, thunder rumbling in the distance. The very air felt heavier, as if the planet itself was suffocating under the weight of the ritual.
And Cassian did nothing.
Not my fight.
He turned away. The Champion could have his power, his ritual, his gods. Cassian had no illusions about heroism, no delusions of stopping whatever horror the Champion was trying to summon. This planet was lost. He would not die here.
He opened a private channel on his vox. Static hissed for a moment before he tuned it to the frequency Joran had given him.
"Goodbye, old man." he said quietly.
The vox crackled, but no response came. It didn't matter. Cassian knew where the ships would be. He checked his armor's map, the route already marked. Thirty kilometers.
Thirty kilometers through hell.
He moved.
The first cultist never saw him coming. Cassian's boltgun barked once, the round taking the heretic's head clean off. The next fell to his chainsword, the weapon screaming as it bit through flesh and bone. Cassian moved like a shadow, weaving through the ruins, killing anything that crossed his path.
A mutant lunged at him from the shadows, claws raking against his armor. Cassian turned with the blow, driving his knee into the creature's gut. As it doubled over, he brought his chainsword down, severing its head with a single swing.
Another group of cultists rounded the corner ahead of him. Cassian raised his boltgun, the machine spirit guiding his aim. Three shots. Three kills. The cultists fell without a sound, their bodies hitting the ground before their weapons even clattered to the floor.
He pushed forward, each step taking him closer to the ships. Closer to survival.
The daemons came next. Lesser things, hunched and feral, their claws and teeth glimmering in the firelight. Cassian moved like a blade through the dark, his chainsword singing with every kill. Blood sprayed across his armor, but he didn't stop. Didn't slow.
A Bloodletter roared, charging him with its hellblade raised high. Cassian sidestepped, his boltgun barking once, twice. The daemon staggered, ichor spraying from the wounds. Cassian closed the distance, his chainsword tearing through the creature's spine. It collapsed, twitching, and Cassian moved on.
The shipyard loomed ahead now, its spires barely visible through the smoke and fire. He could hear the distant rumble of engines, the faint roar of ships taking flight.
Almost there.
A cultist lunged from the shadows, a jagged blade slicing toward his throat. Cassian caught the blow on his gauntlet, twisting the cultist's arm until bone snapped. The heretic screamed, and Cassian silenced him with a single bolt to the chest.
He ran.
The shipyard was close now. He could see the ships, their engines burning bright, preparing for launch.
Just a little further.
Cassian sprinted through the ruins, boltgun and chainsword in hand. Blood soaked the ground, bodies littering his path. The machine spirit whispered in his ear, guiding his every step.
He would survive.
He had to.
---
The shipyard was a fortress of steel and shadow, rising out of the smog like a mountain of rust and gunmetal. Cassian pushed forward, his boots heavy against the ferrocrete, each step echoing in the desolate expanse. The guards at the checkpoint were hard to miss — a pair of Arbites-wannabes in flak armor, lasguns slung across their chests. They stood beneath the flickering lumens, eyes darting nervously toward the blood-slick figure approaching them.
Cassian kept walking.
"Hold it!" One of the guards snapped, stepping into his path. "You! Stop right there."
Cassian slowed, his gaze flicking over the checkpoint. A rusted security terminal. Servo-skulls drifting above, their red lenses scanning the crowd. People huddled in long lines, clutching what few belongings they had. Beyond the gates, the massive silhouette of the transport ship loomed, its hull pockmarked with age and battle scars. Dictator-class. Definitely. Big enough to carry a hive's worth of refugees — nobles and workers alike.
"Credentials," the guard demanded, his grip tightening on his rifle.
Cassian reached into his armour, pulling out the data-slate he had stolen. The guard snatched it from his hands, scanning the credentials. His partner shifted uneasily, eyeing Cassian's armor. The dried blood stood out in dark streaks against the ceramite plates. The smell of it lingered in the air — coppery, metallic, wrong.
"What the hell happened to you?" the second guard muttered.
Cassian met his gaze, silent. He could feel their unease, the way they shifted their weight, fingers inching toward their triggers. They didn't want a fight. They just wanted to get through their shift without dying. He could use that.
The first guard frowned at the data-slate. "These credentials check out, but… Emperor's balls, you're a mess. You expecting us to just let you walk on like that?"
Cassian's jaw tightened. He reached out, not with his hands, but with his mind — the barest brush against their thoughts. Fear. Confusion. Suspicion. He pushed, gently, slipping into the cracks of their consciousness. Not enough to control them, but enough to blur the edges. Make them doubt.
"You don't see me," he murmured, voice barely more than a whisper.
The guards stiffened. Their eyes glazed over for a moment, flickering with uncertainty. Cassian felt the tension drain from their shoulders, their thoughts sliding away from him like water down a drain.
The first guard blinked, shaking his head. "Huh. Must've been seeing things." He handed back the slate, waving Cassian through. "Move along."
Cassian slipped past without another word.
The ship's interior was a labyrinth of cold steel and flickering lumens. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and ozone, the distant hum of the engines vibrating through the floor. Refugees shuffled past him, eyes downcast, their whispers lost in the endless corridors. Servo-skulls hovered above, scanning faces and comparing them to the ship's manifest.
Cassian moved carefully, stretching his mind outward. Each time a skull drifted near, he twisted the fabric of perception, nudging it just enough to make its sensors veer away. It was like stepping between shadows — a blind spot in the machine's gaze.
The passenger quarters were little more than rows of cramped bunk rooms, each one barely big enough to lie down in. Cassian frowned. No. He needed space. Privacy. Somewhere he could take off the armor and rest.
His eyes fell on a heavy door at the end of the corridor, marked with an Administratum sigil. Larger than the others. Probably reserved for someone important.
He reached out again, feeling for the lock's mechanism. The ship's machine spirit hummed in response, a quiet whisper in the back of his mind. He pushed against it, the latch clicking open with a soft hiss.
The room was… luxurious. Not by noble standards, but compared to the squalor outside, it felt like a throne room. The bed was large and soft, sheets crisp and clean. A desk sat against one wall, a small vox-unit humming softly beside it. Even a tiny shrine to the Emperor stood in the corner, the aquila worn smooth by years of whispered prayers.
Cassian exhaled slowly, the weight of the past days crashing down on him. He stripped off his armor piece by piece, each plate hissing as the seals released. The ceramite was slick with dried blood, the machine spirit humming softly beneath his fingers as he wiped it clean.
Next, he pulled out the Godwyn-pattern bolt pistol. The weapon felt heavy in his hands — solid, reliable. He took his time, disassembling it piece by piece. The bolt mechanism slid free with a soft click, and he ran a cloth over the firing pin, ensuring it was free of grit. The meltagun came next — bulkier, more temperamental. He checked the charge coils, ensuring the power feed was secure. Even without a manual, the mechanisms felt intuitive, like a puzzle clicking into place.
By the time he finished, his hands ached, fingers raw from scrubbing carbon buildup and oiling the moving parts. He set the weapons aside, lining them up neatly next to his armor. Then, finally, he collapsed onto the bed.
—-
The ship shuddered beneath him as the engines roared to life, but he barely noticed. Every muscle in his body ached. Every breath felt like dragging glass through his lungs. Still, he was alive. That was enough.
The mess hall was packed with passengers, all crammed into long rows of metal tables. Cassian slipped in unnoticed, taking a tray from a servitor and finding a seat at the edge of the room. He hadn't eaten properly in… Emperor, how long had it been?
The food was rich. Almost decadent. Roast grox, soft rolls slathered in butter, steaming bowls of amasec-laced broth. He tore into it with the desperation of a starving man. The meat was tender, the juices running down his chin as he bit into it. The bread melted on his tongue, soft and warm, the butter thick and salty. Every bite was a revelation. His body screamed for more, muscles aching for the nutrients he'd been denied for so long.
As he ate, his mind drifted. The ship's hum faded into the background, replaced by the distant echoes of memory. The screams. The gunfire. The blood. He could still feel the heat of the meltagun, the way the cultist's body had disintegrated into ash and bone. His hands tightened around the bread.
He forced himself to breathe. Slow. Steady. He was alive. He had a ship. A plan. For now, that was enough.
He took another bite, savoring the taste, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime… he allowed himself to relax.
—
Word count: 2249
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