Saint Efilar's slightly magnetic voice echoed through the comms, carrying with it a chilling indifference. In this war to crush the rebellion, the Living Saint showed no concern for how many mortals would be caught in the crossfire. They might have been innocent once, but to the Imperium, there is no such thing as innocence—only varying degrees of guilt.
When the High King of Darok chose secession, every soul upon that world gained a new name: traitor.
The 22nd Catachan Commando Regiment accepted the Saint's decree without hesitation.
To safeguard Vigilus's communications grid against Chaos infiltration, the 22nd had been personally dispatched by Dukel, the Imperial Warmaster, to suppress the traitorous mortal forces.
As the Marshal of the Imperium's armies, Dukel had the theoretical authority to command all forces across the stars—and in practice, he wielded that power with an iron fist.
The 22nd Catachan, handpicked by Dukel himself, might have been "only" mortals, but the name "Catachan" carried weight enough to shake the stars. Coupled with the sacred number twenty-two, their reputation was a thing of legend.
Every soldier of the regiment was the best among the best, the toughest of the tough.
And among them stood a man who was more legend than soldier:
Sly Marbo.
Clad in heavy Destroyer I exoskeleton armor, Marbo entered the airdrop chamber, preparing for insertion.
Before stepping through the hatch, he cast one last look through the battleship's energy shields, down upon the world of Darok. To the eye, it was like a thousand other planets—but folly and betrayal had poisoned its soil.
There was a fleeting shadow of complexity in Marbo's gaze. Though long hardened to the slaughter that came with war, the task of turning weapons against fellow humans never grew easy.
Humanity's plight was already desperate enough. Yet, again and again, it turned its strength inward to bleed itself dry.
"We are animals," he reminded himself. "Attack is instinct. Peace... is merely an accident. When an enemy stands before us, killing is as natural as breathing."
The brief sentimentality faded. As he stepped fully into the airdrop chamber, his eyes—hidden behind his helmet—were hard and unwavering.
As the Imperium's most famous living legend, Marbo's name carried weight few could rival.
He had been awarded the Star of Terra so many times that the commendations could be counted by the bucket.
Most soldiers dream of earning honor; Marbo earned so much that the Administratum had to beg him to accept the awards—and often, he simply ignored them.
They called him the deadliest man in the galaxy.
It was not a boast. If anything, it was an understatement.
His mere gaze could make a Tyranid pause. His will was forged in iron and blood. His roar could rival a Greater Daemon of Khorne.
He had once been part of the 12th Catachan Regiment. On a routine operation, he and nine others were trapped on a death world where sleeping was tantamount to suicide. In the end, Marbo alone returned—grimy, wounded, but alive. And as if survival weren't enough, he brought back the severed head of an Ork warboss.
No one knew how he had survived. Some speculated that he slept with one eye open—literally—to remain vigilant.
Normally, such claims would be dismissed as absurd.
But when it was Marbo, most simply nodded and accepted it as truth.
On another occasion, he was stranded on a world infested by the Dark Eldar. With the Imperium's forces overwhelmed and massacred, survivors reported the depraved acts committed by the xenos.
But when Imperial reinforcements finally arrived, they found no prisoners, no battle to fight.
They found only Marbo, standing alone in a field of corpses—covered in blood, his combat knife still dripping. Around him lay shattered Dark Eldar vehicles and heaped xenos cadavers. At the center of it all, impaled upon a crude wooden stake, was the severed head of a Dark Eldar Archon.
Marbo had massacred them all.
Afterwards, he was rotated through the 2nd Regiment of Catachan—and now, the 22nd.
Each transfer left in its wake countless new legends. Singlehandedly wiping out enemy armored divisions, assassinating commanders, toppling entire enemy strongholds—these were not exaggerations, but mere notes in his file.
Once, during the campaign on Nordsa, he even brought down a Chaos Titan with nothing but field tactics and sheer indomitable will.
Even Lorgar, one of the fabled Primarchs, had once been nearly crushed beneath a Titan's tread. But Marbo... Marbo had killed one.
No one knew how.
But by then, the Imperium had learned: when it came to Sly Marbo, it was best not to ask.
In the grim darkness of the far future, mortals were as fleeting as dust—but through sheer will and unbreakable loyalty, some rose up to cast down gods and monsters alike.
[Destroyer I exoskeleton: Stable. Core module: Green. Propulsion module: Green. Weapons module: Green. Life support: Green.]
[Loyal servant of the Imperium, your connection to the Strategic Network has been established. Your glory will be recorded. In the name of the Emperor and the Warmaster—victory awaits.]
[Airdrop coordinates confirmed. Countdown initiated.]
[1382]
With a thunderous clang, the hatch blew open, and the stink of gunpowder and ozone rushed in like a wave.
Marbo inhaled deeply. The scent of battle awakened something primal within him.
He did not rush. Instead, he calmly stretched, easing his muscles against the resistance of the exosuit. Around him, other Catachan soldiers did the same.
It was their first combat deployment with the new Destroyer I armor.
Even hardened warriors needed to take a moment—to feel their equipment, to become part of it.
Soon, the airdrop would begin.
And Sly Marbo would once again write a legend in blood.
The body of the armor was built to endure brutal impacts, its design refined through millennia of war.
Equipped with a personal void shield, even mortal soldiers could march headlong into the enemy's firepower without fear. Its power source, a compact nuclear reactor, was primitive by Mechanicus standards but reliable—easily sustaining a soldier's needs across a lifetime. If necessary, it could even be detonated as a last, devastating weapon.
An integrated life support system ensured functionality across every hostile environment, while a virtual terrain scanning suite constantly mapped the battlefield, feeding real-time data back to the command node.
For Marbo, a veteran of Catachan's death-world hellscapes, it was his first time fighting in such luxury.
In the past, a machete, a battered flak vest, and sheer stubbornness had carried him through campaigns. There were times when, under heavy fire, Marbo had to protect his precious vest more than his own flesh.
Now, staring at the streams of tactical data scrolling across his helmet's visor, Marbo's eyes shone with something rare—genuine affection.
This, he thought, is how wars among the stars should be fought.
The life he had led before now seemed almost savage.
The Imperium had equipped their forces with one hundred thousand suits of this magnificence at once.
Their commander must be a true hero.
Marbo silently offered his respect.
He had only ever seen such wargear before in battles against the T'au—those xenos weaklings who needed armored shells to survive open combat. Back then, Marbo had adapted the favored tactic of his kin: strike fast, strike hard, strike for the head.
His landing zone today was a rebel stronghold, fiercely defended.
Marbo sprinted across the battlefield, the servo systems and hydraulic limbs of his armor hissing and growling. Rather than hindering him, the heavy frame seemed to propel him onward with terrifying speed.
It wasn't long before enemy fire found him.
From all directions, rebels opened up with disciplined volleys of las-fire, trying to bring him down.
Their weapons were standard-issue Imperial lasguns—accurate but insufficient against his warplate and shield. Marbo, seasoned by a hundred battles, was not troubled.
He tracked the flicker of their beams, marking every position.
With a sharp click, the monomolecular short blade mounted to his right vambrace deployed.
He went to work.
Prioritizing heavy weapon nests, Marbo cut through rebel positions with brutal efficiency. Wherever he passed, he left only headless corpses in his wake.
"Target point secured. Advancing toward the Darok Reactor Complex," Marbo reported over the squad vox.
Immediately, his HUD updated.
A translucent path overlay marked the next objective.
Marbo grinned beneath his helmet.
This new equipment changed everything. It was a war unlike any he had ever fought.
After surveying the dynamic map, he moved again—silent, deadly. His dagger was enough for now; though his armor bristled with heavier systems, he preferred the quiet intimacy of a blade.
One by one, the rebels trying to encircle him fell. In short order, Marbo and his team pressed onward toward the Darok Energy Reactor coordinates.
But Marbo's luck faltered.
While advancing, a rebel gunship—struck by Imperial fire—crashed directly onto his position.
The impact detonated in a firestorm. Though his shield flared to absorb the brunt, Marbo was hurled from the platform. Mid-fall, he triggered his jump pack.
He'd used grav-chutes and jump packs before, but never with great finesse. Caught in the blast's turbulence, he spiraled awkwardly, carving a crooked trail through the air.
He crashed through the roof of a grand villa.
CRASH—!
Buried beneath rubble, Marbo shoved aside a slab of masonry and hauled himself to his feet.
The lights flickered above, casting jagged shadows that exaggerated his armored bulk.
A fireplace crackled nearby, roasting meat—actual meat, not the processed nutrient sludge Catachan soldiers were used to.
"What a damned luxurious life," Marbo muttered.
The finest meat he'd ever seen on campaign was canned ant-bull.
Judging by the decadent furnishings and the noble family crests on the walls, this was no common home. Likely a Darok aristocrat's residence.
Under the long dining table, he spotted a woman curled around a young girl. Both wore fine clothes, but terror twisted their faces. The child stared at him with wide, numb eyes; the woman clutched her daughter tightly, tears streaking her face.
Marbo spared them a glance.
He had no taste for killing unarmed civilians.
Just as he turned to leave, a man stumbled into the room, clutching a laspistol.
"Please... let us go," the man begged, voice shaking, knees buckling.
On Marbo's visor, a prompt flashed:
[Threat detected: Level 5]
Marbo snorted. A man armed with a mere laspistol—rated barely above harmless by his suit's logic engine—was no threat.
Without a word, he kicked down part of the villa wall and strode out, leaving the terrified family behind.
Outside, his comrades from Catachan awaited.
"Marbo! I knew you were still breathing!" the commando captain's voice crackled through the vox.
Marbo remained silent, as always. Though his soul was rich with thoughts, he seldom shared them.
The others were used to it.
The captain continued, "We've got two enemy forts at the marked position—six heavy stubbers, and an armored platoon dug in deep. Firepower's brutal; we can't get close."
Marbo joined the others at a ruined barricade. Peeking over the edge, he was immediately met by a maelstrom of gunfire.
Bolts of solid shot and beams of searing las-light ripped into their cover, gouging holes through the ferrocrete and sparking against steel.
"Their firepower is... considerable," Marbo muttered, already running calculations.
Even in his new Destroyer-pattern armor, even with void shields and ablative plating, charging into that inferno meant risking death.
Around the fire fortress, at least fifteen Predator tanks were turning their tracks and aiming their massive caliber cannons directly at the approaching assault force.
Confronted by such formidable opposition, Sly Marbo's eyes blazed with unwavering resolve.
Over the assault team's vox channel, the members discussed their options.
"Captain, what's the plan now?"
"Split up and outflank them," the captain ordered.
"We can't," another soldier replied. "The enemy's firepower is too intense."
"Maybe we can request fire support," suggested a third.
The discussion continued, but suddenly, one of the team members shouted, "Captain, look! Marbo's charging in alone!"
The exclamation silenced the conversation.
Sly Marbo, with all the intensity of a living legend, surged from behind the bunker and sprinted directly towards the enemy's firing line.
As soon as Marbo made his move, he was instantly targeted by concentrated enemy fire.
Kinetic rounds, explosive projectiles, and laser beams streaked toward him.
But Marbo wasn't deterred. With a series of quick tactical rolls, he dodged most of the incoming fire. The few rounds that did hit were absorbed by the armor's reinforced shielding.
In an instant, Marbo activated his jetpack, soaring above the battlefield and landing directly within the heart of the rebel camp.
A grim smile twisted on his lips.
To most, Marbo was a man of few words—perhaps even the quietest soldier in the Imperium. But in the depths of his mind, a roar of defiance echoed, one only he and the truly powerful could hear.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
[Artillery system activated.]
The prompt echoed within his helmet, and with a mechanical hiss, micro-missiles shot from his armor's launchers. As he reached the bunker, he hurled two thermo-melt bombs inside.
An explosion of unimaginable force erupted, engulfing the bunker in flames. A charred fragment of bone flew through the air, landing at Marbo's feet with a soft thud.
...
TN:
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