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// Cleopatra was Greek, not Egyptian 
// Story: I Blame You, Too 
// by Whitestrake 
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$%$%$% Taylor's POV $%$%$%

Every inch of my body screamed for me to keep my mouth shut and hope he didn't come back for me, but I had a friend to avenge. Just as I put that sniper's skull on Trixie's grave, I would mount his on a pike before Jacques's. I slowly hobbled to my feet, feeling my injuries for the first time. Both collarbones were broken; a few facial bones, a kneecap, a handful of metacarpals, and couple ribs could be added to that count. My armor was linked to my nervous system, so I could fight as long as my spinal cord wasn't damaged too severely. I gripped my sword and felt a rush as it crackled to life again.

“Don't you fucking walk away from me.” The Marine halted as I commanded, though more out of his own desire to see what I was doing than any authority I had. His profane armor gleamed with the polish of runny blood and clean water; it seemed, to me, a grim work of art. I hate art. “I'm not done with you yet.”

Despite my body's protests, I charged him. There was no need for me to deflect his blow, not if he was going to kill me if I did nothing, but keeping him interested in my blood would mean Amos and Dahl would have more time to prepare until he finished me off. I knocked his sword out of the way, leaving both of us open to the other's off hand, but I was a little more suicidal than him. I snatched at the holster on his hip, only hoping for a moment the leather wasn't human. With a slight snap, the bolt pistol was free of its master. With a not so slight roar of mechanical rage, the traitor's chainsword slammed into my side, running full tilt.

The force knocked me away before the teeth had a chance to bite into me too much. I rolled in the air and landed on my feet, but I only remained there for a moment before I ran at him again. I ducked under his slash, and dropped into a slide as I skidded between his legs, reaching for the downed bolt pistol. My hand gripped the ripped leather with time to spare. I flipped onto my side and rolled to the far wall, working the holster as quickly as possible. At my first chance, I fired a single shot, still in motion. The explosion forced the Black Legionnaire's head back, causing him to stumble for the briefest of moments.

I kept shooting, enjoying the recoil that taxed my arm's servos. The shock resonated through my broken bones and cleared the mists from my mind. I missed over half the shots I fired, but those that hit dealt crippling blows to his armor. His breastplate was dented, scorched, and pockmarked with bits of shrapnel. What was left of his helmet clung only by the grace of his armor's atmospheric seals, and revealed his grey, scarred skin for the world to see. He raised his hand to his face, and ripped whatever of it remained away. I saw his eyes then, dark and smoldering with unbridled hatred, and the Star of Chaos etched into the skin of his forehead. I saw the fangs that sprouted where his teeth should have been, and his fledgeling horns were only too noticeable.

I dropped the spent gun and took a defensive stance. We were on even ground now, and it would be up to fate to decide who walked away from this battle. Wait, Tzeentch wasn't exactly on my side in this, or was it? Probably best not to think on it; that way lay madness and pain. He reached for something on his belt, and tossed it at me. I jumped out of the way just in time to avoid the grenade's explosion, but not quickly enough to avoid the rush of angry Marine. One of his hands wrapped around my leg, and he whipped my against the ground. On the recoil, he lifted me above his head, ready to slam me again.

I stabbed him through the chest before he had the chance. He dropped me, but I used my blade to stay aloft for a brief moment, and took advantage of gravity to twist it as I fell. I don't know which of his hearts I hit, but I must have nicked at least one of them for him to react in such a manner. A rush of bright blood spilled over my sword and most of me, and oddly calming sensation. Then he punched me, again, and again, and again. You think he would have gotten tired of that, but no. He almost had me on the ground again, but then he brought his chainsword back into the equation. A defected the blow in time to pirouette and slash at his midsection.

“I grow tired of this!” Odd, because he existed for eternal war; but I supposed everyone is entitled to an opinion. He raised his sword for a downward strike meant to shatter my armor and rend me to bits. Chainswords worked the same as chainsaws, so each blade contributed to the task of cutting, which was the exact opposite of what my sword did. The teeth were dulled from wear, and my armor probably contributed to that, so perhaps I had a chance. If not, then I would be permanently maimed. Like a moron, I reached out to stop his roaring sword.

The teeth latched onto my armor, and pulled my hand to its hilt, but it did not have the punch to bite through, effectively jamming it. The Marine looked at me in stoic disbelief, which only multiplied as I brought my own sword up. The chainsword, and the hand that held it, fell limply to the floor. He, however, cursed in some Low Gothic dialect I did not understand, and clutched at his new stump. I enjoyed the sight perhaps a little too much, but I certainly wasn't complaining. Seeing there was no way he could seriously fight back, I pressed the assault.

I cut into the weak point on his shoulder, jumping to increase reach. I only dug in a little before he swatted me away. Again, I landed on my feet, and kept at him. I chopped into the knee the Ripper injured earlier, but did not sever his leg. When he stumbled, I jumped on his chest, ready to actually kill this bastard. I raised my sword, tip facing the ground.

“I am a veteran of ten-thousand battles.”

“And I'm one pissed off dad.”

$%$%$% Amos's POV $%$%$%

That son of a whore Reglan Dahl deserved to rot in whatever hell he would have after I killed him. Right as the Ripper fell down here, the fucker shot me in the leg and ran. For the moment, I could not pursue, so I did what I could to keep the griffin alive, which was rather simple, given he had only lost both hind legs. Two tourniquets and a chem-burner later, his stumps were cauterized and done bleeding. He was still conscious, too, not even in shock. Or, maybe he was and I couldn't tell. Either way, there wasn't much for either of us to do except listen to the fight and hope Taylor won.

When he dropped down with us, covered in blood and tattered armor, I almost doubted it was him, but the Burned Man had done something most men only dream of. He had the Marine's head mounted on a makeshift belt, but dropped it to the ground when he saw the Ripper was still alive. The two exchanged words, and it was one of the few moments of genuine happiness I had seen the man express. In a way, it was  a bit like the walk back from Trixie's grave.

“Where the hell is Dahl?” Taylor's Low Gothic was accented by anger and pain, but he was still calm enough to speak, which was a good sign.

“Bastard shot me and ran back to the surface.” I pointed the large hole in my calf. I was unable to walk, probably for a while, but we were alive. I couldn't say the same for Dahl once Taylor got his hand on him, but there was a certain peace to all this.

“Well, let's get you two to the Elements, and then I think I'll go kill Reglan and Ophidia.”