//------------------------------// // IV. Crank the Handle // Story: Ordnance is Magic 2: Bombardment Boogaloo // by Perturabo //------------------------------// “I hate Dark Angels.” Voss didn’t even turn at his cousin’s words as they walked. He would have said that Helsturnn annoyed him, but in truth, no matter how hard he suppressed his emotions everything annoyed him at the moment. There were two major reasons for this; the first, and less influential of the two, was that he was an Iron Hand. The X’th Legion may have been destroyed as a single entity after the Dropsite Massacre, but there were some quirks of personality that would never leave. A mild disapproval or and distaste for…well, most things, was one of them. The second factor, and the one that was causing far more immediate concern to the Medusan, was that he wasn’t sure he disagreed with the Wolf. He and Moulkain, his only brother in the assemblage, had had a civil relationship with the sons of the Lion at best as they’d travelled; the Iron Hands had respected their stubbornness and single-minded dedication in all things, but the need of the Calibanites to cloak themselves in secrecy and ritual had made the pair more than a fraction uneasy. Ever since the black sands of Istvaan, clandestine ritual was the enemy of the Imperium, as far as he was concerned. And yet, that was what the Calibanites were insistent upon maintaining, by all accounts. Their constant, blasted secrecy. If it had been silence only towards the Xenos, who seemed just as happy to keep the Astartes at a distance at their end, that would have been one thing. Perhaps Voss would even have approved. But the Dark Angels had, of course, gone further than that – they’d sat in Council and schemed in the shadows and made plans upon plans upon plans, and yet not one of their brothers outside the First Legion had heard anything from them. When they asked, Nehemiah gave them nothing more than statuesque silence, and more often than not simply walking away. The revelation about the Angels’ missing Chaplain had provided some insight as to why they were behaving the way they were, but it didn’t stop it from eating away at the Iron Hand’s temper. A week. A whole week since they’d arrived, since they’d first been cooped up in this Primarch-damned castle. And they had done nothing. “Are you even listening to me?” Helsturnn spoke in an angry, guttural snarl now – so much so that Voss actually did turn to look at him. It wasn’t because he was particularly wary of the Wolf, and more because simple logic dictated that he wouldn’t stop growling until the Medusan acknowledged him. “What would you have me say?” He asked, the studded helmet and yellow eye-lenses of his ‘Heresy’-pattern armour staring into the Wolf’s bared, canine features. Neither of them broke stride. “Yes, the Dark Angels are acting like fools. That is hardly unexpected. You, out of all of us, should know that.” None of them were fools – even the Blood Angel and the two Iron Hands knew of the feud between the Dark Angel and Space Wolf legions. Honour had been sated in a first duel when Helsturnn and Nehemiah’s paths had first crossed, but the tension that came with it never quite dissipated. Here, in this rapidly deteriorating situation, it was being stretched to breaking point. Sure enough, the Grey Hunter gave a low, wet growl of acknowledgement, dreadlocked hair covering his face as he cast predatory glances around the corridor. “I’m just as frustrated at this as you are.” Voss went on, if only in the hopes of ending this conversation. “I very much doubt that.” Helsturnn mumbled in return, face drawn in an angry grimace. The two found their way to a window, neither speaking as they just looked out. Up above the sunless, red sky roiled and twisted as it always did. The Crystal Castle had been, from what it looked like, fairly battered over time – yet even so it managed to affect at least some air of dignity, though almost everything within it was too small for the Imperials to actually use. Out there, the world looked more like what Voss had seen of the Warp through the limited view Navy vessels gave. It provoked nothing in the Iron Hand besides more simmering disgust. And undeniable part of him wanted to get out there. He was a Vigilator, a scout; he was supposed to be out there, blazing a trail for others to follow. The Xenos had at least contributed maps that allowed the Astartes to place themselves in the world, but it didn’t feel like enough. Voss knew that Helsturnn felt it too – the Wolf was a natural Hunter, a stalker of prey. Being cooped up like this was…wrong. Zuriel had found work in the medical wing of the castle. It had taken the Apothecary some time to master the differing anatomy the aliens possessed, but despite their prejudices he was an accepted – if not trusted, or even particularly welcome – member of the infirmary. Voss had often criticised his cousin for providing such direct aid to the Xenos, but in truth there was a spark of jealousy in his criticism – at least the Blood Angel was actually doing something with all this time. His own brother, Moulkain, rarely left the sparse chambers which the Astartes had been assigned. The Tactical Marine used that time to constantly make modifications to his armour and weapons, however small and seemingly insignificant. When asked about it, the Iron Hand had shrugged, answering that it was how he made himself ready. Voss’s period of unusual introspection was cut short as a storm-grey gauntlet rested on his shoulder. The Medusan looked down at it, about to comment on the inappropriateness of the sudden brotherly display, when the Wolf’s expression gave him pause. Helsturnn was motionless, nostrils flaring as he sniffed, still facing out the window but with his black-pinned eyes fixed firmly on his companion. “We are being watched.” The Grey Hunter said in a low voice. Voss did not turn, or indeed make any real movement at all. Inside his body, though, the mix of gene-wrought biology and grafted-on cybernetic began to go to work; his left hand, the hand every X’th Legionnaire replaced with metal in honour of their fallen Father, clenched and unclenched slowly, whirring softly as it did. Bionic eyes refocused, thought commands making them ready to gather the most detail when he swept the corridor behind. Pistons in his leg tensed, preparing themselves to maintain a stoic, grinding advance towards the adversity Helsturnn claimed. Such was war, when you were an Iron Hand. Voss would have it no other way. “They’re always watching us.” He pointed out anyway, staring forwards like the Wolf did, keeping his machine-like voice low. “It’s not one of the horses.” The Grey Hunter responded, tongue quickly licking over his canine fangs. “Doesn’t smell like one of them.” “Do you have a plan?” The Vigilator responded, combat senses heightening already. From the way the Wolf was practically straining at the leash, he could already work out what it was going to be. Not for the first time, he considered that Lord Manus would weep, could he see his son now. “Of course I do.” Helsturnn responded, a feral grin crossing his face for the first time in a while. “We charge.” They turned on their heels in one motion, setting off almost immediately into borderline sprints. The Space Wolf was faster, bounding through down the corridor at a loping run – howling as he went, pleased just to have the adrenaline pumping once more – but Voss was even more relentless, smashing aside furniture as they pursued the target. At the very least, Helsturnn had been right; something had been lurking at the edge of the room, turning tail and darting away. Whatever it was, its gait wasn’t the same as the ponies’ – whilst it too was bipedal, it scuttled rather than galloped almost like a lizard. Even in spite of its head start, the creature was never going to get away. The Astartes had been banned from carrying weapons in the upper areas of the palace, besides a simple combat knife each. It was Nehemiah’s insistence, rather than that of the Xenos, that made them all comply – besides, the Dark Angel had said, if they really needed to take the fortress it was unlikely they’d need weapons at all. They certainly didn’t need weapons now as they closed on whatever it was that’d been watching them. By luck alone, it was Voss that reached it first. His left hand shot out, bionic hand closing in a vice-like grip around the creature’s tail. It gave a cry of pain, scrambling desperately to try and break free as Voss lifted it off the ground contemptuously. Claws scratched ineffectually over his ebon-black chest plate, licks of green flames dancing over his helmet. “You got it, then.” The Wolf growled from behind him – the growl, Voss supposed, came from the exhilaration of the hunt. Helsturnn would doubtless be disappointed it wasn’t him that caught their prey, but the Grey Hunter was already drawing his frost-cold knife to cut it open. The Iron Hand wouldn’t deny him that. “Stop!” The command wasn’t exactly imperious to the two Astartes, but it did make them halt – more out of confusion than anything else. Guards had quickly surrounded them, filing in from all directions, spears lowered and expressions stony. Helsturnn rolled his eyes with a quiet groan, putting his knife back in its leather sheathe. Voss just looked at them all impassively, still gripping his captive tight. “He’s one of us.” One of the Guards said slowly, fighting against his own anger and fear. “Put him down.” For a moment, Voss wasn’t actually sure he’d heard correct – anatomically speaking, the thing he was holding was definitely not equine in nature. It took him a moment to realise the pony might have meant it metaphorically. He let go of the purple dragon’s tail unceremoniously, the reptile slamming face-first into the ground with another yelp. He turned to look up at the Space Marine, wiping away the blood trickling from his nose. Even Voss had to admit, the depths of hatred in the lizard’s eyes were surprising. “You can’t blame us.” Helsturnn shrugged, folding his arms over his wide chest as the Guards lowered their spears and Spike backed away. “With Daemonic filth running around seemingly at will, telling us you had a pet Dragon would have been a good idea.” “I’m not a pet!” The dragon snapped suddenly, more green flame spurting out of flaring nostrils as he clenched his claws and took a step forward. The two Astartes looked down at him – the Iron Hand emotionless, the Wolf trying his best not to laugh. “My name’s Spike.” He insisted, eyes narrowing and fangs flashing as he looked up at them. Though neither of them could know it, the dragon had grown over the years – taller, lither and more muscular, the reptilian features of his body made more pronounced. The dragon fought a moment to shackle his temper, turning to the Guards with an angry expression. “We…did tell you they were here…” One of them said, with a slightly awkward expression on his face. “I didn’t think you were serious!” He snapped, expression darkening even more. “I didn’t think they’d actually let monsters like this in again!” Whilst utterly non-threatening to the transhumans, the force of Spike’s anger was impressive in its own way, making the Guards take a step back in places. “What am I gonna tell her?” “Her?” Helsturnn’s wet growl cut across his anger, making the dragon turn back to look at the Space Wolf with only a hint of fear. “Who is ‘her’?” Spike’s silent defiance only made his mood darken further. “Listen, boy…if you are a boy…tell me, or all their little sticks won’t stop me gutting you.” It was, perhaps, a little excessive, but Voss realised that the Grey Hunter’s question was reasonable; if the dragon was referring to some other power base in the city that the Astartes had not been introduced to, then that was worth looking into. Spike, to his credit, held on bravely in defiance – he managed almost thirty seconds. Only when the Space Wolf sighed, reaching for his knife again, did the boy break. “Fine.” He mumbled, turning his back on the two Astartes. “Follow me…I’ll show you the lives your kind ruin.” *** “Every moment of this is pain.” Lorkhan was not even really aware that he had mumbled the words. Right now, try as he might to concentrate, he wasn’t really aware of anything at the moment – besides a sudden, but keen, appreciation for the sands of time that were currently slipping through his fingers. He imagined that the others were all feeling much the same, though it was hard to tell in the near-total silence. The classroom was a grey-walled and rectangular thing, desks lined up in orderly rows facing the front. No colour, besides greys, blacks and bronzes. Certainly no posters, no fancy computers, no…anything, really. Everything was stripped down, functional. Business as usual, then. He blinked himself back to a state of alertness – more or less – shaking off the lingering numbness that had threatened to overtake his brain. Casting a furtive glance around the room, Lorkhan was at least a little relieved to see that most of his contemporaries looked in a similar state of half-wakefulness. Only Mordecai seemed truly attentive, sat across the room by the window, and that too was to be expected. “And so, if our desire is to find the square root of the longest side of the triangle, we must return our attentions to the square roots of the two remaining sides…” At the front, droning on at the edge of Lorkhan’s perception, was Mr Forrix. Mr Forrix was the Maths teacher, and also Vice Principal of Olympia High. With all that said, it didn’t take a genius-level intellect to see the man was broken. His tall, stocky body was obviously muscled, but the face that crowned it never smiled. Frown lines were drawn tight across his slab-like brow, whilst bleak grey eyes that had been worn down by too much drudgery looked out over the room. In all honesty, the aging teacher looked to be simply going through the motions as much as all his students were. Lorkhan let the teacher drop from his mind, words fading back into background noise, as he allowed bitter paranoia to once again overtake his thoughts. After Zuko had ditched him last night to go and take a little girl…a Canterlot little girl…back home, Lorkhan had seen no point in staying around, and left for his own home. He’d spent most of the night after that both stewing in his own disappointment in his companions – why did he always stop just short of calling them friends? – and desire for revenge. It wasn’t revenge targeted against anything in particular, the boy considered as a moment of unusual and uncomfortable introspection passed over him; it was revenge simply for the fact that some had what he didn’t. Lorkhan’s rancorous thoughts were cut off by a physical sensation pressing against the back of his head. He blinked in surprise as the paper airplane fell to the ground behind his seat, hesitating just a moment before turning and glaring at the culprit. At the back of the room, the obvious culprit returned Lorkhan’s look with a sneer. Kroeger was a student who violence practically emanated from, and who no-one really wanted to risk getting in too close proximity to…with the exception of his gaggle of cronies, who right now were sitting around their brutish-looking chief and smirking. Lorkhan didn’t even bother reading the doubtlessly insulting slur written on the launched piece of paper, instead just letting more angered scorn cross his face as the two students stared off. Lorkhan was one of the few who weren’t wary of the meat-headed Kroeger, if only because prolonged exposure to Rorke gave one a certain detachment from violence, and it led to no shortage of acrimony between the two. “Am I not holding your attention, Mr Lorkhan?” The boy in question jumped a little in his seat as his name was spoken, and he felt the eyes of everyone else in the room fall upon him. Closing his eyes just in time to avoid seeing an even more infuriating look cross Kroeger’s face, Lorkhan didn’t turn around immediately. When he did, momentarily glancing at Mordecai’s smile that was probably supposed to be reassuring, but in reality was just aggravating, Lorkhan allowed his dead-eyed gaze to meet that of Mr Forrix’s. “…No, sir, you aren’t.” His words were respectful, but bluntly honest – it was the general relationship the student body and faculty of the school had worked out. Forrix said nothing straight away, expression not changing. “Would it be too much to ask you to at least try and pay attention?” The older man asked, at last. Lorkhan considered for a moment whether he should mention the paper aeroplane incident, before discarding the idea; it wasn’t like anything would be done about it. “I can try, sir, but I can’t make any promises.” “You don’t like Maths, do you Mr Lorkhan?” “I like it well enough, sir.” “But you wouldn’t want to be doing it, if you had the choice.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, and there was no hint of remorse or regret in the teacher’s voice, but Lorkhan still took a moment to think it over. “I…probably not.” “Mmm.” The noise Mr Forrix gave was hard to interpret; it wasn’t annoyed, pleased, or even committal in really any direction. “Well…I didn’t want to be stuck here teaching a lot of stupid, ugly children…and yet, here we are now.” Before Lorkhan could say anymore, their discussion was cut off by the aging intercom speaker mounted on the wall crackled to life. The exchange between teacher and pupil forgotten, the entire class looked up, attention refocusing on the source of the noise. After a few blurts of discordant static filled the room, the noise more-or-less stabilised, a gravelly male voice cut across the cell-like room. “Student body and faculty to the main auditorium. The Principal wishes to make an address.” It said no more, quickly fading back into silence. Even so, a noticeable shiver ran over the seated boys. If there is one thing they all shared a dislike of, it was being called to attention like this. It never ended well. “Oh, great…” Mr Forrix mumbled, a weary sigh leaving him. Even so, dutiful nature seemed to overtake him, the man motioning for them all to stand and ushering them from the classroom, into a hall that was no milling with equally miserable students. Noticing the no doubt agitated expression on Lorkhan’s face, Mordecai advanced to walk beside him, infuriatingly polite smile across his face whilst he held a book under one arm. “Cheer up, old sport.” He insisted, patting Lorkhan on the shoulder. “Perhaps he won’t decimate us today?” “It’s the Principal.” Lorkhan pointed out, voice little more than a mumbled growl. “He’s definitely going to decimate us.” *** In a hall with maybe two hundred people in it, perhaps twenty of them could look him in the eye for more than ten seconds. Frankly, Zuko thought, that in itself was impressive; he certainly couldn’t count himself amongst that number. If Mr Forrix was made of stone, then Principal Perturabo was wrought from steel. He was huge, towering over any other member of the school – Zuko estimated that he must have been at least six and a half foot, but even that seemed too small. Perhaps it was just his sheer presence that made him seem tall. He was bulky, too, thick slabs of muscle cording around his chest and every limb. Wintery eyes that contained nothing of warmth or humour passed over the seated collection of people before him, as if he was appraising each and every one of them for any weakness. They all looked back at least in his general direction, an uncomfortable silence falling across the auditorium. Principal Perturabo kept his silent, menacing vigil up a moment longer, hands clasped behind his back. When he did speak, there wasn’t even the pretence of any welcome. “As some of you may know, yesterday members of Canterlot High trod our grounds.” He began, his voice like tombstones slamming together. Oh, Zuko thought. So it was about that…predictable, really. He thought the fact that even the Principal got behind this whole ‘bitter hatred’ thing was ridiculous, but he’d never dared raise it with the man. Still, when the crowd gave no real reaction, Perturabo began again. “At this time, we have no real evidence as to who had the initial idea of bringing them on site.” Zuko knew, of course – it’d been him and Mordecai, for damn’s sake. Of course, since everybody was going to use this as an opportunity to incriminate anyone they didn’t like, he appreciated that it could be hard to pin down a straight answer. Fucking Canterlot High. Before they’d blundered in, everything had been refreshingly dull and straightforward. “So,” The Principal went on. “In order to demonstrate the punishment for letting strangers onto school property, we will perform a decimation.” Great, Zuko mused, as an uneasy ripple and occasional groans rang through the assembled students. Fucking great. It was a stupid policy that the Principal insisted on enacting every time there was a problem, and it was a stupid ‘problem’ to begin with, he considered with admirable detachment. Idly, he looked around, helmeted head scanning to see if there were any obviously thinking the same thing he did. It was that that made him cross eyes with Rorke. Rorke was a short boy. He was also ginger. These two things combined to make him practically the embodiment of rage. He twitched visibly on occasion, perhaps the only one of them not physically uncomfortable with the Principal’s scrutiny, and a berth of one or two empty seats on both sides of him was open. They were only mutual acquaintances through Lorkhan, and in truth, the other boy unnerved Zuko; a twitch sent him looking back to the front, hoping silently that Rorke wasn’t still watching. Perturabo had, in that time, pulled a dark grey cloth off of something that sat beside him on the stage. Zuko’s heart sunk a little as he realised it was a tombola machine…so, they were actually going to go through with this, then. Aware that he now had all of their undivided, fearful attentions, Principal Perturabo began to crank the device’s handle with menacing slowness, never once averting his gaze from the masses. The central compartment turned, the scraps of paper inside tumbling over and over within it. As it spun, the machine gave off music that sounded as if it belonged in a circus; if the handle was turned at the appropriate speed, perhaps it would even be jolly. With the pace reached now, though, it was more disturbing than anything else. Eventually, he stopped turning, the music fading. Opening the hatch on the side of the tombola machine, Perturabo reached in, searching for the first ‘winner’ of the lottery. He pulled it out, Zuko holding his breath as the Principal’s eyes flicked down to the torn paper. “Rhodaan.” He read out, voice uncaring. “No…” Everyone turned to look at Rhodaan as he stood, face pale, shaking his head in terrified denial. The boy backed up , almost tripping over a few seats as he did. “No, n-no…” Others were rising, advancing on him – none wished to deny the Principal. As they grasped his arms, Rhodaan began to thrash like a maniac, desperately trying to slip from their grasp. “No! No, i-it wasn’t me! No!” He couldn’t get away, and couldn’t resist as they dragged him towards the back of the room, protesting all the while. Even when the doors slammed shut, his screams could still be heard from down the corridor. ‘Poor bastard’ Zuko mused, as he let out a breath and the Principal began to crank the handle once more. When they were done, a tenth of the school had been dragged off, students and staff alike. By lucky coincidence, none of those who Zuko was close with were counted amongst that number. With a simple glare from Principal Perturabo, the assembly began to disperse, students practically trampling one another in an attempt to get out of the room. Zuko was far calmer in his motions, the crash-helmet wearing boy keeping a steady pace as he turned what had just happened over. Despite the fact that this entire shameful display had occurred because of Mordecai’s actions, Lorkhan would undoubtedly blame Canterlot High. He would also undoubtedly want ‘justice’. And, finally, Zuko would undoubtedly get caught up in it all. He just hoped that whatever it was, it wasn’t too illegal. On the stage, Principal Perturabo watched them go, radiating cold disgust as he always did. They were his boys, true, but it didn’t mean he felt any particular kinship with or care for them. So lost was he in his brooding reverie, the man almost didn’t feel his phone vibrating in the back pocket. “Hello, brother.” The equally contemptuous, if somehow more noble, voice on the other side spoke. “I was just wondering how your little public school was getting on.” Perturabo’s eyes narrowed, rage twisting his gut further as a single vehement whisper left his lips. “Dorn…”