[Epic] More of Kelly's fluff (LONG !) 4th batch

From: Oki Purwanto <oki_at_...>
Date: Fri, 11 Jul 1997 14:44:25 +0800

At 12:50 AM 7/11/97 -0400, you wrote:
>Fantastic! Now how about 8-11? <grin>
>
>Regards,
>
>- Erik

Part VIII
With the ultimate teaser ? :)

Regards
Oki



"Insurrection"
Part VIII

   But he had wasted too much time: he had let the Traitor get too close. He
was only a short distance away, around a single bend in the corridor, and
would surely hear Ezekial if he made any noise; he would be in clear view in
seconds. Lying perfectly still, not even daring to replace his helmet for
fear it would be heard, Ezekial readied himself to attack. Surprise was his
greatest advantage now. It was only by the luckiest of circumstances that he
had escaped disemboweling earlier; no doubt the Traitor Marine expected him
to be dead, just as all his fellows were dead.
   Ezekial had faced Traitor Marines on more than one occasion. He knew of
their depravity and foul evil beliefs -- their betrayal of their own
humanity, in more ways than one -- and the scars they bore as a result.
Tentacled limbs, mutated faces, weird, monstrous yet useless appendages: all
were evidence of their allegiance to the warp gods. And though many had
lived since the time of the Horus Heresy itself, they were far from immortal.
   Ezekial readied himself for his attack, knowing that in his weakened state
surprise was his greatest ally. His chainsword, still wet with the blood of
its Eldar victims, was close at hand, and his bolt pistol had never left his
side. Even so, he drew venom from his Betchers Gland, preparing to spit it in
the enemy's face on the slim chance that he was unhelmeted. The corrosive
poison would quickly blind the Traitor, no matter what bizarre changes had
been affected on him by his gods.
   Ezekial could not see as well without his helmet on, but his enhanced
senses were sharper than an ordinary man's. With a mental shrug he shifted
his eyesight to the near-infra red spectrum, hoping to distinguish the
enemy's heat presence against the cool background of the corridor. Glowing
red pockets lit up around him where bolter shells had impacted the walls, and
tiny trails of cooling blood marked the places where the Traitor's aim was
true. His own blood hotly stained his armor, but no longer flowed from his
wounds now that his suit's medical systems had been working on him. Ignoring
his light-headedness, he concentrated on remaining still and watching for
the Traitor's approach.
   A tell-tale glow signaled his stealthy arrival, the heat of the power
plant in his backpack outlining his form. Ezekial could readily see it was
indeed a man in power armor; therefore he must be a Traitor. It only made
sense that a planet wrapped in warp storms should be home to someone so
corrupted by Chaos. The Emperor only knew how many others like him there were
on Mraba IV even now.
   The enemy Marine continued his advance up the hallway. His stance was that
of someone accustomed to fighting, wary but not fearful. He rounded the
corner then stopped, closely examining the corridor before moving into it.
Ezekial held himself completely still, thinking dead thoughts, waiting for
the enemy to close. He was not afraid of death, only of dying before he could
kill this Traitor.
   The Traitor Marine stood for several long moments unmoving, watching the
hall. Then he cautiously walked up to Cepheus, nudging him with his boot,
boltgun pointed at the dead man's head. Ezekial dared not to breath as the
black-clad Marine then stopped next to him, shoving the toe of his armored
foot into his side. The Traitor hesitated then, though Ezekial had remained
as limp and unresponsive as he could. His tension mounted as the Sergeant
felt the other man watching him, studying him for some reason. It took all
his self-control to not rise and attack; he knew doing so would be foolish,
for no doubt there was a bolter mere inches from his face.
   But the Marine passed on to examine Laertes, and Ezekial knew his moment
of opportunity had come. Mustering his energy, he quickly prayed to the
Emperor, then focused his loathing and guilt on the black armored Traitor.
With the strength of hate, he stood, pivoting silently about to face his foe.
   The sight that met his eyes, however, stopped him in his tracks.
   The enemy Space Marine was kneeling over Laertes, not in barbaric victory,
but because he was weeping. Though he had entered the hall fully armored, his
helmet was only just removed, carelessly discarded across the floor. His
boltgun drooped unattended in one hand, while the other rested gently on the
fallen Dark Angel Marine. The head which was revealed was not a warped
caricature of humanity, but a clean-lined, strong-jawed older man. It was
bowed in sorrow, his face turned away from Ezekial.
   Ezekial delayed only an instant. That his quarry was unmarked by Chaos
was no indication that he was not still ruled by it. Thumbing his chainsword
to life, its vibrant buzz suddenly filling the hall, he rushed at the
warrior. Before he had covered half the short distance, however, the other
soldier's own sword, previously scabbarded at his side, arced up as he spun
round from his crouching position. The surprise that he had not been fooled
by Ezekial's feigned death lasted no more than a heartbeat, and did not even
interrupt the Sergeant's brazen charge. With a strangled "For the Emperor!"
the Dark Angel crashed headlong into the black-suited Marine, chainsword
meeting powersword.
   The force of his rush send them toppling backwards over Laertes' body,
both men struggling to keep their footing. Ezekial used his foe's inertia to
counteract his own, staying upright. The other Marine stumbled backwards,
backpedaling rapidly to regain his balance.
   Ezekial did not wish to give him that chance and again ran at his enemy,
snapping off two quick shots from his pistol. The gun was poorly aimed,
though, and did little more than momentarily distract the Traitor Marine,
enabling Ezekial to close to hand-to-hand distance without any return fire.
The other man's boltgun was a larger weapon than Ezekial's pistol, and
consequently harder to handle in the fracas of close combat.
   With a small portion of his attention, the Sergeant realized that his
opponent's gun was painted as bright a red as his own. He attached no special
significance to this fact at the time.
   Wheeling chainsword met powersword with a sparking whine, the mono-
molecular teeth of the chainsword skipping and singing off the titanium-hard
edge of the power sword. This time the Traitor's position was more braced and
he accepted Ezekial's charge without giving ground. The blue-white flare of
his powersword cast a deep, haunted look under his eyes; the red-orange
flakes of falling sparks singed both men's hair and face, bouncing lightly
off their impervious power armor. Ezekial, furious with rage, forced his
chainsword hard against the other Marine's sword, preventing him from with-
drawing it for another strike. Instead, he quickly brought up his bolt
pistol for a point-blank kill.
   The black-armored Marine saw the Sergeant's intentions, and hastily
dropped his own boltgun to free his other hand. Just as Ezekial squeezed the
trigger, the older man's hand came up, deflecting the shot by grabbing hold
of the gun at Ezekial's wrist.
   Now they were locked in a desperate fight, a pure test of strength and
will. Chainsword still buzzing and vibrating against the flaring blue power-
sword, bolt pistol held harmless by a grip of iron, the two men wrestled back
and forth, seeking each other's weak points. The Sergeant was the younger of
the two, but he was weakened by pain and blood loss. His foe was older -- and
perhaps more canny -- but unwounded. Their power armor's motorized servos,
designed to enhance and reinforce a Space Marine's already prodigious
strength, whined under the strain.
   In wordless combat, they struggled in the dark halls of the City of Might.
The only sound was the noise of their weapons and the scuff of their boots.
   Ezekial concentrated hard on forcing his chainsword further down, and on
bringing his bolt pistol more into line. He looked at nothing, his eyesight
directed inwards to channel his reserves, not outwards. Then, purely by
chance, he focused on the other Marine's face, seeing it clearly for the
first time.
   He thought his heart would fail him.
   He knew this man.

[continued in Part IX]
Received on Fri Jul 11 1997 - 06:44:25 UTC