Aboard the Star Walker
Julius stood clad in his modified Umoja CMC armor, its midnight blue surface reinforced with beskar and powered by twin Ark reactors mounted on the chest. At his left hip hung the Yautja Black Spear, at his right his blue lightsaber, and across his back was slung the magnificent axe, Nightwing, its runes pulsing with palpable power. By his side stood his four Pillars, armored in beskar-silver Sisters of Silence war-plate. All awaited his orders in a cathedral-like silence.
Julius's gaze swept over the assembly. "We will commit the full weight of our heavy assets. We must destroy this enemy before they can open a dimensional rift. If we fail..." His voice grew graver. "...I will order the world's Immolation."
A shiver ran through the gathered warriors. Immolation. An extreme measure, rarely spoken of within Bastion, where all life was theoretically considered a potential resource. But faced with an uncontrollable daemonic contamination, purification by fire became the only option. No one objected. Necessity overruled all else.
Julius's gaze then fell upon a colossus of a man, two meters tall, with a muscular frame reminiscent of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, but with eyes of cold steel. This was the cyborg interface of Skynet, acquired through the System, replicated and perfected. It was he who oversaw the forging and programming of the Irons Skulls, their heavy Adamantium CMC armor obeying only Julius himself. They were the perfect tool for enemies who could not be reasoned with.
Suddenly, Thrawn's calm voice sounded across the bridge: "We are exiting space fold."
Julius nodded. "Good. I want our troops already on the world to adopt a strictly defensive posture. The Irons Skulls will be the tip of our spear."
He turned to the cyborg body. "Arnold, are your units ready?"
The mechanical being, in its own armor, fixed Julius with not a hint of emotion. "The troops are ready for deployment, Lord Commander. Nothing will stop us."
Julius gave a cold smirk. "Good."
---
Dakora-7 - Underhive
The captain and his men finally emerged into the depths of the Underhive, a place he never imagined he would set foot in. The air was thick, foul, and the light consisted only of the sickly glow of faulty neon and the flickering flames of trash-can fires. Looking up, he saw only oppressive darkness, the hive's ceiling lost in the heights above.
They advanced cautiously, passing a wretched and hostile population. The captain, with manifest reluctance, approached an individual covered in gang tattoos.
"I'm looking for someone. A woman named 'Mother'," he stated.
The man looked him over with amusement, then held out his hand, palm open, demanding payment. Seething with resentment, the captain tossed him a gold plaque. But the man immediately held out his other hand. Exasperated, the captain drew his pistol.
"I am here on the direct authority of the Governor! Where is she? Refuse to answer, and you will be considered traitors, executed on the spot!"
The ganger burst out laughing. Threatening with the Governor's name, down here, was a pathetic joke. He whistled, and in an instant, his gang surrounded the guards, ready to slaughter and strip them.
But a second later, another group emerged from the shadows. They were radically different. Their clothes were a deep purple, and they bore complex marks and tattoos reminiscent of a transgender astrological symbol. The men and women were of a disturbing beauty, with pale skin and intense violet eyes. Their gait was graceful, their presence unnervingly perfect. The leader of this new group stepped forward.
"We, the Children of Mother, claim this group. If you refuse to hand them over, access to our Establishments will be forever denied to you."
The threat, though delivered calmly, was immediately understood. The leader of the first gang, paling, signaled for his men to disperse and vanished into the darkness.
The captain, stunned, turned to the newcomers. "I... I'm looking for Mother. Do you know her?"
The man in purple offered an enigmatic smile. "I am her son. We are all her children."
The captain realized then that this was not merely a metaphor.
"I will take you to her," the purple-clad man continued, his gaze clouding with sudden concern. "A powerful enemy approaches. We must prepare."