Story 1 - The Iron Souls

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred
centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden
Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the
will of the gods, and master of a million words by the
might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass
writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of
Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for
whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that
He may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues
His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the
daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route
between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican,
the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast
armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds.
Greatest among his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes,
the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their
comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and
countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant
Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus
Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all of their
multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-
present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold
billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody
regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.
Forget the power of technology and science, for so much
has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the
promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim
dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst
the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and
the laughter of thirsting gods.

Thoughts, as noted by Iron Souls Epistolary Zariah, currently assigned to recruitment:
Long has our chapter defended this region of space, The Obscura Sector: Subsector Belial IV.

It is a cursed region. Close enough to the Eye of Terror to be plagued by its filth, yet far enough to be besieged by the savage Orks, and wayward Eldar. Our chapter even fought off a hive fleet tendril several centuries ago. But all fall before our might, and we bring them each in turn their portion of the Emperor's Judgment.

We may be as young gods now, but even the greatest of us eventually fall, and new ones must be brought up in their place. That is why I am here, looking down at the world of Faerus. I can feel them from here, such promise.

One must always remember: Even the Adeptus Astartes had humble beginnings...

Lielk was walking through the woods. Once again he was sent to hunt for his village. He began crouching through bushes, being as silent as possible. He then waited, just inside a bush large enouh to contain himself, and then waited. After about two hours, he heard a noise. It sound as if something was walking, but he heard chomping as well. He then slowly stuck his head out, and there was a very large deer. Lielk left the bushes slowly, and as he did the deer lifted it's head, ready to run. He then launched his spear, and it hit right infront of he deers back leg. The deer started to run away, but fell because of his wounds. Lielk then stepped foward, withdrew the spear, and stabbed into the deer's head to mercifully end it's life.

Taktikos sat on the large pile of fire wood that he had chopped for the day. He had finished his task much faster than many of the other tribesman had theirs. One of the other boys walking by seemed puzzled. "How can you get more work done faster than the rest of us?" He had a hint of anger in his voice. Taktikos ran the conversation through his head a few times before he even spoke. "It's simple math really. I calculated how long each part of the chopping process would take, and ordered them to maximize efficiency. Then I only gathered wood that was predisposed to split properly, again saving time. Finally I tested to see how many pieces of wood I could split at once. My max was three. Cutting my total chopping time down to a third of what it would of been." Taktikos looked up from his rifle. He had been cleaning it the entire time. He passed the tribesman a rather smug sarcastic smile, and said "It's all part of a rather simple equation really. I could show you some time if you'd like." The tribesman walked away with a grunt. Taktikos went back to inspecting his rifle, his smug smile still draped across his face.

(in the kitchen of the Village)
Jebediah: Oh! we are the Barbarians, we strike fear into these parts, he battle creatures of the swamp, and rip out their hearts.
Random kid: So your a Barbarian, eh? should have known by your thick accent. If u dont mind me asking, what are we having to eat today?
Jebediah: chicken sandwiches.
Random kid: again?
Jebediah: Ahck, again, and we will keep on having them til i leave for that tournament and leave this village.
Random kid: cant u make something else?
Jebediah: well i guess i could make some sclavige
Random Kid: whats that?
Jebediah: chicken intestines inside of a sheeps liver wrapped in turkey bacon, mmmmmmmm im hungry from just thinking about it.
Random Kid: u know what? chicken sandwiches is sounding a whole lot better.
Jebediah: *grin* thought so. Now where was I? Ahck, Oh! we are the Barbarians, we strike fear into these parts, he battle creatures of the swamp, and rip out their hearts.

A crier was running through the streets, his voice aided by a form of megaphone. The tournament was the next day. He was informing the warriors to be at the arena before dawn with their weapons. Be prepared to fight, and either win, or die.

Taktikos smiled as the crier walked past him. He held his gun up examining every last piece with a piercing eye. "perfect." 'I've run every battle through my head. I know all the tribesman's abilities, and I know how to beat them every one.' He brought the gun back down, aligning his sights, his aim perfectly steady. Taktikos thought back across all the tribesman. "There is always the possibility that they could of been holding back...No matter, I can't let it get to me. As long as I stay on my toes I'll do fine....I hope.'

Glurch returned to his small hovel of a dwelling around evening. In an attempt to scam some naive kids off of a some items, he was setting up something akin to a gang. He would train some kids how to steal, in exchange for him taking what he wanted from their spoils. It had not been particularly successful, however, as he had not counted on the incompetence of children. At this point, he had only one "student" still under his command. Some lazy kid named Sokitkat. He walked up to him.
"Hey KittyKat," he said. "Get anything today?"
Sokitkat shuffled rather nervously.
"Well, I've been trying to think of a better way," he said.
"Better way? What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's simple math, really. I'm calculating how valuable each person's things are, who has the most things to steal, who I should steal from first, and ordering them for maximum efficiency. Pretty soon, I'll have cut a full seven minutes off the day's work."
Glurch frowned. Perhaps this had not been as good of an idea as he thought.
"Look kid, maybe theiving's just not the right profession for you. Maybe you should try farming or something."
Sokitkat sat on the ground and began to pout.
Glurch heard the crier as he walked through the streets.
"Oh," he thought. "Almost forgot about that. Gotta go find Jeb and see what we're gonna do."

Vensun stares put of his window. His foster father had heard the crier, and was determined to enter his fits son, Kovloth. Vensun had asked whether he would have his fathers blessing if he entered, but was quickly shunted aside and locked in his room. He sat there, quietly fuming. The tournament was his chance, he could get away from this accursed village and his idiotic foster father. He would enter, no matter the cost.

Vensun caught sight of that idiot, Glurch, talking to Taktikos. He should know better then that, Taktikos is far too intelligent to understand the sludge the spews from his mouth.

Vensun thinks upon the time when he first met Taktikos. He had just finished cobbling together a kind of slicing device, and was going to show it to Jebediah, the cooks apprentice. Taktikos watched as he passed him on the street with the device, staring with fascination at the little contraption. Then Vensun tripped and fell to the ground, the device shattering and pieces going everywhere. He bent over to help him pick them up, but Vensun had already gathered as many pieces as he could and was running away, almost crying.

He didn't really know Glurch so much as he knew of him. Living on the edges of the village, had had tried to start a gang on multiple occasion, failing each time. Venson almost laughed at this thought. It was funny how Lielk would not stand for such a thing and wouldn't back down. Eventually Gulch got the idea. Didn't he know that a village setting is too simple a social structure to induce internal conflict into? They were all too busy trying to survive . . .

His brother comes barging in.

"So, Venny, your not going to enter the tournament, are you?"

"I am, and father can't stop me. You know that. I'm not even his child."

" That's not what I'm worried about. This is a fight to the death and I would rather not have to kill you."

Vensun looks up at him. "You worry about that when the time comes, oh master of the axe."

Kovloth is furious. "You don't deserve to win and you know it, little outcast, and I'm going to have prove it to you the hard way!" He walks out of the room, kicking a partially constructed machine on his way out.

Venson moves to pick up the pieces once more and begins to think.

"There is news that this tournament is going to be a fight to the death" Lielk told the people gathered around him. "I don't think they can make us kill each-other, and if we simply incapacitate the enemy, their is nothing the officials can do. I propose a pact to fight only to when the foe surrenders. If you honor this pact, then you shall pledge your acceptance with your blood." Lielk then made a small cut on his finger and dropped the blood onto his shield, waiting for the others to do the same.

It was the morning of the tournament and Lielk was sharpening his spear.

"I thought this wasn't going to be a fight to the death" one of the boys around him squeaked.

"It's not" Leilk replied smoothly, "but you never know when you need your weapon to be the sharpest, we may end up fighting more than humans, and we may need to cut something else." Lielk then pulled a leather cord from his pocket, and ran it lightly across the edge of the spear, slicing the leather effortlessly.

"Oh... and your shield, why is it polished so?" the kid asked

"Well, if it is shiny enough, then it will reflect the sunlight, blinding my foe. Unfortunatley it will also give away my position, therefore I will strap another cloak across it, ready to pull it off at a moments notice. You must use more than brute strength, you must use your brain as well. One smart man is worth more in a battle than two strong ones. You will do well to remember that Shaun. Here, take this an go get some sweetmeats." Lielk said, rubbing his hair as he gave the brother-like kid a copper penny.

"Thanks Lielk!!" the boy added as he was running away, "Your the greatest!!"


Lielk then continued getting ready for the compition. His spear sharp, his shield polished, and his body oiled (to resist grabbing techniques) and his pack full of smoked meats and an animal hide (shelter and/or blanket) he headed toward the registration station. Today was his day to make a name for himself!!!

They had gathered in the huge arena. There was a long tradition of blood-games in the village, and the arena showed it. It was designed like a Coliseum, with rows upon rows of stone seats rising around the fighting ground. The fighting ground itself was huge, circular, and lightly dusted with sand.

Several hundred warriors crowded the fighting area; they had come from all around. Instead of the usual sounds of boys jockeying for dominance or a roaring crowd, the arena was silent, save a few awed whispers. All eyes were drawn to the giant standing on a pedestal in the center of the arena.

This giant was huge, almost three meters tall. He wore an ornate suit of armor that was obviously more advanced than anything else on the planet. The main body of the armor was grey, and it was trimmed in blood-obsidian, a local mineral that was black but shown bright red when the light glinted off its edges. On the left pauldron was a stylized black iron skull, polished to a shine, and only the right pauldron was the symbol of an open book with a sword going through its spine. He wore a strange helmet that seemed to be a combination between a warrior’s helm and a golden hood. An electric-blue glow emanated from behind his helm, and the red lenses of the helm glowed brightly. Whispers about the Adeptus Astartes went through the group of warriors. The villagers remembered their children’s tales of Emperor's own Space Marines.

He stood stock-still for a long time, until the sun had risen a noticeable distance into the sky. Then suddenly, without warning, he spoke. "Gathered warriors, today you will fight, and most of you will die. Take heart, and fight courageously, knowing that what you are doing is the will of the Emperor, whether you understand it now or not." He paused. His voice was deep, loud, and tinny, it barely sounded human at all to the village-warriors. "The fight shall begin whenever you start swinging." With that the giant was still again.
______________________________________________________

Zariah examined the warriors in front of him. Many of them had the spark of potential within them, he could feel it. He just hoped they would make it. Most of the warriors here were filth, unfit by any stretch of the imagination to become Space Marines. But, if the ones with that spark could not prove their valor against them, then they also were not worthy of becoming Space Marines.

An hour had passed since Zariah had spoken. This wasn't unusual. It normally took a bit of time before one of the warriors threw the first punch. Then it would erupt. Zariah already knew who would start it too; too bad that one lacked the spark.

It was an already unstable warrior, about the age of fourteen, a ganger from a larger village some distance away. He was sitting next to a local villager, who happened to have bad breath, and was getting tired of it. It was only a matter of time before- and it happened.

The boy swung out, cutting deep into the other warrior. Blood spurted high into the air, and suddenly the whole arena was in chaos.

Zariah watched carefully.

Lielk was standing with his back to the wall, crouched down resting, and waiting. He waited for the blows to be exchanged, and then they started flying. He raised up, bringing his shield into the face of the one before him, pushing his jaw to the sky, he then smacked the man in the side of the head with the but of his spear, nocking the man uncouncious. Hope-fully he could keep up his defense until the end without killing anyone unneccesaryly. This was soon crushed as a man well-known to be a rapist and drunkard charged Lielk. He raised his shield, and stabbed forward with his spear, catching the guy in the throat.

"That was from my mother, and the terror your acts caused my friends, and the acts you commited on my sister" Lielk spat. That was the first he ever killed a man, and at least he could say it was deserving. As he fought, he saw a jeweled dirk on the ground that seemed to be of good quality steel, and decided to strap it to the inside of shield; you never knew when a close-range weapon could come in handy...
As he did so he looked over to see his small group of followers, just in time to see one of his friends skewered on a sword. A blood-lust filled Lielk, and his goal to kill only the neccesary was crushed. All that he did not know was his enemy, and all that harmed his friends were soon killed, or in the position to be. As he fought, saw a jeweled dirk on the ground that seemed to be of good quality steel, and decided to strap it to the inside of shield; you never knew when a close-range weapon could come in handy...

...The memories from that day never formed, at least not the battle, which seemed to be a blur of blood, blocked sword thrusts, and stabbing.

Jebediah was totally lost. he was thinking this was going to be some fancy pants fighting tournament and when he gets their they just say "alright men, game on". Jebediah saw a few men go toward the wall, so he decided to do the same. but when he got their, all hell broke loose. everybody was killing or beating up everybody, Jebediah knew he had to kill some people, but he didnt think he'd have to kill a WHOLE ARMY of people. Jebediah was only going to kill those who tried to strike at him.

Fighter: prepare to DIE!!!!!
Jebediah: I'm going to only warn you once buddy, if you attack me, it will be the last thing you ever do.
Fighter: FOR THE EMPEROR *jumps toward Jebediah*
Jebediah: *grabs Fighters leg and SMASHES into the ground*

Jebediah was uncertain if he had killed the Fighter, or just destroyed ever single bone in his body, but he didn't have much time to find out. After Jebediahs little "show" everyone near by considered Jebediah a threat.

Crowd: "KILL THE BRUTE" "FOR THE EMPEROR" "KILLING HIM WILL BE EASY" "LETS GET HIM"
Jebediah: ALL RIGHT LADS, U WANT ME? ULL HAVE TO GET THROUGH MY SHIELD *holds up body of Fighter* AND MY AXE *holds up axe*. SO LETS DANCE. *charges crowd* AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

Vensun heard the sound of conflict coming from the coliseum. It was time. He step-father had locked the door, but that would not hold him.

He thought again on what is brother had said, and laughed. He put on his backpack, full of odd devices and machines, and pulled the braces out from under his bed. They were crude things, hastily constructed. They had one use. Locking them into place around his legs, these metal bars acted like a cast, protecting his legs, but severely limiting his ability to move them.

Vensun hobbled over to the window, smashing it on his way through. He fell three stories, landing on his legs, the metal absorbing most of the shock.

He heard his father shout as he rushed to remove the clasps on his braces. He pried them open and then took of running, his father bursting out of the door are yelling at him. He didn't look back.

Ha arrived at the arena, rushing past the ushers into the seats. Glancing around, he saw a figure in the back on the other side. He took up position next to Taktikos, reading his gun.

"Nice spot huh?"

-----------------------------------------------

Kovloth let the rage fill him as he swung. He would be victorious this day. Nothing stood before him as he clove his path through the crowd, his body spattered in blood. Then he caught sight of Venson moving in the seats. His fury boiled over as he scrambled over the partition and went charging up the seats towards Venson.

Lohengrin had the lowest of the low of the social seats, right at the top. They would serve their purpose, for he wasnt interested in watching the fight, but to experience it. These people for far too long had clamored and shouted and banged and fought from afar and he had had enough. He sprinted down the steps, his hand on his sword, then he flips over the railing and dives into the crowd of fighters. He begins to stab and slash with his sword, dispersing his opponents.

The roars from the fighting could be heard from vast distances. Glurch, attempting to watch the fighting, was sorely disappointed. He could barely make out individual figures among the bloodshed. He picked his nose.

He licked his bottom lip. He had cut it the other day. It was still swollen.

He had still not made up his mind about whether or not he would join the games. After making an enormous bet against himself, he was informed that the contest was to be lethal. After going through quite a bit of trouble to get his items back, he was unsure whether or not to participate in such a dangerous event.

Glurch blinked the dust out of his eyes. Glancing around the crowd, he found what he had been looking for. He got out of his seat and stretched.

He recognized Takitos a few seats behind him. A figure next to him was carrying a rifle. Glurch chuckled to himself.

Glurch stood up and reached into his pocket. He felt the smooth base of his knife. It occurred to him that he had never used it as a weapon before. In truth, he was rather unsure how. He sat back down and resumed his nose-picking.

He made up his mind that you simply thrust it forward. He stood up again. As stealthily as he possibly could, he creeped behind the man with the rifle. It occurred to him that he was unsure how to use a rifle as well. He supposed it couldn't be that hard. After all, you simply pointed and shot.

He drew his blade from his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to plunge it into the man's arm.

Glurch lowers his dagger, preparing to skewer Taktikos, slowly, ever so slowly and stealthy, he brings his knife to bear . . .

Then all three of them get run over by a rampaging whirlwind.

Kovloth charges into the group, swinging his axe and knocking them sprawling.

He ignores the other two and turns his attention to Venson.

"I told you, this is a battle to the death!"

He brings his axe down, his swing like the judgment of heaven itself, the air screaming as it parts around the blade.

Vensun thrusts his arm out and catches the point on his forearm and falls to the ground, the metal band inside his tunic sleeve holding fast. He braces himself behind his arm and shoots Kovloth in the foot with his rifle, which promptly jams.

As Kovloth cries in pain, Vensun gives a heave and sends him tumbling down the bleachers.

He aims his sights at the fallen warrior and pulls the trigger, his only response the pinging of his jammed weapon.

"Damn" he sets his weapon down, Kovloth regaining his feet.

As Vensun fiddles with the spent cartridge, Kovloth makes his way up the steps.

"Not so great now with out your little gun, are you?" he grimaces as he puts weight on his injured foot.

"Are you, you little foreign brat!?" the rage fills him as he breaks into a charge, running on past stone seat after stone seat.

Vensun manages to pop the cartridge loose, and examines the chamber and begins resetting the firing mechanism.

Kovloth is not more then 10 feet away, the pounding of his feet a steady metronome to the music of death behind him.

Sweat drips down Vensun's brow, blinding him. He wipes it away and notices Kovloth's shadow over him.

He jams back the bolt and brings his gun up, watching in horror as the axe comes down upon him.

Zariah watched the crowd dwindle. It happened quickly. It always happened that way, those with the spark slaughtering those without, though as usual a good many of the carriers of the spark had died as well. It was unfortunate, but necessary.

Only about twenty were left. That would suffice. Zariah drew his bolt pistol and fired one shot straight up into the air. It was not a little bang like that of the weapons the warriors used. It was a boom, like the rolling thunder of the summer storms that wracked the planet.

The remaining warriors were instantly silent. Kovloth shifted his weight towards the sound, and Vensun just barely managed to block the blow. All eyes were drawn to the armored giant. "Those of you that remain, come to me." It was not a request, and the force of his voice left them no choice but to obey.

Above them, they heard a great rush of air as a flying metal box swooped down upon them and landed only two meters away. "Congratulations, you have been deemed worthy to be among the Emperor's Chosen. Get in the Thunderhawk," Zariah gestured at the aircraft. None of them knew what a Thunderhawk was, but they could understand the gesture well enough. The hatch lowered and the warriors excitedly ran in. A servitor went through the group instructing the warriors to sit in seats and to fasten their restraints.

An arena official walked over to Zariah. "Uh... M-my lord, who shall get the reward for the tournament if you take all the winners?" muttered the official.

Zariah thought for a moment. One of the dying next to him groaned. Zariah looked at the fallen warrior. He was one who had carried the spark. He turned to the official, "Give the reward to this one's next of kin." With that, Zariah turned and entered the Thunderhawk.
______________________________________________________

The Thunderhawk rumbled around the seated warriors. Zariah stood in front of the pilot's compartment, feet planted, unmoving. At the start of the trip Zariah had said only thus: "You have been chosen to become Space Marines, The Emperor's Finest, His Mailed Fists. But first you must pass the challenges ahead. Most of you will die. But those that remain will become the greatest forces in the galaxy. You will be Iron Souls." Thereafter, he was silent. He left the warriors to their awe and whispers. This was the first time any of them had seen their home-world from space, or been off their planet at all. For many of them, it would be their last.

There were bullets flashing, swords stabbing, spears thrusting, blades slicing, and people dieing.

"Form on me." Lielk yelled loudly. "Go to Formation Epsilon" he commanded with a loud voice. Then Lielk had a small group of people around him. There were three shieldsman, including Lielk, who encompassed two men with swords, and a man with a semi-automatic M4.

They began their end formation, they began the fight for their lives.... Then it happened. There was a loud bang, and a kid jumped from the rafters. Apparently he had created somem type of explosion, killing the one he was fighting. As he did so a chunks of rock fell, landing among Lielk's group, and trapping his food beneath one of a moderate size. He managed to retract his foot from the snare, but his foot was crushed. His group killed, and he himself injured he didn't know how long he would last, so he went with his basic instinct, he went defensive. He went defensive to where no-one ever had, he dual-wielded shields. It seemed akward at first, especially with having to keep the weight off his foot, but it was the best strategy. A man came at him with a mace, and swung with all his might. Lielk then deflected it with his own sheild, now missing the cloth so it glared like the sun, and blinded his enemy in the process. He then swung his second shield, the one thing besides himself that made it through the rock slide, and swung as hard as he could at the mans head. The man seemed to be disorented, but he did not fall.
'This man must be thick-headed' Lielk thought, not intending to make the pun, but it came unbidden unto his mind and he could not control it. He then gripped is shield tight, and slung into the man's chest knocking him to the ground. The man then swung onto the knee connected to Lielk's good foot causing him to fall. As he fell Lielk brought his other shield down, and severed the mans head with the edge of the shield.

and now there was antoher enemy coming... And a shot rings out, and there is an announcment that the fight is over. He made it, he made it to the end. He felt a flit of joy, then a flit of extreme sadness as he remembered his fallen comrades. He kissed his shield, and then made a gesture to honor his fallen friends, and then walked to the ship with the assistance of one of the remaining men.

Taktikos Smiled. His clothes were covered in blood, none his own. He was lead from the battlefield to the strange metal creation. His was instructed by strange metal men. Everything seemed very strange. Taktikos did his best to take in the surroundings.

'This things...it came from the sky...and now they're strapping us in...does that mean they're taking us back to wherever they came from. It has to be that...or this is some sort of elaborate trap...unlikely.'

He looked about at all the other combatants being strapped in.

'A lot of the strongest fighters from the village. Apparently killing off the weak ones quickly and avoiding the strong ones was a good idea after all. At is will have been as long as this thing isn't taking us to another arena.'

He surveyed the men in the metal box again.

'I won't stand much of a chance against all of these guys. Not unless I can get some decent distance between us.'

A smile crept across Taktikos' face as he thought back to the fight in the arena.

'I never once missed. As long as I can keep distance between us, I'll be fine.'

Faustus sat quietly in the thunderhawk, examining the wounds of those around him. He knew everyone in the compartment at least by name, excluding their marine escorts. While taking in the stench of fresh wounds Faustus felt almost intoxicated, he closed his eyes, picturing the recent battle, taking pride in his fine work.

Before entering the arena Faustus was well prepared, he had brought his swords, various drugs, and his makeshift armor. As he waited for the fight to begin, Faustus took the time to carefully fill several syringes with both potent neurotoxins and paralytics. Before he could finish the shouts and screams followed by the sounds of gunfire and clashing metal signaled the call for action. Faustus placed the finished serums into his pack and unsheathed his swords in time to both deflect a coming blow and strike the man's thigh through a gap between his leggings and body armor. Blood from the artery splashed onto Faustus' torso, but the sight of blood was very familiar. Faustus thought it almost ironic, that he, a healer of sorts, was instead killing many he had made considerable effort keeping alive. Faustus turned in time to see a boy he had just treated the day before sliced clean through his third and fourth ribs, no doubt puncturing a lung. Faustus hadn't realized that he began to move toward the boy and the man that had struck the blow turned his attention toward his new prey. Faustus ducked down dodging a feral sweep and lunged forward with his left sword. It instead impaled the man's shield and Faustus was forced to abandon it. The man smirked and moved into position for a killing blow. Faustus stabbed his right sword so deep into the man's chest that the hilt began to sink in. Faustus felt almost pleased with the surprised look on his opponent's face. Without a weapon a small mob saw an opportunity for an easy kill. Faustus lifted his forearm to absorb the first blow. Faustus could no longer feel pain, due to the mix of drugs he had ingested prior to the fight. Faustus spun wrapping his bleeding arm around the mans neck, using the other to hold onto the warrior's belt loop. The two turned together in time for Faustus to use his victim as a shield for a gunshot from another competitor. The dead weight too much for him to hold, Faustus dropped the man and retrieved his sword from the corpse of his previous brawl. Faustus moved back towards the boy, checking to see if he was still alive. Faustus grabbed a pistol lying in the sand nearby and handed it to the boy, who was nearly unconscious, due to the loss of blood. Faustus did what he could with what he had and managed to stop the bleeding, as well as administer his remaining rations of painkillers. A sudden prick finally made Faustus realize he must have been shot at least twice without his knowledge while attending to the boy. Taking in the view from the wall Faustus could see the whole of the arena. There were two main mobs now, the stragglers fighting amongst each other. Faustus stayed in his defensive position killing any and all that made a move for either the boy or himself. Realizing he was making little progress, he turned to look at the boy, who nodded in understanding. The rest of the fight was a blur, Faustus had ran into the nearest mob and began slicing and stabbing with his sword. The one event that stood out still was a man that had somehow managed to disarm Faustus and pinned him against a column ready to slice his throat. Faustus simply smiled and stabbed the man in the neck with one of the syringes from his pack. The man immediately fell to the ground, and began gasping for air. Faustus again smiled, picked up his sword, and continued his fight. After what seemed like hours a sound like thunder silenced the crowd. Faustus returned to reality, and looked at the face of his recent victim. The man was bleeding from his mouth, and Faustus placed him on the ground with care, injecting him with a toxin that would kill the man quickly and peacefully. There was speaking in the background, but Faustus couldn't focus his thoughts, he was too busy frantically searching for the boy he had befriended. His search was interrupted by a gust of wind and sand as the thunderhawk landed for extraction. Faustus was one of the last to board and as he made his way up the loading ramp he caught sight of the boy's corpse lying halfway propped up against the arena wall, a bullet hole in his skull, his gaze then turned to Taktikos who was already inside, the only one who could have made such a shot during the chaos. Faustus' thoughts then turned to hate and anger, what threat was a wounded boy? And why would anyone be so cruel?

Faustus was quickly brought back to reality with the thunderhawk's ascent and again turned to look at Taktikos who was smiling and covered with blood. Faustus took in a deep breath and looked at his sword, just now realizing he had left the other on the planet. For the moment he forgot his hate, and focused only on the current events. The Space Marines had chosen them for training, an even better prize than anything he could possibly imagine. Faustus looked at a boy sitting next to him, wondering why such young men were even allowed to enter. He thought of the dead child he left behind on the planet, wondered what would have happened had he not left him. He began to tear up, and quickly shook off the feelings not wanting to appear weak before the rabble in front of him. Faustus put on a quick smirk, and introduced himself to the young man next to him, offering to assist him with his many wounds.

The Thunderhawk finally roared in through the airlock, and settled on its landing pads. The docking bay was like a great cavern, the corners black where the light did not shine far enough to reveal what hid there.

Before the Thunderhawk's disembarking ramp had fully lowered, Zariah was already in the process of walking down it. The potential novitiates smacked the releases on their harnesses and followed in a small drove.

Their Thunderhawk had been one among many; as they looked left and right, they saw several other Thunderhawks in the row in each direction. Each was disgorging more potential novitiates. Each batch in turn was led by a Librarian, Veteran Sergeant, or Chaplain.

Zariah stood for a moment, reaching out into the bay with his mind. Everyone here had the spark, except the Servitors and Chapter Serfs, of course. Good. Zariah motioned for the aspiritants to follow him.

______________________________________________________

Zariah stood over the arena, watching the recruits going through their training regimen. This arena had been built by some of the best the Mechanicus had to offer, to act as a portable training area to suit any purpose. One area was a desert, another a firing range, another a jungle, and so on. Some were obstacle courses; some were trials of the mind and soul.

Zariah watched the initiates, for that was what they were now. Soon they would be scouts. All the weak among them had died of exhaustion or other causes over the past few weeks. They were all in better physical condition than any of them ever believed was possible.

He thought back to his days in "training." He did not remember them in a positive way. But it was necessary.

Every day they went through combat drills, both in melee and in ranged combat, and went through subconscious learning/training at night through use of certain arcane machines of the Mechanicus. Those that received sub-par marks were punished by the Chaplain overseeing their training, and those that excelled at any feat were given a word of praise, before being made to practice all the more.

Ah, thinking of the Chaplain. The infamous Chaplain Keros. Harsher than a blade storm and with a more fiery temper than a Khornate Berzerker, he was the one in charge of their training. Under his tutelage they would indeed be well trained.

A certain bit of booming laughter came from the firing range, along with the sound of fully automatic fire. Zariah looked in the direction of the sound and saw Jebediah was the cause of it. That was a peculiar recruit. Borderline insane, his perspective of the world was... different from those around him. But it was close enough to what was actually happening to make him useful. His faith in the Emperor and his uncanny understanding of heavy weapons were his saving grace. Zariah watched as Jebediah tore apart twenty targets using a facsimile of a heavy bolter. The recruits couldn't be given weapons of actual size, since their unaugmented bodies couldn't handle such weapons.

Zariah saw Chaplain Keros waking towards Jebediah to punish him for his outburst... for about the fourth time in the past hour.

Still thinking about exceptional recruits, Zariah thought of Vensun and Taktikos. Vensun, if he survived his scout years would almost certainly become a tech-marine. He has an interesting aptitude for technology that has the techpriests both interested and infuriated at the same time. From what Zariah could understand of their irritated comments, Vensun had a tendency to make modifications to almost every piece of technology he came into contact with. Irritation may be too light a term for the techpriests emotions, since one of them had petitioned to have Vensun executed for techheresy. Curiously, that techpriest was later hit in the head by a stray round from the arena. Which lead Zariah to think of…

Taktikos, simply possessed remarkable marksmanship with whatever he was given. He would most likely either remain a veteran scout, or provide an interesting addition to any Space Marine squad. Though, his lack of development in melee skills may keep him from ever earning his power armor.

One of the initiates let out a cry as a jungle plant, probably a Vaerkin “Cut-root”, caused massive trauma to his leg. As Zariah expected, Faustus quickly ran to the initiate and dragged him away from the jungle area and began to examine the recruit’s leg. After a moment he nodded sadly, and injected something into the recruit’s neck, making him go limp. It would appear that his apprenticeship with the Apothecarion is going well. Faustus would be in charge of extracting geneseed from fallen scouts until he became an apothecary himself.

Zariah heard Chaplain Keros’ yell rising to a higher decibel level than usual. Glancing in that direction, Zariah saw the target of Keros’ ire, Glurch. Glurch was peculiar in that he managed to score just passably in all areas, a jack-of-all trades it would seem. Never doing poorly enough to be punished, or well enough to have him trained in a specialty. Zariah would call him average except for two things. First, it seemed that he was not really trying as hard as he could, while looking as though he is trying as hard as he was able. But that is merely a hunch, or a fancy one could say. And Zariah had no time for fancies. The second reason was Glurch’s amazing knack for disappearing, and making a fool of himself. The first was shown by the fact that once he disappeared for three days, and despite Chaplain Keros’ and several veteran scouts’ best efforts, no one could find him. The second was exemplified when on the third day he suddenly appeared, walking up to Keros and saying that he was hungry. He was in the medbay for two more days before he could return to training.

Zariah chuckled a bit to himself. Then there was the valorous Lielk, who insisted on fighting with two shields whenever he was able. That one bore the marks of a fine sergeant or even a chaplain one day. Even Chaplain Keros seemed to take a liking to him, showing his affection in the only way he knew how. Poor kid. Zariah could even hear Chaplain Keros bellowing at Lielk now.

“Lielk, you bullet soaking waste of rations, why are you going so slowly? Run faster or by the Emperor, I’ll shove this Crozius up your- What’s this, are you actually slowing down? Put on twenty more kilos and do another five laps. You have five minutes to do it in, or I’ll make you do another ten…” It generally went in a cycle that had Lielk doing ever more work, with ever higher standards.

Then there was Dagon. Oh Dagon. His lot was the worst of all. He carried psychic potential, and was deemed strong enough to use it for the good of the Imperium. He would spend his days constantly warding off daemonic possession, and temptations. But, as they say, all for the good of the Imperium. It was necessary. He would enter training under Zariah personally.

They were a good batch of recruits, they were ready. This was a good thing, since they were getting their geneseed implanted in a few days.

Lielk rounded the corner with 124 pounds strapped to his back. His legs were burning, his shoulders sore, and his back cracking with each step. He crossed the line for the 5th time after what seemed an eternity.

"You're a second late. What are you some ork with your legs bent out? I was gonna give you another twenty kilos, but since I'm such a nice fellow, I'm givin' ya thirty. Now get runnin', kroot-spit!" Chaplain Keros barked.

'A nice fellow? Thirty extra kilos? and he is a nice fellow? Thats near 185 pounds, what would a mean person do? I would say torture, but then what would you call this?" Lielk raged inside his head, putting on more speed, even though his legs felt like they were melting. He courched forward, shifing the weight forward, and began running faster. He was not going to get more laps.

Taktikos dropped to his knees, and doubled over gasping for air. The burning orbs on the ceiling above were spinning. His chest was on fire. His entire body was sore. The world was growing brighter. Taktikos' mind was on the verge of failure. He was going to black out. That was at least until he head a deep bellow from across the room. It was intangible, either from his lack of oxygen, or the distance between the distance between himself and the chaplain. He greatly doubted the later of the two. Taktikos dragged himself to his feat, and started running again.

'This...Is...Torture.'

Even his minds was gasping for air.

'I'm running the shortest possible distance around this track. I'm maximizing my strides. I have my weights balanced properly, and still this track is beating me. What more can I do!"

Takitos kept running. Every time he slowed down a below would spill across the training grounds, and he had no choice but to move himself faster again. He lungs were on fire, his veins were pumping battery acid. The word was a mess of stark vivid contrast. He finally made out what the Chaplain was saying.

"You'll never become a space marine at this rate. You'll be a scout for the rest of your life!"
Harsh words were the most encouragement Taktikos would get. He used it to the best of his advantage. He closed his eyes, and lowered his head, and steamed forward with all his strength. He knew the track in his head, and knew his course on it. He ran until his body gave out. He fell to the ground, gulping down air. His world was black, he couldn't force his eyes to open, but he was aware, he could hear the things around him. The slap of feet meeting the track, the ripple of gunshots through the air.

'This won't last long, but I'll take any break I can get.'

The fun training had stopped and it was time for the boring training. Him and his friends were suppose to run with weights. Jebediah found the carrying weights easy, it was the running part that got to him.

"Ahck, the only thing this is going to achieve is the death of us all, dont u agree Taktikos?"

their was silence

"Taktikos?" Jebediah said as he turned around and notice that his fellow friend had collapsed about a few yards back. Jebediah was going to help him up but then noticed that the Chaplain was already their to "assist" him.

'Poor Taktikos, hes as intelligent as a...smart person and as physically fit as a...not physically fit person.'

'Note to self: come up with better simile for Taktikos.'