Watched this on Hulu last night and you know what? It was pretty entertaining. I could see the vision and for a minute my disbelief was suspended. A nice modern western in the vein of Hell or High Water on probably a quarter of the budget. Check it out!
I haven’t seen anyone post this. Big news. So…..???
This new outdoor seating barricade blocks nearly the whole side walk. Got stuck in a traffic jam here yesterday. Santa Monica walkers are bad enough without physical objects impeding their way.
Trash. Just trash.
LORE
https://www.reddit.com/r/40khomebrew/comments/1vupxmb/the_constrictors/
I've got more lore for the constrictors coming. I've written thousands of words at this point. Planning to commission art from my favorite 40k Artist to bring this to life a bit.
The Constrictors: Imperators of the Ancestral Stars
"I Continue, Because of War!”
- Veteran Sergeant Othello Vanta upon his reawakening as the Venerable Redemptor Dreadnaught Vanta at the Cleansing of Cemetery World Gido Beta.
Among the countless Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, few are as little understood or as difficult to reach as the Constrictors. Ancient beyond reliable Imperial record and fiercely protective of their sovereignty, the Chapter has endured for millennia upon the forgotten frontier known as the Ancestral Stars. Their origins remain obscured by time. Imperial archivists classify their gene-seed as unknown, though many within the Administratum and Adeptus Astartes believe them to descend from the Raptors, citing striking similarities in their disciplined methods of war, pragmatic battlefield doctrine. But their unwavering adherence to the teachings of the Codex Astartes sows doubt in the minds of many. The Constrictors themselves neither confirm nor deny such speculation. To them, lineage is secondary to duty, and reputation is earned not through ancestry, but through absolute victory.
Their realm lies upon the distant northwestern fringes of Segmentum Pacificus, hidden behind one of the most treacherous Warp phenomena known to the Imperium. The region, called the Sea of Ancestors, is a labyrinth system of shifting Warp currents, violent gravitic distortions, and empyric storms that have isolated the Ancestral Stars from the wider Imperium for centuries. Stable Warp corridors appear and disappear without warning. Entire expeditionary fleets have vanished attempting to breach its storms, while others have emerged decades, or even centuries after their departure despite experiencing only months within the Warp.
Cut off from Terra and left largely to defend themselves, the worlds of the Ancestral Stars became a self-reliant bastion of Imperial civilization. Through every age of darkness, every xenos invasion, every heretical uprising, and every invasion from beyond the stars, the Constrictors endured as the eternal guardians of their forgotten worlds.
At the heart of this hermit domain lies Asantelan Prime, the Chapter's homeworld. Vast emerald jungles stretch across its equatorial continents before giving way to sweeping grasslands. A world ruled by ambitious noble houses and mountain kingdoms whose rulers rise and fall through diplomacy, wisdom, and war. Strength alone earns no crown upon Asantelan Prime. Its greatest leaders are remembered not merely for conquest, but for their ability to unite rival peoples beneath a single banner.
It is from this culture that the Constrictors recruit the majority of their aspirants. Every youth who is presented before the fortress-monastery of Lesowto Daw must demonstrate far more than physical prowess. Leadership, tactical instinct, discipline, and sound judgement are valued as highly as courage. Those who survive the brutal trials of ascension are transformed not only into Space Marines, but into students of war. Within the monastery's immense halls they study military history, logistics, governance, diplomacy, and the Codex Astartes with a religious devotion. To the Constrictors, the Codex is not merely a treatise on warfare; it is the blueprint by which civilization itself must endure. Yet Asantelan Prime is only one pillar of the Chapter's strength.
The forge world of Memphis provides another. Beneath skies stained crimson by endless furnaces, billions labor within colossal manufactorums that never cease their production. Hive spires tower above continents consumed by factories, while beneath them stretch underhives ruled by gangs, guilds, and forgotten machine cults. Memphis exists for one purpose alone; to sustain war. Life there is merciless, forging generations hardened by toil and sacrifice. Those selected for ascension possess a resilience unmatched even among the Emperor's Angels of Death, carrying with them the relentless determination of a world where survival is earned every single day.
To the west lies Abaya, the breadbasket of the Ancestral Stars. Where Memphis burns with iron and industry, Abaya flourishes beneath golden fields, fertile river valleys, and ancient orchards that have sustained billions for generations. Its people live within fortified villages and stone keeps, cultivating the land while remaining ever prepared to defend it. Spears hang beside plows in every home, for the people of Abaya believe that peace is harvested through vigilance. High within the western mountains stands Bastion Kembata, the Chapter's second great fortress-monastery. From its watchtowers the Constrictors guard the fertile valleys below while preparing for campaigns beyond the Sea of Ancestors.
Together, these three worlds produce warriors unlike any other Chapter in the Imperium. Nobles, hive survivors, and farmer-soldiers stand shoulder to shoulder beneath the same banner, united by discipline, duty, and purpose.
Although Imperial records insist that every Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes is organized according to the strictures of the Codex Astartes, the true strength of the Constrictors has long been the subject of quiet speculation. Officially, they are divided into ten companies, each commanded by veteran captains and supported by the Librarius, Reclusiam, Apothecarion, Armoury, and Scout formations expected of any Codex-compliant Chapter. Their officers study the teachings of Roboute Guilliman with extraordinary rigor, and few Chapters can rival their understanding of logistics, operational planning, and battlefield command.
Yet centuries of isolation have fostered traditions unseen elsewhere in the Imperium. Administratum observers who have fought beside the Constrictors have repeatedly reported encountering far more battle-brothers than official records should permit. Some dismiss these accounts as the result of expeditionary companies returning from the Sea of Ancestors after decades beyond Imperial notice. Others suspect the Chapter quietly maintains reserve formations dispersed throughout its hidden domain. Whatever the truth, the Constrictors have never offered an explanation, and none have possessed either the authority or the inclination to press the matter further. So long as they continue to prosecute the Emperor's wars with unwavering loyalty, their true strength remains one of the Chapter's most carefully guarded mysteries.
Within the Chapter, however, a warrior's greatest loyalty is seldom to his company alone. Every battle-brother belongs to a Judgement, an enduring brotherhood that transcends campaigns, centuries, and even death itself. There are three judgments which is determined by which of the three base worlds an aspirant completes it's trials on. Each Judgement preserves its own honors, traditions, and victories, passing them from one generation of warriors to the next. It is within these ancient fellowships that the Chapter's history is truly preserved, for a Constrictor may serve in many companies throughout his long life, but his Judgement remains his family forever.
Nowhere is the Chapter's purpose more evident than upon the battlefield. Under the leadership of High Imperator Ebon Shakka, the Constrictors have become synonymous with rapidly calculated annihilation. Few commanders in the Imperium possess his mastery of operational warfare. Entire campaigns unfold according to plans laid months or even years before the first bolt is fired. As supply lines collapse, escape routes disappear, and enemy armies find themselves trapped within battles they never realized had already been lost. It is often said that by the time Shakka commits his reserves, the outcome has long since been decided.
Serving beneath him is Captain Toreh Dialoh, one of the Chapter's finest battlefield commanders and a consummate student of maneuver warfare. Dialoh has repeatedly demonstrated an uncanny ability to adapt the teachings of the Codex Astartes to wildly different theaters of war, whether directing armored spearheads across open plains or coordinating relentless advances through the choking jungles of death worlds. His campaigns are studied throughout Lesowto Daw as examples of disciplined aggression, proving that overwhelming violence is most effective when delivered with absolute precision.
Among the rising commanders of the Chapter, Lieutenant Sehku Olan has earned renown as a master of encirclement warfare. Gifted with extraordinary tactical awareness, he possesses an instinctive understanding of terrain, logistics, and battlefield momentum that has allowed him to trap enemy armies many times larger than his own. His victories rarely hinge upon spectacular assaults. Instead, they are remembered for the slow and inevitable tightening of the noose until resistance simply becomes impossible.
The stubborn determination of the Constrictors finds its greatest embodiment in Veteran Sergeant Othello Vanta, whose defense of the Daw River Crossing has become one of the defining legends of the Chapter. Facing impossible odds, Vanta and his battle-brothers held the crossing long enough for the wider campaign to unfold exactly as planned, denying the enemy the single avenue of escape upon which their survival depended. His stand is required study for every aspiring officer, for it demonstrates the Chapter's highest ideal: every battle exists only to secure victory in the greater war.
Watching over the Chapter's intellectual and spiritual legacy is Chief Librarian Ibramin Asaur, Keeper of the Golden Chronicles. Few among the Adeptus Astartes possess such encyclopedic knowledge of military history, Imperial strategy, and the Codex Astartes. Within the vast libraries of Lesowto Daw he safeguards the chronicles of every campaign fought by the Chapter since its founding, ensuring that no victory, no sacrifice, and no lesson is ever forgotten. To many Constrictors, Asaur is not merely the Chapter's greatest psyker, but its living memory.
Like the immense serpents from which they take their name, the Constrictors rush their prey. Then tighten their grip. Reconnaissance identifies weaknesses before the first shot is fired. Supply routes are severed. Escape corridors disappear. Defensive positions are established with mathematical precision, forcing the enemy into ever-shrinking pockets of resistance. Only when every advantage has been secured do the Space Marines commit their full strength, crushing what remains with disciplined, coordinated violence.
The black ouroboros that adorns every Constrictor's pauldron reflects this philosophy perfectly. The serpent does not strike recklessly. It strikes hard and coils tighter until resistance becomes impossible. This doctrine has won the Chapter countless victories. During the Purging of the Nythar Rebellions, three companies trapped nearly a million insurgents between advancing armored spearheads and carefully prepared firing lines, compelling surrender without granting a single avenue of escape. On the jungle moon of Khepros, the Constrictors slowly strangled an Ork empire by constructing a web of interlocking strongholds that reduced the greenskins' territory month by month before the final extermination began. To outside observers, their methods often appear cold, but the Constrictors feel they are merciful.A swift and inevitable victory saves more Imperial lives than any glorious battle ever could.
No tradition better embodies this philosophy than the Rite of Continuance. Much like an Ourboros, the Chapter consumes itself symbolically. When a battle-brother falls, every effort is made to recover his remains. Once recovered they are delivered to each surviving member of their Judgement. Vertebrae become necklaces. Finger bones reinforce purity seal clasps. Fragments of skull become armor talismans. Ribs are fashioned into ceremonial adornments. To outsiders the practice appears unsettling, yet to the Constrictors it is the highest expression of brotherhood. A warrior is never truly lost so long as he continues to march beside his brothers. Thus every Bone Holder becomes a living monument to the Chapter's history, carrying generations of fallen heroes into every battle.
Clad in Nuln Oil, Deathworld Forest Green, and Yriel Yellow, the Constrictors are remembered for heroic charges or dramatic last stands as well as campaigns in which the outcome seemed inevitable long before the final battle was fought.
For they hold one truth above all others:
Order is born from conquest. The Emperors will is secured by strength.
Because of War.
It wouldn’t be great to be able to ombré the paint job.
Just some fun loadout I’ve been running with.
Been a while since I’ve shown face around these parts. This was recommended to me on tubi. All the wild casting aside, it was really well acted. Considering other films that came out around the same time with similar subject matter I feel like they handled the story in an interesting way.
3.5/5 imo. Check it out.
What a slog they put us through. But I feel like I truly earned it. MM is probably second favorite chapter simply because of how George Earl Abalayan portrayed them in Malevolence Amongst Scorpions.
I don’t have much in the way of lore for them yet, just the idea that they are surviving members of the Celestial Lions who have crossed the rubicon with the help of the Emperors Spears.
If a Red Scorpions Space Marine suddenly found that he had psychic or psyker abilities how would that be perceived by the chapter? Would he be seen as heretical? Would they try to rid him of the powers or find a use for it? I know they librarians are psykers and they found a loophole for that but what if an average brother was bestowed with or unlocked those same powers?
This is a work I commissioned from the great George Earl Abalayan representing my OC Veteran Sergeant Othello Vanta during the Angstrom Incident in the Ash Zone. I asked him to use this setting because to me one of the most interesting parts of Red Scorpions Lore during the Badab War. It was an honor to have worked with him on this idea. His piece “Malevolence Amongst Scorpions” is what drew me to the chapter initially. Please enjoy a short story I’ve written to go alongside the artwork. I won’t pretend that I am the most well versed in the lore aspects but this Is my first attempt at a short story in the WH40K universe. I hope to write more. Let me know if you love it or hate it.
Victors of Angstrom
By Julian Nightbird III
Part One: The Silent Scorpion
The long patrol of the Maelstrom Zone had stretched beyond Othello’s perception. The second company had undertaken the honorable duty of patrolling space lanes throughout the Badab System. The Red Scorpions would reestablish the will of the Emperor in these sectors with absolute vigilance. Othello knew this was a great honour, which he fulfilled without question. But he missed the purity he found in ground combat.
He dared not ask for a reassignment, and there had been moments on this patrol that had elevated his prowess among the Second Company. Such as the boarding of the Pyre of Glory, where he had known clarity. Othello pushed 3rd Tactical Squad through the corridors of the ship in measured sequence, as they reclaimed the vessel from the rebel Lamenters a chamber at a time. Without haste, wasting nothing. Bulkheads falling in succession. The ship was restored through discipline and adherence to the fighting doctrine of the Codex Astartes. Othello did not take pleasure in the elimination of his cousins. He did not hate them. It was simply a realignment of balance. A correction of treacherous arrogance and a restoration of the Emperor's name.
At the Void Clash at Black Vigil he would prove his worth anew in the frozen vacuum of space. Othello would engage an Executioner strike team outside of the rapid strike cruiser due to a failure boarding. He commanded his squad to move outside along the hull with only the vast expanse of pitch black space behind them. Their objective was an airlock meters away from where they abandoned their caestus assault ram. In the weightless void the Executioner strike team came out of the exact hatch Othello had intended to enter. They rained fire on the Red Scorpions as they poured out of the hatch. Othello calmly gave his command.
“Fire” he voxed, a quick burst followed.
Enemy Astartes floated lifelessly away from the hatch. The Executioner strike team was held at bay. Their over zealous attack led them to their demise.
“Forward” and the squad moved to their destination.
In the void only precision mattered. Such a lack of control in zero gravity meant that each movement had to be calculated. Strikes would come as an inevitability more than a response to an action. There was a direct line in the emptiness from bolter to target, unobscured by drag or gravity Othello could trace and affirm the indubitable truth of his chapter that held above all: There is Strength in Purity.
And yet, even with these moments of glory there was an absence. The Veteran Sergeant had not stood upon solid ground for many solar years. He missed the certainty of true gravity, the honesty of the recoil of his bolter in planetary atmosphere, the growl of his chainsword biting through resistance that pushed back. The void offered no resistance. There was no weight. The silence was unsatisfying. It was a duty which he endured but not one he preferred. Then the order came and Othello received it without outward reaction. Deployment. Planetfall on the volcanic forgeworld of Angstrom. For a singular and brief moment, a controlled and measured millisecond he interpreted this deployment, as a reward. Until he was notified that Angstrom would be a joint operation. As the captain spoke Othello imagined who could be assisting in this operation. As far as he knew there were no chapters as pure as the Red Scorpions in the theater at the time. The Captain went on to announce that the Salamanders Chapter would also be conducting operations on the planet and Othello's squad would be tasked to rendezvous with them. Othello fought back the muscles in his face from wincing. “Control. Measure.” he said to himself. The Salamanders were absolutely impure. Was this reward, in actuality, punishment?
Part Two: The Ash Zone
Othello Vanta’s first step on Angstrom was: correct. Gravity hung heavy on his shoulders. The planet pressed against him. Ash drifted across his armour in what seemed like infinite grey sheets. The thickness of the air gave way to its hostile nature. Particulate dulled vision and choked sensors. The sky alight with the fires of industry and volcanic eruption. War had finally taken its proper form. Othello would lead the 2nd company, 2nd Squad in two tactical units. His own squad consisted of Erdo Bast, the pointman as he was disciplined and unerring. Kidus Gavarell would stand as the rear guard. Medas Atella, the squad's zealous apothecary. And Hypursa Dan, a heavy intercessor would support with a steady heartbeat of fire when engaged. The second unit was led by the ever consistent Barnath Suidor. Alongside him was Greza Skade, and Rashe Vhang, two of the team's most decorated marksmen. On Auspex Relay, the team had Prosanth Liro who would be covered by the heavy intercessor Coher Wek.
“Twin Scorpion. Maintain interval. Advance” Othello commanded.
The two units began moving forward in unison, they interlocked, they overlapped and crossed in perfect step through the ash rain. And to their flank advanced another force. The sons of Vulkan danced in the fires of the volcanic world with indifference to the climate, as it mirrored their own home world.
The Salamanders, led by Sergeant Damaesson, appeared to move in and out of the twisting spires of flame. Promethium carved glowing paths through the haze, which revealed shapes and movement where none should be visible. Othello watched as the Astartes with gene-seed bearing mutations of obsidian flesh and emblazoned eyes made contact with the enemy in the distance. Their divergence from the God Emperors original design somehow gave them an advantage on this world. A divergence not spoken of amongst his chapter without purpose, but no impurity was overlooked or ignored. Othello felt that simply being in the presence of the abominates was a cruel responsibility. But he would meet this duty without exposing his internal indignation. The Salamanders were wholly impure, but undeniably effective in their tactics of disruption which would shatter and force the enemy to react. Yet, Othello would not be pressured to keep up with such a reckless endeavor; he commanded the Red Scorpions to advance with calculation and precision as per tradition.
Part Three: Cousins, in Name
The Red Scorpions and Salamander squads arrived at the broken manufactorum complex, which acted as a stronghold for the Tyrant Legion. Operated by the rebel mechanicus and guarded by the traitor Astartes; the Tiger Claws. Othello halted and studied the walls of the manufactorum from cover. Prosanth Liro came over the vox.
“Salamander squad approaching from the sector three, quadrant eight”
Othello stood as Damaesson and the sons of Vulkan emerged through the ashen rain. The Red Scorpions stood aside for the leader of the band of mutated cousins. Each of them felt an intense unease being in the presence of such impurity. Damaesson now standing nearly chest to chest with Othello, heat still radiating from his soot covered armour. The normally vibrant green had nearly turned entirely gray from the extreme temperatures of the planet.
“You delay.” the Salamander proclaimed.
“We prepare.” Othello replied.
Both groups of astartes stood at attention across from each other like druidic congregants at the altar of an ancient ritual. The Salamanders saw pompous zealots before them, while the Red Scorpions questioned the very being of their mutant cousins.
“They will fortify” Damaesson said.
“By throne, they will fail” said Othello.
A moment of silence passed between them. Damaesson nodded.
“Fine, we will crush the traitors against the anvil of war” he said.
Othello looked at the walls once more and inclined his helm to Damaesson.
“And we shall thoroughly eradicate them. For the God Emperor” said Othello.
Prosanth Liro called in the strike and the walls that stood before them fell from the fire of the 3rd Company battalion of Land Raider Helios. With a gaping fissure now open to the Red Scorpion and Salamander units the operation could begin. But the response from the surprised Tiger Claws came swiftly. Infantry of the Tyrant Legion came pouring out of the wounded structure. The menial servants of the renegade Tiger Claws were flanked by the rebel mechanicus Skitarii who fell into defensive positions behind the infantry. They stood exalted in their arrogant rebellion and ready for the loyalist advance.
“Hold” Othello ordered.
He could see the desperation in the enemy's posture. Any kill they won would be heralded, allowing room for inspiration to the Tyrant’s cause. There could be no losses from the Red Scorpions nor the Salamanders. Just as he was about to relay this across the vox he was cut off.
“INTO THE FIRES OF BATTLE, UNTO THE ANVIL OF WAR!” Damaesson roared.
The Salamanders surged forward into the enemy ranks like flames. Othello was slightly caught off guard by this but quickly regained his composure.
“Now” he voxed.
The Red Scorpions fired. Bast and Skade struck first with interwoven shots, infantry men exploded into red vapors as bolter rounds blew through them. Gavarell and Wek sealed the flanks. Hypursa Dan’s weapons thundered into the rebel skitarri lines who moved swiftly to evade annihilation. Atella and Vhang moved forward in identical step. Atella remained vigilant for any possible gene-seed recovery.
“Our purity is our strength, our blood will not be soiled by the filth of this world” the apothecary proclaimed.
The Salamanders were now in a close range melee with the traitor combatants. Their fury in hot competition with the damage the Red Scorpions had done from a distance. Damaesson swung a giant blade into a group of infantry decapitating them all in a single swing. Their heads all held for a split second in the air just above their bodies which all fell simultaneously. The firing lines had been reduced into disarray. Into that chaos the Othello Vanta and his unit moved forward with measured, and precise violence. Rashe Vhang breached the secondary entry at the exact moment Erdo Bast cleared the interior corridor allowing Greza Skade to eliminate a skitarri commander before they were able to coordinate a defense. And as all of this took place, Hypursa Dan and Coher Wek anchored the advance with disciplined and sustained fire.
The two Astartes cadres had finally entered the facility. The heat from the flames and ash had nearly worn off all insignia from their armour. They stood ashen and solemn, ready to move to the next objective.
“Where are the traitor Astartes?” Damaesson inquired.
“Perhaps they defend the core.” Othello said.
“By Throne, let us take it from them.” Damaesson replied.
The sounds of battle from other ends of the facility hammered like dull drums accented by the sharp percussive taps of bolter fire. Other units of Salamanders and Red Scorpions racing for glory to reach the Core. Racing to punish the traitor Tiger Claws.
“No detection of enemy presence on Auspex” Prosanth Liro interjected across the vox.
“We shall split up and meet at the objective” Othello instructed.
“Do not eliminate them all before we arrive, Red Scorpion” Damaesson said with an air of sarcasm that Othello could not ascertain.
The corridors of the manufactorum lay in unnatural stillness. The Salamanders departed and the sounds of their heavy steps along the ceramite floor plating echoed until only the low, ceaseless murmur of corrupted machine-spirits whispering through the walls. Yet, Veteran Sergeant Othello Vanta did not mistake silence for safety.
“Twin Scorpion. Advance.” Othello ordered.
The formation tightened without collapsing, two interlocking claws moving as one measured organism through the dim, ash-choked interior. Forward Claw took point. The Veteran Sergeant led, bolter raised at exact elevation, his movements precise to the degree. Each step placed heel-to-toe with mechanical certainty and Erdo Bast moved in identical fashion. Behind him, Medas Atella advanced in quiet vigilance, auspex sweeping in controlled arcs, monitoring threats, and gene-signatures, his ever-present duty of preservation. Hypursa Dan followed, his heavy weapon angled to cover the upper corridors and broken gantries above. Kidus Gavarell sealed the rear, ensuring no shadow remained unobserved.
Rear Claw mirrored them thirty meters back and offset, never overlapping, and accounting for any possible drift in formation. Barnath Suidor guided his unit through the secondary corridor lines, Greza Skade’s bolter tracking parallel firing lanes with Bast’s. Rashe Vhang paused at every sealed bulkhead, reading structural stress as though it were codex scripture. Prosanth Liro fed intermittent auspex data between squads, compensating for interference that came and went with pulses of volcanic ash like breath through the halls. Coher Wek’s heavier tread marked the second anchor point in the formation. Together, they formed a living and pure geometry of codex compliant war.
The corridor itself bore the scars of rushed abandonment. The flayed sinew of cabling hung from the ceilings. Data-slates flickered and chittered fragmented binharic code. Endless loops without resolution. Servo-skulls rested in place, their optics dimmed and purposeless. Atella spoke quietly over the vox.
“Residual machine-activity detected. No coherent command structure.” he informed.
“Noted,” Othello replied. “Maintain discipline.”
The Twin Scorpion did not slow.
Part Four: Faculty of the Damned
They passed through a junction where the floor plating had been removed, revealing a churning mass of conduits and glowing coolant beneath. The air grew warmer, which Prosanth Liro announced to the team via the vox. Othello thought it interesting that it could get any hotter than it already was on the volcanic rock. The hum louder. Somewhere deep within the complex, something was still functioning. Othello raised a fist tightly closed. Both claws halted instantly. Mere seconds passed before a sound came faintly down the corridor. The clank of metal against metal.
“Contact imminent,” Othello said, without tension.
“Angles,” he ordered.
The formation shifted in a subtle, precise adjustment. Bast took half a step left. Skade mirrored right. Dan elevated his weapon by a mere three degrees. Wek compensated by lowering his arc down the empty corridor. The twin scorpion would advance once more. The buzzing of the binharic chatter had become deeply silent. Othello recognized this silence as constructed.
“Hold” he said.
Again, both claws froze in perfect synchronization.
“Mark threshold,” he said.
Atella and Liro spoke in unison, their readings aligning.
“Twenty-one meters.”
Othello nodded once.
“They wait beyond it.”
The unit held without question.
“Prepare to engage,” he said.
There was no shift in breathing, no tightening of grips. The Red Scorpions required no such tells.They were prepared. As they had been since they landed on the molten planet.
“Advance… on my mark.”
A single, simultaneous step forward. The threshold was crossed and the corridor came alive. Hidden panels burst open allowing Skitarii constructs to unfold from concealment. Gun-servitors dropped from ceiling mounts. The dead stillness shattered into mechanical violence.
“Now.”
The Twin Scorpion answered. Bolter fire erupted in sequence. Bast and Skade struck first, eliminating the closest threats before they could fully deploy. Gavarell and Suidor sealed the flanks instantly, cutting down emerging constructs in synchronized bursts. Dan and Wek brought their heavy weapons to bear in alternating cycles, their fire overlapping so completely that no gap existed between suppression waves. Atella moved through it all, calm and unwavering, his attention divided between battle and scanning for fallen, but there were none. Within seconds, the ambush collapsed. Othello and the Red Scorpions had ended the second Skitarri front. The silence returned and this time it was earned, yet reminiscent of the unsatisfying silence of the void. Shaking the unsettled feeling Othello stepped forward, his boots crunching over shattered augmetics and spent casings. He paused only long enough to observe the remains.
“Predictable,” he said with certainty.
“Continue advance.”
The Twin Scorpion reformed without instruction. Through the corridors they moved again as two claws, one will, ever deeper into the heart of the Rebel Mechanicus.
Part Five: Final Engagement
The core of the manufactorum chamber was a throbbing wound. Much like a vast cathedral of iron and fire, the ceiling lost in smoke and heat shimmer, and the floor split by glowing channels of molten metal. Machine-choirs wailed in broken binharic, their voices distorted into something like millions of humming chainblades. At the center rose the primary cogitator-spire, pulsing with the backward logic of the Tyrant, its surface crawling with cables like veins. Othello Vanta halted at the threshold.
“Twin Scorpion. Final engagement.” He said with assurance, and control.
The formation tightened. True to its mission, and exacting in its purpose. Two units in alignment for its final assault. And with that the enemy would finally show themselves. A declaration of rebellious rage.
“For Huron! For Badab!” They roared.
The Tiger Claws emerged from the heat-haze in full force, their armour scarred, their heraldry defaced but still proud in defiance. They charged, and in that moment the chamber became something else entirely. There is no greater violence than Astartes turned against one another. Bolter fire filled the air. Overwhelming and precise, mass-reactive rounds detonated against ceramite like a drumline of thunder. The sound of the engagement instantly became part of the environment. Pressure waves slamming through armour, then flesh, bone, and armour again. Distances collapsed and time seemed to stretch. Othello and the Red Scorpions did not break formation, yet the Tiger Claws rage required none. The two forces finally met in the center of the chamber like two opposing elements. Pushing and retracting, pulling and tearing.
Rashe Vhang was the first of Othello’s marines to fall. Advancing half a step ahead of his mark. Just that fraction of deviation to breach a collapsed gantry that obscured his firing lane. The breacher charge cleared the obstruction and exposed the marine. It was all the enemy needed to meet him in that exact instant. The Tiger Claw pounced, driving his chainblade into Vhang’s chest plate and unleashed a stream of sinew and blood from his body. He did not cry out. He dropped his bolter but his finger still twitched as if trying to fire, until it ceased.
The Twin Scorpion had been broken and Prosanth Liro would die moments later. He had remained at the rear of the second unit, while maintaining the targeting lattice between both units. His voice steady even as the battle devolved into proximity combat. Then his signal fractured. A Tiger Claw crashed through the line, ignoring incoming fire, closing the distance with impossibly brutal velocity. Liro turned too late for reposition, just enough time for a single warning to his brothers.
“Adjust left, Three…”
Coher Wek held like an anchor to a ship lost in a squall. His heavy weapon roared in sustained bursts, tearing apart two advancing Tiger Claws for precious and exact seconds. Allowing for the forward unit to reorient. But even Astartes endurance has limits. A third enemy closed the distance. Wek shifted to meet him but another struck him from the flank. He was dragged beneath the two rebel Astartes. His weapon still fired until it was torn from his grip. Wek’s helm had been removed and his face forced into a stream of molten liquid. His legs kicked, until they did not.
Medas Atella moved through it all. Panic could not touch him, mayhem would not scathe his determination. His honour would not allow him to bypass any of his fallen brothers. The honour and purity of his brothers would be recovered at all costs. It was his obligation. He reached his fallen brothers in order like a precession of death. Atella extracted the gene-seed with practiced precision, unshaken even as bolter fire raged around him. Vhang, Liro, Wek, retrieved and accounted for. Honoured.
Part Six: Scorpion & Tiger
At the centre of the storm, Othello met Ali Faleen. His armour bore the weight of a warrior who had not abandoned honor, only allegiance. It was Mark VII power armour once, but it had been altered by years of hard campaigning and improvised repair. The base plate retained the deep, burnished ochre of the Tiger Claws, though it had been overpainted in places with crude, ash-black striping jagged, uneven, applied without reverence for symmetry. The original heraldry remained partially intact on his left pauldron: the silhouette of a tiger's head, scratched and repainted so many times it seemed to exist in layers. His right pauldron told a different story. There, the iconography of the Tyrant Legion had been etched directly into the ceramite. A mark of defiance rather than devotion. The edges of the carving were rough, unfinished, as if cut in the field with whatever tool had been at hand. His helm was modified, its faceplate elongated slightly, the grille reinforced with additional plating. The lenses were a harsh amber, cracked along one edge, which gave his vision a constant fracture, a flaw he had chosen not to repair. Across the brow of the helm, a single line of High Gothic script had been inscribed:
“BADAB”
Where Othello Vanta and the Red Scorpions’ warplate spoke of purity, symmetry, and reverence, Ali Faleen’s spoke of endurance and defiance. Every seal, every marking, every scar told the tale of who the Tiger Claws were. He had not abandoned what he was. He had refused to let it be taken from him. Yet, Othello found no honour or glory in his desecrated armour, defiled by betrayal of their one true father.
Faleen came at Othello like the weapon he was, and unleashed chainblade roaring, movements driven by pure hatred, form be damned. There was true skill buried beneath the torrents of aggression but it had been abandoned for speed, impact, and dominance. Faleen was trying to make an example of his prowess. Othello did not meet his charge as much as he received it. Faleen’s first strike was heavy, intent on breaking guard through sheer force of will. Othello stepped aside, but not dramatically, just the precise amount of distance. Faleen’s blade passed through empty space where he had been. Othello fired an honest bolter shot from the hip, lodging a round in the Tiger Claws shoulder pauldron. It detonated his armour plating but he did not slow, it seemed the impact was welcomed.
Ali Faleen would return with a faster and wilder swing. But Othello adjusted again, with economical precision. He would not waste motion or overextend when facing rage. It was a battle of Force versus placement, fury versus absence. A shot to the knee, then a cut across the forearm. Minimal yet cumulative. Faleen would roar trying to close the distance, and abandoning all defense in the final attempt to overwhelm the Red Scorpions Veteran Sergeant. Just when the Tiger Claw thought his adversary would retreat once more, Othello stepped into the arc of Faleen’s blade. And with a two handed upward thrust Othello’s chainsword ignited, and growled. It bit through the bottom of Ali Faleen’s chin, with a satisfying resistance and ripped the warrior's treacherous head from his neck. A fountain of sparks and viscera exploded from the gaping wound, and the etched Mark VII helm disappeared into the smoke clouded ceiling. Ali Faleen’s body fell to its knees but did not fully collapse. Othello did not see this oddity. He had already turned to his next enemy.
Part Seven: The Drakes Return
The battle had not yet been decided. Though their leader had fallen the Tiger Claws pressed hard with a new desperation. Their numbers had thinned but their resolve was unbroken. The Twin Scorpion had lost cohesion with its second unit fractured. For the first time Othello Vanta was uncertain of the outcome of this mission.
“Reform” he commanded
The remaining Red Scorpions obeyed instantly. The forward unit tightened around their brothers Barnath Suidor and Greza Skade. But in that instance, the flames of the Salamanders had returned. Sergeant Damaesson led his Astartes in the chamber like a rising inferno. Promethium blazed across the flanks of the Tiger Claws. Their momentum stunted and unable to continue forward, the fractured Tiger Claws were forced to turn and react. The Salamanders broke the pressure that had been placed on the Red Scorpions. Damaesson himself struck like a hammer, his blows shattering resistance, his presence drawing the enemy’s fury. Allowing Othello’s reduced strength to expand and close in on the traitors. Now, with fire and precision aligned once more, the end was inevitable. The Tiger Claws were crushed between two doctrines. The Salamanders burned them from cover then forced them into motion at close range. The Red Scorpions executed them as they broke in confusion. There was no way to recover, and no way to escape. One by one the traitors fell, until there was none standing.
Part Eight: Victors of Angstrom
There is no silence like that of the void. Yet as the final bolter rounds found purchase, the chamber fell into a near absolute silence. Othello stood at the base of the cogitator-spire, ash and fire settling around and behind him Medas Atella finished his work. Sergeant Damaesson approached, his armour scorched but his presence unscathed.
“You held,” the Salamander said.
“We endured” Othello corrected.
Damaesson looked to the fallen, then back to him.
“And we finished it together.”
Othello inclined his helm.
Not with gratitude, nor agreement. But simply acknowledgement. The core was theirs and the mission completed. The cost had been exact and the Emperor’s will had been done.
“You Measure everything?” the Salamander inquired.
“It is the only way to ensure purity in action.” Othello replied.
Damaesson gestured to the fallen once more.
“Yet, you needed us.” he said.
Othello considered the statement. His cousins were not of a pure gene-seed. The truth of that was blatantly obvious. But another truth was equally apparent. His cousin's mutation could also be recognized as a form of purity in a place like this. He was unsure of how to properly pose such an idea. Was adaptation in fact purity? He did not know.
“You created disruption. We created certainty. Together we ensured the Emperor's will.”
Damaesson removed his helm slowly exposing his soot coloured skin. He watched the streams of fluorescent rock around them flicker, and it seemed to ignite the embers in his eyes. The rebel mechanicus was dismantled. The Tiger Claws decimated. Othello stood upon the solid ground he had yearned for, his armour marked by fire and war alongside the Son of Vulkan. In his final report, he wrote:
“Victory achieved through disciplined execution and controlled variance. Allied forces exhibit genetic deviation but remain operationally effective. Deviation is not purity. But when directed, it may serve.”
It was not praise. But it was, perhaps, the closest Othello Vanta would ever come.