Blood seeped relentlessly from his abdomen, pooling around him as he lay, awaiting the cold embrace of death. His duty had been fulfilled; for eons, he served his purpose, and now he would perish by it.
His body struggled to repair itself, futilely attempting to mend its shattered structure. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the metallic taste of iron coating his mouth—hardly a pleasant sensation.
He would meet his end on this forsaken planet, Kyros. He and his brotherhood were dispatched here to battle the traitors—betrayers of their kind, and their creator. His mission had succeeded, a fact well-known. His brothers had fallen, dying swiftly and cleanly, unlike him, who was slowly fading away.
With his last reserves of strength, he clenched his golden gauntlet. His spear lay beside him, drenched and sullied by the corrupted blood of traitors. His helmet lay discarded far from him, and his armor bore a gaping hole in his abdomen.
He faintly heard a vox signal emanating from the tossed helmet, but he paid it no mind. The supposed reinforcement from above had arrived too late. It was not their fault; it was his, for leading himself and his five brothers to this end.
"…Custodian Valex, do you copy?" His ears picked up the faint, static-laden voice, feminine and filled with fear—a trait of mortals, but not of him.
Valex sat, his back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the vast citadel ahead. The church, a place where mortals worshipped his creator, still made his gut churn. But now, as he looked upon it, he saw it might not be so bad. His eyes wandered over the walls, adorned with gold-decorated glass, prayer scrolls, and candles. The bodies of dead mortals and traitor Astartes littered the hall, and he knew he would soon join them.
The final image seared into his consciousness before the abyss claimed him was that of a man, ordinary yet extraordinary. His bronze skin gleamed under an ethereal light, his sharp features softened by the passage of countless years. Neither gaunt nor imposing, his physique was that of an average man, yet his presence was anything but. Midnight-black hair cascaded to his shoulders, and a golden radiance emanated from him, enveloping Valex in a warmth that was both alien and familiar. A sensation stirred within the Custodian, akin to a lost child finding a long-departed parent. The man stepped forward, extending a hand, inviting yet commanding. Summoning the remnants of his waning strength, Valex reached out to grasp it.
Darkness.
An all-encompassing void, yet not devoid of sensation. Warm air brushed against his face, filling his lungs with each measured breath. His heart resumed its rhythmic cadence, circulating life through his veins. The wounds that had marred his body were conspicuously absent.
A subtle light pressed against his closed eyelids, gently coaxing him from the embrace of unconsciousness. He was alive.
Valex's eyes snapped open, taking in his surroundings. Before him lay a set of tables and chairs, their surfaces marred by time and neglect. To his left stood a dilapidated refrigeration unit, its door ajar, revealing cans of food long past their expiration.
Puzzlement clouded his thoughts. His injuries were healed, his strength restored. Beside him rested his Guardian Spear and helmet, both unscathed. Yet the pressing question remained: where was he?
The room bore the hallmarks of a ration hall, though its design lacked the efficiency characteristic of Imperial architecture. The ceiling was uncomfortably low for his towering frame, forcing him to stoop slightly as he navigated the space. Clutching his helmet in his left hand and his spear in his right, Valex moved toward what he presumed to be the exit. Years of rigorous training and countless Blood Games had ingrained in him the importance of assessing one's environment. His hand grasped the door's handle, and with a measured push, he stepped outside.
The scene that greeted him was one of desolation. A city lay in ruins, its skyline punctuated by skeletal remains of skyscrapers, neither towering nor diminutive, stretching into the distance. The immediate vicinity comprised scattered buildings, reminiscent of habitation blocks, though spaced apart more generously than typical Imperial settlements. Trees stood as silent witnesses to decay, their forms twisted and degraded, victims of war or the planet's harsh environment.
Directly ahead stood a series of promethium dispensers, their surfaces corroded and long unused. Above the building from which he had emerged hung a weathered sign, inscribed in Low Gothic with the words 'Red Rocket.' The script bore a resemblance to the ancient dialects of Old Merica on Terra. Valex committed the name to memory.
He took careful stock of his surroundings, instantly calculating the tactical decisions ahead, his thoughts cool and precise as gears locked reliably into place. Yet his concentration fractured abruptly, a low, menacing growl intruding into his focus from the left, an animalistic sound, full of primal threat, like rusty blades being dragged along stone. He snapped his gaze toward the disturbance, spotting a humanoid creature emerging from the dim shadows. Its silhouette shambled forward, one leg grotesquely twisted and dragging behind with a burdensome limp. Its shape unmistakably resembled a man, now corrupted beyond redemption, flesh warped and gnarled into irradiated ruin. This must be one of the planet's tragic survivors, a human caught in the long-reaching fire of atomic devastation, reduced to something abhorrent.
The monstrosity stumbled toward him, its mouth agape in desperate hunger, fetid saliva dripping from half-rotten teeth. Valex allowed it nearer, motionless until its clawing hands reached out. In one relentless motion, his armored fist crashed downward, slamming into the creature's skull like a meteor striking planetside bedrock, pulverizing it instantly. The mutant's broken form collapsed onto the crumbling concrete floor with a wet, final thud.
He knelt carefully by the shattered remains, armored fingers reaching forth as delicate sensors extended from his gauntlet, probing carefully into corrupted flesh. Digital runes and glyph-data scrolled swiftly across his vision, informing him of the radiation permeating every cell of this unfortunate testament to man's folly. The presence of residual gamma particles and radioactive isotopes confirmed his grim deduction—a distant, cataclysmic conflict had burned away civilization here, leaving only ghosts mutated into monstrous parodies of the humanity they had once embodied.
Valex straightened, adjusting his stance, as movement rippled once more within the foliage nearby. His optics pinpointed the stirring bushes: a gathering crowd of malformed figures stirred, drawn from darkness by the scent of blood and conflict. They emerged with stumbling desperation, eyes vacant from all rationality, devoid of anything human save the husked outlines of their forms. Mercy dictated they were beyond saving. Ending their miserable existence was the single grace his duty allowed.
Two mutants surged forward with surprising speed, feral strength born of desperation. Reflexes honed through relentless battlefield conditioning sent his spear spinning in a deadly arc. The weapon's blunt haft smashed upon the left beast, exploding its misshapen head into arterial spray and bone fragments, while the blade simultaneously cleaved through the other mutant's torso, neatly bisecting it. No pause hindered him; Valex's lethal onslaught continued seamlessly, spear and gauntlet interweaving in an efficient dance of death perfected against countless foes—heretics, mutated cultists, traitorous marines, and foul daemons had all fallen beneath the disciplined precision of his strikes.
When silence returned, he stood amidst a graveyard of malformed flesh, tallying exactly thirty dispatched mutants. They had crawled from some underground shelter behind this "Red Rocket," seeking sustenance and driven by base instincts. Blackened blood and bile dripped thickly from his spearpoint; the acrid, metallic stench of gore mingled unpleasantly with the stale breeze, assaulting his senses. The mutilated corpses surrounded him, limbs severed to grotesque, inhuman angles, grim evidence of the brutal efficacy inherent in every calculated strike.
At that moment sensation caught him, and he noticed for the first time the weapon hanging at his hip. A pistol unlike any he had wielded before. Its shape, sophisticated and sleekly advanced, seemed out of place upon this forsaken world. The craftsmanship was impeccable, gold-filament inlay flowing across polished contours, ornate inscriptions and elegant scrollwork hinting at the ancient sophistication concealed within. He grasped the archeotech weapon instinctively, fingers closing around a grip tailored perfectly to his gauntleted palm. In immediate response, integrated sensors in his armor and gauntlet interfaced swiftly with its inner workings, revealing the astonishing potency stored within this singular artifact, intense energy signatures whispered unmistakably of old-world designs, a pistol capable of delivering devastating beams rivaling the destructive prowess of a lascannon in a single discharge. A relic clinging to life from a decadent age of technology, it could fire but a single, earth-shattering blast before recharging, yet its destructive potential clearly compensated for its limited capacity.
Valex swung the spear swiftly in a clean arc, clearing it of corrupted flesh, black viscera splattering audibly upon the rocky ground, an oily stain upon pale stone. He turned his vision forward toward the horizon, where the skeletal remains of a once-proud city loomed silently, its decayed towers echoing distant tragedy. He stepped forward resolutely, keenly aware that within the ghostly metropolis doubtless lurked more horrors, perhaps greater than those already destroyed.
He began jogging toward the ruined cityscape, maintaining a steady pace that wouldn't exhaust him, though he doubted any consumable supplies remained in this desolate place. The Custodes had been engineered as humanity's perfect warriors, their gene-forged bodies capable of surviving months without food or water while engaged in continuous combat. Wounds that would instantly kill even the mighty Astartes barely slowed them down, their cellular structure so perfectly wrought that no mutation could take hold in their flesh. Yet despite these superhuman enhancements, fatigue still crept into their bones like a persistent shadow.
He remembered it clearly—that grueling half-year on Terra when he'd worked without rest, hunting cultist cells through the labyrinthine underhive, gathering intelligence fragments, desperately working to prevent the Throneworld from collapsing into chaos from within. Their forces had been stretched thin, most of the Custodian Guard deployed to support the massive Indomitus Crusade. He'd eventually joined that great undertaking himself, fighting battle after battle across the stars until traitor blades finally brought him low. Only then, bleeding out on some forgotten world, had he truly understood the bone-deep weariness that endless war could bring.
Thirty Terran minutes passed as he maintained his ground-eating pace toward his destination. The cityscape grew more distinct with each stride, shattered towers reaching toward the sky like broken teeth, collapsed ferrocrete structures scattered like the toys of careless giants, rusted metal beams twisted into impossible shapes. Evidence of pre-war civilization lay everywhere: burned-out ground cars, shattered shop fronts, propaganda posters bleached white by merciless sun. Along his route, he detected signs of more recent human activity, crude fire pits dug into the earth, makeshift observation posts constructed from salvaged materials, primitive shelters cobbled together from debris. Yet no life signs registered on his armor's auspex arrays. The silence hung heavy as a burial shroud.
His jogging continued until he reached what had once been a suburban district on the city's outskirts. Here, a plume of dark smoke caught his attention, rising lazily into the pale sky. His enhanced olfactory senses detected cooking food beneath the smoke, some kind of grain porridge mixed with preserved meat. The sharp tang of promethium fuel oil reached him next, followed by the distinctive metallic scent of crude gunpowder.
His heavy footfalls echoed off broken walls as he advanced, until his hypersensitive hearing picked up the unmistakable sound of human voices speaking in Low Gothic dialect. His transhuman vision pierced the haze, revealing details no unaugmented human could discern at this distance. A small settlement, village seemed too grand a word, had been constructed from scavenged timber and the bones of ruined hab-blocks. At its center lay what he assumed had once been a public plaza, now converted into a gathering space where men and women clustered together, their numbers not exceeding a hundred souls. Some carried stub weapons, primitive firearms that fired solid projectiles. Others bore what appeared to be jury-rigged las-weapons, their power cells likely scavenged from military casualties.
Guards patrolled the settlement's perimeter, their movements suggesting military training long degraded by necessity and survival. A gate fashioned from welded metal sheets hung closed across the main entrance. Before it stood a massive pack animal, some form of mutated mammal whose original species was impossible to determine. Bulging muscles rippled beneath patchy fur, extra limbs sprouted from its flanks, and its eyes held an unsettling intelligence. Canvas bags and metal containers had been strapped to its malformed back. Two men and a woman accompanied the beast, their body language telegraphing frustration as they gestured animatedly at the guards, clearly engaged in some form of heated negotiation for entry.
He considered approaching the local humans, but given their scarcity in this ruined city, he doubted he'd come across others—or at least, anyone still sane enough to reason with. Reaching up, he removed his helm and secured it at his hip, revealing a man with bronze-colored skin and dark, short-cropped hair. His features were striking and flawless: sharp cheekbones and a defined jaw, along with intense azure eyes, the right one bearing a long faded scar; a straight nose bridged his features. He carried himself proudly yet cautiously, advancing steadily toward the settlement gates.
Each deliberate step brought him closer, the crunching sound beneath his heavy boots loud enough to announce his approach. Clearly, the guards stationed there had noticed; several had already raised their rifles, tracking him intently through their sights.
"Stop! Hold your position right there!" shouted one of the guards, a middle-aged man dressed in tattered military fatigues and clearly holding a ballistic weapon in nervous hands. "Stay where you are and clearly state your intentions, or we shoot!"
They stood roughly fifty meters apart, a distance that posed no real threat—he'd easily deflect or dodge bullets from such weapons if needed. Still, diplomacy was preferable to bloodshed. Valex paused, meeting the guard's anxious gaze. "I seek refuge," he replied calmly yet firmly, his deep voice composed and resonant, "and information."
"Information?" A note of panic crept into the guard's voice, accompanied by suspicious eyes narrowing at the towering, armored figure. "Were you sent here by the Brotherhood of Steel? Is that it? Do they think so little of us now that they just send spies openly?"
Valex grunted softly in irritation. Misunderstandings of this nature would only make his task more difficult, and he had no wish for needless conflict. He straightened himself, gripping the spear firmly but not yet raising it threateningly. "I am from no faction and have loyalty only to one master—someone whose name and identity I prefer not to reveal to you now," said Valex bluntly, yet patiently. "However, I promise your people no harm. In fact, if conditions are fair, I could even assist your settlement directly."
The guard paused uncertainly, glancing back toward his companions, their voices low as they quickly deliberated amongst themselves. Before they could decide, hurried footsteps approached from within their compound, accompanied by an authoritative and impatient feminine voice.
"What in the hell is causing this commotion? Can't you just do your job properly for once?" The newcomer, a young woman, barely out of her teens, with curly brown hair and tanned skin, strode swiftly to the front line. She wore a thick robe beneath a ragged jacket, and a heavy hunting rifle hung over her shoulder. Her sharp gaze moved from her guards toward the pack animal and its accompanying merchant, then finally settled on Valex.
"Ma'am, it's nothing serious. Just that the merchant isn't clear about his origin—" the guard stuttered awkwardly.
"A merchant?" She interrupted sharply, eyes flashing dangerously at her men. "We rely on merchants for our supplies, or have you forgotten? Perhaps you'd prefer being sent to scavenging duty out in zone 55?"
"No, ma'am!" Immediately humbled and chastised, the guard quickly yielded, voice growing subdued. "I'll open the gates immediately."
Finally, her attention fell fully upon Valex, eyes widening slightly as she examined his imposing, armored figure. "What about him? Is this another merchant?" She raised an eyebrow skeptically, clearly doubtful of this explanation herself. "Looks far too well-armed and huge for simple trading; maybe he's a mercenary?"
"No, ma'am," the guard replied nervously. "He claims no allegiance other than to a master he won't identify. We can't rule out him being a spy or something far worse."
She scoffed impatiently. "Did he say anything else, at least?"
"He said he'll help us in exchange for shelter and information," the guard explained, his voice trailing off hesitantly. "But I'm still uncertain if we should trust"
"What the hell are you babbling about? With someone like him around, we might actually manage to get repairs done on our generator," the young woman snapped decisively. "Open the gates immediately. Let him in along with the merchant group. I'll handle him personally."
At her firm command, the guards hurried to swing open the large, battered steel gates. Valex stepped inside cautiously, observing the chaotic interior that sprawled before him. Much like the slums and impoverished districts he once encountered deep within Hive cities, a variety of ragged shelters and makeshift market stalls sprawled across cracked, uneven ground. Humans moved uncertainly about, staring at the newcomer in silent awe or distrustful suspicion. His keen gaze caught sight of mutants as well, abominations that normally demanded his immediate termination, but here somehow docile, cooperating peacefully among their human neighbors. Still, he tightened his grip momentarily around his spear's handle, wary that these strange beasts might turn violent unexpectedly.
Indeed, Valex's imposing presence stood out starkly against the settlement's grim setting; his golden armor shone brilliantly even beneath the gloom and shadow of this bleak place, attracting countless wary eyes that followed every step he took. The guards around him seemed unsure, their wary apprehension obvious as their weapons trembled slightly in his direction.
Focused and unfazed by the tension around her, the young woman strode forward to meet him personally, determination clear in her gaze.
"Greetings there, I am Mandy, the leader of this village. I welcome you here," Mandy said as she extended her hand toward him. He returned the greeting with his own gauntleted hand, carefully shaking it with only a fraction of his true strength. "I heard you are willing to help us in exchange for refuge and information."
"I would," he replied, nodding his head slowly. "As long as it's not too extravagant or likely to cause unnecessary trouble."
"Yes, yes, of course. We would love for you to retrieve some additional repair kits for our fusion generator, along with a new fusion core. They're located in the city, naturally."
"And why can't you go there with your own forces?" he asked, his tone curious but cautious.
"Deathclaws," she said, her voice dropping slightly. "A whole pack of them has taken over the old facility. We used to send teams there to scavenge for supplies, but none of them ever came back. Even the Brotherhood of Steel has been spending considerable effort trying to secure the technology in that old research facility, but the deathclaws have proven extremely difficult to overcome."
"These deathclaws, what exactly are they?"
"They're the apex predators of the entire wasteland," Mandy explained, her expression growing more serious. "Their claws are powerful enough to kill a man with ease. Nothing can truly protect against them except power armor, and even that doesn't guarantee survival against a whole pack. Speaking of armor," she paused, studying his gleaming suit more closely, "is yours actually made from gold? It must have been extraordinarily expensive to craft something like that. Your master must be incredibly wealthy."
"Well, if you're willing to believe it's made from gold, then so be it," he responded evenly. "However, in exchange for completing this task, you'll need to tell me everything. I want to know about the past and why this world looks the way it does, as well as what's happening right now. I expect nothing less from you."
"We have an old library that contains a considerable number of books. You're welcome to enter and read to your heart's content. And of course, if you have any questions or curiosities about anything, please feel free to ask me. I possess a considerable amount of knowledge about these matters."
He picked up his helmet and placed it on his head, the metal settling into place with a soft click. Turning his back to her, he began walking toward the city. His destination was clear: the old ruined research facility where mutated animals had made their home. The building stood like a broken tooth against the skyline, its walls crumbling and overgrown with twisted vegetation. He had seen that place before during his earlier reconnaissance, noting the strange creatures that prowled through its abandoned halls and laboratories. Their presence made the task more dangerous, but not impossible.
"I should consider this agreement settled then," he said over his shoulder, his voice slightly muffled by the helmet as his armored boots crunched against the debris-strewn path leading away from her.