(Space Marines, Warhammer 40,000 and a whole bunch of other things appearing in this story are the property of Games Workshop. This story was written for a 40k website, the Bolter and Chainsword
UPDATE: This story was recently chosen to be published in the Bolter and Chainsword Librarium, and as such I’ve gone through it and made some changes to bring it up to scratch.)
Worthy
By Tim Sweeney
The shrouded figure walked slowly through the flickering shadows of the under-hive streets. He was huge; as large a man as had ever been seen by the derelicts peering through shattered windows, or around the corners of crumbling habs.
He moved with his head down, face hidden within the all-encompassing folds of his plain grey robes. There was no way that he could have seen the dozen shadowy figures stalking him silently overhead. It didn’t matter.
He could smell them.
Brachuss had sensed the young men falling in around him some time ago; he had smelt the sickly-sweet sweat and the cloying musk of obscura smoke that clung to their unwashed bodies. He had heard the slight noise of their breathing and he had tasted their exhilaration, as well as their fear.
He knew that a particularly dark, abandoned manufactorum was but a few hundred metres up the road. He tensed imperceptibly as he prepared for the gangers to finally work up the courage to make their move.
Brachuss knew the impoverished gang members had probably mistaken him for an up-hive guard or gladiator; a vat-grown slab of muscle, richly decorated by his even richer masters. They probably thought he was slumming in the underhive for amusement; perhaps he had had too much to drink and was looking for trouble; maybe he sought to impress a particular lady friend with his sheer courage.
The poor fools could not have been more wrong.
As he crossed the road towards the abandoned factory, he sensed one of the men snicker at their unbelievable luck; the mark was walking right into a dank, decrepit, and completely soundproof abandoned building! The soft click of weapon safeties being flicked off followed Brachuss as he strode into the pitch-dark entrance way.
The first shots rang out with alarming celerity; clearly murdering their victim and robbing his corpse was more important to the impoverished, desperate gangers than bravado or empty threats.
Brachuss moved out from behind the old cogitator he had taken cover behind, fully thirty metres further along the manufactorum floor than it should have been possible for him to reach; they had only lost sight of him for the split second it had taken him to walk through the complex doorway.
As the gang members swung their rifles around to aim at this surprisingly fast target, Brachuss shrugged out of his robes and sprang straight upwards, latching onto the catwalk opposite the gangers and pulling himself to a standing position in one swift movement.
Brachuss heard the gunfire wane as the gangers felt the first inklings of true fear; he could smell it on them, a thick miasma as they realised their intended victim was not what he seemed.
He stood there, an errant beam of pure white light shining upon him through a fissure in one of the structure walls. His seven-and-a-half feet tall, perfectly muscled form was clothed only in a brief loincloth and bandoleer, but the stark white light seemed to encase him in the armour of an angel of death.
The enemy stood stunned for only a moment; they recovered their wits quickly, and autoguns that had fallen slack in their owners’ hands rose to target the terrifyingly majestic form standing before them.
They were fast, but not as fast as he was; they were good fighters, cunning and forged in the heat of vicious street warfare, but they were not as good as he was. They were only human.
He was more.
As the first shots began to ricochet off the walls around him, Brother-Sergeant Elkin Tileath Brachuss of the Adeptus Astartes Lords of Twilight chapter raised his bolt pistol and carefully squeezed off two perfectly aimed shots. Small explosions briefly lit the interior of the manufactorum, the bolt rounds serving both to kill his targets instantly and to reveal further enemies cowering in the dark.
As his first two victims were still in the process of detonating, Brachuss somersaulted off the catwalk. He landed amongst two more gangers that had dropped to the floor to seek cover; both were died with shocked expressions on their faces. He sensed a fifth juve attempting to sneak up behind him; a backhand throw pinned this would-be attacker to the wall, a combat knife through his chest.
The Emperor had protected the marine, but he knew that the Emperor’s providence could only extend so far. With a few parting shots fired at the gangers still sheltering on the catwalks above, Brachuss fled into what looked like an old office. Once inside, he took little time to survey his surroundings; instead he leapt through the window and ran silently up the stairs that standard Imperial manufactorum design said would be in the next room. It took the Marine little time to work through the innards of the manufactorum, and soon he had doubled back on the remainder of the gang.
The gangers were still sheltering between old machinery on the first story catwalks. One figure, an obvious leader both by his bearing and the finery of his apparel, was exhorting his comrades to hunt down ‘the gladiator’. He told them that there would be more creds to go around now that there were fewer members of the band. It appeared that the efforts of the gang leader were finally having an effect; his men (some were little more than boys) were preparing to move out.
Brachuss smiled. He rolled off the platform he had been crouched upon, landing silently on his bare feet in the midst of the juves. The gang boss sensed the presence behind him and spun, his laspistol rising to aim at this new target; Brachuss’ fist exited the back of his skull before he could fire his first shot.
Before any of the stunned gang members could begin to react, Brachuss dropped into a crouch and clenched his jaw, spitting highly corrosive acid into the face of the nearest ganger. Reacting with preternatural speed, he spun on the spot, firing a bolt round into the chest of a startled-looking juve. He was darting around an old storage unit, scanning for the next enemy, before the agonised gurgling of the victim of his acidic spit had finally ceased.
In the entire combat so far, Brachuss had flawlessly killed seven enemies, possibly an eighth if his knife throw had been fatal. His precocious attack had been perfectly in keeping with the tenets of the Lords of Twilight; hit hard, hit fast and execute all actions to perfection The Sergeant had lived up to his creed admirably, but his alacrity in getting amongst the foe had finally led to his first mistake.
The gang had shown themselves to be fairly skilled, making up for their lack of direct combat experience with the ruthlessness and cunning that life in the underhive often brings about. They had ambushed a target with close to military precision, and had adapted well when their target had begun systematically taking them apart. Yet with this monster close in amongst them, killing them seemingly at will, all discipline within their ranks broke down.
Four gangers remained in the fight; four young men with the focus of their anger appearing from behind cover straight into their midst. Four gang members stared at their enemy from four different directions, and as one they let rip with their rifles, spraying the area on full auto.
Brachuss realised his mistake even as the first round took him between the shoulder blades. He dove headlong into a roll and managed to avoid sustaining further hits, but even as he raised his pistol to kill the impertinent fool that had shot him, he saw the ganger become the victim of the vicious crossfire his terrified friends had begun.
He was angry now. Up to this point it had been a test; a game to challenge the marine and any of the young men that were worthy. But he had failed the test; he had not been perfect. The dogs had struck him, and now it was time to strike back.
With a roar like an avalanche, Brachuss broke from cover and charged the nearest ganger. He barely registered two more shots hitting him; one taking him in the thigh, the other the left shoulder. He clubbed the juve to the ground brutally, the butt of his pistol caving in his skull. Knowing what was to come, Brachuss lifted the broken body in his hand. Feeling the impacts of the solid slug ammunition hitting his makeshift shield, Brachuss stood in the open and coldly executed the final two gangers before tossing the brutalised corpse to the ground.
He stood still and focused for a moment, mentally castigating himself for the loss of discipline, the loss of perfection that had come about due to his hubris. He had decided to enjoy himself and he had paid the price for his arrogance. It was a mistake that he had made in the past; one that all the marines of his chapter had made in the past. He knew he would make it again. It was the curse of the Lords of Twilight; the pursuit of perfection always just out of reach. Although the physical wounds barely fazed the marine, they were a suitable reminder of the sins of pride.
These dark thoughts were interrupted by a scuffling sound from the floor of the manufactorum. Peering over the edge of the catwalk, Brachuss was surprised to find that one of his victims was still alive.
Dropping to the floor, Brachuss quietly approached the juve. He was still pinned to the wall, the combat knife thrown so viciously that the crossbar had become wedged in the ganger’s ribs. It must have been tremendously painful, but the ganger made not a sound; he simply attempted to pull the blade free with his one working arm, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the hilt.
He showed no sign of fear at Brachuss approach, instead going so far as to spit at the marine. The Marine noted the blood in the young man’s sputum; the knife had obviously ruptured a lung, and it appeared unlikely that he would live a great deal longer without medicae attention. Brachuss stood gravely in front of his victim, and his sheer size seemed to diminish the juve’s defiant posture somewhat.
“What is your name?”
It was the time that Brachuss had spoken since the fight had begun, and it seemed unnatural to hear such a well-modulated, cultured voice coming from such a being, especially containing as it did a modicum of respect.
The juve tried to spit at him again, but did not seem to have the strength, instead mumbling “What are you?”
“I am of the Astartes young warrior, and I believe I asked you a question,”
The juve blanched, his face white with fear; even with everything he had seen this monster do, he could not believe that this was a Space Marine!
When no answer was forthcoming, Brachuss decided this encounter had gone on long enough. He stepped forward to break the young warrior’s neck, believing the fate to be more honourable than slowly drowning in his own blood. The juve had other ideas however, and as Brachuss stepped forward the ganger ripped the knife from his own chest and leapt at the startled marine. He was not so startled however, as to miss catching the young man’s arm and casually stop it from reaching his flesh.
“My name is Novak, you son of a twist, and I’m the man who killed you!”
Brachuss’ laughter stole some of the wounded young warrior’s thunder. “Well Novak,” he began, “I admire your single-mindedness, if nothing else. Perhaps this little encounter has not been in vain after all.” With that, Brother-Sergeant Brachuss ripped the knife from the juve’s hands and proceeded with incapacitating him.
After carefully landing enough blows to render the young warrior compliant without killing him, Brachuss removed the vox from his bandoleer and signalled Inquisitor Bautista for the pickup. Brachuss and his fellow Lords of Twilight had come here at the Inquisitor’s request due to the ancient debt, but perhaps this Emperor-forsaken journey to Reach’s World would have an upside after all.
“This is Brachuss. I have one that may be worthy, but he is in need of emergency medicae attention. The Emperor Protects,”
“Acknowledged, Brother-Sergeant. Stiletto inbound. The Emperor Protects,”
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