Flames roared into the soot-choked sky, and thick, oily smoke billowed from the wreckage. When the aftershocks of the final explosion subsided, the area surrounding the warehouse was a desolate wasteland. There were no survivors.
The mutated inhabitants of the Underhive had used their own flesh and blood to systematically erase every scrap of data and every means of escape the Sons of Medusa had preserved against Raynor.
Not far away, the Butcher—witnessing the aftermath from a shadowed alcove—felt his scalp tingle with a cold, electric dread. He had always been loyal, but in this moment, he was profoundly glad he had never dared to disobey Raynor. These people from the dregs of the Hive had been recruited by his own subordinates, yet they were not Raynor's soldiers. They were merely the forgotten, the "worthless" residents of the sectors under Raynor's jurisdiction.
Most had never even seen Raynor's face, yet they had marched to their deaths for him with the fervor of cultists.
The Butcher had never understood why Raynor "wasted" precious resources on these dregs. The nutrient pastes, the purified water, the cheap but functional hazmat suits that could withstand the acid fogs—to the upper spire, these were pennies; to the Underhive, they were life-giving miracles.
Now, the investment had paid off. Initially, they had planned to recruit three hundred martyrs, promising that their families would be sheltered and fed after their sacrifice. But when the word spread through the gutters, over three thousand signed up. They were orphans, the crippled, and those cast out by the gangs. They shared two things: a profound gratitude toward Raynor and a soul-deep despair toward the Imperium.
In the end, only a thousand were chosen. The rest had wept, begging for the "honor" of the raid.
"So what if they are the Emperor's Angels?" the Butcher muttered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and dark sarcasm. "Did the Angels ever care if these mole-ants lived or died?"
Had the Astartes ever offered them a clean sip of water or a single ration of corpse-starch to keep their children from starving? Under the cold gaze of the Imperium, the lives of the poor were as cheap as the air they breathed. If not for Raynor's "generosity," these people would have died in the gutters six months ago. To them, Raynor was the only salvation they had ever known. Dying for him was not a sacrifice; it was the only natural choice.
The Butcher had spent months using Raynor's connections to bribe the checkpoint officials and the Arbites. Those who wouldn't take the coin had died silently in the night. Because of that meticulous web of corruption, a thousand ghosts had passed through the steel barriers of the Hive to strike at the heart of the "Angels." They had completed their final mission with their lives.
Inside the Abyss Hatching Pool, the psychic storm finally began to recede, leaving a static-charged silence in its wake.
Cassius lay collapsed on the fungal carpet. His Iron Knight Terminator plate was a ruin of spiderweb cracks, its power systems dead. Blue sparks flickered intermittently from the exposed circuitry, illuminating his blood-stained features.
The pain of a Psychic Scream was a torment beyond physical measure. The purple energy had first invaded his senses, burning his retinas to ash and leaving him blind. Then, the warp-energy had flooded his veins like molten lead, boiling his internal organs and causing his bones to creak under an invisible, crushing weight.
Only the flickering protection of his Iron Halo had kept his soul from being extinguished instantly. He could no longer see, but his heightened Astartes senses—now raw and bleeding—perceived everything.
The screams of his battle-brothers had vanished, replaced by a void. The Tyranid hisses were gone. The hum of the servitors was silent. He felt his own blood soaking into the floor, mixing with the ichor of the xenos. He felt his life slipping away.
In the gathering darkness of his mind, a long-buried memory flickered to life. He remembered Alyssa. He remembered the jagged scar on her face and the cruel nickname the other hive-rats had given her: "Cracked-Face." He remembered how she would hide and cry.
That was the first time the young, taciturn Cassius had felt the heat of "anger." He had hunted down every bully in that sector. At ten years old, his physical gifts were already apparent. He had beaten them until the name was never spoken again. He remembered Alyssa tending to his bruised knuckles afterward, and how he had simply grinned like a fool. Even now, facing death, the memory felt... right.
The image faded, replaced by a blinding headache that felt like a power-maul to the brain. Cassius forced his eyes open, but saw only blackness. His eyes were gone, replaced by empty, charred sockets.
He struggled to rise, but his legs were unresponsive. He turned his head, his empty sockets "scanning" the chamber. Through the lingering psychic smog, he felt the cold, still shapes of his brothers.
Of the Sons of Medusa squad, none survived but him.
Centuries of emotional repression and the cold logic of the Iron Hands' lineage had taught him to suppress grief, but a tide of sorrow threatened to overwhelm him regardless. These were brothers who had bled with him across a dozen worlds. All gone in a single, silent scream.
The sorrow didn't last. It was quickly incinerated by a white-hot, singular rage. He wanted vengeance. He would find Sarah, tear the psychic organs from her skull, and then he would find Raynor—the heretic who had orchestrated this butchery.
Cassius reached up with a trembling, gauntleted hand and unlatched his ruined helmet. It fell to the floor with a dull, hollow thud.
In the shadows of the hatchery, two pinpricks of golden light suddenly ignited within his empty eye sockets, rege brimming.