The Frost Giants were, to put it simply, cannon fodder.
Olsen and the other Dark Angels stood shoulder to shoulder, their heavy bolters barking with rhythmic, mechanical precision. The two-stage triggers were pulled to their second stops, engaging the sustained-fire mode.
The weapons roared with the righteous fury of the Emperor's Angels, ejecting spent brass casings that fell in a scorching, metallic rain, clattering against the frozen pavement.
The muzzle flashes were blinding. Each rocket-propelled shell hit with the force of a small grenade. Even the thick, frost-hardened hides of the Jotuns offered no protection; the bolts tore through limbs, shattered ice-blue bone, and detonated inside their chest cavities, liquefying internal organs.
Five Dark Angels held the line against hundreds. Between the heavy bolters, the searing beams of plasma guns, and the white-hot jets of melta fire, they turned the street into a meat grinder. The Chitauri and Frost Giants fell in heaps, their blue and purple blood mixing into a dark, steaming sludge that covered the road.
The giants roared, they charged, and they died. Not a single xenos managed to advance past the shadow of the building. The sunlight on the asphalt was a literal border between life and death.
When the giants' numbers dwindled by half and their primal rage finally gave way to a cold, creeping terror, the Dark Angels did not stop. They did not seek a ceasefire. They signaled for a purge. Leaving Marcus to guard the mangled remains of Laufey, the other four unsheathed their power swords, axes, and chainswords.
They didn't just want a victory; they wanted an extinction.
"Roar!" A Frost Giant swung a massive stone pillar, but the Shield-Veteran met the blow with his storm shield. The concrete beneath the Astartes' feet cracked under the pressure, but the warrior didn't even flinch.
To a veteran of the First Legion, the blow was weaker than a training spar. He countered with a low sweep of his power axe, severing the giant's legs, then crushed its skull beneath his magnetic boot without breaking his stride.
Further down the line, the Company Champion was a whirlwind of steel, his blade moving so fast it left trails of light in the air.
"Stop... please, stop..."
Laufey, reduced to a limbless, bleeding torso, watched the slaughter of his people with wide, disbelieving eyes. He finally understood the nature of the monsters he had invited to Earth.
"I surrender!" Laufey croaked, looking at Marcus in desperation. "We will be your slaves! We will serve! Just stop the killing—they are the last of my warrior bloodline!"
Marcus looked down at him, his red lenses cold and unblinking. He didn't speak. He didn't have to.
"We surrender! We yield!" Laufey's voice broke into a sob of pure humiliation. "Please! No more!"
The only response was the sound of a chainsword revving and the wet thud of falling bodies. Even those giants who threw down their weapons and knelt in the gore were met with the mercy of a bolter round to the skull. The Imperium did not recognize the concept of a "civilian" among the xenos.
"No!!!" Laufey screamed, looking up at the sky, at the massive silhouette of the Helicarrier. "Let me speak to your leader! We have surrendered! This is a massacre!"
Marcus finally moved. He tapped his gauntlet, and a holographic projection shimmered into existence before the dying King. Emrys sat in his command chair, his eyes cold and devoid of empathy.
"You wished to see me?"
"Make them stop!" Laufey pleaded, his face twisted in agony. "We are beaten! We are your subjects now! Just stop the slaughter!"
Emrys leaned forward, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips. "I'm afraid I must refuse. You see, Laufey, the Imperium has a very specific policy regarding your kind: it does not accept the surrender of the alien."
Laufey's mind went blank. The weight of the statement crushed his remaining spirit. "You cannot... you will be cursed. This is genocide."
"Genocide?" Emrys tilted his head. "I prefer to think of it as a delayed sanitation. You slaughtered millions of my species across the stars. Did you truly believe a simple apology would balance the ledger? Did you think you could shed human blood and then walk away when the tide turned?"
"We were wrong!" Laufey cried out. "We can be useful! Keep us as thralls, as warriors for your cause!"
"Blood for blood, Laufey. Tooth for tooth. A debt of blood can only be paid in the same currency." Emrys' voice turned into a low, predatory growl. "And I won't stop here. Once New York is cleansed, I will bring my fleet to Jotunheim. I will burn your world until the ice turns to steam and there is nothing left but ash."
Laufey was hysterical now, his eyes rolling in their sockets. "Asgard... Odin will not stand for this! He will protect the Nine Realms!"
"Odin?" Emrys chuckled, and the sound was more terrifying than a scream. "If the All-Father wishes to declare war on the Imperium of Man, let him. He will find that his 'Nine Realms' are merely nine more planets for us to conquer. He is a King of a single system; I represent a machine that has ground ten thousand civilizations into dust."
He looked down at the ruined Frost Giant. "I will keep you alive, Laufey. I want you to watch. I want you to see the smoke of Jotunheim on the horizon before I finally grant you the peace of the grave."
Laufey's heart felt like it had been pierced by a melta-beam. He saw the future in Emrys's eyes: a galaxy of fire and a species erased from history. "You are a demon," he whispered. "A monster."
Emrys pulled a cigarette from a silver case, lit it, and took a long, slow drag. He exhaled a cloud of grey smoke into the holoprojector.
"No," Emrys said softly. "I am a Rogue Trader. I carry the Warrant of Trade, signed in the Emperor's own name. I have the authority to act as his judge, his jury, and—as you are discovering—his executioner."