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Chapter Text

“The real problem is in the hearts and minds of men. It is easier to denature plutonium than to denature the evil spirit of man.”

— Albert Einstein

Bridge of the Glitchtrap’s Might 

Five Years after the Conquest of Earth.

Afton struggled to recall their faces.

Names were easier, sure. Cassidy. Henry. Michael. Those that truly wronged or made fool of William throughout his long life. Yet even with names, remembering became difficult once it came down to mewling victims of lesser status. Those who never made a difference. They lived with such insignificance; William couldn’t fathom why they’d suddenly become pertinent enough to recall.

What William most easily recollected though?
Their screams.

You see, a scream is a complete admission of defeat when bleated by a pathetic ‘Hero’. Whether a scream of rage, shock, horror, pain, etcetera. It indicates the villain has so severely bested their foe that they’ve descended into the most primal of human expressions. And thereby, they have signified their weakness. When prey in nature cries out for mother, begging and sickly, a coterie of predators are attracted to that wisp of weakness. So attractive it is for their hungering, salivating maws to devour meat so fresh and scared.

That moment of success was something irreplaceable. It was beautiful.

“Master, we’ve arrived to the world’s orbit. Shall we begin bombardment protocols?”
Inquired Black Legion Battle-Company Captain Dushcar. The visor helmeted Space Marine tentatively approached his hulking, towering master.

“No.”
William’s voice responded with that same British gravitas, though it’d been altered somewhat. A gravelly, deep growl of animalistic fervor barely concealed by an air of civility. Signs of a dark corruption which’d spread across William’s very being, intertwining into that black darkness called his soul and making him all the stronger for it.

“Lord? A bombardment would remove the need for ground intervention. Our vessel’s cannons are capable of eight-hundred yard blasts-“

“I want to savor the looks of terror embellished upon my foe as I carve through their rank. Nothing grants me greater joy, Captain Dushcar.”

“As you wish, Lord. Shall I inform Zargothrax and All For One of these changes?”

“They’re already quite aware of my preferences. Honestly Dushcar, I’d have assumed you would’ve caught on by now.”

“F-forgive me for such slights Master. I won’t repeat the same mistake again. Ground invasions unless expressly ordered otherwise.”

“Very good. Have our allies surface-wise made the necessary preparations?”

“Aye Lord. The Newtopian Empire eagerly awaits your arrival. The tactical information they’ve shared with us has been most crucial.”

“They only provided the blueprints. We built the design of victory here. What report from my spies inside the Amphibian Resistance?”

“Our reports indicate they’ve united the three dominant species of their various continents into a singular, united fighting force; apparently under the charismatic leadership of a… teenage girl, My Lord. Two- in fact.”

William growled irritably. Children, always so impertinent.

“Rouse the other battle-captains and lieutenants. This shouldn’t take long.”

“As you bid.”

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Wartwood Underground Resistance Base – Amphibia

Before the war, Wartwood Swamp was just another froggy backwater of Amphibia. While not particularly instrumental within the worldly realm of political affairs and socioeconomic policymaking, the country bumpkin natives were pleased with their humble lot in life; as farmers and wacky weirdos under the stewardship of a corrupt, yet ultimately lovable Mayor.

Now? They were pressed into a battle for their very lives.

Hopediah Plantar never expected that at such an old age, he’d play a crucial role in a war that’d decide the fate of Amphibia thereafter. It’d certainly been a contrast from that initial, star-studded dream of being a famous actor.

“Hop-Pop?”

“What is it Polly? Did Loggle annoy you about making another wooden sculpture of his again!? I swear just because that fool’s become jacked he thinks he can order everyone around! Well NOT my grandbaby. No, NOT my babygirl-“

“It’s not that! I was just, uh… wondering when Anne would get back. And Sprig. I mean, not that I’m worried or anything. I wanted to go with them! I can help Hop-Pop! Let me kick some Frobot BUTT! Well, not OUR Frobo, obviously. Y’know what I mean.”

Hopediah couldn’t help but laugh at his granddaughter’s rambunctious nature. It sometimes provided no end of issues, but ultimately, he couldn’t imagine Polly without her fire that illuminated even his darkest moments.

“Don’t worry babygirl. They’ll return soon enough! We’ve just gotta have faith in ‘em. And I’m sure Sasha’s considering you for the next mission already!”

“You think so?”

“Heck, why not ask her? All we’ve been doing this morning is eating stale worm-rations anyway.”

“You got that right. I could go FOREVER without eating these things again. Eugh.”

Polly stuck her tongue out to display disapproval of the paltry rations the Resistance managed to scrounge together. Hop-Pop nodded and walked through the underground base, converted from the Plantar Family’s secret trove of treasures, secrets, and commemorations regarding their familial lineage. Frogs, toads, and newts of every class and distinction were mulling about, moving caches of weapons, or making small-talk amongst each other or training for battle against thatch-strewn Frobot dummies.

Finding Sasha didn’t take long. She posited herself wherever the activity was, and currently, she was coordinating battle-plans over a wooden table within the shelter’s midst. A geographical map of Amphibia was strewn over a rustic wooden table, a series of frog, newt, and toad dignitaries and persons of interest carefully observing it- a grouping of sculpted figures provided by Loggle acting as stand-ins for their respective species’ armies and certain poignant individuals.

“Sasha!”

“And if Captain Beatrix’s battalion could uppercut the forest patrols while they’re distracted from a frontal assault by Tritonio’s crew, we’ll be able to eradicate King Andrias’s largest battlegroup- Hop-Pop? What’re you doing here?”

Sasha seemed temporarily thrown off her balance, though a series of approved murmurs followed from the impromptu war-council.

“I LIKE IT! Toads with that lightning-strike surprise, we’ll crush so many robots they’ll have to salvage US from their wrecks! Haha! I like ya girl. You’ve got a fire in ya. That leaf-hair kid was right to put her faith in you.”

“Si! Tritonio, for once, agrees with the Toad. The Newts will accept your plans of battle, if you’ll have us.”

Sasha recomposed herself quickly, motioning silently for Hop-Pop and Polly to wait as she acknowledged Beatrix and Tritonio’s praise.

“Of course. I’m honored you all think so highly of my strategy. Alright then. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we’re striking a blow that’ll catch Andrias’s attention.”

As everyone dispersed into their separate groups to further discuss the plan or generally whatever captivated their minds, Sasha turned back to Hop-Pop.

“Whatcha need, Hop-Pop?”

“Well Sash- could I call ya Sash? I know that’s mostly an Anne thing, but…”

“Hop-Pop!”

Sasha knelt down to meet his eye level, batting a confident grin that brought an ease to Hop-Pop.

“We’re friends now. You provided Anne food, shelter, and family when she needed it most. When she was lost and didn’t understand this world. That’s a debt myself, as one of her best friends, can never repay. At the very least, you can call me Sash.”

Hop-Pop struggled to hide his blush, making a melodramatic pose while soaking in that praise.

“Dawwwww- well shucks!”

“Hop-Pop!”
Polly stated, getting the old frog back on track.

“Oh, right. Sasha- Sash… we’re just wondering about the status of Anne’s mission. Sprig went with her and all.”

Sasha nodded, then thought contemplatively.

“Anne, Sprig, Wally, and Stumpy were dispatched to scout ahead for our guerrilla attack tomorrow. King Andrias’s largest presence inside the Wartwood Swamp’s surrounding forests is a platoon of Frobots. I sent them to confirm a series of routes I suspect they’re taking throughout the forest. Once we know their routines, we can hit them where it hurts and do some real damage.”

“Will they be alright?”
Hopediah replied.

“Hop-Pop- I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Imprisoning your village, trying to kill you guys..”

“Yeah, could you not do that again by the way? You really put us through the wringer there!”

“I won’t. And I’m truly sorry for everything I’ve done to your family and home. I was just… trying to do what I thought was right. Trusting Anne though? That’s no error. She’ll come back, I’m sure of it.”

A rare moment of relief followed as Hop-Pop warmly and hopefully smiled at Waybright, who returned the expression.

Just then, the underground passage entrance shifted open at the behest of two Toad guards. Rushing inside, Anne Boonchuy, Sprig Plantar, and Wally Ribbton bore expressions of pure, unadulterated horror. A manner of shock and anger Anne’s only expressed at one previous instance, when Sprig almost died at Andrias’s Castle. Sweat slicked their faces as they rushed inside, and immediately, a pit formed inside Sasha’s stomach.

“Anne!? What’s going on!? Talk to me Anne!”

The thirteen-year-old Thai girl could only speak in bated, exasperated breaths for a moment. Any attempts to gather herself were dashed by hyperventilation, causing a worried Hop-Pop and Sasha to approach her sides passively to comfort her. Sasha placed a gentle hand on Anne’s shoulder.

“Anne… what happened?”

“They- Stumpy- he- I… Sash…”

“They? Do you mean Andrias’s troops? Come on Anne, breath. Look at me Anne. That’s it. Alright, that’s it. You’re okay. You’re safe now…”

“Not safe! NOT SAFE-“

As everyone else packed inside the underground shelter worriedly grouped around the commotion, they wouldn’t have to wonder long what exactly transpired out there.

The Plantar Passageway’s roof evaporated into scattered debris and dust, a massive explosion shaking the entire structure. Most everyone inside were knocked onto their hindquarters with yelps of surprise and pain. Not even a second of reprieve was granted as from this smoky outcropping heralded a force of several dozen hulking humanoid monstrosities. Some wore helmets with red-eye visors, others maligned with horns and others still displaying their corruption freely as they’d discarded helmets entirely. Those whose faces were visible bore sharpened teeth and blood-crazed eyes.

A horde of living death was the best way to describe them.

“BATTLE-STATIONS!”
Roared Sasha, hoping her command was heard by anyone over the chorus of panicked screams and demented laughter exuding from these intruders as they stomped down. They all carried weapons, some were blades addled with chainsaws and others were strangely designed automatic rifles that Sasha had never seen before. Nevertheless, these black-armored edifices of war unleashed a devastating payload of destruction against everyone they saw without mercy.

Captain Beatrix, who’d been rushing over with a flank of eight Toads, instantly evaporated into a misty pile of splattered gore alongside her foolish friends as a projectile from one of these rifles met her soft, squishy skin. Their weapons reverberated with such screeching, unwelcome sound that Sasha grit her teeth and rushed away from the main site of carnage. Frobo, the reprogrammed Frobot whose alignment switched from that of Andrias's soulless legions to the Plantar Family, attempted to protect Polly best he could- though a cackling Black Legionnaire soon ended that initiative, grabbing the hapless droid with his bare hands and ripping it into spattering circuitry-sizzled shreds.

A list of spears and swords and arrows clunked haplessly against the armor of these invaders as they giddily pulverized everyone in their path. A helmeted foe revved up his devilish chainsword and rushed with awe-inspiring speed towards Sadie Croaker, an elderly frog who’d long been a citizen of Wartwood. 

“COME AT ME YOU ROTTEN FIEND! IN THE NAME OF WARTWOOD I’LL SEND YER HIDES BACK TO WHEREVER PIT YOU’VE CAME FROM!”

Instead of responding, the monstrous killer swung horizontally. Sadie managed to dodge the initial strike, much to his surprise. Sadie unveiled a series of daggers crept into her utility belt which she tossed with precision at the helmet and neck-areas of this eight-foot tall murderer. As the daggers clinked off the armor, the attacker only laughed in sadistic joy of how pitiable her counter-attacks were, before unleashing another swing.

“YOU WHIPPERSNAP- AAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!”

The chainsword managed to catch her fleshy side, the serrated edges revving across its chassis easily mulching the cobbled panoply of Sadie’s, meeting her body within two seconds. A geyser of sliced innards and hissing spew of liquid red followed as Sadie’s top and under-sides were severed from each other. Afterward, the Marine joyously stomped onto the writhing remnant of her top side, rendering her decrepit face into an unrecognizable sludge slagged onto the base of his right boot.

“Pathetic.”
Growled Vrath, Captain Dushcar’s First Lieutenant. Turning around, he witnessed his glorious battle-brothers beginning to torch the entire place, their flamethrowers scalding the underground structure. Licks of Chaotic, Daemon-imbued fire touched everything from the wood to the underground walls to numerous storefronts and repositories for armor, weapons, and general gear the Resistance used. Those battle-brothers who hadn’t yet resorted to burning everything were content with other brutalities, gunning down scores of any Frog, Newt, or Toad stupid enough to challenge them.

“FALL BACK! FALL BACK! TAKE THE EMERGENCY EXIT TUNNELS!”
Shrilly cried Sasha, trying to garner everyone’s attention by waving her sword around. A few disorientated individuals hobbled behind her as they crossed a rickety wooden bridge towards a supposed exit. Vrath grimaced under the helmet. Her insistence on acting as some heroic point of defiance irritated him. He wanted to terminate this girl’s existence with a Heavy-Bolter right now- though Erebus expressly commanded the Resistance heads captured alive. Disobeying the Chief Apostle wouldn’t result in anything good.

“Damnation to these instructions. Alive? What good will this mongrel simian do for us alive? Bah…”
Vrath holstered his Heavy-Bolter and pursued the fleeing group with chainsword abreast.

Sasha supported Anne as they hobbled towards an emergency exit tunnel the Resistance carved for this very reason, though Sasha didn’t expect they’d ever have to use it.

“They… They…”

“It’s not your fault Anne. Quiet down. We’re almost there. I’m not letting them hurt you, okay?”

“W-what are those things!? I saw one… rip Frobo apart. Like he was nothing…”
Polly sounded more distraught than she’d ever been. Even the demise of her parents at the hands of Herons was dwarfed by the sheer trauma she’d endured. The small unit of a dozen survivors escaping while the carnage and screams persisted behind them were crying or trying to rationalize why this occurred.

“New goons of Andrias, maybe. We can’t worry about that right now. Let’s just get out of here before we think on what to do next, okay?”

“W-what to do next? There’s nothing left to do. There’s no hope. It’s over. We’ve lost… our world will fall. Everything and everyone will die…”
Sprig choked out through sobs, comforted by his equally terrified and whimpering grandfather.

“Don’t cry Sprig. Us Plantars can survive anything, alright? We’re a brave family. Nothing’s stopped us before. Nothing’ll stop us now. Just stay close to me. We’ll be alright…”

As they proceeded, Sasha’s thoughts grew evermore darker. Besides the fact they were using the annihilation of longtime friends they’d known for months now as cover to escape, she pondered where Grime was. She saw him earlier today and he promised to attend the strategy meeting, but… oh no…

Grime took a unit of Toads with him to forage for supplies.

And right now he could be…

Sasha didn’t want to think about that. She already wanted to vomit from the horror and stress of what she’d endured. An overwhelming cacophony of massacres that persisted not a few yards behind them. Thankfully, these goons seemed so unbelievably blood-lusted that they contented themselves with seeking out those cowardly enough to hide or stupid enough to stand and fight.

Anne was equally traumatized by the whole affair, whatever she’d seen during her scouting mission… it must’ve been just as bad, if not worse.

Sasha wanted to blame Anne. Her instincts before that era of self-improvement kicked in. To waylay all her confusion and anger onto this poor girl, to somehow insulate the fault of this insanity at someone else’s feet so she didn’t have to feel this unending inadequacy. This constant mental reminder of her own failure to protect these people.

To save Amphibia and Earth.

At least they could escape. Live to fight another day.

A figure arrived from the primary escape tunnel, halting the disheveled group.

“F-felicia?”
Hop-Pop murmured. She didn’t respond. Her face was a gaze of shame. Of mournful repentance.

“W-what are you doing standing there!? We gotta get outta here before those monsters-“
The Plantar Patriarch was quieted, as emerging from the shadows like wrathful wraiths, wearing deathly steel masks with jagged faces and spiked mouths and hideous Daemonic visages, were several invaders. They were undoubtedly part of the same faction those hulking killers hailed from, albeit they seemed more comparable to normal humans like Anne and Sasha. They stood imposingly, armed with various rifles which they angled at the Wartwood refugees.

One hauled over a smaller figure before them all. A doddering, frightful Frog-girl bound with rope and twain, a carbine barrel kept fastened at the back of her head.

“Felicia…”
Sasha murmured, unsure of whether to feel angry, betrayed, shocked, pitying, or perhaps a combination.

“I’m sorry. They… they left me no choice. My daughter- I had to protect my daughter. Please tell me you understand, everyone. Please…”

No approval came from the terrified, increasingly enraged group. Felicia turned to Sprig, whose wide eyes were slick with tears.

“Sprig! Sprig my boy! Surely you understand! F-for Ivy. I… I had to protect my babygirl. Please. Please tell me you understand. Tell me I didn’t make a mistake. SPRIG! PLEASE! THAT’S ALL I ASK! Tell me it’s not my fault. I beg of you…”

Felicia’s whimpering fell on deaf ears, as a stomping reverberated throughout the narrow passageways that led into the escape tunnels. Sprig turned to Ivy, wordlessly whispering if she was okay. Ivy didn’t seem to respond, her eyes glazed of all life from what she’d seen and kept squarely forward.

Vrath darkly chuckled, enjoying the shellshocked terror of those haplessly present before him. He wasn’t a Night Lord, though he appreciated their sensibilities of harnessing and enjoying terror’s succulent taste like no other Astartes could. Vrath aspired for that level of sadistic relishing, to completely imbue oneself in the suffering and mewling of their crestfallen enemy.

That didn’t mean Vrath couldn’t try though.

“It’s always amazing when an inferior lifeform gazes upon their greater. Did you rebels coddle each other here under the warm quilt of hope? Did such pitiable comforts suffice when we bisected your brothers and sisters? Your loved ones?”

“SHUT UP!”

Sasha, without thinking, pushed past everyone else, including a desperate Loggle who tried tugging at her cape to no avail. She protectively stood before the group, unsheathing her sword. Shaking, terrified, consciously knowing she’d die and perhaps everyone else here would anyway, though still standing.

A defiant monument against the degenerate darkness of animals such as Vrath.

It truly sickened him. The fact orders were expressly to capture this rancid human alive irritated the Chaos Marine to no end.

“I won’t let you hurt my friends… so either back off and let us through this tunnel, or-“

“Or what? You’ll pluck me with that toothpick of yours?”

The goons holding Felicia and Ivy Sundew hostage spurt a low laugh at Vrath’s taunt.

“You should be thanking me. Every bone and organ in my body aches for your goring right here and now. Unfortunately, I must take you and your compatriot here alive. That does not mean I cannot befall the same fate onto your pathetic rabble here.”

Sasha didn’t bother mincing words with such an abhorrent villain. Instead, she screamed furiously and charged forward, sword abreast.

“SASHAAAA!”
Anne’s murmuring terror suddenly found coherent voice, though it relieved none. Waybright’s blade clunked awkwardly off Vrath’s armor. Relentless, she continued striking against the Chaos Marine, causing Vrath to sigh irritably. Holstering his chainsword, the Black Legionnaire grasped the struggling human by her wrists with such low force that any further squeezing would smash her delicate arms into putty.

“What low effort. It’s almost a bore to subdue one so weak.”

“LET ME GO! GRAAAAHHHH! FOR GRIME! FOR THE TOADS! FOR EVERYONE YOU’VE-“

Vrath hated her shrill voice already. Tossing the girl aside with a slight modicum of strength, he watched as Sasha fell unconscious after slamming against the wall.

“SASHA! YOU… YOU-“

Anne’s hair sprung up, growing a shade of cyan, as did her eyes. She appeared ready to pummel Vrath, though the Chaos Marine only lifted his grist-stained boot up and hovered it above Sasha.

“This isn’t a story where you get angry and somehow are incensed with the heroic abilities to save the day, you idiotic wench. Any wrong moves and your friend becomes a puddle on my bootheel.”

Boonchuy’s feelings of distraught and defeatism overcame any ideations she possessed of defeating this towering enemy. She could’ve masterminded a clever way to outsmart this beast- if she only had more time. Though time was a factor lost to them all now.

“Good pet. Now then. Kill the others.”

Heeding Vrath’s order, the lesser minions at the Sundews’ side opened fire upon the hopeless Amphibians.

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BRATATATATATATATATATATATATATA-

A howl of whelps and pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears.

“KIDS, RUN! RUN! RUNNNN!!!”

Hopediah begged Sprig and Polly whilst rushing willingly into a hailstorm of bullet-fire. Immediately, the Plantar Patriarch was pierced by hot lead, his eyes rolling back while he clutched his chest area, but a sizzling crater full of bullet-holes.

Sprig couldn’t even vocalize a wail, instead purely focused on obeying Hopediah’s advice and escaping the killing field. There thankfully seemed a side tunnel not fully completed that would provide security. The Plantar brother turned to find Polly, only to see the newly-footed tadpole already grabbed by two goons.

“SPRIG! SPRIG HELP ME! PLEASE! SOMEONE! SASHA! ANNE! I’M SO SCARED! NO DON’T DO THIS! PLEASE DON’T-“

That usually defiant, confident girl capable of taking on the world with all its dangers and menace was replaced by a pathetic, babbling totem of fear. Her small tadpole appendages were stomped ferociously by these assailing brutes. Her agonized bellows would never again leave Sprig’s ears. He wanted to go back. To defend his baby sister.

But no. He was too scared. His heart beat a thousand paces per minute. The only thing he’d accomplish is getting himself an equally unspeakable fate. Even knowing that, seeing her being humiliated and broken by these foul barbarians was almost too much for Sprig. He wanted to pass out from the stress. Polly’s broken feet were just the beginning as one revealed a combat knife and angled it to her pulpy throat.

Burrowing it inside without warning, Polly’s throat contents listed forth. Her screams and begging were replaced by gasping gurgles as she tried breathing, only to receive nothing but a horrific choke. Her eyes dolled back into her tadpole skull, and that’d been the end of it.

As Sprig jostled away from the scene, forever changed and ruined, he turned back to see hulking Vrath smack down Anne, sending her unconscious. Then, two more of these devilish goons grasped both her and Sasha and moved away while the others had their fun with the pitiful Wartwood Resistance.

It was over.

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Newtopia Castle - Andrias's Court

“I must admit, your forces have been… astoundingly efficient.”
King Andrias spoke with a wincing falter lacing what was usually a tough, strident voice. Standing before the Newt monarch, almost as large and with an undeniable killer instinct barely kept at bay by the most barebones confines of political civility, was a gargantuan humanoid fellow clasped in resplendent golden armor that belied his true nature. The man was almost as large as Andrias himself, in fact.

William looked upon the Newt Monarch with a neutral gaze. Those five years since Earth initially fell to his dystopian grasp, Afton had enjoyed total enmeshing with dark corruptions and magicks of Chaos. Through countless rituals, conquests, and generally his soul belonging to the four Void-Powers of the Warp, William’s body began malforming. Musculature grew larger, facial features became uncanny and distant, teeth were sharpened as fangs. Unwilling to constantly remain in Daemon Prince form, William’s superficial body was still enough to rouse suspicion and intimidation from those around him.

Initially, William was dashing, young, and handsome after Chaos’s rejuvenation. Now his features, while momentarily attractive, were grislier. Brutish. Vicious. His golden warp forged Springtrap armor evoking the original Springbonnie design, though barring the helmet. William wanted to appraise Andrias face-to-face.

“Thank you, King Andrias. I suspect the rebel remnants are disintegrating as we speak. I personally oversaw the extermination of the Toad Tower Garrisons who’d relinquished their loyalties to Newtopia. We terminated the foe with extreme prejudice.”

William laughed a little, Andrias following the motion, though with a definite discomfort about it.

“My Master clearly made the correct choice in allying with your faction. Our armies shall march under the victorious banner of conquest as one!”

“Surely they shall, though I presume Newtopia is fully prepared to pay its blood-tithe, as promised?”
Brought up Erebus. The Dark Apostle of Chaos stood at William’s side within Andrias’s court, joined by the enigmatic, robed, elderly Advisor, Zargothrax, All For One, and eighteen Possessed Black Legion and Word-Bearer Chaos Space Marines. Springtrap stared at the smirking Erebus with irritation, not enjoying being cutoff mid-discussion.

William seemed ready to verbally dispute Erebus solely for such heretical insinuation, though Advisor motioned for a sidebar beforehand.

“My Lord- Erebus’s influence amongst the Chaos forces remains unparalleled. It was he whom convinced most of them to embark on the daring migration to serve under your flag. It would be unwise to openly challenge him before a foreign power. You may grant him punishment afterwards, during a private forum, if it so pleases you.”

“Geh… count on that punishment then, Advisor. None speak for me save the Dark Gods themselves.”

After peering back upward, William decided to press the matter Erebus brought up, resolving to handle his internal political disputes later.

“Indeed, mighty sovereign. The blood-tithe will be instrumental in creating a bond of friendship and trust between our powers. The Empire of the Primordial Truth relies on noble sacrifices to become willing inductions into our legions.”

“R-right. Well, considering your demands entail our citizenry being prisoners-“

“Sacrifices.”

“Right, sacrifices… well- give us time to ruminate, yes?”

“Ruminate?”
Zargothrax’s dark, Scottish voice followed, a hateful judgment spewed with every word.

“You were given plenty of time to ruminate while our invasion was prepared. Considerable resources were divested into equipping and bringing my Death Knights of Crail here. Sacrifices are pivotal and expected from each nation that benefits from our intervention. There shall be no rumination.”
Added the evil sorcerer, causing Andrias to grow increasingly worried and agitated. It was obvious that while this toughened Newt was battle-hardened and willing to cross numerous lines to achieve success, the permittance of possibly hundreds, if not thousands of innocent civilians under his stewardship into the clutches of this incomprehensibly evil force wasn’t a threshold he wanted to cross.

“Now hold on-“

“Enough from you, Andrias.”

Lumbering forth from the castle ceiling was a spherical horror. A black ball of peering, holographical orange eyes slathered with dozens of tentacles and affixed to networks of wiring and circuitry with such a vibrant display of malicious technology that even the Dark Mechanicus would be pleased.

The Core- a collection of Amphibia’s best and brightest Newt sovereigns, their consciousnesses uploaded and melded into a singular digitized format which granted them life immortal to conceive new and terrible ambitions.

“Forgive the insolent wretch. He is young. But now- he will learn. All sacrifices are necessary for the advancement of ambition, are they not?”

“Ah. Master of Amphibia. A pleasure to make acquaintance with you at last in-person.”

“Our digital communique was growing old indeed, Lord Glitchtrap. Your actions here have earned our allegiance in your coming wars. The Newtopian Empire must again reign as a dominant power of the Multiverse. Aligning ourselves to your cause appears the best way to achieve such an end. We have something for you. More accurately, someone.”

“Oh? I certainly do love gifts.”
All For One remarked, the supervillain having become a close ally and councilor of William’s. Two Frobots emerged from a corner, ushered by their entangled and eldritch master. Clasped in their hold was Marcy Wu, a Taiwanese-American girl who’d ultimately gotten herself and her friends- through an extended series of events- doomed to quite horrible fates indeed.

“A… little girl? What manner of insult is this- to deliver such a worthless prize to the Lord of Dundee is equivalent to delivering a spit in my face!”
Zargothrax complained, not seeing the value of Marcy as she was tossed down onto the dusty grounds of Andrias’s court. Alit braziers stashed throughout the area granted a foreboding light that only added to such a hopeless scene. The Frobots stood at guard, not that Marcy could do anything. Andrias seemed shocked, turning back towards the gathered thinktank of his ancestors.

“What!? But I thought Marcy was-“

“To be our next host? No. Her intelligence is impressive, though a group consensus decided that her physicality leaves much to be desired. Furthermore, it has historically been Newts that constituted this magnificent body, and so it shall be always. I hope you are pleased, son. Your dream at long last becomes reality. To join us, your father, forever in this heaven of our own making.”

Andrias’s eyes widened, though not with joy. Reports and footage from Frobots that observed Chaos’s carnage wrought throughout Amphibia, and the fact Andrias’s father and everyone else conjoined within the Core found it acceptable still to throw their weight behind them… it was unforgivable. Andrias had limits. He wanted to protest.

Yet nothing came from his mouth. No order issuing the Frobots to fire upon the invading forces of darkness. No blade manifesting into those mighty palms of his to strike down the conglomeration of undying Newts that had sabotaged so decisively his chances of happiness.

No attempt to save Marcy from whatever fate might befall her.

“That is wonderful and all- but I’m still questioning what purpose she serves for us.”

“Her intelligence is indeed remarkable. Perhaps as a symbolic token of our cooperation together from hence forward, she may serve as your first sacrifice?”

“I suppose…”

“My Lord!”

Erebus’s voice rang forth again. Springtrap, now infused by Chaotic energies and impulses and thus finding it nigh impossible to restrain himself during moments of abject rage, was prepared to curse out the interrupting Apostle before Erebus seized initiative and continued.

“If I may- I believe she may serve as a useful mouthpiece for us. The Apostle Corps of the Primordial Empire always requires new members to spread the dark word of our saviors. Place her under my private tutelage. I shall take superb care of her.”

“Hm. Does anyone else object?”

AFO shrugged and Zargothrax just groaned with annoyance at this even being a question.

“Very good then. Do with her as you may Erebus and create another willing servant of ours yet.”

Two Possessed Word-Bearer Marines snarled with understanding after being ushered by Erebus, their claws wrapping around a confused Marcy, carting her away. Beforehand though, her eyes peered open, slowly recovering from the concoction of nonlethal poisons and bodily suppressants she was injected with while in Core custody.

“A-anne? Sasha… Anne, Sasha…”
She murmured on repeat as the Marines shuffled her off.

“That gift is just the beginning. We assure you Lord Glitchtrap- keep the Newtopian Empire in your close circles of reward and power, and our armaments shall compound your war efforts, wherever they wage. Our advancements in science and technology also subsume the infrastructural realms. There is much that Newtopia may offer you as tribute. You only need ask.”

Springtrap felt as though he’d heard a thousand versions of these pleasantries already, from local governors and lords and kings and mayors and captains and generals- from an already sizable career of conquest and despoiling. They were always superficial, meant to masquerade a desire for selfish advancement within the Primordial Empire’s hierarchy. Even so, William needed to accept such kindly words, lest risk awkward consequence’s fomenting.

“And I’ll take you up on those offers shortly. The Primordial Empire controls seven star-systems, and we’re much on the way to ruling many more. Your dimensional warp-technology intrigues me the most. If you’re willing to divulge secrets of that avenue to us?”

“Indeed! We were thinking you’d have interest in such things.”

“Well, not solely for matters of warfare and subjugation…”
All For One interjected. Unlike Erebus, William actually respected AFO’s opinion, so allowed him to proceed.

“Fluid movement of goods has become a matter of importance within our imperial borders. Your natural resources on this world, coupled with your innovations- could prove your Newtopian Empire a major player within the Intergalactic economy, should you play your cards right. You boast considerable advantages here that many of our member-states would kill for.”

“Do we? We shall take that into account. Though first-“

Without warning, the Core’s tentacles primed and jolted directly into Andrias. The Newt Monarch roared in anguished surprise as the invasive legacy of his forefathers now imprinted their vicious insanity into his mind. A series of forcible injections and dark sciences conjured within the unseemly corners of Newtopia’s hidden laboratories took place, altering Andrias’s mental capacity and integrating it into a hiveminded whole.

The procedure was horrific, soul-crushing, and brutal to witness. So naturally, Afton wasn’t very fazed by it. Afterwards, the Core’s primary spherical body shuttered down, the network of poring orange eyes quieting into a silent darkness and chassis clattering unceremoniously onto the ground. What remained of the Core reformatted into a conical helmet taking position upon Andrias’s head, finalizing their possession and utilization of Andrias as their physical emissary.

“Ah! Reclamation of flesh and blood and bone. At last, to have touch and feeling again… well, now I’m more than capable of conducting business.”

“Gotta get me one of those…”
Murmured AFO, while William crossed his arms and appraised the Core-drias.

“Your collective ambitions do surely impress me. I’m building something of a council.”

“Oh?”

The Core spoke with Andrias’s voice meshed within.

“Indeed. While it’s not seen growth in several years, the ultimate goal remains no less noble. A union of the universe’s greatest intellectuals and thinkers. Philosopher-kings and lords of their time, contemporary masterminds that stand above their inferiors. What say you, Core… drias? Andricore? Hmm, what should I call you actually?”

“For now, Coredrias suffices. We have already established a line of diplomacy through our communiques together. I don’t see why that relationship shouldn’t evolve into its next logical conclusion. Too long have we believed ourselves alone with our ambitions. Those of weaker mind believed us mad for bringing our glorious expansion throughout the Multiverse. To know there are those holding similar viewpoints to ours… that brings us a degree of comfort and confidence. Yes… consider the armies of Newtopia at the disposal of your Primordial Empire, Lord Glitchtrap, should you grant us rewards befitting this newly christened status of ours.”

“At last! Here I’d thought today would be another routine acquisition of tributary and treasure. Good to know I’ve been proven wrong. Now come.”

“Come? Where?”

“To your first meeting of the Dark Council, my friends!”

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Springtrap Maximus

Every evil overlord required a foreboding castle from which to dictate their dark creed from. Despite Springtrap’s empire being relatively small dominion of seven solar systems, (give or take), the man’s ego was unparalleled. Every slab of architectural grandeur which constituted this spiky, menacing spacebound fortress crept deeply into the Warp’s terrible whispers. After Earth’s subjugation, thousands of surviving humans were put to work by cruel Chaos and Hellish slave-masters that placed them at the mercy of barbed whips and sharpened knives. Casualties were monumental, though ultimately work on the fortress was completed before schedule- though additions to this colossal monument of vanity and Chaotic magnificence were being constructed every day.

Constructed at the fortress’s centerpiece was an elongated meeting place with a sizable table of black marble and condensed Warpstone, a mineral construed of purest Warp-energies solidified into a malleable rock form. Daemonic spirits whispered incalculable truths and dimensional quadratic formulas into the perked ears of the architects responsible for Springtrap Maximus’s creation, giving them advice crucial to ensure every majestic aspect of this visionary seat of power was built and perfected.

Of course, the harnessing of these dark spirits took the sacrifices of whatever remained of the Maldivian population after their meager nation was swallowed by abominable tides during Earth’s apocalyptic days, but Afton didn’t care.

An energetic purple portal sizzled forth into the council-chamber’s hearth. While Afton was incapable (so far) of transporting entire armies like Combine mass-teleportation technology could, his Daemonic powers were still able to allow but a few visitors through their rippling maws. The extent of Afton’s new abilities were yet to be explored, as most his time was occupied managing the sprawling empire he’d painstakingly carved in the years hence his original victory.

Proceeding first, William’s scintillating armor slinked into nonexistence, shaping into a grandiose set of robes. The Springbonnie helm he slipped back on in-transit formed into an awe-inspiring crown of encrusted gems and rubies. These design choices were completed by a flowing, regal purple cape.

This specific room was dotted with larger-than-life statues and portraits denoting Springtrap, All For One, and Zargothrax- these three, the primary sovereigns constituting the Primordial Empire’s High Command. Davoth, while keeping in relative contact with them, trailed off to resume command of Hell- a vast realm of constant division and destruction that demanded his attention. Even without the Dark Realm’s Warrior-King, Springtrap founded an empire of unrivaled darkness and strength. Millions existed under its banner by now, knowing only security, peace, and obedience to Chaos.

Following Springtrap, Zargothrax, All For One, Coredrias (who’s size didn’t seem a problem in the auditorium-scaled room), Advisor, Erebus, the entourage of Possessed Black Legionnaires and Word-Bearers, an increasingly lucid Marcy, and finally a personal guard of Frobot retainers that stuck close to Coredrias’s side poured in.

Awaiting William were a kneeling conclave of armored terrors, their faces enclosed behind masks of steel and Warp-forged hatred. They were the Glitchtrap-Guard, the cream of his military’s crop. Those who’d distinguished themselves through acts of villainous valor, bravery, loyalty, or ingenuity- perhaps a combination of these traits or some other victorious deed entirely which earned them personal favor from their Emperor’s eyes. Commanding this highly regarded order was none other than Horatio Gibbons.

Formerly an above-average gangster wasting away in Los Angeles’s soulless, materialistic streets, Horatio found a dark savior through the form of Afton. Under William’s dark tutelage, Gibbons discovered that unfettered true potential within himself, becoming a highly capable and efficient administrator, negotiator, combatant, and master of realpolitik.

When Erebus announced to Springtrap that his Dark Mechanicus friends acquired scores of Geneseed, the litany of hardware and bodily additives which created those unique superhuman trademarks of Afton’s Chaos Empire, Horatio was practically first in line. Then came Horatio’s childhood friend, Manuel Demago. Subsequent from them were individuals such as Gerald Toussaint, Fabian Kazzanour, Oliver Johannes, and generally every lieutenant, captain, enforcer, minion, or anyone else that remained loyal to Springtrap’s cause, or otherwise proved themselves useful tools for their master’s usage. Springtrap often forgot these hulking terrors were once regular humans that served him faithfully. Even their voices were deeper, gravellier and more Daemonic, indicating the corruption which slowly seized them and their souls.

“Welcome home, Emperor Glitchtrap.”
Horatio uttered with a deathly calm, kneeling in conjunction with his fellows before Afton.

“Well met, Horatio. I’ve brought new friends with me. I’m sure accommodations can be serviced appropriately?”

“Yes my Lord. I shall inform the slaves hitherto for foodstuff and refreshments.”

“Very good.”

Even Horatio’s manner of speaking became less down-to-earth and urban, refined into a distanced, overlording monologue of fanciful wordplay. William didn’t mind that alteration much.

“Master... forgive my impudence. But- we have longed to battle at your side. To reap the unworthy souls of those who dare oppose you upon the glittering cosmic frontier. Why have we not been granted such privilege during this cour of expansion?”

As the other dignitaries were led by acquiescent servants to specified table seating, (Erebus made formal goodbyes and departed with Marcy in tow), William sighed and moved to address Horatio’s pressing concern.

“You, my sons, my Glitchtrap-Guard. Loyalty such as yours has allowed me to build this grand society upon the boney foundations of Earth’s failed prior nation-states. Such is the reason I neglected to bring you forth for the Amphibian Subjugation. Frankly, the resistance was greatly outclassed by even the weakest of our forces. To bring along your swords for such a menial crusade would be greater insult to your capabilities. Fret not. Upon my next mission shall I garner your services to my side once again. Til then, stay yourself and gird for this imminence. Am I understood?”

William placed a firm, yet fair hand on Horatio’s shoulder. The helmeted warrior seemed hesitant at first, though ultimately accepted such logic and backed down, the rest of his order following.

“Perfect. We’ve a new arrival today. Our image must be of unitary strength. They must understand our might eclipses theirs, and thus psychologically imprint their lesser status compared to our own.”

“Aye, Master.”

Sat around this circular table, the assembled sovereigns were treated to golden goblets of rich wine, charcuterie boards stocked with cheeses, breads, grapes, pears, nuts of all manner as appetizer, and silver-plated entry courses of native Earth dishes such as caviar-laced lobster rolls, steaks, smash burgers, crab cakes, Chinese roasted duck- alongside foodstuffs of more alien origination. These were capitalized by a row of sweets, from cupcakes with ube, chocolate, and butterscotch frosting, to various flavors of rich cheesecake, ice-cream sundaes, and a specialty for tonight- a cake with an overflowing core of bubbling vanilla-chocolate infused liquid.

“To have been rid of the ecstatic pleasure of consumption for centuries, and being welcomed back with such a jaw-dropping feast- this truly honors us Newts, Emperor Glitchtrap.”

“Gentlemen, please. This is merely a casual night of dining at my residence. Merely another perk of membership within my council.”

Zargothrax slipped off that imposing necromantic mask of his and began helping himself to grapes and fine cheeses from the board, even spreading a slathering of sour cream sauce onto a cracker and ladening it with caviar and finishing with cracker, creating a miniature sandwich for a rich, creamy delight. All For One helped himself straight to a main course of steak with a demi-glaze sauce, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and a side of velvety wine.

Coredrias examined these presentations tentatively, deciding upon a plate-full of aged cheeses, crab-cakes, three helpings of Spanish Iberian Ham, and finishing that with a vanilla ice-cream sundae with rich chocolate sauce daubed over. Helping himself firstly to a rich cheese and crab-cake, the multi-generational eldritch made pleasurable noises through Andrias’s voice while chewing down on these delights.

“My compliments to the chef!”

“Chef Julian Slowik. My private cook. The best gastronomist of our time. I’ll have you two introduced sometime. Though perhaps we should discuss more… foremost initiatives firsthand.”

“Mm- of course. What’s on your mind, Emperor?”

Coredrias gulped down a slap of delicious, juicy ham beforehand.

“All For One made prior mention of your potential as an Intergalactic economic superpower owed to your highly efficient means of natural resource extraction, alongside the sizable automaton military at your disposal. Your energy, infrastructural, and luxury exports could see a massive financial take-in for your nascently restored empire.”

“We fully intend to leverage Amphibia’s bountiful caves and forests- among her other trademarks, for such purpose. During Newtopia’s heyday however, our economy was bolstered through the economics of conquest. Each new trans-dimensional realm we subsumed into our society presented their own wreath of benefits to exploit; alongside their unique downsides of course- though our Frobots were usually enough to quell such dissatisfactions.”

Coredrias spoke while attempting to hold still a knife and fork that were clearly too small for him. Ultimately, the Leviathan-King settled for utilizing his hands, a barbaric practice that internally offput a manner-orientated Afton, though no verbal signature of this annoyance was made.

 “Mayhaps we could enter into a trade agreement? My Kingdom of Dundee is an unruly territory as ever. Still, loyalists bay the accursed name of the McFife bloodline. These insurgents cloak themselves among the ordinary citizenry, sequestering within places even the Chaos Marines of Emperor Afton cannot reach. Your Frobots appear expendable and numerous, and easy to construct. For an exchange of Frobot factories constructed in my territory so I may reap their utilization, I would gladly open my ports to your wares. Perhaps through bread and circus I may placate these mewling peoples. Fear alone a productive society does not thrive off.”

Zargothrax proposed while wolfing down a caviar-strewn cracker. Coredrias’s multi-eyed helm became alit with curiosity and joy at such proposal.

“We’d enjoy hearing more details after this dinner. Perhaps a later time?”

“Aye, that seems sufficient to me. I’ll dispatch an emissary to your halls afterward then.”

“Speaking of your Frobots, Coredrias, I was contemplating a possible design update for them that would involve inclusion of semi-organic elements…”
All For One spoke next. Soon enough, the dinner became alight with conversation of political dealings and finagling- though also trussed into casual discussion- as if these individuals weren’t abhorrent tyrants responsible for horrific war crimes and atrocities.

Countless deals were forged as the many personalities constituting the Core, for the first time, felt something close to ease. Full trust would’ve never been divulged to these allies, though among all that inhabited this dread-universe ripe for conquering and exploitation, they seemed the most in-tune with understanding their purpose.

An hour passed, and by now, they were perusing more banal topics, including the insulting and demeaning of their enemies, most of whom were literal children, intriguingly enough.

“HAH! Indeed. It was foolish of those lickspittle children to believe they could stand against our might. Admittedly, they possessed a strange connection to those Calamity Gems we would’ve liked to know more about. Would it permit for us to retain the Boonchuy and Waybright girls as prisoners for study?”

“I see little issue there. The girls are of little consequence to me. I’m unsure what that snake Erebus wants with Marcy Wu- though I’ve an idea.”

“Hehe. Is your friend of a salacious inclination, Emperor Glitchtrap?”
All For One inquired while pouring himself another helping of wine from a beautifully designed bottle.

“Rumors certainly abound within the Apostle Corps, though again, nothing of my concern lest it affect my operations directly. Say, All For One, whatever happened to that Midoriya boy? He was of great concern to you years ago.”
Afton asked.

“Tomura holds custody of that powerless gnat. There he is gifted suffering unknowable till time’s end. No better fitting a fate for All-Might’s wretched spawn.”

“Surely. Any child idiotic enough to follow down the path of righteousness and light should be maimed in their crib.”
Zargothrax added with a chuckle.

“Ah- but children are the future. Slay a few here and there to make a point, I agree- though a majority should be preserved for future usage. People are our greatest resource if used correctly. They carry our dreams of empire.”

“Personally, I would enjoy an age of automation that would entirely remove the necessitation of pathetic mankind as cogs in my dark machine. Angus McFife’s legacy of that insidious thorn dubbed ‘hope’ has provided no end of troubles to my plans of godly ascendance.”

William seemed ready to contribute another statement before the cloaked Advisor carefully approached his side and whispered something.

“Hmm? Right now?”

“I’m afraid so, My Lord. His transmission was described as ‘pressingly urgent’ by the Spymaster.”

“… Put him through.”

William turned to his allies, whose attentions were squarely fixated on whatever was occurring there.

“Gentlemen- I’ve been informed an ally of mine is preening for my assistance. A momentary disruption, I assure you.”

“Hah! Let us hear this plea. It may provide some further intrigue.”
All For One remarked. William thought little of it. AFO and Zargothrax were members of his coveted inner circle, and Coredrias was warming into that status already with the nascent potential of his restored Newtopian Empire. It’d also serve as another psychological status symbol of Glitchtrap’s power to display another sovereign reliant on his generous assistance.

A projected screen unfurled before the meeting room. At first a purely black screen, it soon garbled to holographic life owed to technologies of William’s own making. His engineering quirk always shone through, and being a Dark Lord didn’t mean he couldn’t be an expert innovator and craftsman too.

A momentary buzz followed, before onto the screen flowed the visage of an elderly, shimmering bald, stout human male.

Scolar Visari- undisputed Autarch of the Helghan Empire, a society forged from unrepentant hardship and Darwinist attitudes regarding the wider universe. You were either predator or prey, and the Helghast intended to stay predator.

“Emperor Glitchtrap. A pleasure to see you again, though I wished under sunnier circumstances."

“Autarch Visari. You’ve interrupted my dinner. I pray for your sake the reasoning is just.”

Visari didn’t betray any signs of cowed fear at that thinly veiled threat, something most did. William couldn’t help but appreciate that level of boldness.

“Just indeed, Emperor Glitchtrap. Should it not inconvenience you, I intend to make good on that deal we forged two Terran solar-rotations ago. My Helghan troops provided safety to your frontier colonies during your old struggle. Thusly, I expect your own Marines and dark servants to provide a similar security to my people.”

William chafed. He forgot about that favor. Denying assistance now before his inner circle members (and an inner-circle aspirant), alongside the Glitchtrap-Guard and Advisor would indicate stark weakness. Through attempting to display his own greatness and strength, he’d shoveled a trap for himself.

“And what would this callback entail?”

“My people stir. We, the spirits of Helghan, are made of iron and blood, and our fury is surefire as our vengeance against those oppressors who made profit and succor from our suffering. However… even those of indomitable Helghan require sustenance. As you’ve prior declined to establish routes of food-based trade-“

“Not unless your Helghast Empire agrees to submit itself a member-state of my Primordial Empire.”

“Hah! A clever trick, yet one I refuse all the same. Nay, I am not here to preen and beg to become your vassal, Emperor Glitchtrap. I request instead a military intervention on your end. Crucial lanes of import and export are burnt, middleman worlds that served as ports for these goods being targets of unholy bands of alien marauders. They style themselves a ridiculous name: ‘The Banished’. Whoever they are, they have refused to engage us in an open theater of combat- preferring the cowardly guerilla means of hit-and-run assailments. Helghan can stand these insults no longer!”

“I presumed you would’ve called in your favor to resolve a matter beyond a group of reaving pirates.”

“The matter of our vengeance against the UCN and their backers shall stay Helghan’s business exclusively! And these are no ordinary reavers. You shall see. We request your assistance in clearing our borders of this… hampering. According details will be provided as needed, should you accept.”

“…”

William chafed. Another theater of warfare? Now? Ambitions of expansion would have to sideline once again. Though making good on pacts was a matter of heightened importance. It was a difficult choice, yet simultaneously an easy one.

“Of course, Autarch. The Forces of Chaos will help you clear this… problem of yours.”

“Excellent. You shall be briefed shortly.”

Visari blipped out from the call, leaving a frustrated Afton to roll back and face his inner circle.

“… I think that went rather well.”
All For One remarked.

Chapter Text

Helghan Frontier Space

Mael Radec was a man to be admired.

A proven operator and loyalist of Scolar Visari’s, the man upheld the brilliant ideals of the Helghan dream without fail. Anything his sovereign commanded of him, Mael would see complete with bloody intention.

Usually, Radec would occupy a place directly at his lord’s side, protecting him from any perceivable threat. After all, the decades Visari spent restoring Helghan’s pride from the disgrace and oppression initiated by the Helghan Administrative bureaucrats and their ISA and UCN masters were stocked with countless political enemies that sought the upstart Visari’s elimination. Radec personally silenced dozens of their ilk.

With Helghan’s vital imports of foodstuff being threatened by barbaric piratical raids, Mael was assigned his career’s most pertinent assignment yet- safeguarding his people’s future.

Though having to collaborate with a horde of destitute, insane, murderous, and generally unlikeable armored warriors wasn’t exactly conducive to such goals.

“Must we partake in these… indulgences before setting forth?”

Murmured Radec irritably, displaying a surprising lack of terror, rather a mild disgust while watching a collective of these hulking monstrosities Visari called upon for support brutally skin a series of prisoners and slaves within their vessel’s center. Commanding these unseemly rituals of screams and bloodletting were a sect of blue-colored warriors, their armor dispensed with etchings of winged, death-hungry fanged skulls. Their helmets were similar, bearing a fearmongering terror design meant to enact psychological mayhem onto their enemies before striking them down.

According to these ‘allies’ of Helghan’s, they were termed Night Lords.

Nine of these uncouth renegades were present, and with their sharpened, precise instruments of torture they carefully peeled off superficial skin coating and revealing the squeamish bundle of arteries, veins, blood vessels, and smattered organs beneath. Radec privately admitted it was impressive how these killers managed their movements so artistically, expertly slicing off swaths of skin like cutting dried meats.

“Their history is one of festering darkness. According to traditionalist Night Lord belief, the… carving of their victims will bring them divine, spiritual protections for their upcoming struggle. Whether such rumors are founded or not, well… certainly, that’s a question. Not one to ask the Night Lords, though.”
Spoke a cloaked elderly figure who stepped over to join Mael upon the overhang balcony granting a full-scale view of everything taking place within the foreboding ‘auditorium’. As the Night Lords partook in the dissolution of their victims, an audience of other Night Lords and Chaos Marines of various origination- alongside their lesser Chaos-Guard cousins roared with sadistic joy at watching such grisly atrocity take place. Chaos theology demanded the weak be eviscerated for their sin of existing, and thus crimes such as these were widely accepted within this insidious madhouse of a society.

“And you are?”

“Glitchtrap’s Majordomo, good sir. They know me simply as ‘The Advisor’, should such a moniker please you.”

“Suffices. Inform me, Advisor, why it was utterly crucial for my men and I to remain on-board this grimy, fleshy, bulbous horror-show of a warship for this operation?”

“My Master’s plan is relatively simple: Our bait vessel shall dispense itself as but a benign trade-craft carrying supplies and rations back to your homeworld. When Banished forces inevitably arrive to pluck whatever valuables they could from its steel walls, our legions will descend upon them with utter fury! By then their ship formations will be too entrenched to properly escape.”

“They’ll grow wise to such tactics. What then?”

“Ideally, prisoners captured from the operation may yield useful information regarding the locations of Banished operations throughout the sector. Our soldiers have very… persuasive techniques, as I’m sure you’ve witnessed.”

“To my annoyance. Should that pan out?”

“It matters not. Our plan is waging a war of purest cruelty against the Banished. Even their most benign of miscreants will face wrath so pure and complete that a terror shall exude within their fetid rank. That is why Emperor Glitchtrap specifically brought along these Night Lords. They shall weaponize our element of fear and ensure no Banished fool considers touching your people’s ships again.”

“Hmph. I shall believe it when I see it. What role shall we play here?”

“That matter is for my Master’s discretion during the tactical briefing in several minutes, my friend.”

Radec, having his fill of seeing eyes plucked from their sockets and toes pulled off without the victims enjoying the relief of death by shock or blood loss, turned around jostled Advisor against a grimy, corruption-slaked wall.

“We are not friends, old fool. This relationship is purely one of transactional necessity, and I speak carrying the authority of Helghan- while your Devil-King has been granted command of this initiative by my Autarch, should your gaggle of terrorists and delinquents here prove in any measure a threat to the Helghast… I shall not play around with these torture-games. Your deaths will be swift and sure.”

Radec loosened his grip upon the Advisor’s collar, causing the old sorcerer to cough and stare irritably at Mael for a moment- that old sorcerous rage long forgotten bubbling to the surface… before dispensing back into that neutral, unknowable mirage that was his enigmatic personality.

“Your concerns are heard and understood, Colonel.”

Radec scoffed under the gasmask, red-eyed helmet he wore, pushing past the Advisor and proceeding down a hall of the hellish vessel.

“Rude little thug…”
Murmured Advisor under his breath.

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Apostle's Den – Springtrap Maximus

Erebus had undergone some… trials throughout his miserable, backstabbing existence.

Well, all because of his own hubris and sheer heinousness of course. Hell, Erebus wasn’t even his real name. A successful, priestly local boy held that moniker before the imposter violently strangled him to death for the sin of being unknowingly compared by his mother during a conversation over family dinner. After granting himself that name, Erebus made quick work of utterly pummeling it into the gutter, becoming the source of mankind’s downfall to deathly, hungering gods in another Galaxy- while bearing naught but a crooked smile upon that shimmering bald face of his.

Erebus felt no guilt. He captained Horus’s downfall through thieving that fateful blade and manipulating his sons through those accursed warrior-lodgers. He eliminated Argel Tal after realizing that Kharn’s seduction to Khorne’s boundless rage couldn’t have fathomed otherwise. Even now, the man presumed on actions of little dignity and immense pleasure to himself.

These enjoyments he could afford. Convincing herds of Chaos Warbands of joining with Afton by capitalizing on their disillusionments with their absentee or abusive Primarchs was child’s play. Even now, Erebus’s Word-Bearer minions continued operating throughout their home galaxy, utilizing a spy network of intelligence to garner knowledge on the latest happenings within and without the Eye of Terror. The Eldari, Necrontyr, Imperium, Tau, Greenskins, even moving fleets of insectoid hunger that were the Tyranids were known to him. While Tzeentch wasn’t specifically Erebus’s patron, instead the Word-Bearer choosing to venerate all four gods equally, the tattooed villain was certainly a master-schemer.

It ‘twas owed these efforts and victories that allotted Erebus such high standing within Springtrap’s empire, even granted the despot’s obvious distaste for him. Erebus wasn’t the only man William hated who’d become a necessity in his life, but he was undoubtedly the most prolific. He constantly skirted authority, not enough to incur his master’s wrath, though enough to continuously infuriate the malignant Daemon Prince. It was this dangerous political gamble that Erebus reveled in.

And when he wasn’t giddily preaching Chaotic dogma, Erebus preyed on the vulnerable, the meek, and the timid.

“Why won’t you eat it? Come on dear Marcy. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I… I don’t want to. Where’s Anne and Sasha? You promised me I could see them after I got better.”

“They’re coming darling. But I told them about how impatient you were in seeing them and now they’re second-guessing. They don’t want to spend time around a bad girl after all.”

“No. No- they wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t abandon me like that. I know them. You’re lying.”

“Am I? Consider your recent incident with them. I recall there was a falling out.”

“H-how do you know about that!?”

“I know many things dearie. I have eyes everywhere. When I preach, billions listen. There are battalions waiting to fall on the sword for me as I speak. That is true power. Listen carefully- this root can numb your senses. It makes you forget the bad things. You want to forget the bad things, don’t you Marcy Wu?”

“… Where am I? Who are you? Why haven’t you told me any of these things yet!?”

“Marcy-“

“Y-you’re creepy! Don’t touch me! ANNE! SASHA! HELP! I’M SORRY! I WAS WRONG! I WAS SO WRONG! I REGRET EVERYTHING! PLEASE-“

Marcy descended into an incoherent babbling wail, much to Erebus’s irritation. The Dark Apostle held tightly that mysterious, purplish-auraed glowing root, squeezing it to signify that annoyance with her conduct, before shoving it violently into her mouth. Erebus was careful, avoiding physically crushing the Taiwanese American with his vastly superior physical strength. Force-feeding these slaves without crushing them took precision and intellect, something Erebus contained in droves. Smirking perversely, he watched as the root’s leaves were forcibly ingested by the struggling girl.

She writhed about momentarily as these narcotics and stimulants took hold. These plants organically grew within planets scattered about the Eye of Terror, and Erebus managed a network to smuggle them over. During his countless civil wars against other Dark Council members of the Word-Bearers Legion, Kor-Phaeron primarily, these roots were useful with dulling the senses of human slaves to ensure they obeyed Erebus’s bidding and charged suicidally to distract enemy battlelines while the real force snuck around and launched blitzkrieg attacks on entrenched enemy positions.

“Ahhh… there we are. Quiet down now. Good girl. Very good. I think I’ll let you nap here a while. My fun can begin later. There’s a business affair I must attend. Don’t fret though. I’ll come back. And then we can play.”

The Dark Apostle stood up and exited the private bedroom, shuttering the door behind him. A familiar scent of perfumes, narcotics, and fresheners assailed the false shepherd’s nostrils. Two stories of low-colored bedrooms with dim red and purple lights lingering above. A menagerie of sofas and satin pillows and various other furniture laid to rest countless dozens of young men and women, some with dried flesh-markings of Chaos’s iconic eight-pointed star slapped on their foreheads. None were clothed beyond barebones white loincloths and strappings upon their chest.

These were ‘Apostle-Initiates’. As Erebus sought to rebuild the Word-Bearers under his greedy, selfish image, he required suffice replacements for their proselytizing Dark Apostle missionaries spreading Chaos’s evil word. A handful joined him on the daring migration into this Galaxy, though most remained, solidified with their own assets and loyalists. Thus, Erebus needed to replenish his religious ranks with new initiates fanatically devoted to the Dark Gods. Unfortunately, very few passed the initial test, and Erebus and those other senior Dark Apostles that joined his migration often used their captured initiates for purposes other than unholy scripture lessons…

“Sleep soundly little ones. Tomorrow comes more rigorous learning. Prepare yourselves.”
Erebus giggled sadistically, though noticed another towering, muscular figure stayed inside the Den, encircled by a coterie of Apostle Initiates whispering sweet nothings into his ear or otherwise admiring his physique and proclaiming his greatness.

Ankh-Heloth. During older days, the man was Senior Word-Bearers Apostle Ekodas’s number two, and others suspected and rumored something more. After his patron was slain at the hands of legendary Imperial Grey Knights, Heloth’s noose tightened around his neck as rivals banded together throughout the Word-Bearers to conspire a seizure of that coveted seat he held. When Erebus announced a daring escape to seed Chaos’s fruit into a new frontier, he quickly latched on for survival’s sake.

Erebus wished he didn’t, seeing the man as too reliant on impulsive feelings of the heart to properly serve the Dark Gods.

“Ah- Erebus. Leaving so early? You sure break them quick nowadays.”

“An art form perfected over millennia of practice. I can assure that it holds the same satisfaction as it did the first time however. And you? When shall you depart?”

“Mmm… these beauties call my name sire. As the sea-siren sings an irresistible song of joy to her victims, so too am I whisked away by these pure kindreds and their promises. Aren’t I?”

Heloth smirked as a female, copper-skinned Apostle-Initiate giggled at his comment.

“They are not Apostles yet. That is why we teach them in this Den. Our indulgences are secondary to their dark education. Recall this well, Ankh-Heloth.”

“Bah! I teach them indeed. Where you find pleasure only in bullying and torture- as some immature child never grown from their formative days of Colchis priesthood, I expand and see the universe in forms anew with my acquaintances here. Chaos’s infinite majesty grants us right to interpret the Brothers Four and their messages with an endless splay of interpretation, does it not?”

“Perhaps then you ought to subscribe to my interpretation.”

“Should it ever someday suit me. And friend Erebus, I doubt that immensely.”

“As you are, I pray our views never intersect. Remind the guards to replenish the incense-braziers on your way out. Whenever that will be.”

Erebus was scum- the lowest of the low. There wasn’t any denying. But he was proactive scum. Scum that changed destinies and fates and manipulated empires to their birth and ruination. Ankh-Heloth’s treasured status as Dark Apostle of the Eleventh Word-Bearer Host was begotten thanks to Ekodas. Hell, the only reason Erebus didn’t slit the idiot’s throat was because there were too few Word-Bearer veterans with him currently. Those that did commanded reverence from the Chaos Marines.

Upon exiting the Den, two flanking Word-Bearer guards donning specialized ceremonial garb befitting of their sacred station in protecting the halls where new Apostles were created raised their spears respectfully to grant the Dark Apostle passage. He provided them with no thanks, silently proceeding forward.

Walking through Springtrap Maximus was certainly a visual treat the first few times you admired the niceties of humanity’s greatest architectural achievement. The halls were impossibly massive, portraits larger-than-life, statues of stone appeared almost alive with their popping expressions.

A host of rooms splayed forth, and a small army of Chaos-infused Afton Robotics animatronics acted as servants and guards here. Erebus personally thought they were ridiculous. Their original function was playing songs for snot-nosed brats! Though upon William’s insistence, they kept altered designs of those original animatronics and transformed them into ghoulish, nightmarish continuations of their former selves.

Erebus took a magically powered elevator to Springtrap Maximus’s Hangar-Bay level. While inter-galactic commerce and imports were delivered to Earth’s surface, luxury items and foodstuffs- among other pleasantries sourced from trading partners of the Primordial Empire’s- were delivered into Springtrap’s hangar directly.

So cataclysmically massive was William’s ego and desire for aristocratic superiority that countless enjoyments were acquired each week, mystical and intriguing vessels of various multitudes of design constantly transporting their goods here.

Erebus seized the opportunity for a quiet place to conspire. Hustling to a dark corner of the Hangar-Bay behind a landed tradecraft, he unveiled a holo-projector retrofitted for Space Marine usage. Activating the device yielded the visage of a Night Lord Warband Commander, wreathed in terror, gore, and blood.

Hemek. Captain of the ‘Nightwing’ Night Lords Warband who previously sought to join Abbadon’s Thirteenth Black Crusade before Erebus’s manipulations reached his ear. Well, more accurately- Hemek owed Erebus a sizable favor considering his Word-Bearers bailed out the doomed Nostramon natives during a fateful Blood Angel ambush whilst they scoured for supplies. Now Hemek served as Erebus’s inside man into William’s operations. It was always good to know what your boss was up too.

“Ahh. Erebus. How… delighted I am for this communique.”

The Nostramon accent betrayed Hemek’s undying hatred. Erebus smirked in response. So long as this blackmail held high over the man’s head, there was little to worry about.

“My sources tell me the Master is currently engaged in war against a Xenos mercenary faction on behalf of a human empire.”

“The Banished. We have laid a trap for them already. All that remains now is seeing if they take the bait.”

“We could lose precious gene-stock in this engagement. Does Glitchtrap value his agreements with lesser so much that he’s willing to sacrifice the few Astartes in our possession?”

“Our Master assures us that we shall emerge the beneficiaries of this conflict.”

“Heh. What do you really believe, Hemek?”

“Whichever champion leads my brood-kin and I to bounties of slaughter commands my allegiance. I am only reporting to you because of the accursed blackmail you hang over my neck like a noose. Do not lie and pretend to care about the lives of your fellow Astartes. Our relationship is built purely on mutual convenience. Or was. Now it’s constructed entirely of intimidation. An intimidation I’d adore being on the opposing side of.”

“But you’re not, Hemek. Since you’ve nothing but complaints, contact me when something happens. I want to be kept appraised.”

“I have no choice.”

Hemek ended the call and Erebus felt highly of himself. Night Lords were notoriously a renegade bunch. To have one obey his commands like a dog, even forcibly, fed that engorged opinion the Dark Apostle held of himself. Truly he was a master of the politick. A lord of the game. An unbeatable bulwark of Chaotic thought, always corrupting civilization and belying universes in shadow upon-

What’s this? The projector whined again. Someone else was calling him. Surely it wasn’t Hemek, the fellow never spoke to Erebus longer then necessitated, so…

Purely out of curiosity, Erebus accepted the call. No face displayed, only a straight line of sound that garbled whenever the anonymous, altered voice spoke.

“Erebus. Dark Apostle of the Primordial Empire. Is that correct?”

“Charmed.”

“You will be. I’m afraid we won’t mince words here- an unfortunate predicament for you, as that’s your stock and trade.”

“A low insult from a mongrel. I should expect nothing less. Goodbye-“

“We know about the Apostle Den.”

Erebus’s confident face flushed with confusion and terror. Not a similar bout from when Horus skinned his face-flesh, or when Kharn smacked the bastard to an inch of his life, but certainly a paralyzing quietness that subsumed the genetically altered superhuman’s body.

“What?”

“Ahh. I love it. The fear reverberating in your voice. That terror you so desperately try to masquerade your entire life bubbling to a sudden surface.”

“How do you-“

“Enough questions. You may believe yourself invaluable to Glitchtrap’s empire. Certainly you hold sway and prestige among the Chaos Astartes. Yet that won’t save you if our evidence leaks out. Even the most destitute of governments needs a support-base. People are the greatest resource for a society. That’s why your sovereign has moved to make the Primordial Empire more approachable. Sending his Chaos Astartes to the frontier, away from ordinary citizens and placing billions of Spring-Coins- God what a stupid name- into reconstruction efforts of infrastructure destroyed during the invasion. If this, or anything I have on your colleagues gets out, it will tear the small trust rebuilt between your government and your people. Earth will rebel once again, and Glitchtrap, nor his Combine allies would like that. Heads will roll. One of them yours.”

“You damnable snake. I am Erebus of the Word-Bearers. Conspirator behind the Horus Heresy, Mastermind of-“

“Another word and we release it. Everything. All the innocents you’ve victimized inside that chamber of yours.”

…

“… What is this?”

“You will make yourself present in Washington D.C. Once we have confirmation of your arrival, we’ll provide you further information. A meeting if you will.”

“Meeting!? What manner of foolishness is this!?”

“From now on, you will dance to our tune, Erebus. You have twenty-four hours. See you soon.”

And the call ceased.

Erebus boiled with rage. A superhuman grand manipulator, a monstrous Agent of Chaos, a loyal servant of Darkness…

How could this have happened!?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Helghast Merchant Ship – Pyrrhus’s Silver Hand

En’Geddon prided himself on a powerful sense of smell.

The Banished Jiralhanae Chieftain could sniff out hiding human whelps from ten miles away, even more nowadays! He’d been training those nostrils of his to denote particular scents, acquiring familiar smells from the aftermath of battle-grounds and honing onto those sensations. Considering the renegade pirate faction enjoyed a litany of new victories these past few months from targeting these hapless ‘Helghast’, En’Geddon was able to train this sense to an immaculate science.

Clasping the modified Grav-Hammer ‘Rushdown’ close as it warbled with gravitic energies, En’Geddon witnessed happily as his subordinate packmates dragged out screaming or desperately resisting pockets of Helghast resistance throughout the ship, ruthlessly executing them with suffice stomps to their squishy, globed heads. Those that bore at least the smallest audacity to vicariously resist with pelts of bullet-fire were impaled by scores of Banished spikes or plasma, their bodies emerging from whichever covers they chose and flopping on the floor.

“Hehe. Their gasmasks never fail to amuse me. They appear so intimidating- yet beneath them lies naught but the visage of frail mankind. I don’t understand why Atriox is allowing this weak species into our rank. Me personally? I would die before I fought alongside any manner of pathetic, sniveling human.”

En’Geddon remarked to a fellow Jiralhanae packmate as they, alongside a wider escort of eight other Jiralhanae, a few scattered Sangheili, Kig’Yar, and Unggoy trounced about the dark hallways of this merchant-craft, methodically executing any Helghast foe in sight. Like clockwork, they emerged to lone mercantile vessels when they least expected it and rained fire and death upon their unsuspecting hides. The Banished were methodical- when they struck gold they never ensnared too much. The Helghast were quite a fervorous, nationalistic people. When news of their food supplies and commodity goods being pilfered by alien mercenaries spread, they demanded vengeance.

Warmaster Atriox wasn’t interested in any protracted war. So, they exclusively targeted these weaker treasure-fleets and planets on Helghan’s imperial frontier- accompanied by an erratic schedule where they appeared a day every week then followed the week after with no sightings. By now the Helghast on their empire’s frontier were driven to paranoia and abject terror, taking every precaution imaginable- and still lost. When an enemy was cornered, they were irrational and prone to making mistakes. Atriox; being the true strategist, won the moment this fear overtook Visari’s fiery rhetoric on these faraway colonies.

And everyone needed to eat. These treasure-fleets would always come, as Helghan was still building the infrastructure necessary for consistent factory-farming in the wake of Visari’s sweeping reforms.

“Hah! You speak truth En’Geddon. Even these scrawny Unggoy are preferable allies in combat over those sniveling human cretins. It matters not which nation they hail- United Space Command, Helghan, Systems Alliance- even those mysterious Terrans. They shall all know our wrath!”

“Indeed. We-“

En’Geddon was cut off by a sudden communications report. Growling, the gargantuan hairy ape murderer took the call.

“What reason do you bear for interrupting me, Squadron Three?”

“Uhhh- so- with your tone I’m not sure if I wanna relay this information. You sound angry and unwilling to listen. Should I just contact you later? I mean that’s totally fine since I’m not in the mood to endure one of your mean rants right now.”

“Just TELL ME what’s going on or I will head down to the Storage Bay and wring your head from its abominable neck you deplorable methane-huffing MUNCHKIN!”

“AAAAAGGGGHHH! W-well, sir… the… the Storage Room is empty!”

What!?

“Idiot! Surely there are still rations here for the crew.”

“Uh... do cobwebs count as rations? I mean we don’t really know that much about humans to be fair. Maybe they’ve evolved to eat cobwebs! They might have stomach enzymes that help them digest that kinda stuff y’know? I don’t judge.”

“Not even rations… no- impossible. We’ve raided a dozen vessels like this one! I’ve memorized their inner structures a thousand times over! SEARCH THE SUPPLY ROOM YOU WORTHLESS DOLT!”

“B-b-b-but… w-we already have, sir… I promise- there’s nothing here but… d-dust and crates. I mean- we could look again if you want-“

“DO THAT THEN! Clearly you have underperformed. I shall report this failure to Atriox himself.”

“But-“

En’Geddon ended the call, fuming. These vessels always contained booze or some manner of concoction or stimulant the crew stocked for themselves to make these quiet days traversing silent space bearable. No matter what manner of day En’Geddon had, he always looked forward to raiding these mercantile types of ships to break into those stores and enjoy himself for a few hours before reporting back to Atriox. Skimming a miniscule amount for his and his troops’ enjoyment had become a time-honored tradition of theirs. Now learning this cavalcade of slaughter would culminate to nothing of the sort infuriated the red-plate armored Jiralhanae.

Before he could complain, another call.

“WHAT IS IT!?”

He snarled.

“Sir! We have secured the bridge!”

“And!?”

“… There’s none here. No Captain, no navigators, nothing. What’s stranger is that when we searched the computer terminals, well… how do I say- there was no destination outlined.”

“Wha- that makes no sense. Are you certain you’re at the ship’s bridge?”

“Without doubt. We’ve searched it thoroughly. Every location near it too. Should we leave the vessel?”

“Grah… I…”

En’Geddon’s rage descended into confusion. How could this be? Was this a trap!? No, impossible. The Banished were outwit by none. They’d planned this raid days in advance, off verified intel from a bloodied Helghast prisoner.

“I don’t understand!”

“Neither do we sire. But it’s pointless to remain.”

“There was active resistance throughout the vessel, but not the bridge? What gamble are these wretched spawnlings playing!? Regroup with the other squadrons. We’re returning to the hang-“

Just then, the ship’s lights deactivated.

“HUH!? CAPTAIN KAVAMEE-“

“It happened here too, Battle-Commander! Someone must’ve tampered with the generator!”

“It must be those damnable Unggoy! By Teash, I grant them one compliment and they intend to dishevel my favor right then!”

“Battle-Commander…”

“What new madness assails us!?”

“T-there’s… there’s someone here with us.”

“Huh? What are you saying?”

“I can make out its lean eyes in this darkness. Are those fangs? Wings? This darkness is so encumbering, I can’t… BY THE FORERUNNERS!”

“Kavamee!?”

“It… it just carved Hatumai. Like his armor and shielding were nothing. Like he was made of wet paper… O-OPEN FIRE!”

A chorus of grainy shouts and screams blazed back from the comm-line. En’Geddon grew further agitated, and whilst not wanting to admit it… fearful. An unwelcome emotion he’d not known since those terrible childhood days when his Bulwark of Bone at Zomar City were made victim by ruthless enemy clans and countless other monstrosities that lurked within that accursed city’s shadow and step.

“Kavamee!? What’s going on up there!? KAVAMEE!”

“BATTLE-COMMANDER, YOU MUST RUN! THESE ARE NOT HUMANS! THESE ARE DEVILS! DEVILS I SAY! RUN! RUNN-“

Sangheili Banished War-Captain Kavamee made sounds of struggle, roaring with that pride distinctive of his warrior-race as plasma splayed loudly over the comms. A horrific crunch followed, alongside a fleshy dispatch which sounded akin to crackling sizzles when someone cooked with a pot, only far rubberier and ickier.

The comm-line died, and neither Rushdown Hammer nor his packmates- veterans of the Human-Covenant War they abandoned nor countless other engagements on Atriox’s behalf- could make this eight-foot-tall Jiralhanae feel safe.

But he would NOT run. They were Banished. Proud of their label and their victory, they would not balk before any enemy.

“Trorceus, Kroheccis, you two shall keep at my side. Everyone else disseminate into a diamond formation. We have been accosted by a grave enemy that dares to challenge us. Even in darkness we shall not be deterred! Activate your flashlights Banished!”

A moralized roar from En’Geddon’s group followed as they switched on their helmet or weapon lights, their Chieftain doing the same. The generic, dark hallway’s grooves and tiles became known to them. Tightening his grip as the whine of energy hissed from Rushdown, En’Geddon proceeded forward.

“Hello, little xenos.”

A thick, deeply accented voice reverberated throughout the hallway. En’Geddon’s grip tightened. He was feeling cornered.

Irrational.

“SHOW YOURSELF COWARD! YOU SPEAK CHALLENGE TO WE, THE BANISHED!? I ACCEPT! COME FORTH AND DIE!”

“That’d spoil the fun. And I intend to have much fun with you, little Xeno. Your pitiable squad though? Less so.”

“I’LL PULVERIZE YOU WITH MY HAMMER SHOULD YOU SPATTER ANOTHER WORD YOU ROTTEN BASTARD!”

No response. En’Geddon turned back to his squadron instinctively…

There were eight Brutes, right? He only saw seven.

“Nuneddeus? Where are you?”

Nothing for a few moments. Then a strange pattering sound. En’Geddon’s acute sense of smell could hone onto it within seconds. Leering up, flashlight accompanied, En’Geddon saw Nuneddeus’s fate.

A mighty Jiralhanae warrior, a proud lover of combat and life whose wish of returning to Doisac was shared by many within the Banished, though Nuneddeus bore an intensely personal reason… a family he left behind there, awaiting his return.

That would never happen now.

En’Geddon’s mouth went agape as Nuneddeus, still barely clinging to abhorrent life, gasped for breath that’d never come. His armor was torn off brutishly, leaving scars everywhere. Gashes slicked his naked, grey body, staining that proud brownish hair with leaky crimson. These cuts seemed strategic to inflict maximum suffering onto poor Nuneddeus without granting him that sweet release of death. More humiliating still, his jaw full of teeth was empty, they were all ripped off, leaving a searing pain bubbling from his gums. How didn’t they hear his screams!?

“Nuneddeus- SOLDIERS, STAND FAST, WE SHALL-“

The dark hallway became suddenly alit with blue electrical blazes. These momentary flashes momentarily illuminated massive figures. They were En’Geddon’s size, or larger. And En’Geddon was abnormally large, even for his species…

En’Geddon believed he understood ferocity. Viciousness. He’d spent his life murdering his own kindred, murdering Sangheili, countless other species, and most prolifically, humans. He’d watched gleefully as their panicked faces scrounged expressions of mewling horror as they were eaten alive by his hand or those of his goons. A lifetime of nothing but hate, violence, and preying on the weak for their spoils.

No. He was deluded. True viciousness was being displayed right before him. In blinks, Sangheili, Jiralhanae, Unggoy, and Kig-Yar disappeared without a second thought. Their colleagues barked and brayed with confusion, swinging their Grav-Hammers, Energy Swords, or blasting their Plasma Rifles, Needlers, Spikers, and various other weaponry around. This didn’t avail them. Momentary splashes of bright crimson exuded, and sounds of horrible screaming and begging that En’Geddon never expected from a unit so tightly woven and brutal as his Pack.

“STICK TO FORMATION YOU FOOLS! THEY ARE BUT ILLUSIONARY TRICKSTERS! GRAH- FINE! I’LL DO IT MYSELF!”

En’Geddon roared and swung Rushdown about, creating shockwaves of gravitic energy that pulsated through the hallway, smashing side-rooms and bursting openings through the walls with strikes that seemed more confused and aimless than anything.

“DIE! DIE! DIEEEEEEEE!!!”

These flashes proceeded, whittling down this unit to three Jiralhanae, En’Geddon included.

Most unexpectedly… tears flowed from those beady eyes of his. En’Geddon accepted that he may perish at any moment. Such was the life of most Jiralhanae. Yet to die in such a brutal, horrific fashion…

Yes, he was a monster. Proud of that fact. He’d cannibalized, devoured, murdered, maimed… but this?

It was barbarism and evil in its most concentrated form.

He tried calling out for his two remaining allies by name, but those flashes, now closer and identifiable as claws attached onto these unholy monsters swiped them by the throat or back, and their massive Jiralhanae weight was nothing compared to whatever force these devices of damnation were imbued with. Spurts of blood followed, and En’Geddon was afraid to wrench his lights onto their origination. He didn’t want to see the fates which befell his allies.

Vrroowwww….

En’Geddon heard the accursed noise. The flashes always preceded them by a few seconds. Turning around, those tears of his coalesced into mad rage. The mad rage of a Chieftain that wouldn’t be tamed.

“GRAAAHHHH!”

Turning around, he landed a strike against one of these attackers. A crack followed. Did he actually get one? En’Geddon laughed darkly.

“Nothing but bluster I see. NOTHING BUT BLUSTER-“

While bloviating, another strike slit his side. Not enough to kill, for it was purposefully nonlethal. A trickle of blood followed as En’Geddon whelped.

“GRAH! I’LL KILL YOU-“

Another.

And another.

And another.

Incisions smattered across En’Geddon’s face. His knees. Back. They were too quick. He couldn’t hope to land a hit. Even following their movements with the flashlight were fruitless, as doing such only meant a distraction that allowed another to land another blow.

“FACE ME- FACE MEEE-“

Finally, the strikes became decisive. Painful, hot surges of pain swelled from En’Geddon’s knees as they were slit open, causing the massive Jiralhanae’s grip on Rushdown to falter as it clattered down onto the floor, the ape-xeno left to swelter in a pool of disgraced blood.

Finally, the humming of these claws and blades quieted. Emerging from the darkness to En’Geddon’s horror, was an azure-red colored malignance. It was like all the unspeakable thoughts of silent hatred boiling from every mortal through the universe solidified into a singular entity, an edifice of intimidation and death. Skulls chained to spiked shoulder pauldrons and adorned every noticeable aspect of the armor, more visibly as it approached. The electrical blade emergent from its wrist slipped back into its armor as it wielded a mysterious looking ranged weapon En’Geddon had never seen before.

“What… wha… what are you…”

“The gatekeeper of your suffering, little Xeno. And believe me, you will suffer. I will make you howl. I will make you beg. I will make you plead. I will know every secret of yours as if I were your dearest friend and closest confidant. Only after I have broken you on every conceivable level…”

The Night Lord knelt down, helm inches away from En’Geddon’s weary face- absent of any snarl of rage or defiance. Only an anguished expression of fear.

“Will you be sent mercilessly to Hell.”

Xenos knew nothing.

Humans were truly the scariest monsters in all the universe.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Neo-Washington D.C

 Washington D.C, which saw likeliest the heaviest fighting during the climatic Battle for Earth five years ago, still bore scars from that fateful day where Chaos, Hell, and the Combine became victorious. Debates were held amongst the remnants of America’s government regarding where to re-locate the capital city, though most other metropolitan locales within the country were equally obliterated by the carnage.

Incumbent President Underwood decided to stay at D.C. Those first two years were difficult, hosting crucial government meetings out of half bombed-out buildings and attempting to pass meaningful legislation while the thunderous pounding of artillery and gunfire rattled in the distance- the sound of Glitchtrap’s troops clearing out remaining resistance within the city. Eventually, the Primordial Empire, to which a majority of Earth territories owed fealty, (certain parts of Europe, Africa, and all of Australia either belonged to Hell or the Combine), financed a restoration of American infrastructure; though the package was aimed generally at rebuilding every intact nation. Operation Brick-by-Brick, the first major legislative ordinance passed by Emperor Glitchtrap.

Since then, America underwent historical changes. Homelessness, crime, poverty, domestic terror, starvation, disease, among countless other calamities were reigning at all-time highs. Most of Congress were killed either purposefully or accidentally by the invaders, and re-election processes were practically impossible with political outreach breaking down at even basic state levels. Simply put- American society couldn’t function as it previously was. Even the flawed democracy pioneered by the Electoral College wasn’t feasible any longer. From a three-hundred- and thirty-million-person country, only fifty to one hundred million at most survived.

To survive, a new political party sponsored by the Chaos overlords took power. The New Founding Fathers of America, founded by former conservative party donor Caleb Warrens.

Owed to Glitchtrap’s policy of allowing subservient territories granted autonomy so long as their flags waved his way, the NFFA undertook a clever approach to regain trust from the average American family. A good Christian message, a society under God. The NFFA proclaimed the cataclysms which befell their beautiful country were God’s Judgment Day, while secretly removing evidence of the presence of Angels and other Heavenly emissaries that were present that day. The Chaos Gods were ‘Angels’ bringing divine providence and God’s word to mankind, and they, the American People, needed to be ready.

While Francis Underwood was President, and there wasn’t exactly a priority on retaining that old system of checks and balances that saw a President’s tenure end after four years of term, the NFFA’s power and popularity skyrocketed as their message resonated with Americans direly trying to cling onto any hope they could find. This allowed the NFFA to leverage their position, deadlocking Underwood’s entire agenda unless he obeyed their rules.

 A secret agreement was reached between the Underwood Administration and NFFA- so long as they heeded the NFFA’s wants, Underwood wouldn’t ever be confronted regarding the dictatorial extending of his term under continual martial law indefinitely (too be fair, much of America remains lawless to this day). The NFFA pushed for a rebranding for America to survive this grey-skied age. The American Empire was born, and it soon annexed Canada and was on track to devouring the tattered remains of Mexico into her borders.

More noticeable though was the Purge. One night, every year, American citizens who were consumed by confusion, rage, and hatred armed themselves and unleashed deadly violence onto everyone their government allowed- releasing their pent-up anguish and feelings of loss and loathing from the apocalypse. The NFFA’s true goal here was eliminating the massive homeless population spawned from the Chaos Invasion while also keeping the American People consumed by paranoia of each other, and thus unable to properly unite against the new regime.

By now, these systems were being set into stone, and it operated like clockwork.

Much to Frank Underwood’s chagrin.

Donning a black coat, fedora, and ordinary glasses to sequester his identity, the American President trudged alone- away from the warm comforts of Central D.C nestled near the Potomac and into the outskirts. Rarely did anyone live here anymore. D.C’s devastation, and the Chaotic taint left behind was so terrible that aside from political and governmental functions, and those massive, congested apartment blocks constructed under Operation Brick-by-Brick’s funding, the city was practically deserted.

Probably why this unknown blackmailer wanted to meet there.

Until yesterday, Frank’s life moved normally as it could. After meeting with the ‘Coalition Party’, a cobbled remnant of the Democratic and Republican parties of yesteryear sloughed into a singular ideological front solely of opposing the war machine that was the NFFA (and their only uniting facet at that) to discuss stifling the NFFA’s new bill of allowing Militech, an American private military company, among others, to provide discounted arms sales to enthusiastic Purgers, Underwood spoke with Soviet Deputy Premier Zakheav regarding America’s neutrality with their constant border-skirmishes against the Fourth Reich. Right, as if America could concern itself with irrelevant foreign wars regarding empires of the past right now.

So obviously, Underwood gave a strong maybe.

That’s about when through his personal cell, an unknown party threatened Underwood by stating they knew about a sin from the past- from before this madness came upon Earth. Zoe Barnes’ death.

Perhaps during the nascent dark days, Frank could’ve gotten away with basically anything. But with the NFFA entrenched in their seats and suits and aching for any scandal to undo Underwood so they could place a loyal patsy in the reconstructed White House, (not as if they were any better), and William Afton wanting a more peaceful integration of Earth’s societies given it was the capital world of his growing interstellar empire, Frank didn’t fancy his chances if this got out.

It seems post-apocalyptic or not, the rampant cycle of American politics moved forward.

“Hmph. A junkyard. How trite. I’m the leader of the not so Free World and they have me standing in the junkyard. My coliseum, where I am the hapless gladiator to these invisible Romans. I shall NOT be deterred. These unknowns, whatever and whoever they are, presume nothing. They know not the lengths I will reach to survive. I clawed my way through Garrett Walker’s Administration. I can claw my way through this most basic of blackmail. But for now, I must play to their tune. And how humiliating a tune it is.”

Murmured Underwood to none in specific while trudging into the abandoned junkyard. Hills of decayed, rusted vehicles laden in piles, releasing seeping acrid smells.

Just then, a ruffling exuded throughout the junkyard. Frank staggered momentarily, thinking this entire operation was a setup to kill him. He’d been a fool! But then, he didn’t have any choice. The evidence they spoke of sounded conclusive, and Frank couldn’t afford anyone to know. In a spur of panic, he’d allowed the enemy to descend him upon without even a Secret Service armed escort.

Turning around to face his killer, he saw…

Erebus!?

“Wait a minute… I recognize you.”

“Congratulations, your memory serves you well. I am Chief Apostle of the Primordial Empire, Erebus.”

“America is obedient to the Primordial Empire. What purpose could you possibly have for accosting me like this with those foul accusations of yours!?”

“Me?”

Erebus laughed wickedly.

“The activities of you Terrans are so beneath my notice… I’d never bother getting myself involved in your meaningless machinations. All we need of you are tributes of new recruits for our Astartes legions and slaves to act as fodder on our front-lines. Save that, your existence is quite miniscule to me.”

Underwood didn’t appreciate Erebus’s tone.

“Yet clearly not miniscule enough that you were dragged here.”

“Careful, human. I doubt Lord Afton would weep for your passing.”

“I’d not risk that. I’ll admit, I have no protection. Even so, whoever’s called us here probably wants us both alive and well. You jeopardizing that doesn’t spell well for your chances.”

…

“Hmph. Then stay quiet and speak your insipid words no more till they arrive.”

“I believe when they do, I should handle the talking.”

“You!? Hahahaha! I’m astonished by the extent of your arrogance when you possess so little to justify it.”

“Likewise.”

“Now I remember why I rarely come down to this shitpile rock.”

“HEY! Could you two ladies settle down? I’m trying to have a nice walk here- but it’s hard to admire the bonsai trees when you two are bitching up a storm.”

Erebus and President Underwood darted to their side, watching as from another entrance into the dilapidated junkyard entered Richard Trager. Underwood only vaguely knows of the psychotic madman through rumors. He was Afton’s ‘Human Resources Manager’, a fanciful term for a middleman and corporate inquisitor who murdered anyone that got too out of line.

The Astartes and Daemons were only a contingent of Afton’s empire after all, most of it was still constituted by normal humans conscripted or volunteered into service, and those people needed management, and that management needed someone always peering over their shoulders. Such was William’s paranoia.

“You? That scarred creature from the asylum? Are you behind my woe?”
Erebus inquired irritably, growing more sick of these visitors.

“Wha- me, blackmail? Oh, maybe back in those happy Murkoff days. I’ve graduated to consulting for Lord Afton now. Need a meeting setup? I can do that. I’m a connector. A big friend. I wanna make people believe in something again, y’know? Not like God. That’s so rudimentary. We have four gods now and humanity’s still mucking about- we need something solid. Something true. That’s where I come in. I bring that specialized belief to the forefront.”

With a completely grey sky above and auspices of fog purveying most of D.C, seeing an apron-wearing maniac armed with nothing but bone shears and a clear rambling incoherency was something of a stark sight for Underwood.

“What a strange collection our tormentors have brought together.”
Frank remarked.

“Strange? I’m not strange! I’m just the endgoal baby! Hey- wait a sec- are you the President!? Hot diggity dog! We should have a martini lunch sometime. I know this great seafood place. Dorsia they call it. Really nice-“

“SHUT UP!”
Erebus cried. Even with his broken state at the Morphogenic Engine’s proverbial hand, Trager knew that irritating an Astartes would court death and obeyed.

“I grow tired of this dallying. I have much more important affairs to be attending-“
Erebus was quickly cut off as footsteps echoed throughout the junkyard. Everyone looked to see a trenchcoated figure step forth from seemingly nowhere, wordlessly looking upon this unlikely triumvirate of major officials within Afton’s empire.

“Very good, all three of you arrived. Just as we predicted- but it’s still nice to confirm it in person. Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

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Nightmare Cells

Glitchtrap’s Might

William was many things. But subtle?

He could be. But when naming the various geographical locales on his ship, he definitely was not.

I mean, who exactly names their interrogation chamber the ‘Nightmare Cells’? Well, William Afton, that’s for sure.

Wearing the Springtrap Warp-Forged Armor retrofitted to accommodate his increased size these past years, William descended a twirling set of ominous staircases, leading towards the bottom level of the dagger-esque warship which carved through space and time itself; Glitchtrap’s Might. The proud capital ship of the nascent Chaos Warfleet being constructed and gathered under Afton’s banner, this monstrosity was eight kilometers long and contained the armaments to decimate civilizations should its Admiral and Commander-in-Chief please.

 Accompanied by Mael Radec, the Advisor, and an accruement of Black Legionnaires and Helghast, he completed his descent, though not without some choice words from Visari’s trusted military advisor and captain.

“Sacrificing an entire crew of Helghast to see your plan’s completion had better been worth it. I count the lives of my countrymen far beyond your own mongrels, as I’m sure you understand.”
Radec growled suddenly while they moved to enter the Cells. While Mael always detested these ‘Chaos’ animals for their unnecessary applications of violence and modems of warfare that made even the staunchest Helghast stomach curdle, the unexpected aggression wasn’t an aspect of his true personality. Indeed, the Glitchtrap’s Might, being a warship of Chaos, exuded a radiance of corruption and degradation beyond the physical plane. The longer Mael and his guards stayed on-board this vessel, the angrier and more irrational they became, a fact William was acutely aware of.

They would disembark this vessel surely- Visari’s prized bodyguard, assassin, and confidant dying while attached to their ship wouldn’t bode well for future relations with his Empire, though not a second too soon. Afton enjoyed watching the collected Helghast enforcer begin losing himself, hearing those words laced with boiling, unfettered madness beneath that red-eyed gasmask of his.

“I assure you; my plans always reach fruition. Even the best strategies require perfect execution, and I have both tactical and executive fields covered. My forces are among the best this universe has ever seen.”
Springtrap responded as they entered the cavernous cells, a foreboding place mired with fog, skulls, fetishes, and totems laden all about. It was imbued with natural Chaotic energies and talismans the Word-Bearers and Thousand Sons erected to ensure the prisoners felt a natural hopelessness when interred here.

“Charming. So long as actionable information is yielded from the prisoner, nothing else matters.”
Mael replied.

“As I told you before, do not doubt the Night Lords’ veracity. We shall have our intelligence. What takes precedence is how best to utilize it.”
Advisor interjected whilst occupying a close position by his Emperor’s side. The old seer hadn’t forgotten the physical intimidation received by Radec before the tactical meeting yesterday, and now paid it back, knowing the Autarch’s dog wouldn’t dare put hands on him whilst surrounded by the hulking menaces that were the Black Legionnaires.

Radec decided not to humor a response as they reached the corresponding cell. A spacious cove of darkness, from which two Night Lord Astartes were carefully managing a series of sharp, painful-looking tools resemblant of scalpels, hooks, cutting knives, and beyond.

“What a sight for sore eyes. How I wish I could indulge myself in enjoyments such as this. Ahh- but ruling an empire takes precedence, does it not Advisor?”

“Aye, Mighty Lord. Though perhaps sometime soon you may enjoy some time off, so to speak.”

“Perhaps. Well, Radec? Ask away. We’ve delivered a Banished Chieftain to you on a silver platter.”

“Chieftain?”
Radec inquired, momentarily turning to William. From behind his golden-hared helmet, William flashed a wicked grin at the inquiry.

“Yes. We’ve learned much whilst keeping him in our custody.”

“You didn’t think to bring any other prisoners?”

“We didn’t need any. Go on. This is your mission, right? Don’t want to let Emperor Visari down.”

Mael held back from striking the Dread-Emperor of Chaos. Noticing an increased tension, his squadron stiffened and kept close to their colonel, though nothing ultimately came of it as Radec proceeded into the cell instead of starting a diplomatic incident.

For a moment, only his re-breather’s automated air filtration exuded sound within this forlorn place. It was devoid of warmth, love, or kindness. How a sane human could last within such a terrible space was unknown to even Radec, whose eyes darted about only to see damp bricks and plumes of overgrown moss, bloodied chains with dried flesh lingering upon them and racks containing unknown material placed throughout the chamber.

Then… a crying.

A whimpering sob of mercy. Not so loud as to agitate his captors, though loud enough to signal how maimed he was.

Radec witnessed it at last. Strapped by ropes and bounds of unknown, yet indubitably strong material to a dirtied steel gurney with dried fluid there and splattered upon the ground surrounding was a defeated Banished Chieftain.

“May I present to you En’Geddon, Chieftain of the Bulwark of Bone Clan. And current guest of the Eighth Legion. Ave Dominus Nox.”
Slaked a thick, Slavic voice peering from the darkness like a phantom.

“The Night Lords I’ve been told so much about.”
Radec remarked with both a low growl of apprehension and begrudging respect.

“Our reputation is half the battle. That is why we allowed a small pocket of the xeno scum to live. We wish for them to tell their comrades of what happened on that vessel.”

“Sounds like an unnecessary risk.”

“Trust me, Colonel. It was completely necessary. Isn’t that right, En’Geddon?”

The Jiralhanae cried again, trying to wrench his face from the helmeted Night Lord.

“What a precious fear, yes?”

“He has he yielded anything of use?”

“More then you know, Colonel. Tell him for us, will you?”

En’Geddon bleated another cry before obliging.

“M-moon… moon of… Ardoss… B-banished… base…”

“Huh?”

“Apologies Colonel. Back when he was capable of coherent speech, our friend here would’ve told you the Banished coordinate their assaults on your mercantile fleets from the moon of Ardoss. Not very far from here. Isn’t that right?”

The Night Lord sadistically giggled at En’Geddon’s suffering, suddenly slipping a sizzling blade through an exposed tendon of the Jiralhanae’s and causing another bout of unspeakable pain. A cacophony of howls followed from the hoarse, broken voice of the once proud warrior-commander.

“S-STOP! N-N-N-NO MORE! KILL ME!!! KILLLLL MEEEEEEE-“

“Shhhh. Shhhhhh.”

En’Geddon quieted down, still crying inconsolably. Radec could now view the full extent of humiliations and damages done unto the poor creature. Sloughs of skin barbarically torn off with such insidious precision. He’d seen those gladiatorial ceremonies from earlier with unfortunate slaves, but now seeing the handiwork of Glitchtrap’s monstrous minions up-close… he would never verbally admit how deeply it unsettled him.

Certainly, En’Geddon and xenos of his ilk were becoming of grisly fates. They had preyed on Helghan shipments of treasure, food, basic medical supplies, luxurious commodities and more. Yet even considered, this insane persecution was… indescribable. How they kept the Chieftain alive was unknown; over sixty percent of his musculature was carved off or openly exposed and even the slightest movement introduced his remaining nerve-clusters to a whirlwind of suffering. His eyes communed an agony that couldn’t be expressed by words alone.

But they had their objective. Mael stomached the discontent he felt and turned back to an anticipating Springtrap.

“Ardoss is close and only has one moon. We have… had a Forward Operating Base there and presumed it intact.”

“How so?”
Inquired Afton.

“They were meant to dispatch us a signal every week. Not doing such would immediately rouse suspicion from Helghan Frontier Command. I oversaw the establishment myself in conjunction with Admiral Orlock. Clearly these ‘Banished’ have found a means to fake the signal and manage their raids from there. It would serve an excellent position. A secluded sanctum of space sheltered by constant rotation and a network of underground caves. No wonder we’ve been unable to track these ambushes down.”

“Can you provide a map of this moon?”

“… Yes. The Military Archives have detailed diagrams of every world slated for Helghast colonization.”

“Perfect. I have an idea. Advisor?”

“Yes, Mighty Liege?”

“Assemble the Glitchtrap-Guard, my Astartes, and the Terrans. We’re going hunting.”

“As you bid My Lord.”

While the Advisor hobbled away to inform the Glitchtrap’s Might crew of their imminent attack vectors, William relished in the delightful knowledge that warm blood would meet his hungering maw shortly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Abandoned Junkyard – Washington D.C

Underwood, Trager, and Erebus stared at their blackmailer. A mysterious, trenchcoated figure kept hidden behind a tightly wrapped bandana. Absolutely no skin could be discerned from behind their disguise, though Erebus could sense characteristics about this individual without them realizing. His sorceries were vast and unstoppable, and through them could a litany of understandings and knowledges be accessed.

“Waste not our precious time and tell us what you want. You’ve clearly gone through the effort of acquiring our secrets. Do you expect us to laud you with praise?”
Underwood began, wasting little time with a verbal assailment of this accoster.

Instead of humoring the President with a response, the black-trenchcoated figure fiddled with their outfit, unfurling a tightly stapled manila folder carrying a stack of sensitive documents and legislations. Even from this distance, Underwood recognized that they were of political nature from their formatting.

“Erebus- Chief Apostle of the Word-Bearers and Majordomo of Glitchtrap’s Chaos Astartes. Richard Trager- Human Resources Manager of Afton’s bureaucracy. And Francis J. Underwood, incumbent President of the American Empire- formerly the United States of America. Alone, you three men already hold significant power and influence within the day-to-day affairs of the Primordial Empire. United? Your influence practically overrules most other concerns within the hierarchy. We intend to weaponize your political sway. Advise Glitchtrap to ratify this package of bills, and our sensitive material will never see the light of day. You have one week.”

“And should we not acquiesce to these demands?”
Erebus inquired venomously.

“Then you shall face the according consequences, of which I’m certain you understand if you came all this way. Good luck.”

Trager moved to acquire the files- though Underwood snatched them before the madman could. Grumbling irritably, the psychotic disgraced executive only stared angrily at Francis. Erebus wanted to ask their visitor more questions, though they quickly rushed off into the perpetual D.C fog and chasing them would be naught but a waste of time.  

“Damnation! We are being held hostage by these mongrel-freaks. Unacceptable. UNACCEPTABLE! Ugh… you- emaciated one. How did these animals acquire such hold over you?”
Erebus turned to Trager.

“Oh, ‘lil ol me? Well I was minding my own business, reaching out to some new clients, the old diddle-daddle, you know how it is- when I receive a choice phone call. Turns out my prior history back at Mount Massive’s not a secret anymore. I guess those old Murkoff footages and files and what have you’s were acquired. That gets out, well… I guess people will know all about the Human Resources Department.”

“A fanciful term for a torture chamber, knowing Glitchtrap.”

“Mhm. Blame’ll get pinned on me and old Trager’s head is thrown on the chopping block. Just like last time. But I ain’t lettin’ that happen. I’m no sucker. I’m a believer in a new standard. All we’ve gotta do is convince the boss to pass these stupid bills, right?”

“Fool. They shall discard us the moment our purpose has been served. There are amendments contained within that legislative package that might benefit any number of groups. There are dozens of factions and hundreds of individuals that could be behind this. Though I cannot fathom that any one of them could have access to knowledge classified by the Primordial Government. Prime Minister Fring, perhaps?”
As Erebus mused, Underwood sifted through the folder provided, adjusting his reading glasses to garner a better view of the pages.

“This… this doesn’t make any sense.”
Murmured the Southern-accented politician.

“What doesn’t? Explain yourself, worm!”
Erebus responded, clasping that foreboding staff of his close.

“Firstly, our impromptu partnership is going nowhere if you continue insulting me. Believe me truly when I say I’d rather be anywhere else right now- though I’m not. Circumstances dictate that sensitive materials laden against us all are at risk of exposure. We can’t let this stand. Whoever these people are, we need to track them to their source and eliminate them. That’s simply not possible if we’re at each other’s throats.”

Underwood’s words appeared to resonate with Erebus and Trager alike. While the Chief Apostle despised admitting it- this appeared an unwinnable situation without collaboration with wretched normal humans that hadn’t been touched by Geneseed’s genetic perfections or Chaos’s enlightening embrace.

“… Fine. Only until the matter is resolved. Then we proceed our separate ways, into our separate departments to not see each other again.”

“Sounds great! I’ll have Michelle set a time for tonight. Does five PM work for you guys?”
Trager’s insanity brought irritation to his collaborators, though neither made any physical or verbal show of it.

“Secondly- these bills don’t contain anything of note.”

“Meaning?”
Inquired Erebus.

“They’re just menial legislations. Increased funding for the Effiel Tower Restoration Project, standardizing the type of lawnmowers gardeners use internationally, rebuilding the Golden Gate Bridge, among other frivolities… I can’t imagine why someone would proceed through the trouble of acquiring blackmail on three of the most crucial men in Glitchtrap’s Empire just for this.”

“Maybe they’re landmark extremists. Effiel Tower, pretty Golden Gate- those got hit hard during that whole demon craze.”
Trager proposed.

“Landmark extremists- do you HEAR yourself you stuttering baboon!? No. There must be something you’re missing, old man.”
Erebus retorted, though noticeably not offering to overview the slew of documentation himself. Quite the team player he was.

“If there is, I don’t see it. We need someplace to work and analyze. I’m getting tired of meandering about this junkyard.”

“Don’t you have a personal residence we may operate from? Or your place of governance?”
Erebus asked while Trager snatched the folder for his own dilapidated viewing.

“I’d prefer keeping you both as far from the White House as possible. And my home likely can’t fit someone of… your stature.”
Underwood unsubtly remarked regarding Erebus’s greater size compared to normal humans. He towered over Trager and Frank alike, after all.

The bald, scarred Apostle merely scoffed in response. Regular humanity’s structures were blatantly unfit and unsized to inhabit superior Astartes, he should’ve known.

“We cannot utilize my offices, obviously. They are… occupied with other tasks.”
Remarked the Apostle, mostly considering the consequences if these two mismatched fools were spotted by a preening sycophantic idiot such as Ankh-Heloth or the other Word-Bearer Chaplains.

“Huh. Well, here’s a novel idea for you pre-madonnas. Let’s just go to my old stomping ground. Nice, cozy little asylum in Buffalo Colorado. I used to work there before the apocalypse went down. Now I just sorta revisit the place from time to time. Nostalgic memories, right? They picked me clean I tell ya. I was an executive and they picked my bones like vultures-“

“Get to the fucking point before I beset a thousand curses upon your insipid name, ant!”
The Apostle was losing his patience, much to Underwood’s chagrin. Didn’t he just mention the necessity of collaboration?

“Okay, okay, jeez… Mister All Business No Talk. A statement like that’d get you fired by HR if I had my way. I’m talking about Mount Massive Asylum. Abandoned and derelict, like most of that state is I hear. Can you confirm, Mister President?”

“Yes. Colorado was… desolated during the business five years ago. Aside from packs of raiders and mysterious creatures the U.S military is attempting to exterminate, we should be okay. It should provide a large enough space for our Apostle friend to move about freely, and we have no watchful eyes languishing over us.”

“You don’t know that. These fiends could have eyes everywhere.”
Erebus retorted.

“Then it’s best we get a move on shortly. I’ll have to inform my staff I’ll be taking an impromptu, temporary release from my office as President. The office I so painfully strangled and stabbed for, now left at the behest of starved vultures just waiting for their chance. We’d better resolve this matter, and quickly. I’m sure we’ve all got better places to be.”

“How exactly are we getting to Colorado? We’ve only got a week before deadline hits and BAM! Secrets are out no matter what we do.”

“You two stand before the greatest Chaos sorcerer ever conceived. Allow me. Oh, and stand very still should you not desire molecular rearrangement on a quantum scale.”

The book laden upon Erebus’s magic-infused staff began shuffling with mythic intention. Pages twirled and passed and rippled as they careened atop each other, words from within this forbidden tome of knowledge becoming alight with lime-green glow as they together formed a wispy, ghostly circle enrapturing all three of these figures.

Underwood and Trager looked at each other momentarily as their bodies were overtaken suddenly by tendrils of green magic, all while Erebus chanted the incantation’s verbose phrases within a language lost to time. Within the next instant, they disappeared entirely from the D.C junkyard, leaving behind nothing but a fleeting set of magical residues that whisked away with the coming of a strong wind.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Orbit of Dovar, Moon of Ardoss

“All ships in position. Final equipment checks are proceeding now. We shall be ready to launch in three minutes, My Liege.”
Informed the Advisor whilst standing adjacent to his lordship.

William’s body pulsated with visible signs of Chaotic corruption manifesting through rivulets of purple energy seaming throughout his entire body. A coating of familiar golden armor ensnared every inch of his frame save the face, which carefully peered and mentally analyzed the entire battle-calculus. While not superficially visible, the Banished Forward Operating Base appeared on scanners and radar; they hadn’t even attempted an effort to cloak it from detection systems. So confident they were in their hiding place, and rightfully so.

The Helghast’s security protocol were weaponized against them. A weekly reassurance of the base’s integrity meant they never dispatched actual security teams to investigate. They had paid for their mistake tenfold now, and considering the severity of these xenos raids against their frontier, it meant the Forward Operating Base here must’ve been gargantuan in scale.

Strangely enough, initial scans revealed only a mid-sized, average airfield with a series of hangar-bays and a singular crew quarter for rest and relaxation. Springtrap immediately understood the deception. The moon’s network of underground caves and tunnel-systems were housing the real apparatus of Banished militarization. Their overhead base was but a clever cover. If anyone else was commanding this assault, they’d have surely overlooked that detail.

“I want the Helghast to be reminded of the plans once again. They shall head the primary ground assault whilst my warriors and I proceed into the caverns. We shall burn these mercenary reavers out with fear and flame and force them to confront us openly.”

“Yes My Lord. The Helghast are a proud and steadfast people. I suspect they shall attempt to interfere with your stratagem should their reputations stand to increase from such a haggling.”

“If Visari wanted this problem solved, he should’ve just given me the reins. Damn this debt! I should never owe anyone anything!”

“I’m afraid during that hour, little choice was presented to us My Liege. The Cabal were barreling near Earth itself. Should your capital have faced such terrible siege only months after your seizure of power… the results are cataclysmic to think about regarding the birth of your empire. The Helghast’s sudden offer of support should’ve been expected. Emperor Visari was thinking long-term.”

“We could’ve handled those overgrown rhinoceros miscreants, eventually.”

“Perhaps so. But a majority of the Astartes troops were away battling other enemies or dealing with various insurrections. Earth was unruly then. The Helghast were crucial in keeping Dominus Ghaul’s armies distracted long enough for a proper counter-offensive to manifest.”

“Tch… even with our spiked levels of recruitment and Geneseed projects, we’re not reaching the amounts of Space Marines I wanted. We need more to prevent a situation like that from occurring again.”

“Until then sire, we have an objective to complete. I shall inform Colonel Radec of the battle-plans once again.”

The Advisor, overwatched and protected by two members of the synonymous, massive ‘Glitchtrap-Guard’, slinked away from the bridge.

An advantage of being a Daemon Prince was a heightened level of mental comprehension that dwarfed that of standard homosapiens. Human brain-power and memory capabilities have already eclipsed those of their peer animals by million-folds. Even a single neuron of mankind was capable of understanding information on a level unimaginable to a vast majority of fellow creatures on Earth. Yet a Daemon Prince?

Blessed by flowing dark powers ebbing from beyond the cosmic sheath, a Prince enjoyed being able to contemplate a billion thoughts at once, formulating a trillion plans whilst residing within a highly complex mental palace of their own making. A realm designed by their own whims, where they acted as godly sovereigns. Combine lucid and daydreaming into an unstoppable combination, and you could fathom a mere inkling of what a Daemon Prince was casually capable of.

And considering Afton’s Be’lakor-bequeathed genes, he was arguably the most powerful Daemon Prince since.  Afton’s mental avatar, that of a writhing, splitting, and re-combining mass of eldritch purple flesh with digitized, glitched faces of monstrous purple coloration pockmarked about, perused a colossal version of the initial Fazbear’s Pizzeria. Perhaps some insidious nostalgia of murdering those children, or a hearkening of that formerly pitiful Springlocked state he suffered in for decades aplenty- a reminder for William to never get too comfortable.

Here Springtrap spend most time not engaged with empire-building or warring. Admittedly, not very much time, yet enough to contemplate recent decisions and plan next moves. Currently, he was evaluating these ‘Banished’, as they described themselves.

Banished from what? What’s their end-goal? A never-ending series of raids and pilfering of state property from various factions? How far would the Night Lord brutality carry among their ranks? Most specifically though, Afton wanted to know the nature of their leadership. Whomever commanded such a powerful, bold, and numerous crew of alien killers must’ve bore an innate charisma and battle-intelligence garnered from years of warfare experience.

While pondering these questions, manifestations of William’s thoughts through portraits and portents accompanied him, helping guide his questionnaire. His thoughts eventually situated upon the enigmatic leader of this ‘Banished’ army, whomever he was.

To situate your troops within such a clever and advantageous position in the first place would’ve taken a mind long entrenched in the heart of battle and blood. Seeing as Scolar Visari didn’t intend on integrating Helghan’s burgeoning imperial hold under the Primordial banner anytime soon, William came to realize he could benefit another way from being interlocked in this mess.

If En’Geddon’s beleaguered whimpers rang true, the Banished respected strength and power above all else. Chaos had displayed its terror, now it would display its strength. Ultimately, Springtrap wanted to force these mercenaries to heel. Having the Banished in his pocket would be incredibly useful for future ambitions. But first? They would need another punishment to recognize the new shift in power.

And that’s what this assault on Dovar was truly about.

Three minutes had passed.

It was time.

-
Banished Command Center

Dovar Airfield

Jato ‘Ratum didn’t want to admit the unnerved status of the troops.

The news rippled not just through their own ranks of pirates, mercenaries, criminals, terrorists, and other assorted villains; but beyond this sector of space. Word of the massacre at Pyrrhus’s Hand spread like wildfire. A force that the Banished themselves recoiled in fear of.

Perhaps the Unggoy Captain assigned to En’Geddon was merely exaggerating. Devils that stood taller than even Jiralhanae, armed with weaponry capable of decimating their best troops in seconds, capable of cruelties that made even the most seasoned of bounty hunters and sinners step back and dilate their pupils. Considering the Banished held strong connections throughout much of the Inter-Galactic criminal underworld, word spread quickly to numerous leaders and warlords of every clade and class. The blabbermouth nature of a single Unggoy had caused a panic, and now some were considering pausing business with the Banished outright, believing a dark omen had befallen the group for their traitorous actions against the Covenant.

Atriox convened an emergency meeting to cool the heads of his elite Chosen, admirals, generals, and regional commanders among other dignitaries that managed his colossal enterprise. The Banished still held immense influence and power within their stations and spheres of influence. A momentary PR bump meant nothing but a few thousand credits less for their quarterly intake.

The matter of En’Geddon’s disappearance, likely death, was more of a concern. The Helghast alone couldn’t have been responsible unless they were rolling out a new troop type- which would’ve been troublesome for their reaving activities in the region. Thus, Atriox ordered Field Commander Ratum to cease launching attacks on Helghast mercantile fleets, among other treasures in the system.

It was also obvious from Atriox’s tone that En’Geddon’s loss was rather personal- he was a formative ally in founding the Banished after all. To think, if the rumors held veracity, that he perished in so horrific and unbecoming a way… Ratum feared that Atriox privately blamed him for his old Jiralhanae comrade’s loss, and worried for his political future within the cutthroat mercenary faction.

Nothing a little looted ale couldn’t skirt the mind off, at least.

The Sangheili’s mandibles hinged around the bottle. Whilst Sangheili biology usually disagreed with human inebriated beverages, the Helghast’s private industry created a specialized version that tuned with certain alien biochemistries, including Sangheili, for small levels of trade with the Covenant. Ratum didn’t notify anyone throughout Banished command that he skimmed a little for himself off the thieved pile.

Sequestered inside his office with an express order to stay out unless an emergency cropped up, Ratum sighed and enjoyed himself while formulating an exit strategy should these whispers of a dark omen be true. Anything that spooked the daylights out of Atriox’s Chosen isn’t something Ratum was eager to confront.

Just then, the base alarms went off.

WWWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

“BY THE FORERUNNERS-“
Even though the Banished rid themselves of the Covenant’s archaic beliefs, Ratum couldn’t help but express that adage whilst slipping out of his drunken stupor and falling onto the ground. A few seconds later, two Banished Elites rushed inside the office with their glistening red armor. Ratum’s personal guards.

“Commander, we are under attack!”

“I can TELL! Who dares assail the Banished-“

A shockwave reverberated throughout the airfield, causing the office windows to shake. Despite the enemy’s strength of arms, the shields were still holding. For now.

“It’s… it’s a Helghast expeditionary force Commander Ratum! Worse still, they appear to be joined by an unknown allied army. They are invading our underground sanctum!”

Ratum’s reptilian eyes widened with horror. How could they have known about the underground base!?

“What are your orders Commander!?”

…

Jato was trapped. The dark omen had come for him. There was no escape.

Damn it all! He was a Sangheili! A proud warrior-race of saurian knights that never backed down before adversity. No. He would stand and fight. There was no escape? Then let the devils come.

“Rally the base. The enemy has discovered our ruse and move to destroy us. We shall stand tall. We are Banished! TO ARMS!”

“YES COMMANDER!”

-
Dovar Underground Cave System

While a detachment of Helghast forces led by Radec kept occupied the Banished security above ground, Springtrap commanded the real army into the heart of their occupation.

The moon’s very interior.

Fighting sporadically generated throughout these narrow spaces as rocks shook and collapsed overhead, the roaring thunder of Bolters and sizzling zaps of Meltas was met by the rush of Spikes and the rageful anger of Xenos. The grey walls of Dovar were splattered with blood and gore as Jiralhanae, Sangheili, Unggoy, Kig-Yar, and several pockets of chittering Yan’me engaged in deathly combat against their enemy.

Atriox’s legions faced countless enemies beforehand. UNSC, Systems Alliance, Covenant, and beyond.

These infernal beasts from Hell exceeded all their previous foes a thousand-fold.

“KILL! MAIM! BURN! LET US SEND THEIR WORTHLESS HIDES INTO THE ABYSS IN CHAOS’S NAME! CHARGEEEEEE!!!!”

Howled Black Legion Commander Coraxas Rackard of the Carrion-Carvers Warband. Five years ago, Rackard lost a duel of Astartes honor against William Afton, and since them was beset to the Dark Lord’s will- an agreement that has yielded Rackard and his followers’ great treasures and victories to etch into the legend of their storied warband’s annals.

Conglomerated with them were six Thousand Son sorcerers, five Night Lords, and a sparse collection of World-Eaters and Deathguard. A majority of William’s personal army of Chaos Astartes- the very best of those who’d migrated here under Erebus’s preaching, were still on Glitchtrap’s Might, taking a breather from their last few campaigns. Well that, and mostly the fact Glitchtrap wanted to display his power to both the Helghast and the Banished by only taking twenty-five percent of his available units into battle with him and still succeeding beyond all measure.

“Master, how much longer must be battle within these insipid caves!? I want to swing my sword more openly! I must feel their blood slick my helm!”
Horatio bayed whilst raising his shield to tank a slew of Jiralhanae Brute-Shots that exploded on contact, doing little but mildly rattling the protective war-ornament.

“Hold patience Horatio, hold patience! We’ll enter a clearing momentarily! Their true base within this cold, quiet moon; a false sanctuary where they believed themselves safe from reprisal. RACKARD!”

Coraxas finished another Jiralhanae after dodging the apeman’s Grav-Hammer swing, twirling about and dashing his chainsword across the grey-haired flesh and erupting a plethora of splattered innards before reaching his liege’s side.

“Aye Master?”

“Take ten Astartes of your choosing and proceed down the alternative pathway as discussed. I want no glory owed to the Helghast this day. I’ll teach them a lesson for daring to straddle me along this menial debt of theirs.”

“It will be done. We shall pincer these pathetic Xenos in and revel in their suffering thereafter!”
Rackard cackled maniacally and detached from the primary battlegroup with ten Black Legionnaires into an adjacent cave-opening, leaving Afton with the Glitchtrap-Guard, Night Lords, Thousand Sons, World-Eaters, and Deathguard. Led by the formerly human horned devil Springtrap, they continued their violent rampage through the claustrophobic cave systems, exploding craters and collapsing entire tunnels onto themselves by throwing Krak Grenades into scores of Banished infantries that were desperately trying to hold back their assault. Eventually, they came across a larger cave exit seemingly leading into a wider expanse.

Jackpot. Just as the map described.

From their elevated position came a world of sights- primarily nexuses of Banished military technology that were being hastily assembled for an imminent battle. Another reality not ascribed to Helghan’s military cartographers also became apparent to Afton.

Dovar was hollow.

Whether through intentional mining operations or geographical shifts of rock and sediment, the moon’s interior was empty and void- a void filled by these alien mercenaries and their wartime infrastructure. Factories for weaponry, aircraft, armor, artillery pieces, essentially every variable required for large-scale assault operations were being mulled over within generic, white-red rectangular color-schemed buildings.

These could be useful, William thought.

“NO MERCY! DESTROY ALL IN YOUR PATH- THOUGH SPARE THE EQUIPMENT IF YOU CAN! WE SHALL CLAIM IT FOR OUR OWN! IN THE NAME OF KHORNE, SLAANESH, TZEENTCH, AND NURGLE- DESPOIL THESE IDIOTIC FOOLS WHO PLAY AT REAVING AND PILLAGING! WE ARE THE TRUE TERROR, DESTROY THESE PRETENDERS!”

William’s Daemonic encouragement roused the Astartes into an already greater blood-frenzy than before. A cheer resounded through their number as they leapt through into the scrambling network of military factories and outposts. The Thousand Sons cast numerous spells, most centered around auspices of bluefire and bolts of magical energy whilst the World-Eaters mindlessly charged, demanding worthy challenge and gore whenever they stepped foot. The Jiralhanae met their ferocity momentarily, only to reach that even their animalistic fury was overtaken by these mad warriors. Blood-axes smashed Spikes and Grav-Hammers, and soon ape heads and limbs were strewn upon the ground in squishy, bloody displays of ecstatic death.

Remaining at their Prince’s side, the small pack of Deathguard and Night Lords combed more carefully the area. As they’d taken the base by surprise, the locals were attempting to cobble any defense imaginable against this unstoppable foe, though none seemed able to halt their advance. That was so, until…

BWWWWOOOOOOOSSSSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!

A Night Lord named Nadroth noticed an angry meteor of spherical, crackling red energy. Underneath that skulled helm, his bulbous black eyes widened.

“INCOMING!!!”

Upon impact, an explosion spurned that knocked back three Night Lords and two Deathguard, a latter being severely injured as he’d been directly hit. While Daemon-Afton was unaffected, slathers of maggots and insects and various other creepy-crawlies calling the Plaguemarine’s exposed, corpulent bowels home was splayed everywhere, steamy green viscous liquid spillage leaking from the wound. The Deathguard groaned, attempting to raise his weapon, a rifle creaked with moss and rust to return fire, though another energy blast fired right after denied him this chance.

Daemon-Afton watched as the Plaguemarine was eviscerated by the plasma meteor. Rarely did Astartes pass away on campaigns, few opponents manifested that could match their terror and strength in battle, yet it always drew Afton’s attention when such did occur. The Plaguemarine exploded into a cloud of visible gaseous diffuse and scattered, holed armor-pieces that clanked about. His battle-brother howled with despondent fury, blasting his rifle against the culprit.

Noticing the mayhem, the Glitchtrap-Guard, who’d been occupied slicing and shooting their way through a crowd of Jiralhanae viciously defending a miniature vehicle factory, were now trying to reach Afton, though the apemen were intent on keeping their attentions focused squarely there.

Three hulking tanks stampeded out from another tunnel entrance into the moon’s interior. Steely red armor coated together host-colonies of worms churned into a hiveminded entity bent on destroying these intruders. En’Geddon croaked of these beings during that legendary interrogation: Mgalekgolo- Hunters. The monstrous tank-units of the Banished. The Plaguemarine who perished was a new member of their stock, a man taken from Earth and malformed into that Nurglite machine of war. Even so, to see a Space Marine die at their hands… they were no ignorable threat.

“I’ll deal with these friends of ours. Spread out and destroy enemy resistance in the region and await Rackard’s arrival. I suspect he’s being delayed by more of these cretins.”

Nadroth wordlessly bowed and led the Night Lords and dismayed surviving Plaguemarine away while the Hunters strategically surrounded the taller Daemon Prince. They made no sounds save growls and grunts, though William understood the language perfectly.

An issue of battlefield challenge.

While the base exploded into a fiery chorus of firefights and corpses and screams around them, the Prince accepted the unspoken terms. Kill or be killed.

William’s weapon suddenly emulsified with a cascade of fire, causing the Hunters to balk back momentarily before one recomposed, firing another of those destructive blasts. A sudden flare allowed Afton to side-sway and avoid a direct hit- a pair of Daemonic wings sprouted upon his back.

The other two Hunters joined their pack-brother, waylaying a series of powerful shots that followed Afton around. Roaring with exhilaration at such a challenge, Afton responded by swinging horizontally his flame-sword, creating a wave of Chaotic fire that detonated upon the ground right before the Hunters, causing them to momentarily stagger. Flying down, Afton’s horned face eschewed into a horrific complexion of joy whilst the sword slipped through a Hunter’s defenses.

Now corkscrewing the blade, he sliced off both arms off the creatures and geysers of sticky orange fluid poured from these gaping wounds- William presumed that was their version of blood. The Hunter made a noise which the Daemon Prince assumed was its version of a scream before William set back his sword and rammed it directly through its fetid, cavernous chest-area. Another score of worms burnt to sizzled crisps solely through contact with the burning aura of the blade as it was then shafted upward, bisecting the ‘head’ area of the colony of worms. The demolished Hunter’s remains collapsed onto the ground, splitting into seams of filthy worms that slid away, unable to properly reform into a fighting structure and thus content with escaping the carnage.

Still, two Hunters remained.

One stampeded towards William with the intention to physically strike him, while its brood-brother recoiled with fury at seeing its comrade perish. A gauntlet of red energies coalesced, angled at Daemon-Afton…

Only for an unknown, cylindrical object to suddenly penetrate through its armor and embed into the mire of worms constituting its bodily shape. Before the Hunter realized it, the object immolated in an explosion, causing a pulverization from the inside-out and showering the last Mgalekgolo in its brother’s innards and fluids.

Horatio rushed into combat, unsheathing his sword from an oiled scabbard whilst clasping a specialized Bolter with a Grenade-Launcher attachment with his other hand.

“I could’ve dismantled that thing easily.”
Scoffed William while eyeing the final Hunter. Horatio took his rightful place at the Dark Lord’s side, examining the writhing cataclysm of worms and attached Fuel Rod Cannons before them. The Hunter abandoned all pretense of tactical fighting, still charging directly for them.

“Really? You seem to be having some trouble here Old Man. More then you’d care to admit.”
Horatio replied with a chuckle.

“Tch- just help me kill this thing. I tire of doing Visari’s dirty work.”

William and Horatio launched a dual assault on the mad Hunter. A Daemon Prince and Warrior of Chaos cooperating with perfect symbiosis. Horatio unleashed a mighty flurry of strikes, forcing the Hunter to raise its shield to block. It held, though it wouldn’t for long as the shield was scarred with unseemly gashes that were threatening to break through it entirely. Whilst the Hunter was sufficiently distracted, Daemon-Afton’s wings peered forth and allowed William to fly forth. The tip of his sword slammed into the distracted Mgalekgolo’s neck, not even allowing a final gargle of pain. Shimmying the blade somewhat, Afton was able to undo the worms connecting the Hunter’s head to its body.

“You forget, creature. The early bird ALWAYS gets the worm!”

A final slice completely beheaded the Hunter, the residue of William’s sword-flames crackling and snapping away at the worms when they attempted to reform and causing them to slink away fleeing like their comrades. Horatio audibly sighed behind that spiked, horned helmet of his.

“Really? That’s the best you could do?”

“Oh shut up. I doubt you could think of anything better.”

“Give me a few days alone and I could. They called me ‘Punniest Man in Highschool’.”

“Did they?”

…

“No.”

“Thought so. It seems like we’ve secured the Banished’s underground moon base. This will send a message to their leader. We are their nightmare.”

“What’s your plan for them My Lord? I assumed we’d simply clear them from the system and proceed with our plans of expansion.”

As William and Horatio spoke, Coraxas and ten Black Legionnaires charged into the fray to join the massacre of the pockets of Banished resistance scattered about. None were spared, those unlucky enough to survive the initial madness of shooting and stabbing were granted slower deaths, mainly at the Night Lords’ hands.

“Thinking too small Horatio. Visari’s little power move is going to cost him. If the Helghast don’t want to submit to me, I’ll walk away with another prize and come back for them later. The Banished themselves. A compartment of mercenary raiders in my empire could operate missions outside our scope, and their criminal connections would be perfect for what I’ve planned.”

“Hmm…”
Horatio contemplated silently, cleaning the muck and orange grime off his sword by methodically pressing his armored fingertips to it and quickly flitting it all off.

“Won’t the Helghan Government be displeased that you’re collaborating with the same group that’s given them such woe over the past four months?”

“The matter isn’t decided. If they’re too prideful to recognize their doom is upon them, I shall have little choice but to rid the universe of Banished scent. If not, then I cannot fathom that Scolar Visari nor his worthless cohorts could do much to rectify the situation. Their military is vastly inferior to ours, and is too busy mustering to invade the United Colonial Nation territories to their border.”

“True enough Master. As always, your logic and planning are impeccable and without flaw. Regarding the prisoners…”

“Any high-value targets- captains, commanders, anyone that appears even mildly important; keep them alive. They’ll squeak something useful during interrogation I’d wager.”

“And everyone else?”

“… Let the Night Lords have their fun.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mount Massive Asylum Ruins

Erebus didn’t expect this to be how he’d be spending the weekend.

Himself, Francis Underwood, and Richard Trager had spent hours poring over the mysterious bill package their anonymous blackmailer left them. Nothing but menial resolutions such as placing a tax on vase salesmen or erecting a statue in the Mayor of New York’s honor.

“I can’t believe we’re being haggled at the throat for something as stupid as vase taxes. The passions some people will engage with when enough time is left into their idle hands…”
Erebus murmured irritably while strolling about the derelict asylum’s foyer. Many moons ago, this institution saw a horrific breakout orchestrated at Afton’s hand and executed by his Deathguard Marines. After their release, the prisoners and their Nurglite patrons oversaw horrific atrocities across the state of Colorado, only being stopped after Earth itself fell to Dark Powers. The Mount Massive incarcerated population were then disseminated into various departments, mostly assembled as expendable fodder within the Terran Chaos-Guard.

“That’s not what they’re after. What we’re seeing here is deception. There’s something nestled inside this benign legislation that our enemies want to see passed by the Primordial Emperor.”
Replied Underwood, reading glasses adjourned upon the bridge of his nose. He was sifting through papers splayed upon a desk, all containing paragraphs of amendments and addendums.

Trager was murmuring incoherently to himself, stumbling about while keeping another stack of papers clasped in his rickety palms.

“We’re getting nowhere. Aren’t you the President? Just order your intelligence agencies to investigate this matter.”
Erebus murmured to Frank suddenly.

“And risk someone uncovering my buried sin? The American Intelligence Community is a beast of its own. A nest of ambitious snakes that seek to hold favor and power however they can. To entrust them to such a task would be political suicide.”

“If you lack trust so fervently within your own apparatus it’s no wonder this happened.”

“I can say something similar about you.”

Erebus, instead of being incensed by anger, just laughed sardonically.

“True enough.”

“Hey hey hey hey- what’s this cute little thing I’ve found? Hey hey, come here. You two, come here. I’ve got my eureka moment, come here!”
Trager blabbered. Erebus and Underwood hesitantly approached the half-insane self-styled corporatist doctor, who set forth a paper before them on a derelict receptionist desk.

“What’s this exactly?”
Underwood asked, to which Trager pointed a boney finger upon a specific set of lines written at the page’s bottom.

“Prop Thirty-Five… nationalize private industry within the realms of exporting raw material. I’m sorry- what wizardry does that invoke?”
Even Erebus was puzzled by the complex yet simultaneously vague language of legalese. Frank’s eyebrows raised upon reading that phrase though- only a single line of text.

“So that’s it…”

“Hmm?”

“Private industry, that’s a euphemism for corporation. Now I’m not certain what exactly goes on up in that fortress you people possess floating over the Earth, but I do know your empire relies heavily on corporate involvement for its economic standing. Private industries such as Arasaka and Umbrella mass produce goods and provide services Emperor Afton is otherwise unable to offer- given that most of the time he’s at war. This legislation seeks to curb that. We’re looking at an intentional sabotage here.”

“Glitchtrap would never throw his weight behind an idea so foolish.”

“I doubt he’d realize. Whenever a package of bills is slapped onto his desk, I wouldn’t be surprised if he mindlessly signs it into law without giving it a good look. Being focused on the big-picture means overlooking details such as these rules- rules peered over by the bureaucrats. Administrators. Enforcers of your precious empire here on earth. They’ll be the ones blocking company trade and causing quarterly downpours. It’ll wreak havoc, which is probably what these people want.”

“Curious. An elaborate plot indeed. Though I’m unsure of how this assists us specifically. Even with their motivation laid bare, who and what exactly they are remains a mystery to us.”

“Well we’ve only got five days before our dirty little secrets become public knowledge. Dunno about you boys, but I’d prefer to avoid the world knowing about the fun people have in my office. Spoils the surprise, doesn’t it? And I do love surprises…”
Trager mumbled, clasping his bone-shears together.

“Let’s think for a moment. Why corporations specifically? There must be a reason they’re choosing this angle of attack- and this reason could be our key to determining their identities.”

Frank paced about the room while pondering. Several minutes passed without much resolution, though Trager seemed intent on pestering Erebus by showing off his bone-shears.

And without warning, the American President experienced a eureka moment, turning to nowhere in particular.

“And so the hammer falls.”

“W-who are you talking to? We’re right here. Seriously, stop doing that!”
Erebus shouted as Underwood returned to the two.

Underwood approached, ignoring Erebus’s comment.

“We’re dealing with the Steel Dragons. I received an intelligence briefing on them a few years ago. Anti-corporate Japanese gang, like the Yakuza except more outwardly righteous. So, they say, anyway. Back when Buy N Large and Arasaka Corporation were doing business in a government-sponsored city rebuilding program, they bombed a railway involved in the project. Killed thirteen workers, injured sixteen more. Afterwards, Buy n Large refused to engage in business with Arasaka.”

“Just because this legislation involves stifling of corporate influence doesn’t mean it’s the Steel Dragons you speak of.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m willing to bet. Besides, what other choice do we have? We’ve got no other leads.”

Erebus and Trager looked at each other for a moment before the Dark Apostle shrugged.

“We need a means to track them. Find out how they acquired their blackmail on us and prevent them from releasing it. Preferably by killing them all.”

“Ahh, now you’re speaking my rhythm tattoo-man!”
Richard added. Frank nodded and unveiled the phone.

“I’ll contact my Chief of Staff, Doug Stamper. I trust him more than anyone else in my Administration.”

“We’re widening the circle?”

“We’ve got no choice, Erebus. Doug’s going to be an asset. I’m aware none of us are particularly used to this sensation, but we’ll just have to trust each other.”

Erebus grimaced but accepted the plan.

“Fine. Do so quickly. Trager?”

“Speak your piece big man!”

“Can you arrange for batches of political prisoners to be brought here. Anyone slated for execution or labor camps or deportation to a Combine territory… I have an idea of my own brewing.”

“I’ll get to it. Mind if I use your phone? The landlines here aren’t exactly functional anymore.”
Richard responded positively and turned to Frank Underwood.

Frank silently considered, before nodding with a resigned expression.

“Excellent. In the meantime...”
Erebus began summoning forth a slow energetic bend of magical Chaotic energies, channeling them to his staff and fingertips. Muttering strange incantations of his own, he began forming chalky ritual circles near the lobby’s end.

These conspirators were about to realize they blackmailed the wrong people.

Chapter Text

Bridge of the Enduring Conviction

“We MUST bring this war to them! No longer can we tolerate these flagrant attacks on our supply depots, our outposts- nor should we allow these monsters to maim and slaughter our agents unimpeded! Our very reputation is at risk! I say we mobilize our strongest space-forces and meet them in open combat. Through Jiralhanae might shall we crush these foes as we have all others!”
Shouted Decimus over the holo-communicator. A reverberation of supportive voices joined with the Jiralhanae Chieftain’s revolution. The Banished had been openly insulted by these unknown assailants- some of their best flayed and brutalized and tortured as if they were but defenseless babes awaiting the cold slicing of a butcher’s blade, and entire operations of theirs crushed or absorbed into the enemy’s hold.

Atriox said nothing yet. Every member of this christened council of Chosen was permitted to grant their voice and speak their piece, though with a rare show of unity among this divided legion of raiders and war-profiteers. They needed to strike back. Trade partners throughout the universe, ranging from the Hutt Clans to Corpus, were growing weary from these recent rumors of a dark omen befalling the once proud empire of xeno sellswords. Their raiding operations within the Helghan Frontier were annihilated, a founding Chieftain of theirs, En’Geddon, disappeared without a trace alongside a majority of his raiding party, save a few traumatized Unggoy and Sangheili that were driven to madness by the cruelty they’d witnessed, and now?

The enemy was seeking them out wherever they hid. And unlike every foe the Banished has faced before, they were just as ruthless, cruel, insane, ambitious, and villainous, if not outright exceeding them in all these qualities.

Atriox heard rumors of such an empire, nesting at the edge of a parallel Galaxy. They were commanded by a dread-tyrant, who built a society based on fear, terror, and fanaticism to four unspeakable eldritch gods existing beyond the veil. Over these past five years, he’d carefully expanded his territory, making choice allies and crushing enemies while growing his legions strategically. A true mastermind, this enemy managed to subjugate entire nations without fail and forced their allegiance to his hand. Civilizations prospered or perished under his banner.

It seems these tales were true, and this empire had beset its hungering maw onto them. Now did Atriox regret his ambition to expand into Helghast space and pilfer their wares, massing for an eventual invasion of the Helghan homeworld itself to claim it as the Banished’s first official planet. This plan only resulted in their existence being discovered by this dark empire. Though what Atriox couldn’t discern is why. Jato Ratum was missing, likely dead, same as En’Geddon. Their operations off the Ardoss Moon of Dovar were terminated. What motivation now existed for this tyrant to pursue them? Perhaps nothing but the allure of mayhem and destruction alone…

Frankly, Atriox couldn’t bring himself to hate these enemies.

He quite respected them.

“Agreed. Though how we enact such vengeance should be overviewed firsthand. We cannot risk another grievous loss. Calm and caution will be our guides here.”
Escharum commented. As Atriox’s daskalo, (mentor in Jiralhanae), Escharum was often remarked by certain circles as the ‘Shadow-Leader’ of the Banished. It was stated his influence over Atriox’s decision-making was paramount and overshadowed even the zealous Decimus’s, a fact that enraged the younger, brasher Jiralhanae warrior to no end.

“Caution!? We are not fighting decrepit Prophets upon their thrones of lies, nor the squishy weaklings of the United Nations Space Command. This enemy has proven themselves just as ferocious and furious as us. We must overcome their willpower through superior force! Triple our patrols, quadruple our presences on worlds under our ‘protection’. They shall feel our wrath and balk as we stampede over their broken corpses!”
Decimus’s train of thought appeared to hold a superior numerical advantage within Atriox’s Chosen, judging by the resounding cheer procured from the litany of Chieftains. Escharum momentarily grimaced, the scarred, older Jiralhanae knowing that fanatical battle-lust could only be tempered by a wisdom that a man of his age could provide.

“All the more reason we should prepare our next move. Simply throwing more troops and equipment will not sate the problem. We should also consider that Shipmaster Let ‘Volir’s concerns. He feels weary about commanding his crew into open confrontation with these… ‘Chaos’ legions.”

“BAH! Who cares what the Sangheili coward thinks!? By kneeling to us he has forsaken any right to disobey our command. Should we emerge with a unified voice, he’ll have little choice but to follow our orders.”
Decimus retorted, displaying before everyone his prejudiced views against the Sangheili; a leftover from those dramatic Human-Covenant War days. Within the Covenant’s theocratic hierarchy, the noble Elites were characterized as morally and intellectually superior to their Jiralhanae counterparts, and thus callously abused their authority constantly to reinforce this ideation.

“Should our orders be nothing more than glorified suicide, we’d become the very Covenant we swore our eternal hatred against!”
Escharum’s rebuke caused havoc among the Chieftains, and for this, Atriox was glad indeed this meeting was held digitally and with everyone physically separate from each other. Decimus’s camp waylaid insults aplenty against Escharum, while Escharum and the older Chieftains reserved their rage and continually insisted on a calmer, calculated approach to the situation. A few Chieftains were independent outright of both modems of thinking, either remaining silent or proposing something outlandish such as firing Unggoy with sticky grenades attached to their bodies out of cannons against the enemy.

Atriox strategically waited until the arguing reached its zenith before speaking.

“Silence.”

Having withheld speech through the meeting’s duration, the Warmaster’s single word brought chills to nearby bridge crew and staff that were walking about or managing the various functionaries of the vessel. His Chosen ceased their babbling and hushed up, though Escharum quieted out of respect for his greatest pupil, rather than a majority here who were motivated by fear or sycophancy.

Atriox allowed the silence to permeate for several more seconds, using the time to carefully stare into the beady eyes of every Jiralhanae Chieftain present. A gruff dismissal followed, and the bearded demagogue spoke once again.

“We exist today because of the Covenant’s failure. The Hierarchs and their mindless minions willing march to a meaningless goal born of proofless fanaticism and witless worship. The Banished bear no such weakness. No inconsistency in our belief. We are founded on a rule proven by the universe’s indifference and cruelty: the reign of strength. It has been our faith in strength that has owed us victories against our enemies. Yet strength alone has not been our friend.”

Atriox paused and observed his Chosen’s expressions from their warbly, blue holographical imitations. All were absorbed in the diatribe of his. Good. Even if they didn’t completely understand, the fact they hinged onto every word spoke volumes about Atriox’s influence over them.

“I learned something from the Covenant. Corrupt and cowardly as they are, the Prophets have mastered a type of strength that we, the Banished, now require. Intelligence. They are sheep leading lions. The majority of San’Shyuum are hunchbacked cretins who left behind their more astute, bipedal cousins to pursue lives of hedonistic luxury, reigning atop a hegemonic empire for millennia. Their ironclad hold is such through their mastery of propaganda. Of giving their followers enemies to hate and idols to love. Their blind faith in the Forerunners is their opiate. Through intellect and planning have they managed to reinforce their hold over the Covenant for so long.”

The Warmaster paused and ruminated another moment, recalling those hectic days when his clan were used as disposable fodder, forced to engage the enemy en masse battle after battle and leaving only himself as the sole survivor of the carnage which followed.

“While the Banished rely not on illusionary belief, we still employ that intellect. En’Geddon, and now Jato Ratum have been lost to us. We cannot risk anymore of our legends dying only to prove that we still possess the power to openly make war, or soon that power will be drained. But we shall confront these monsters. Daskalo, Decimus, you are both correct. We fight not weaklings, but devils capable of wickedness dwarfing even our own. Yet to meet this enemy with boisterous thunder will invite only disaster.”

Atriox’s mind was settled. If Dovar was compromised that likely meant the enemy captured several prisoners and interrogated them harshly for further information on Banished whereabouts and plans, and then when those were hit, the cycle would repeat. He couldn’t risk a war of attrition against Chaos. If rumor alone could be believed, it simply wasn’t possible.

“So, what do you propose Warmaster?”
Decimus asked, fierce temper only mildly sated by Atriox’s charismatic wordplay.

“We prey on the greatest weakness our enemy displays. Their pride. The Enduring Conviction is the strongest warship in our makeshift fleet. We shall utilize her well. A boastful show of force, so to speak. My agents inform me this enemy are unlike the Helghan and keep their outer colonies defended, garrisoned, and surveyed- but even the best protected fortresses have their armor-chinks. Nothing can hope to survive a surprise invasion with the Conviction’s full-strength.”

A series of murmurs reverberated throughout the Chosen.

“Risking the Conviction…”
Even Decimus appeared taken aback by such a bold initiative.

“Only the vessel itself. Admittedly, it is still a gamble greater than any we’ve taken before. Save crucial navigators, functionary staff, and a skeleton crew of security that I’ll lead personally, it shall be empty of bodies. I shall challenge this ‘Glitchtrap’ to open combat.”

“Atriox… you can’t! You’re too valuable, too crucial! We’ve already seen what their frontline minions are capable of! What if-“

“There exists no alternative, Daskalo. Should we allow these foes to proceed unimpeded, they will continue burning our treasure-troves, crushing our armies, and yielding nothing but more rumors of our nascent weakness and dark omens beleaguering our once proud empire. Perishing in battle is infinitely preferable to disgraceful, slow death. You bequeathed me such advice, and I take it to heart.”

“Have you heard the atrocities they inflict onto prisoners? Such acts make even our methods tame by comparison.”
Inquired Bassus, an old Jiralhanae War-Chieftain made legend for scouring countless human colonies during the raging Human-Covenant War.

“Do you imply that I am so weak that I would allow the enemy to take me alive? No. While much of this enemy is shrouded in enigmatic mystery, I know this. They aren’t dissimilar to us. These humans act not as saviors or egalitarian peacekeepers. They aren’t even the same profit-driven human criminals we often employ as informants and enforcers on countless worlds. To them, the universe is a cruel slaughterhouse where only the strongest hold hopes of survival. We have never personally met, but I know this Glitchtrap already. Should I issue so publicly a challenge, his denial would only invite dissent throughout his own ranks. No. He will accept my request and my terms.”

A short pause, then Atriox persisted.

“I have invited this accursed plague upon the Banished by expanding our borders and approving those raids into Helghan space. This virus won’t stop until a decisive conclusion is met. My terms… they shall grant Glitchtrap lordship over our legions should I fall. All of you now possess the option to back out. I will force none to obey these edicts. Yet those who do… you will keep faith to this edict.”

A tense discomfort followed. It appeared several Chosen were ready to back out and allow their short-sighted greed and fear of Atriox losing the duel to take heed. A shallow sense of self-preservation that almost seized the council.

Then?

“To deny your terms would only prove we lack faith in your ability, Warmaster. We are the Banished- a brotherhood of strength and merit. For Atriox shall we strive, and for Atriox shall we conquer. We are with you.”
Escharum stated, leading everyone else, even an uncomfortable Decimus in pounding their fists proudly to their chests with a suffice thumping motion.

It nearly brought tears to Atriox’s eyes.

“FOR THE BANISHED! FOR ATRIOX!”

They cried in unison.

“For the Banished…”

Atriox didn’t elongating the call with heartfelt goodbyes and remembrances. Brotherhood required those pittances not.

Through a Grav-Lift, Shipmaster Let ‘Volir and his troupe of Sangheili Swordmaster bodyguards returned to Conviction and marched proudly to their bridge. Upon arrival, Volir bowed nobly before his leader, who stood ominously within the center, a dark shadow seemingly overcast.

“The planet’s resources have been successfully drained for the Banished cause, Warmaster. What are your next orders?”

…

“Prepare to vacate the vessel, Shipmaster. I have a stand to make.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Glitchtrap’s Might

War-Room

“To those who hear my message… from my brethren on the stark shoes of Doisac to the faraway eyes of the Space Pirate Conglomerate. I am Atriox, Warmaster of the Banished. As many of you know, we have recently encountered a powerful enemy. They are merciless. Cruel. Without empathy and embodying purest strength. To the Emperor Glitchtrap, the lord of these unleashed madmen, I posit you challenge! Face me in single combat aboard the bridge of my Capital Warship to settle our dispute! Shall I succeed, your empire will bequeath itself to my rule! Otherwise… the Banished will owe their allegiance to you. Let this duel be signatory of our recognition. Two kings who take what they want and leave nothing behind! I await with but a small guard above the planet Dasaan! BARE YOUR FANGS AND FACE ME AS WARRIORS ANCIENT HAVE! FOR THE BANISHED!”

The audial message then ended, signified by the visual soundwaves reverberating on the Holotable’s graphical display ceasing.

“Damned cur! When backed against a corner he relies on antiquated traditions of dueling. We ought to seize advantage of this precious moment and unleash the full wrath of our armaments upon his vessel, should that idiotic mewling ring true.”
Blasted the Advisor with an equally hateful expression to match those harsh words of his. Alongside himself, William, (now returned to his standard human form complete with flowing golden robes and a shimmering crown), All For One, Zargothrax, and Coredrias sat around a Holotable Communicator built into the ship’s floor- with erratic organic tendril-growths seeped at the device’s side and strange spikes protruding from certain areas of the half-organic, half-metal object.

Given Springtrap Maximus’s perpetual status hovering above Earth, gathering here was the council’s best bet. Every member owed alliance to Glitchtrap, and by melding their efforts and capabilities together, they were expected to assist the Dark Lord in dealing with pressing matters. The Primordial Empire was more a collective of nations and organizations operating under the vaguely common banner of Chaotic belief and autocratic expansion, thusly meaning its adherent leaders operated more as allies rather than obedient minions to a singular, unifying entity. William understood the villainous mindset well, and no matter how much dignification and rewards you granted a bested tyrant, they would always hunger for a chance, even the slightest, to see you slip and fall.

By allowing them autonomy, they felt more secure within their own dominions, and thereby more politically ready to assist Springtrap with whatever matters arose. An ingenious form of governance, making your troubles their troubles without them complaining. Though this method carried its own ups and downs.

“An open message on all channels. Undoubtedly, everyone within the nearby planetary clusters heard that. Local governments, criminal organizations, mercenaries, killers, factions of every shape and form.”
Coredrias remarked thoughtfully while pondering the implications of Atriox’s boldness.

“To openly challenge Glitchtrap is one thing. To outright dare the Primordial Empire… it seems we’ve underestimated these Banished. At the very least, this fellow Atriox seems of strong enough character to defy us knowing the fates which have befallen those who already have.”
All For One followed, sitting cross-legged whilst lounging on his council-chamber seat.

“Bah! We face no threat here. This idiot has stripped himself of all defense and become a lone vagrant on that proud ship of his, inadvertently handing us both prizes! We should dispatch a significant military force under MY command to penalize the mongrel for even thinking his strength and willpower could match our own.”
Zargothrax added.

“We’re not sure. This could be a rare moment where open confrontation is preferable to subterfuge and guile.”
Coredrias brought up, the hulking possessed Leviathan-King’s head nearly scraping the vessel’s ceiling.

“Huh!? How could you possibly utter such blasphemy!? We hold a clear advantage here and ought to press it! The fool outright told us he stands with little protection. A chance to strike down the snake’s head while it so flagrantly whittles itself comes rarely!”

“This challenge was not issued to anyone of us. It was directed at Glitchtrap.”

“What does THAT have to do-“

“Coredrias has a point.”
Remarked William, cutting into the conversation as a knife through butter.

“Ours is an empire built upon the principle of might foremostly. Whether physical, magical, intellectual… Chaos embodies all types of strength and gifts it to us lesser beings in exchange for servitude. Firstly, betraying the deal’s terms and sending the battle-fleet at the Conviction could itself be a folly. We’ve no idea that Atriox isn’t lying himself and primed the entire sector with ships and booby-traps. Yet beyond that… ignoring or denying the offer will be viewed as weakness. My grip is only as ironclad as my hordes allow it. To have them consider me a coward for even a moment… no- he’s understood us completely. Even having only encountered us through short strikes against his territory, he’s managed to deduce our modem and way of life through intuition alone. He knows it’s politically unacceptable for me to deny him this satisfaction.”
Afton conjured a wicked, admiring smile whilst stating all this, truly appreciating Atriox’s capacity for deduction from only a few brief and bloody encounters between their troops.

“Tch… I can’t believe this. We’re being forced to act according to that scum’s terms.”
Zargothrax hissed.

“Not specifically. He mentioned there were still coteries of guards sitting about that warship. Furthermore, no condition was espoused insisting that Glitchtrap arrive alone.”
All For One added, hand scrunched into a ‘thinker’ statue position.

“Yet if we can’t muster our legions to confront this pirate vagrant…”

“Who said we needed legions? Just a humble taskforce. Us, I mean. Obviously the Glitchtrap’s Might would accompany as backup should this Atriox indeed be a deceiver and renege his word, and several more Chaos frigates on standby within the neighboring system. We perform a boarding action and fight our way to the bridge. Glitchtrap will have his duel, and our presence ensures no funny business. Plus, this duel will attract many peering eyes throughout the Milky Way. Extra-galactic societies we’re seeking to ally with, enemies wanting our destruction peering eagerly and praying for Atriox’s victory, and neutral villains and bastards of every quadrant will be slinking from their hole purely from curiosity’s sake. The Primordial Conclave should present a united front here.”
AFO reasoned, providing a very superb line of strategical thought.

“That could work. This battle will be just as much about reputation as the actual fighting itself.”
Glitchtrap nodded with approval to AFO’s stratagem.

“I would enjoy seeing the lifeblood of these pathetic ingrates seep from their corpses personally, without doubt. That acknowledged; I would still prefer bringing overwhelming force and merely exterminating the runt outright. What use have we for fighting honorably?”
Zargothrax said; his voice calmer than before though still with that growling finish.

“Honor- as dreadful and bemoaned a concept it is, becomes intertwined with power in the most unforeseeable of ways. Whether one embodies the virtues of chivalry or vices of a gutless coward makes no difference in my view. To me, victory is victory. Nothing can change achieving supremacy over your enemy. Yet that mode of thinking isn’t particularly shared by swaths of our followers. Even my own Black Legionnaires would consider it unforgivable should I execute Atriox like that. They wouldn’t outright say it at first- out of fear. But their true feelings will boil to the surface someday. Astartes are incapable of forgiving and forgetting. Having such a rebellion on our hands… that wouldn’t bode well. I wish my armies were mindless and slavering as yours are my friends, but such power that I possess comes with trade-offs.”

William eloquently stated while standing up. The War-Room’s low grey lighting mimicking Earth’s preening moonlight illuminated those dark features of his better. A gleaming tyrant with Remnant scalded into demented pupils. Features echoing an adult man’s, though with a suffice uncanniness that warned those who looked too deeply there was something beyond ordinary mankind there. Something truly unnatural.

“He’s learned our own game and beaten us at it.”
AFO muttered.

“Plus… I don’t have any intentions of killing Atriox if I can help it.”
Glitchtrap remarked, causing everyone to momentarily balk.

“Mighty Lord, I recommend against such action! While keeping Atriox alive may curb any possibility of his status as martyr to the Banished, who knows what plots he may conjure while under the disgrace of being spared by your blade? It would be suffice to end that creature here and now and leave little to chance!”
Advisor preened.

“We agree with the old man. What profit is there in keeping that ape alive?”

“Profit, Coredrias? Beyond profit. I see potential. Friends, we face not fanatical imperialists or religious zealots. These are mercenaries. They owe allegiance to their Warmaster, yet beyond that, they will heed the pragmatic path that will allot them loot and glories unlimited. The Primordial Empire has long required a means to break into the Intergalactic Criminal Underworld. Atriox is our ticket in.”

Advisor pondered this modem of thinking. Certainly, a risky strategy, but it could earn the burgeoning Primordial Empire financial and militaristic fortunes if they succeeded.

“If he submits.”
Zargothrax warned.

“If he submits.”
Agreed Glitchtrap.

“I shall have your infiltration craft prepared, My Lord.”
Said the Advisor, bowing respectfully and sifting away, accompanied by two Glitchtrap-Guard as usual.

Their plan was set. Afton and his Conclave would board the Enduring Conviction, and he’d fulfill the promise initiated by the Banished Founder. If anything went awry, they’d have their fleet on backup.

Though something told William that Atriox wouldn’t renege his word.

And that excited him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mount Massive Asylum Ruins

Former Morphogenic Engine Location

“Alrrrriiiigggghhttttttt… okay, perfect! You’re good! Set them down here!”
Richard Trager, when he wasn’t bogged down by the cobwebs of fettered madness that were his mental state, was an incredibly efficient, intelligent, and capable logistics officer. A task that’d take a bogged bureaucratic process days to achieve was completed within a matter of hours. Ironically, the task was undertaken within the very place where Trager was physically and mentally broken by the soulless corporate empire he once served under. Now, Murkoff was a shell of its former self, a subsidiary bought out by Umbrella Corporation, and Trager was the Human Resources Manager of a local Galactic Chaos Imperium.

Funny how life works.

“All this effort… I mean not to question your orders sire, but was this prisoner transfer necessary? The facility they were previously housed at wasn’t particularly egregious, was it?”
Inquired a doe-faced officer draped in luxurious fineries of red and gold, eloquent robes of satin silk underneath plates of armor eschewed with snarled Daemonic faces. This man was an officer of the Terran Chaos-Guard- the regular human component of Afton’s army. Despite his aloof disposition, a killer instinct radiated from this fellow. As Human Resources Manager, Richard Trager holds a distinctive authority within this hierarchy, able to order around higher-ups within the Terran Chaos-Guard upon a whim.

Thus, the calculus became simple. Trager contacted the office of Lieutenant-Colonel Edmond Dantes of the Fifteenth Khornate Adherents Battalion, a decorated unit comprised of former U.S Marines and Army Rangers that willingly defected to Chaos under dark promises of waging their wars forever. They were currently on leave after having crushed a rebellion near the Primordial frontier, and luckily for our intrepid trio of blackmailed villains, currently stationed in Colorado to assist with clearing out anarchist cells and raiders still active after the apocalyptic events of five years ago.

“Hey, buddy- let me handle the boring pencil-pushing, alright? You boys just do your duty for the Dark Gods and Emperor and whatever blah blah blah- boring boring protocol, right? Hahaha! You’re funny. I like you.”

“But I didn’t even-“

“Shh. Pipe it down bud. It’s alright, see? We’re doing regular prisoner transfers here. This dilapidated asylum formerly housed ME of all people! Just a little spring cleaning here and there and I could see this funny little wasteland becoming an institution. A REAL institution. Not a pig-house that secretly experimented on dregs and shitbirds. Well, whatever- doesn’t concern you, does it? You’ve done good work Lieutenant-Colonel Dantes, you never need a letter of recommendation or backing if you get into a sticky situation with some asshole in the chain of command, you ask for me, eh? You scratch my ass, I stab yours type deal.”

Trager’s erratic attitude unsettled the Khornate War-Lieutenant, who silently motioned for his troops to set down the rows of unsettled, quiet convicts. All these men donned armor reminiscent of their former stations, yet bearing uncanny differences. Gasmasks that wholly sequestered their faces, masks of fetid devils, spiky shoulder pauldrons and bucket-helmets. These soldiers long abandoned whatever personal or political beliefs drove them to enlist and protect God and country initially, having given their souls over to a God of Roaring Battle. Funny enough, it was rumored Emperor Glitchtrap preferred the Khornate Divisions comprised of regular Terrans, as they were disciplined, well-ranked warriors compared to the frothing World-Eaters whose afflictions and very natures begot mindless slaughter and thus made them harder to corral.

“You have us move every available prisoner in custody to this decrepit old asylum and won’t even tell us why? We intended on sacrificing them to Khorne’s bloody glory.”
Dantes appeared mildly irritated now. Trager, a master of detecting hints of attitude through body language analysis, could tell the man was already nearing his limit of tolerance. Richard sighed.

“Listen kid, I wanna tell ya. I do. Believe me, at the planning committee I was outright shouting at the other stooges to let you guys in on the plan. But I was overruled. We got bureaucracy. Rules. Law and order. But I promise, you ever need your ass scratched? I don’t plan on going away anytime soon. Having me as a friend for dropping these buncha no-lives here? Sounds like a good deal if you ask me. I know yer Blood-God’s gonna be unhappy you didn’t get to behead these poor sods; but if I finagle you a promotion someday because of this favor, you’ll get the chance to kill more bastards. That means more favors earned in the long-term with the Axefather, huh?”

A tense moment passed. Having an apron-wearing bodily scarred lunatic armed with naught but bone shears and a slick voice that somehow accompanied such a maimed face lecture you was an unsettling feeling indeed. It almost seemed the Fifteenth Khornate Adherents were going to renege on this agreement and gun down Trager then and there…

Then the Captain made a passive motion with his right hand. His men untensed and tossed away the remaining vagrants onto the cold floor and began filtering out of the enclosed chamber.

“I will remember this conversation, Trager.”

“And so will I bud. So will I! Keep yer wits about you and your balls screwed on! And uh- thanks for serving our beautiful nation. Glory to Khorne-flakes and stuff…”

Lieutenant-Colonel Dantes unceremoniously followed his underlings and exited, robbing a final look of unmasked suspicion at the Human Resources Manager and secretly hating that he needed to obey the psychopath’s orders like a dog to bone, though stomached such an unfortunate reality in hopes for future payoffs and departed, taking the elevators out of the underground former laboratory.

Manifesting from wispy shadows coming together to form the tall outline of an armored man, Erebus stepped forth, having just practiced some elite-level shadow manipulation magic. Revealed alongside the Chief Apostle were faint lime-green lines swirled about symbols and talismans which extended across the dilapidated prison complex’s length. They were carefully, expertly drawn with attention to detail only a master artisan could achieve.

Erebus had talents beyond bullying and manipulating, it turned out.

“That fool almost had you. Being forced to kill a renowned division of Khornate soldiers would’ve been detrimental to our chances of not getting caught within this meandering escapade.”

“No pat on the back? No thanks? Jeez- bust your ass off and get no recognition. Honestly, I don’t see how my current gig is much different from Murkoff. Well- that’s a lie. The secretaries don’t complain when I give them my special Trager Touch.”

Erebus mildly chuckled at that.

“I can’t imagine it’s consensual. None would accept your courtship after a single look at that wretched face.”

“You’d be surprised tattoo-man. You would be surprised.”

“Feh. Where’s Underwood?”

“I dunno- thought you were keeping in contact with him.”

“That damnable cretin… too long dallying and we’ll lose our chance! I won’t commence the ritual till he arrives.”

“Huh? Why?”

“To simplify a matter of cosmic significance for your small mind, I intend to owe homage and call upon the whispering powers of the Warp. They shall righteously erupt from their covens and caverns, a legion of hungering Daemons. Wraiths, dark spirits, malevolent nightmares beyond your mortal comprehension all; they shall possess these vessels we have so generously provided them to interact with the physical universe. To indulge in the pleasures only access to flesh and blood could accomplish; killing primary among them.”

“I feel like you coulda shortened that. At the office we call fluffing up your sentences overcompensating.”

“Shut up. There, is that concise enough for your meager walnut-brain?”

“MMPPPHHH!!! MPPPPPPHHHHH!!!”

Erebus and Trager’s feud was interrupted by the mewling of an unfortunate ritual-subject. She was muffling cries for mercy and begging to understand where specifically she was. Her compatriots, several dozen in total, had relinquished their lives already and understood they were forfeit the moment the dread-forces of Chaos acquired them alive. Wearing tattered rags and appearing somewhat gaunt, their heads were hung low as they tried recounting kinder life memories before this nightmare befell them.

“Looks like we got an attention whore here. I can’t skewer any of them? She’s awfully asking for disciplinary referral…”

“Not one. Don’t dare try it, peon.”

“Jeez louise, alright. Christ on a cupcake.”

Before long, Francis Underwood arrived in that same trenchcoated garb.

“Gentlemen! I must say, this entire complex gives off a haunted feeling.”
Underwood remarked casually while accosting the two of them. A few blindfolded, muffled prisoners stirred. That voice sounded awfully like the current U.S President.

“Were you followed?”
Erebus inquired whilst the tome fixated upon his staff began acting of its own accord, pages flipping about while a green hum emanated from it, naturally responding to all the ritualistic etchings he’d drawn across the laboratory ruins.

“Wouldn’t be here if I was. Haven’t we discussed the necessity of faith among this impromptu little alliance of ours? We place stock into each other’s abilities. Trager’s accrued participants, you’ll provide the ritual, and I provide the goalpost.”

Underwood then suddenly turned to his side.

“Making friends is so difficult. When you’re a king, put everyone at arm’s length and keep your wits strongly about you. Else you might find yourself facing the fate of Caesars and Ceausescus. A knife in your back or a noose around the neck, it makes no difference to the executed. In the game of politics, the only assured ally you possess is yourself. Never lose that advantage, never lose sight of yourself, and you’ll win.”

Erebus and Richard just turned to each other.

“Seriously, who is he talking too?”
Murmured Trager, clasping the bone-shears together absentmindedly while Erebus facepalmed.

“You know what, it doesn’t matter. What’ve you managed?”

Frank acknowledged Erebus with a nod before proceeding.

“I’ve just had a productive phone-call with Deputy Premier Zakheav of the Neo-Soviet Union, thanks to Doug. He managed to connect the Deputy Premier to my phone, all while covering for my continual absence. Anyways, we’ve got our targets. The Steel Dragons, outside of Japan anyway, operate mainly from the Russian Far East. A few promises and owed favors here and there, and we’ve got the support we need. I’ve canonized the entire affair as America’s defense of private industry worldwide. As it turns out, anti-corporatists don’t have many friends in a world where the private sector reigns supreme. A fact I usually detest, though today, it’s served me well.”

“How do you mean?”
Erebus replied while motioning for Trager to fasten the prisoners against the wall.

“Eight months ago, the Steel Dragons, working with local ethnic rebel groups within the Russian Far-East, set off packs of dynamite within joint Soviet-Arasaka-Umbrella mining operation. They were attempting to unearth Tiberium, a mineral that’s only been recently discovered for its amazing properties; but that’s beside the point. The plan went swimmingly, but as the Dragons attempted to escape, they ran into a group of unfortunate Arasaka inspectors that were happening upon the mine that same day. Without mercy, they were gunned down like dogs in the street.”

“Umbrella? That biochemical company? Hell did those greaseballs want with Tiberium?”
Trager inquired whilst hoisting the last prisoner in place with a joyous hum.

“Nothing healthy to the human body I imagine. Point being, the Deputy Premier seems more than willing to assist our operation of acquiring retribution against these glorified gangsters.”

“And unwittingly assisting us in cleaning up our dirty laundry.”
Smirked Erebus as the ritual etchings began humming with a bright green glow.

“Exactly. So how are we doing here?”

“Just about ready. You two might want to clear the room. I didn’t specify that your bodies were off-limits for our otherworldly visitors.”

Underwood and Trager took Erebus’s advice and moved up an awaiting staircase into the viewing platform. During times past, watchful Murkoff personnel watched as ill-fated vagrants were forcibly tortured by their nanomachine pet projects.

“Oh, and keep your eyes closed.”

Afterwards, Erebus hesitated not. Reciting a dark spell he’d well-memorized over his long career as Chaos’s Anointed Hand, the esoteric etchings splayed upon the wall hummed accordingly with the evil words that were spewed. After a minute, the chanting from Erebus became heightened, the chalky scribing responding as those unknown sigils and symbols peeled off the walls they were drawn upon and conglomerating into a singular vortex of green energy that malformed into a dimensional wormhole. Crackling spires of energy blasted away at nearby structures, portions of ceiling being zapped and various clasps of debris pattering down and pockets of dust seeping from them.

The ritual’s energy seemingly went from summoning this vortex to controlling the wormhole that momentarily bridged Earth and the hungering Warp. Those Daemons whose true names Erebus knew excitably creased through their granted entrance, their forms losing modicums of power as they exited their homeland and entered a discernible universe once again. These ghostly apparitions howled with excitement, a most horrible noise that sounded akin to fingernails against a chalkboard melded with a banshee’s screeching.

However, several Daemons nearby that noticed this procession were incensed. They wanted escape from their unknowable eldritch homes also- to wreak havoc and mayhem upon vulnerable mortals as they’d done in terrible eons past. They weren’t bound by the Word-Bearer Apostle’s contract however, and thus couldn’t be permitted to join the orgy of Chaotic energies that were now nigh-uncontrollable. Erebus struggled to hold still the vortex as the last of his contractually obliged friends from the other side exited and took hold of a screaming mortal body. As these abhorrent creatures embedded themselves inside their new homes, others too attempted to join their kindred.

A score of faces so terrifying to witness that even Erebus felt a tinge of terror coalesced at the vortex. Gnashing, screeching, promising, begging, burrowing deep into the Chief Apostle’s mind and offering him forbidden rewards of power aplenty. Those dark fantasies of his achieved, that secret desire to overthrow Afton himself and become the undisputed Dread-Emperor of Chaos…

No.

Erebus knew himself better than these aberrations did.

“ENOUGH! THESE ARE NOT YOUR VESSELS!”

With that shout, Erebus regained control and pressed his staff forward. A surge of crackling green energy met the vortex with a sudden explosion that encumbered the old Morphogenic Engine chamber’s entirety… and then?

There was nothing.

“… It is done.”

Frank and Richard opened their eyes carefully. Erebus stood amidst groups of rejuvenated convicts whose souls were absorbed by their new hosts that had taken up their bodies as flesh-puppets. Their bounds were burnt off with Warp-Fire, their starved and weak complexions replaced by eager faces salivating for bloody gore and bountiful murder. They made strange motions, cracking about their bones as they grew used to having bodies to inhabit once again. Erebus grimaced momentarily at the sight before approaching the incumbent President and Primordial Human Resources Manager as they descended back down the staircase.

“We have our army. Now they must follow the leads we provide. And pray we encounter enemies on this journey. They have long been denied the right to massacre mortals. Should that persist… well, I’ll just say the leash I bear on them is conditional.”
Erebus nervously insisted to his comrades, though Underwood merely looked upon the ritual’s results with barely concealed intrigue. What amazing power…

“I think your friends here will find their needs more than met on this quest of ours. Let’s move.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Orbit of Dasaan

Enduring Conviction

FWWWWOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!

Shearing through the black void of space at impossibly high velocities, the spiky boarding craft smashed into the CAS-Class Assault Carrier’s side. Judging by the lack of resistance they would meet had shields been activated, William discerned that Atriox genuinely did intend to make good on his challenge.

Perfect.

The automated doors shifted open, allowing for Afton, Coredrias, AFO, and Zargothrax to exit. Their craft had utilized a series of pinpoint cutting lasers to beam through the ship’s metal layers, boring directly into a sizable hallway pockmarked by florescent lights peering down onto the visitors.

Before anything else was done, William’s body began shapeshifting. From a godlike king swathed in resplendent golden robes and a shining crown of domination became a series of sudden bodily mutations. Musculature increased and skeletal frames grew voraciously in size. Skin coloration turned a vicious shade of fiery, crackled lava-encased black, and horns protruded from the sides of his head. An uncanny human face gave way into a monstrous devil with serrated teeth and a gaping mouth with bellowing fire visibly stirring. This was one of William’s many forms- being a shapeshifter was among the perks of ascending to Daemonic Princehood.

 An ordinary knife clasped in the tyrant’s right hand extended into a blade crackling with eldritch fire, the very same killing device utilized to slaughter those first five victims so long ago.

The Daemon Prince stood proudly and analyzed his environment for but a moment.

 “This way. His presence radiates like a gash in the Warp.”

“Stay close. We still aren’t sure if he’s not rigged this entire vessel with traps to utilize against us.”
Coredrias advised as they hurried down the hall. The titanic Leviathan’s every step clanked against the pristinely cleaned floors beneath; given that it donned Dyoplosaurus armor, a legendary mecha-suit constructed by Newtopian war-smiths during their empire’s golden era. 

AFO and Zargothrax hadn’t changed their attire for the engagement, complacent with what they currently wore.

“This ship’s design vexes me. So… glistening.”
Zargothrax murmured as they proceeded down another hallway and turned a right corner.

“It seems even a mercenary crew like the Banished have impeccable standards for cleanliness. This must be their capital ship. To allow us access here… Atriox is truly taking a gamble.”
AFO added, using a Flight Quirk to keep up with his comrades-in-evil.

“He’s aware that conventionally, we’ll win a protracted conflict. This is the conclusion I hoped when beginning this war. An all-or-nothing struggle that would win me command over his entire faction with a fell swoop instead of a months-long series of conflicts.”
Daemon-Afton connivingly remarked as they moved ahead.

Soon enough, this intrepid team of tyrants and killers entered a clearing within the red-painted Assault-Carrier. A room of layered walkways anchored upward that ultimately guided them to a sealed hard-light door that obviously provided their pathway to the bridge.

Unfortunately, between them and their objective was an entourage of veteran Jiralhanae who’d known nothing but war and destruction, priming their Plasmic Ravager Rifles and Spikers. It seems Atriox understood that attempting to ambush these villains was fruitless and positioned his troops strategically around this area to lay the most ordinance on the attackers instead of surprising them right out of the gate.

“Showtime, lads.”

“What fun! I’m excited to try this new Quirk combination I’ve cooked up!”

“ENOUGH MEANDERING! LET US HAVE THEIR HEADS!”
Zargothrax barked, raising his staff and summoning together a short bout of magical potency that allowed his physical teleportation into the midst of four Jiralhanae that stood upon a balcony with their Ravagers clasped close. Wasting time naught, Zargothrax opened with a standard fireball, conjuring a sphere of coalesced ignition within his free left palm and jettisoned it directly at an unaware Jiralhanae peering down the balcony. The ape-man was coated in crackling damnation, screaming horrifically as armor dissipated, shield cracked, and skin burnt and sloughed off to wispy crisps as his fiery body fell off the rail-bar. His three comrades bellowed and turned around, unleashing their armaments nigh instantly.

Zargothrax summoned forth a warbly green shield which absorbed their blasts, then reflected them within a few seconds, skewering another of the Brutes. Two were left and charged forth with reckless abandon.

“The joy of battle. So many of us had forgotten. During Newtopian past had we forged imperial borders for our society through the forges of combat and death. Warm blood spewing from a deceased enemy, swinging about the greatsword of our peoples with pride and ferocity! Yes… WE HAVE MISSED THIS!”
The Core cackled maniacally with Andrias’s voice blended in as the Dylo-suit’s feet-bound jet-boosters activated and jettisoned the collective of imperialist warmongers into battle’s hearth. From the steely right palm unfurled a sword-handle that quickly activated, a sizzling, precise laser-blade. A bombardment of Ravager plasma balls, Spike-bolts, and assembled Carbine munition waylaid upon the combat artifice to little effect. The Brutes in question staggered back as their enemy careened at them with speeds incomprehensible. A singular horizontal swing bisected five of them, and three more stepped back and continued their fruitless firing line, some even tossing sticky plasma grenades.

The bluish explosions only tickled the Core within, causing it to laugh sadistically. It moved to stomp on an unfortunate Jiralhanae, his armor audibly cracking before a horrific squelching sound followed as gore and bone gave away afterward. The remaining two rolled out of the way and began their combat routine again, only for the Dylo-suit to scan their bodies and launch a series of micro-missiles. The initial assailment pummeled their shields into oblivion and sent the Jiralhanae flying back, the second wave completely eviscerated them in explosions that left but black scar-marks upon the floor below, and a few blown apart gibblets flying everywhere.

 “Blackwhip, Air Cannon, Warping Portals- let’s test this delicious combo out, shall we!?”
A sporadic network of web-esque energy formed as strangulating ropes peered from AFO’s palms which snagged around the units of Jiralhanae rushing to confront him. With their bodies momentarily imprisoned, AFO was able to fixate on their presences and harness Air Cannon, further knocking the six attackers onto their ass and disorientating them. Finally came Warping, as several goo-portals opened beneath their pawed feet and spirited them away to the ceiling. Upon exiting, they descended freefall to their deaths with brutal splats.

As the remainder of Atriox’s small Praetorian Guard rushed inside to commence a hopeless battle against the Primordial Conclave, William unfurled those malignant wings of his and moved towards the Hardlight door, swinging down his Flame-Sword. A sudden warble came before the Hardlight dispersed into dissolving molecules entirely and the space around it was cracked and demolished with small debris scattered about.

“Time to see if those bold words of yours are backed by strength, Atriox.”

Pockets of resistance formulated through Sangheili Energy-Sword wielding assailants or Jiralhanae Brute-Shot bombardiers tried to pause Glitchtrap’s advance but yielding no avail. They were carved or stomped upon, or the Daemon-Emperor outright unhinged his mouth, unleashing caustic Warp-Powers that annihilated their very souls and rendered their bodies to ashen dust.

He came upon another hallway arched upward. William turned around, seeing gleaming bounds of treasure encased in stitched-together bags. Everything from precious metals to mysterious artifacts and ancient relics pilfered from places of knowledge and sacred temples. Truly, nothing stopped the Banished from seizing what they pleased and leaving nothing left. They picked their enemies clean of all fortune. Helghast currency and even some of their trademark re-breathers were stocked in one room, a cavalcade of trophies they seized from their raids. And this was only a single vessel. The bounty they’ve acquired from their career… it tingled Glitchtrap just thinking about it.

The fighting from behind grew fainter with every step, as Glitchtrap arrived at his destination. A tactical room bequeathed with a holo-communication rig and tactical table stashed at its center, alongside numerous terminals and conical-esque structures stocked about. No doubt, this was the nerve center of Conviction’s operations. Any other day and it would’ve been chock-full of Banished supplicants working diligently to keep their vessel and its thousands of daily tasks running swimmingly. Though now the impressive ship was kept on a stark auto-pilot.

Glitchtrap saw him instantly. The spitting image of intimidation and strength, if ever such a thing existed that wasn’t Glitchtrap himself. A bearded, armored terror carrying proudly a Gravhammer that had slain thousands. Not only a Jiralhanae, but a practical demigod. An aura carried about him that Glitchtrap hadn’t ever encountered within these past five years of Intergalactic conquest and warring. Fearlessness. Not that same manner of fearless that politicians such as Scolar Visari espoused, but something even beyond that: a ferocity that matched even the Daemon Prince’s own.

The excitement only grew. What a contest this would be!

“You kept to your word. Impressive.”

Atriox snarled with a begrudging spite and stepped forth, passing by the Tactical Command-Table and readying himself, blood boiling with anticipation for the battle to come.

“The rumors are true. I face not a man, but a demon. An animal from the depths of Hell itself. Heh. There’s an irony in that.”

“How so?”

“A story I care not to recount. My past is buried. All I am lies with the Banished now.”

“Indeed. Monsters and devils can claim immortality, but the only everlasting concept that can change the universe itself is an idea. How ruthlessly have you clung onto yours, it seems.”

“So I shall till death do me part. Enough talk. We are both forged by pain and death. Let us engage in the only competition either of us understand.”

“By all means, Atriox.”

“RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

Atriox stampeded with a glint of murderous excitement. A berserker’s rage tempered by decades of war-experience. His specialized Gravhammer, Chainbreaker, seeped red smoke and emanated a similarly colored glow, and for such a massive foe, he moved with graceful speeds and motions equivalent of a professional acrobat.

Afton’s wings streaked the Daemon away from an immediate strike, though the Primordial Emperor didn’t expect Atriox to quickly turn and follow with another thrashing against his side. The Prince of Chaos flung across the room and slammed haplessly against the bridge wall, crushing several various terminals overseeing cargo and coolant systems.

“Impossible! I should’ve been able to predict that strike. The fact you were able to twirl about and slam that mace of yours so quickly against me… just what are you!?”

“I have training far exceeding any accursed demonic advantage you may hold, monster! DIE, FOR THE BANISHED!”

Atriox leapt against Afton again, instead of the prior attack pattern though, the Brute suddenly changed course and sidestepped instead of launching a frontal strike, tossing the mace to his other hand and swiping it under William’s talon-esque feet, causing the Daemon Prince to fall onto the ground facefirst. Before Atriox could follow through by slamming the very ground on which he fell, his wings granted flight to escape once again.

This Jiralhanae could stand against an emissary of Chaos itself. What manner of warlord was he!?

“Good reflexes. But they won’t save you! Strong and swift as you are, you’re still mortal. Hampered by predictable tiredness and wielding such a cumbersome weapon- it’s only a matter of time until you make a mistake I can take advantage of!”

“I’ve not seen it yet, Demon! COME HERE AND FIGHT!”

Atriox’s suit hissed out a flittering of smoke before the Jiralhanae valiantly leapt into the fray once more. This time, Afton was prepared, angling his Flame-Sword accurately to block the forceful slam. Both weapons ached against one another, Chainbreaker weaning with superior force, though Afton’s own sword withstanding owed to Chaotic power seeping from the universe’s catalyst energies to prevent being overwhelmed. This momentary power struggle ended with Glitchtrap’s victory, as the Devil was able to leverage the greater weight of its body and staggered Atriox for half a second.

All the time he needed.

The Jiralhanae was kicked back across his bridge, crashing into the Tactical-Table. William flew directly at the Banished Warmaster, resulting in a series of eloquent strikes and blows between both. Atriox fought valiantly and even wounded his enemy superficially, yielding spurts of golden Daemonic ichor. In return, Afton slowly cut and carved away at his enemy, piercing through armor, and revealing warm, dripping crimson liquid. They were locked in a contest of warriors, respectful of each other’s power, hateful of their intention.

Knowing that an elongated bloodshed would result only in slow loss, Atriox unleashed a final gambit. A fanatical burst of warrior’s strength, embodied by a furious roar accompanied by a series of sudden strikes waylaid against Glitchtrap. Knocking the sword from the Daemon’s hand, he proceeded to utilize the energy-blades attached onto Chainbreaker to sashimi the black, lava-pored skin of the enemy, finishing by smashing his mace into his very horned face.

“I am Atriox. An apex predator of this Galaxy and all others. And I fear NO ONE!”

Yet Afton had predicted such a desperate attempt at victory. As the ruthless Brute conqueror prepared to pulp the Daemon’s face, William’s claws shot forth and pierced areas where wounds were already created earlier in the duel. A warm slosh of blood exited as Atriox howled with defiant agony, Chainbreaker slipping from those pawed fingers of his and slamming thunderously on the floor, the Jiralhanae following suit.

“An excellent quality to have, Warmaster. A shame that fearlessness alone doesn’t win battles.”

Atriox sought one final time to snag Chainbreaker and utilize it against the lording enemy, only for a scalding Daemonic talon to slam upon his wrist, causing another growl of fury through grit teeth.

“Fine then! Finish it!”

…

As William’s allies eliminated the remaining Jiralhanae Praetorians and entered the Conviction Bridge, they saw the Daemon Prince, sword abreast, ready to strike down the Warmaster for such a virulent show of unrelenting fury.

And yet… he did not.

“I have other plans for you, Atriox of the Banished. You will die, someday. But not today.”

Chapter Text

Enduring Conviction Bridge

Death was always a silent acceptance of Atriox’s.

To die a warrior’s death within the confines of explosive battle. Warm blood smattered across his face, both his and those of a worthy opponent’s. Screams and shouts and growls and roars and curses flying about from all sides involved. The condition of all mortals, the only constant between a billion civilizations that inhabited the universe.

War.

But despite acceptance that he would die violently, as would most those he commanded into glorious destruction, there was a sole ethos he’d made to himself those many years ago that he still retained today.

To never submit again.

“If not death, what manner of madness have you planned for me? Shall my screams echo eternally over holo-communications till time’s cataclysmic end?”

William’s Daemonic form wilted and whisked through a show of dark smoke and eldritch crackling into a more discernible, approachable vestige, that being his human disposition of a young man wearing a futuristic rendition of the Springtrap garb of yesteryear. A purple cape ebbed from the armor’s back, and Afton’s dark eyes beset the beaten Jiralhanae Warmaster with a suffice, hungry intrigue.

“I want you to join me.”

A pause followed as Atriox, still seeping blood from gashes punctured into his furred side, stared incredulously at the abhorrent tyrant before him who’d just casually transformed his body from one iteration to another, subsequently offering an open hand to the Banished founder. By now, Afton’s allies secured the room. Coredrias, Zargothrax, and AFO eventually surrounded the downed enemy warlord, taking positions adjacent to their Primordial Emperor.

“Heh… you’re serious. Unfortunately for you, that is one action I cannot take. The Banished began and will forever continue as a brotherhood exiled. For our refusal to bend the knee to an authority which treated us soullessly, we were treated as outcasts. Struggle alone has shaped us into what we are. Never again will I permit us to become subjects to another tyrant. You are the Covenant in all but name and shape, Emperor Glitchtrap. Haughty titles and royal processions do little to scare us.”

“Bend your knee? You misunderstood my intention, Warmaster Atriox. If I wanted to simply force your faction into subservience, I’d have not purposefully held back during our duel. Surely you sensed that I was withholding my true capabilities.”

Atriox didn’t respond, though his silence spoke volumes. His battle-experience was enough to signal that throughout their brief struggle aboard the Conviction’s bridge, the Daemon Prince purposefully held back the true scope of his demented power. Now it became obvious as to why.

“There’s a similarity between us, Warmaster. Empires like ours are strong. We hesitate at no moral scruple. We enslave, we thieve, we conquer; ultimately, while we publicly profess otherwise to placate the droning crowds of adoring minions, we view nothing as sacred. All may be thrown into the charnel pits of our ambitions. I believe those like us: the enlightened overlord whose dreams and philosophies aren’t held back by any pathetic inclination of ‘right or wrong’, are what make these empires of ours truly unique. It’s our vision that has allowed the survival, expansion, and prosperity of these banners. Such talent doesn’t deserve to be so uncreatively wasted. My intention is to create a congress of strength. An equal-minded society where those who are driven and willing as myself come together. To pool our resources into a singular effort, to conquer and to despoil. Yes… my great goal is to make this society of ours supreme over everything that is and will be!”

William’s charismatic, grand speech seemed to naturally entice his surrounding allies, greatly pleased at such bold and widespread intentions that he espoused.

“You won’t be my minion. You shall be my ally. The Helghast thought themselves clever for utilizing old debts and called favors to establish ourselves as enemies. Yet I have dismantled their rotten plan and replaced it with a design of my own. Come, Atriox. Let me show you the secrets of the universe, so the Banished may loot them dry! LET US SEIZE ALL THAT WE SEE, SOLELY BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE’S WILL EXECUTES THE STRONG STAMPING ON THE WEAK, AND WE INDEED ARE THE STRONG!”

Atriox’s eyes widened with appreciation and anticipation. Surely, reservations were held. This Glitchtrap could prove a conman just as the Prophets were. Yet a council of fellow conquerors that would provide their resources and assistance with his goals? Such an advantage could be what Atriox required to end the Covenant’s constant hunting of Banished assets, to redouble efforts in acquiring the Banished a genuine homeworld from which their brotherhood may blossom…

This expansion was exactly the opportunity their legion required right now. Glitchtrap bore little reason to lie, having the Brute upon his literal knees. What exactly was there to lose?

It was as Glitchtrap himself said: He’d die someday. But that day didn’t have to be today.

“Hmmph. Your seductive words hold appeal, I admit.”

For a moment, it seemed Atriox would defiantly reject such an offer and vaingloriously wield Chainbreaker a final time against Glichtrap, causing the others nearby to tense up.

“… Should you prove a liar to your word, I shall make thunderous war upon you and all whom heed your command till my dying breath.”

“I expect nothing less. I demand nothing less. Your conviction is your selling point, after all. Welcome to the Primordial Conclave, Warmaster Atriox. May our partnership be eternal and profitable for the both of us.”

“And may our enemies be plentiful and worthy.”

Atriox grasped the outstretched hand of the Devil with naught but a sadistically excited smile, his own primal palm dwarfing that of Afton’s, yet both clasped together with equal weight.

There was an overhanging feeling that he wouldn’t regret this choice.

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Earth

Russia – Vladivostok

Colonel Cherdenko watched over the frigid tundra of Vladivostok with a wistful gaze. Draped in a stuffy winter coat, he quietly watched the hubbub of trade-bound traffic sifting into the metropolis from other nations on Earth and worlds beyond. It couldn’t be denied that the apocalyptic death-war that Glitchtrap and his allies, minions, and slaves waged against all of human civilization five years ago was exceedingly profitable for the Russian State.

For one, Soviet expats languishing within the infernal confines of Hell, primarily Comrade Stalin, returned to their homeland after assisting Afton during the climatic Battle for Earth against Be’lakor’s Shadow-Legion and Michael Afton’s Army of Heaven. Owed to Glitchtrap having many prior assets embedded in Russia during his nostalgic days as merely a crimelord, Russia was mostly spared from wanton destruction at the hands of hungering Daemons and ruthless Chaos Astartes. Because of their elevated position in this brave new world, they were economically, politically, and socially successful beyond possibly all other countries on Earth, save perhaps Japan, which they coincidentally bore a rivalry with.

During quiet moments like this, the peaceful sublime before missions began, Cherdenko introspectively pondered the Neo-USSR’s state. Their status was enviable, and considering Earth was Glitchtrap’s Capital World, he allowed those remaining governments to autonomously manage their own regions as they saw fit. To a point, that was. Glitchtrap’s other ace-in-the-hole to make full use of Earth’s assets to fuel his nascent intergalactic empire was the corporation. Private industry, the robber-barons who pilfered their serfs for soulless coffers of capitalistic profit. They had once embodied the Russian enemy when the original Bolsheviks took power under Lenin. The landed gentry of upper-class farmers and military elites that were connected in the Czardom’s web of prosperity whilst a vast majority of the country suffered and starved.

Ironically, those same enemies the Communists believed exterminated had resurfaced with even greater power now. Comrade Stalin was returned and seized power, yet has found that unlike his first reign, he cannot weaponize the artifices of state-laden strength to crush those he views as unworthy. Stalin now must share the table with companies like SovOil, a conglomerate of oligarchs who have become obscenely rich by leveraging Russia’s vast oil quantities to other countries around the world and the Primordial Government. Glitchtrap’s Chaos Marines and Daemons obviously required no sustenance of that nature, but his regular human forces still needed war-vehicles and fuel for those war-vehicles. Chaos was capable of many things, but without amenities such as fuel, logistical supply-lines, basic strategies, and financiers, all Chaos could amount was a roving band of insane, murderous killers.

The resurrected Soviet State also needed to contend with the Fourth Reich. As it turns out, they weren’t the only historical bad guys to be granted a second chance when Davoth swept forth open the Gates of Hell. Nazi fascists and Soviet communists temporarily fought side-by-side within those hellish D.C streets, but five years on, their temporary peace quickly soured into a battle of genocidal terrorist states. Cherdenko knew that Glitchtrap understood the conflict ongoing back on Earth, but he didn’t care to resolve it. Why should he?

If anything, Glitchtrap so intelligently stacked the cards of Earth’s predominant geopolitical situation that unified rebellion was practically impossible. Those countries which remained were preoccupied with old or newfound rivalries against each other, all stampeding over the other to provide Chaos with greater tributes of conscripted men for Glitchtrap’s army, larger fuel reserves to utilize in his endless Galactic wars, or further implementation of Chaos worship as their state religion, forsaking old cultures and schools of religious thought. The Fourth Reich and Neo-Soviet Union’s constant border skirmishes, culminating at Poland, the very same country where the European front of World War Two began, was nothing but more good news for Glitchtrap.

Ultimately, Glitchtrap didn’t care if one was capitalist, fascist, communist, or whatever other manner of ‘ist’ or ‘ism’ arose. There were only the rules of strength and obedience to his wider regime. Cherdenko respected such a brilliant path of thinking, while also despising it. After all, Anatoly was a prolific Bolshevik, having written several treatises of his own while in university about the necessity and brilliance of Comrade Lenin’s revolutions, and describing the ‘ideal revolutionary’ as someone who comes from education and uplifts the peasantry.

Perhaps that’s what stung most about this mission. Personally, Cherdenko found the Steel Dragons’ activities applaudable. Corporations such as Arasaka and Umbrella had become bulwarks of their own recently, gathering such wealth and resources under their breadth that they’ve become miniature countries of their own, mastering the art of lobbying politicians and controlling the levels of political process.

Yet recently, the Soviets were excitably blabbering that the American Empire would begin a lend-lease program of giving them new weapons that could finally push the fascists out of Poland, in exchange for helping them exact vengeance on the Steel Dragon terrorists who’d bombed the Soviet-Arasaka-Umbrella Tiberium mining operation eight months ago. The Soviet Politburo had convinced Stalin that American support was exactly what they needed to turn the Polish tide, and so bitterly, the Premier Soviet agreed to sign off on this mission.

One thing hasn’t changed about Stalin. Even if his power’s significantly stumped these days, when he’s allowed to exercise it, he prosecutes its full extent. The unhinged Georgian personally signed off on this mission- meaning any manner of failure would reflect poorly on him, a reputational blow he couldn’t afford to withstand with hungering SovOil oligarchs, rival political officials, and opportunistic military commanders waiting around every corner with their silent daggers abreast. Through a series of bureaucratic mishaps and refusals, Cherdenko ended up being slagged with the job, and if he couldn’t capture the Steel Dragons responsible for the mine bombing, being taken out back and shot by the KGB was the most merciful of endings he could expect.

This entire thing smelled off though. What did the Americans gain from this mission aside from the Soviet’s good graces, something they’ve clearly been fine without. Apparently, this mission was OKed by their President. No. Whatever the imperialist dogs wanted from this sudden bout of cooperation when relations had been cool at best these past few years wasn’t for Russia’s best sake. Cherdenko couldn’t discern what, but there was a sinking feeling he’d unwittingly find out.

Honestly, Anatoly should probably stop reflecting on the state of things. It only made him more depressed about the unwinnable situation he found himself indefinitely stuck in.

“Colonel! The Americans have arrived!”

A doe-faced secret police ensign jostled Cherdenko from his cold musing.

“I’ll be right there. Keep them occupied in the foyer till then.”

“Uh, about that sir…”

“Are you disobeying a direct order from a superior, Cadet Kalkov?”

Anatoly’s vulture eyes fixated upon the ensign, whose face flushed pale as he staggered back.

“N-no sir. I’ll keep them in the lobby till your arrival.”

Cherdenko turned back to admire the port-city from the balcony-afforded view of Vladivostok KGB Headquarters. The golden hammer and sickle hung proudly only a few feet above, perched visibly so passerby could admire the symbolism of omnipresent control their benevolent state held over them. Overall, the building was architecturally distinct from its surrounding structures, having pristine olive and marble edges subsuming the walls and effervescent gardens of various plants stockaded about the courtyard. Anatoly presumed these niceties were meant to invoke psychological calmness among those state agents assigned here to keep them subtly docile. After all, Vladivostok was the farthest you could get from the Kremlin’s halls of power. Being stationed here during the middle or late of your career meant you’ve offended the wrong man and would suffer for it.

For Anatoly, that man was General Krukov. A skilled field officer and commander without doubt, but a highly arrogant and brash man whose career often intertwined with Anatoly’s in the worst ways possible.

Well, no use reminiscing and pondering now. Anatoly would’ve brought some cigarettes to ease along these uneasy ruminations, but Kalkov was likely to write him up for a violation, the young snitch. Whatever. After this useless case was solved, Anatoly intended to get the boy drunk at a local tavern, perhaps introduce him to some of the alien prostitutes the Primordial Empire was importing to Earth through their burgeoning slave markets. That would be enough to earn his loyalty.

Descending a fanciful staircase with draped red carpet after that depressing outing, Anatoly bore witness to a sight he didn’t expect.

Instead of a standard military unit, or even a team of maligned metahumans beaten and bred to do America’s bidding, he was staring at a mutilated monster of a man armed with bone-shears and wearing naught but an apron in this freezing Vladivostok weather. His mere disposition brought uncomfortable glances from the men and women frequenting the KGB Headquarters. Situated at this spindly mongrel’s side were a series of masked agents wearing cobbled-together army fatigues.

“What the hell is this!?”
Anatoly cried with a confused balk, staring at the assembled mob before him.

“T-the American soldiers, sir…”
Kalkov responded sheepishly while turning back to his superior officer.

“In what sorry state has the home of capitalist decadence found itself in since I last looked upon them? This is what they offer to us!? Who are you people!?”

The apron-wearing madman stepped forward.

“They’re spoken for commandant. I’m Trager. Richard Trager. Primordial Empire Human Resources Manager, bonsai and sheep enthusiast, uhh… I should’ve brought my old resume if I knew the questions were gonna be this hard.”

“Are you drunk? In the KGB Vladivostok Headquarters? Why’re you slurring your words, huh?”

“No! Not inebriated. I can let you smell my breath if you want.”

“I’d sooner have you shot. Kalkov, see these jokers to the door. I’m not working with mercenaries and madmen. I’m an agent of Mother Russia, not a whore for the highest bidder.”

“Are those mutually exclusive now?”

“I will NOT be insulted by this… this ABOMINATION!”

“Believe me I’d rather be out of the land of unflinching Ivans myself, but duty calls! I can call my boss in for a second opinion if you’re confused about anything.”

Kalkov seemed hesitant to force this monstrous jokester out, especially considering the deathsquad at his side. Body language alone told they were aching for a bloody struggle to unleash from this fateful encounter, something everyone else would rather avoid. Cherdenko was hotly infuriated now and prepared to unleash a tirade to overshadow all others before the doors into HQ creaked open once again.

“Who is OPENING THAT FUCKING DOOR WE ARE HAVING A SITUATION HERE-“

Cherdenko’s face flushed pale. Judging by the surprise Trager’s mutilated, masked face scrounged by following the man’s vision, he was equally flabbergasted.

Flanked by two guards brandishing pristine white coats and bearing alien faces slapped with colored goggles was a man of stocky, Slavic build. Wearing a blue coat and marked with a noticeable scar leering down his left eye, he exuded an aura of intimidation and physical supremacy. Even from a distance this fellow could be identified with ease- Sergei Vladimir, Umbrella’s chief private executive and founder of their secretive military force: the internationally renowned Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service.

“Do the Gods intend to see me perish of a heart attack today!? Two charlatans stumble into my Headquarters. What ungodly purpose wrenches your unseemly face within this glorious hall of power, Sergei Vladimir?”
Cherdenko could barely contain his bubbling fury. The mutilated madman was one thing, but a famous defector who paid his services to Umbrella and shunted the Soviet Armed Forces brought Anatoly another surge of stress and irritation outright.

“Heh. No need to act too pleased to see me Anatoly. Umbrella’s been allowed to participate in the Vladivostok joint task force.”

“WHAT!? No… NO! I refuse to believe such a lie! You cretinous bastards shouldn’t be allowed anywhere NEAR an official intelligence operation!”

Instead of humoring a response, a mildly amused Sergei fiddled with his breast pocket, unveiling a letter whose seal was already broken and contents accessed. Cherdenko stood silently and ruefully for several moments, before relinquishing and snatching the paper and reading it carefully. That furious complexion soon became one of incredulity. Deputy Premier Zakheav’s signature, an unmistakably eloquent cursive that the seasoned secret police captain would recognize anywhere.

“Ublyudok (Motherfucker). It’s true. This country is reduced to a whore servicing the highest bidder. My beautiful homeland sacked of her dignity.”
Anatoly muttered angrily, though Vladimir crossed his arms and proceeded to examine the American delegation.

Trager deduced that Umbrella’s involvement must’ve been a condition outlined by Zakheav in exchange for dedication of Soviet resources to hunt down the Steel Dragons. Umbrella held an infamously tough grip over large swaths of the Soviet Government, and Zakheav probably wanted to curry favor among the Russian political elite considering his ongoing unseen power struggle with Stalin.

The best means to achieve this goal would be bringing Umbrella on board for retribution against the terrorists which undermined their Tiberium mining gig eight months ago. A grateful Spencer would surely stock the pockets of every local Soviet from here to Petersburg with enough rubles and personal favors that they’d throw or keep their weight behind Zakheav.

“What’s with the Halloween decoration here? Your soldiers seem unprepared for the task at hand. Your helmets are off, Kevlar isn’t probably attached… Christ almighty- I was expecting cooperation with something like Delta Force or Marines.”

Trager only offered a low chuckle in response.

“Buddy, these guys won’t need armor. Trust me.”

“I don’t. Whatsoever.”

“And I don’t trust either of you braindead ingrates, but here we all are- stuck together by unhappy bureaucratic chance.”
Anatoly cut in, crumpling the letter and tossing it soullessly towards a nearby trashcan, only to miss by several feet. Kalkov knelt and discarded the paper accordingly.

“What a merry band we are. Shall we get to work? I’m certain we’re all content with spending as little time with each other as possible, and I’ve been told there’s already a lead to work with.”
Sergei responded accordingly whilst looking about KGB Vladivostok Headquarters. A modest, two-story structure with various offices and rooms with secretaries, secret police, and various android servants mulling about. It wasn’t exactly impressive; but then- until recently, there was little reason for holding any secret police presence within this quiet port-city.

“Give me ten minutes to prepare my team. We head out immediately.”
Cherdenko briskly stomped off, Kalkov closely following, leaving Trager, Sergei, and their assembled taskforces to awkwardly stand about the foyer.

“So… how’s things with you?”
Trager inquired thoughtfully.

“Please refrain from speaking to me about non-professional matters. Looking at your face is a torture.”
Vladimir replied coldly.

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Glitchtrap’s Might

Hangar-Bay

“This idea seems foolhardy.”

“If we’re to become allies, our militaries should become well-acquainted, yes?”
 
Spoke Atriox and Glitchtrap respectively. Glitchtrap was studded with the resplendent SPRINGTRAP armor, the Warp-forged combat artifice which had seen upgrades and enhancements made over its storied career by the Dark Mechanicum at Afton’s disposal. The purple cape hung behind, drooped down. Afton’s face was masqueraded by the digitized incarnation of the Springbonnie helmet.

Standing equal to Atriox’s size and flanked by the Glitchtrap-Guard, he watched carefully as the remainder of Banished High Command filtered into the extensive warship’s third Hangar, the only one available. They were joined by retinues of retainers and guards, their most trusted soldiery. The very best of Atriox’s legion made themselves hesitantly present upon his executive order.

After being inducted into Glitchtrap’s conclave, the Daemon Prince insisted that their forces become officially acquainted to officiate their relations. Atriox contacted his Chosen and informed them of his decision. Waves of shouts and hollers of protest, even threats of insurgency and insurrection were made among the Jiralhanae-majority council, though none reached fruition.

The Warmaster calmed their fervor and convinced them to make present upon the enemy’s flagship with good intention and camaraderie in mind. Glitchtrap still couldn’t believe. How anyone could corral such a destitute pack of marauders and maimers into willingly boarding the chief vessel of their hated enemies from a day ago for talks of peace was something only a true orator could achieve. Sparing Atriox was the correct choice indeed.

“I wish not to risk bloodshed. These are my best men. To see any perish here would become an unkind stain upon the infancy of our diplomatic relations.”

“They’ll get along just fine. I’ve informed my Chaos Lords to act upon their best behavior, and my other allies have been acquainted with you already.”

“I’m not my men. We’ve built a trust through achievement and proof, not hearsay and lies like the Prophets that we escaped from. They are restless, many undoubtedly believe still that I have submitted to you.”

“And what’s your belief?”

Glitchtrap’s question visibly stirred the Warmaster for several moments.

“I am pragmatic. My empire was built on such pragmatism. I survive by utilizing data-sheets and profit-margins to determine my future, as opposed to religious zeal or nationalistic conquest. Your agreement may confuse lesser minds, but it does not delude mine. We are squarely equals. Similarly, I shall keenly be aware of my position within your hierarchy of warlords here.”

“My vision will see the Primordial Conclave become the hearth of strength within this universe and all others. Those who lack the gut or wit to remain permanent members will be unseated through one consequence or another. Even those who are openly stated to retain their seats forever are merely granted lipservice. Including myself. This empire of ours is an idea forged on the greatest forms of leadership and service.”

“… I can appreciate that. As leaders of ruthless legions such as ours, we are expected to always keep a third eye open. Those we rely on greatest to pay homage and bring tribute may be the very ones conspiring to overthrow us. Those who consistently oppose our ideas may do so not maliciously, yet for genuine belief in the superiority of their own ideas. As arrogant as such an ideal is, I believe a marketplace of competing beliefs makes an organization flourish. A diversity of thought will mean more perspectives available to you to contend with any situation. Yet that same diversity will invite more hungry mouths and watchful eyes always examining that throne you proudly sit upon.”

“To be king is truly the grandest burden of them all, eh?”

“Yet with the grandest reward.”

“For me, the struggle is the reward.”

“Then you will be content forever indeed.”

William and Atriox shared a chuckle only those of their weathered station could, surviving assaults from within and without, existing beyond their normal years and being living examples of mortal-kind’s refusal to fade. True legends.

As they observed in silence, the Chaos Lords of every Warband available to the Purple Guy stepped forth from an esoterically designed door into the foreboding Hangar-Bay.

Coraxas Rackard of the Carrion-Carvers Black Legion Warband, Hemek of the Nightwing Night Lord Warband, Kozzan Vetgel of the Crystal Harbinger Thousand Sons, Ba’ar Zul of Ba’ar Zul’s World Eater Cleavers, Pusgoop Fecessnorter of the Deathguard Corpsemakers, and Emeric Soothebonder of the Mirrorhost Emperor’s Children Warband. As Erebus was notably absent, the Word-Bearers lacked representation, an error William wasn’t keen on fixing given their track record of being sniveling and scheming shits, emissaries of Chaos or not. Though still, Glitchtrap believed such a monumental diplomatic occasion would’ve brought Erebus out from that hovel of his. He’d have to investigate his notable lack of presence later.

Cobbled on the Banished side of things was Escharum; Atriox’s proud Daskalo, Decimus, the various Jiralhanae Chieftains comprising the Chosen, Shipmaster Let ‘Volir, Colony (two Mgalekgolo brothers who are representative of all Lekgolo within the Banished), Yapyap the Destroyer of the Unggoy, and countless other dignitaries and governors who could momentarily defer from their duties to attend this occasion that would forever shift the destiny of their proud organization. Joining them were retinues of their best units. Hyperius, Tovarus, and Jega ‘Rdomnai, the Hand of Atriox and the Banished’s best warriors, cloistered around Escharum carefully.

Considering the irrelevance of such ceremony to Zargothrax, AFO, and the Core, they weren’t present for this little shindig, having dominions of their own to manage.

A tense few minutes passed by as the assembled Chaos Warband Lords, their bodyguards, and the Banished’s own adherents stared at each other as predators sizing the other up. Few words were exchanged, though animalistic growls hissed from one side to another.

Glitchtrap and Atriox nodded to each other and soon joined their constituents within the Hangar-Bay. Usually, Chaos-imbued mental madness would seep in, and these already aggressively alien mercenaries would become inclined to attack their counterparts- though William, being a Daemon Prince with mastery over the Dark Powers and their endless seam of gifts, was able to control (to an extent) the amount of present Chaotic energy seeping into a mind on his ship. He purposefully heightened the psionic presence of Daemons and dark forces when Mael Radec was a passenger, and purposefully lowered it now.

“BANISHED! STAND AT ATTENTION!”

Immediately, the gathering of unique xeno elements stood unmoving and rigid. Even the chortling Unggoy ceased their mockeries and silliness, becoming naught but statues. Glitchtrap didn’t even bother to issue a command to his captains and lieutenants. A mere unsaying stare from that Golden Hared helmet of his issued all the necessity they required.

“We stand upon the cusp of a new age. A glorious dawn shines upon our legions. Now, more than ever, I have made true my promise owed to you all. Superiority. Renewal. Those we believed our enemies have instead become our allies. By joining with the Primordial Empire, we ensure for ourselves a bright and stable future. No longer must we raid and pillage alone. With the Primordial Conclave, we shall find the next stage of our evolution! As such, I expect you all and your troops, alongside ALL of the Banished, to treat them as you would your own comrades-in-arms. Infighting now would only weaken the ranks we have so diligently strived to build!”

A few grunts and nods of approval were followed, though nothing that really seemed to indicate convincing. Decimus then opened his big fat mouth.

“Warmaster… I shall defer to your authority for all time and beyond. Yet these monsters are the same ones who brutalized En’Geddon. Perhaps his remains lie in disgrace and disgust on this very vessel! Such an unforgivable slight, alongside their unprovoked massacres against us hence, cannot be oversighted. They MUST pay a pound of flesh if they expect us to battle alongside each other, and our recompense in lost fortune. Anything less is purest lunacy!”

This acquired several cheers from the Banished leadership, and even Escharum wasn’t exactly giving Decimus any dirty-eyed looks this time around. The old daskalo realized Atriox asked too much of his subordinates this time. To forgive and forget simply didn’t register in the Banished.

Before Atriox or Afton could properly respond, Rackard spoke up.

“They shouldn’t have been so weak then.”

This elicited laughter and chortling from the gathered Chaos Lords and their retainers, though fury from the Banished delegation formed through angry cries and threatening curses. Colony’s Fuel-Rod Cannons hummed to complete charge while Decimus’s exosuit whirred to life. Even the stoic and composed Escharum appeared offended by this statement and scowled at Rackard. Jega ‘Rdomnai activated his crimson Energy-Blades, shimmering among the low light of the Hangar-Bay.

“Coraxas!”
Afton shouted irritably, though Rackard refused to back down, having garnered the support of his fellow Warband leaders and feeling emboldened enough to persist.

“Master- our allegiance is to your cause. But to treat these weak animals as our equals? It borders on insult. I would much rather slaughter their leadership here and now. Their screams would bring me such effervescent joy.”

The other Warband leaders chuckled at this insinuation while Decimus pushed past Yapyap and Bassus (another Chieftain arrived at the meeting) with murderous intent.

“Oh! One challenges us!? Perfect! The Axefather shall have his fill of weak xeno blood today!”
Ba’ar Zul of the World-Eaters cried, his chain-axes emitting their trademark revving as Decimus stepped forward to wordlessly challenge them.

“I shall avenge En’Geddon right now and BURY YOU ALL!”

“Just try it. His screams were so delicious, you know? Maybe yours will be even tastier!”
Hemek egged on, and by now Atriox and Afton watched powerlessly as their delegations stomped towards each other. They were daring each other to make the first move, pushing each other and acting with aggression. Jega said little and stood by Escharum’s side while peering at the assembled group, choosing which targets appeared most valuable.

Similarly, the Chaos Warlords and their goons tensed and raised their Bolters, Plasma-Guns, and conjured together their sorceries and dark energies bequeathed by the unknowable Warp. The Glitchtrap-Guard were ready to directly intervene, Horatio instinctively stepping forward to protect William.

“If it comes down to it, I will stand with the Banished. Always.”
Warned Atriox, turning to Glitchtrap. William said nothing, trying to mastermind a scheme or plot or manipulation that could bridge together the divide. Both forces were centered around a philosophy of might makes right. Shouldn’t he have prepared for such a brutal confrontation?

Just then, another set of doors leading into the hangar’s expanse shifted open.

It would’ve meant nothing had not exited those automatic doors was a screaming slave. A whittled down excuse of a person whose physicality was rendered gaunt, if not downright anorexic by the purposeful starvation and nutrient-harvesting techniques practiced by the demented Astartes and Chaos-worshipers upon the vessel. She wept and babbled incoherently, begging for a manner of savior that would never materialize.

The Chaos emissaries were too shocked to act momentarily. How did this worthless gremlin manage to slip past their security systems and manage upon this sectioned off hangar bay? Fecessnorter prepared to pulverize the wailing slave-girl with a grimy, rotted Heavy Bolter, only for the issue to resolve itself.

When an already irritated Decimus affixed his attentions onto this hapless slave, grabbing her small body. Without mercy did the Jiralhanae ruthlessly shove the writhing frame of the begging cretin into his salivating maw, biting down eagerly. A single clamp of that incredible jaw-force combined with teeth equivalent to a Tyrannosaurus’s regarding sharpness silenced the girl forever, popping her head clean off that wrung neck.

A confused silence befell the delegations as Decimus chewed upon the head and gulped down, following the same procedure for the body’s remainder. Limb, bone, gore-meat, hair, fingernails- all were mulched into greased sameness that slicked down the Brute’s throat. A satisfied burp followed, a few regurgitated bones dinged haplessly on the grey hangar floor.

…

Coraxas began laughing. Not a sadistic, heinous cackle as usual for Chaos’s dark servants, but rather a jovial giggle at how amusing the situation was, and how enjoyable he found this display of unspeakable cruelty. Soon enough, Hemek, Pussgoop, Emeric, Ba’ar Zul, and Vetgel joined in. Their fellow Chaos Space Marines followed with cackles of their own, clearly finding the grisly scene laughable.

Befuddlement spread among the Banished High Command, though eventually, sensing the atmosphere’s pivot to calmness, Escharum joined in. Hyperius, Tovarius, Bassus, Tremonius, and everyone save a cautious Jega (who’s very nature begot a lack of laughter or cheer) and hesitant Decimus joined in. Eventually, Decimus caved after wordless encouragement from Atriox via a back-pat, and he bleated a low laugh. He personally admitted the situation was unexpected, yet it perfectly espoused the ideologies of both factions without another meaningless word espoused.

-

Two Hours Later

Glitchtrap’s Might Mess Hall

You know how a dad would stand adamantly against the idea of getting a cat or dog until the family buys the pet and they’re inseparable?

That allegory could easily describe the Chaos Space Marine view of the Banished, and vice-versa.

Ultimately, these forces bore held more in common rather than difference. Over pints of grog spiked with spices and sweeteners by the according Slaaneshi chefs did Decimus regale beautiful tales of cruelty and destruction against hapless human colonies during the Human-Covenant War, and following stories of equal malignance when he’d broken off to become Atriox’s chief lieutenant.

Coraxas, helmet stocked to his belt and revealing a once handsome face mutilated and scarred by millennia of service to darkness, retorted by discussing the Imperium of Mankind and their destined failure. The Corpse-Emperor’s weakness and how Chaos despoiled and defiled as they pleased from its ruined remnant.

Jega sectioned off unto the mess corner, having a rather detailed talk with Hemek and several other seated Night Lords about their flaying techniques and how Energy Swords could adapt some of them. Hyperius, Tovarius, the Colony Brothers, Ba’ar Zul, Emeric, and members of the World-Eaters and Emperor’s Children joked among the worst and darkest topics with each other.

Chaos Lord Pussgoop and his respective Deathguard were accosted by Yapyap of all beings, now curious regarding their disease-enmeshed properties and mulling over the possibility of cultivating bioweapons.

These atrocious murderers, massacrers, terrorists, renegades joined together in merry sharing of their tales of brutality and damnation. William truly was a master of bringing together even the most divided cadres of killers. So long as they shared a sadistic love of their craft, they could find a common ground. Hatred of the weak and remembrance of their greatest days. Everyone had an exploitable ego.

“No- no, so let me finish- the Imperial Governor BEGGED me to spare his family! In exchange, his men would disable the fortifications surrounding the Hive-City. Obviously I agreed. We sacked the metropolis with gleeful joy of course, and when it came to the Governor…”

“Did you devour that whelp’s pathetic kindred before his despaired eyes?”
Decimus excitedly inquired whilst downing another barrel of grog, sitting across from Rackard.

“No, actually. I kept to my promise!”

“Really?”

“Of course. I keep them alive today! Though they’d rather I had just finished them on that accursed world. Each day does his wife and daughter curse their fool-father’s good intention, wishing instead he’d consigned to all their deaths!”

Decimus bellowed a cackle at this and slammed an opened palm onto Coraxas’s shoulder pauldron. The other Jiralhanae Chosen gathered about their table followed suit, finding the story utterly hilarious and holding their guts or wiping away the tears of joy manifesting at their eyes.

“These ‘Spartans’ you speak of… they are great warriors?”
Inquired Ba’ar Zul to Hyperius and Tovarus.

“Bah! They fall easy enough before the blade and the gun. Admittedly, they are viewed widely as the UNSC’s greatest ground asset. I suppose if you’re seeking the benchmark of power and strength within that pathetic rabble of ingrates, the Spartans are it.”
Tovarus replied ponderously, slurping down another slew of grog that burned his throat with a delectable, delicious kick.

“It only makes me even more curious to see one up-close. I want to battle these Spartans right away, crush their skulls beneath my boot and rend their skeletons to scattered dust within a windy breeze!”

“Hehehe! I like your spirit! How about this- we’ll hunt them together!”

“You point and I’ll shoot, Jiralhanae!”

The World-Eater and Hand of Atriox member clapped their tankards together cheerfully.

“What’s most pertinent is properly excising the tendons and ligaments with respect to the victim’s anatomy. Amateurs will usually apply the same methods to every victim regardless of their body shape and bone structure. This is a textbook sign of laziness. Whenever I spot an interrogator of such low caliber, I discern onto them fates equally depraved, if not beyond the destinies I have assigned my victims. To examine torture as merely a blunt object, a tool utilized to garner information from a destitute enemy and exact as much pain onto them as possible is purest folly.”

Hemek illustrated to Jega, who listened carefully. The Sangheili, long an exile from the Covenant’s traditionalist rigidity, was a purveyor of such cruel methods of harm and maiming. The Night Lord’s words, flowing as silky rolling thunder off a deep, accented tongue, struck wisdom into Rdomnai that he’d not considered prior.

“Curious, most curious indeed. Have you ever given credence to implementation of Energy-based weapons during your sessions?”

“Hmm… I hadn’t thought of that before. Cauterizations are usually frowned upon among my more conservative brethren, though I consider myself more open-minded. Do tell of the exploits you’ve achieved this way…”

Within the Mess’s corner, Escharum and Advisor stood side-by-side within ponderous discussion.

“Youth is both blessing and curse, if you ask me. When I was younger I embarked on grand adventures throughout my homeworld and its local system. I fought frigid ice-beasts upon the cold plains of Teash and nested many fertile females! Haha, truly, that era fills me with hearkened nostalgia. Simultaneously though, I was foolish then. I did not know conviction. Strength. Brotherhood. Only a selfish indulging of my own desires.”
Escharum remarked while toying with his tankard of grog. Many moons ago, the old Jiralhanae could’ve glutted down eighteen sloughs of the stuff and still been spry enough for a proper drinking competition. Now, he carefully paced his intakes of alcohol, a private Banished physician having warned the Daskalo that an overabundance of inebriation could lead to organ failure.

Advisor hadn’t partook whatsoever. The cloaked figure, practically unnoticeable whilst sequestered at his master’s side, providing secret counsel and overviewing strategies in silence, found a kindred soul within Escharum.

“My time before service to Chaos only arrives in short spurts. Though I can recall a few potent details. My parents were powerful patricians, I believe. Members of society’s upper crust who financed my education and natural fanaticism of the arts, sciences, and magicks. I styled myself as an intellectual. My father arranged a marriage to cement an alliance with another house at the time. To avoid being chained to a dispassionate career slaving at his business, I decided to enroll in a Magic College.”
Replied the Advisor calmly whilst clasping that unknowable staff of his.

“I can respect that. You decided to forge your own path despite the consequences. Many spend their lives turmoiled over choices they never make. They die unsatisfied.”

“Perhaps. Slowly does the story piece together in my mind, only through millennia of studious research and dedication to Tzeentch’s enigmatic spells and scrying have I been able to retain aspects of my mind and slowly draw those enmeshed in the murky recesses back to my mental forefront. Even so, whatever result may occur of this undertaking, my role now is forever. I am proudly Emperor Glitchtrap’s adviser and councilor.”

“As am I Atriox’s. I believe the counsel of us old mentors is now, more than ever, a necessitation for nations and their lords to thrive. I look forward to our imminent collaboration.”
Escharum haggardly coughed after speaking, wiping some discordant spit off his face. Advisor’s eyebrows tilted.

“Are you alright?”

“Geh… just a lung condition. Nothing fatal I’m told. At least not for now. Should the virulence develop though… well, that’s a worry for the future.”

“Perhaps it ought to occupy our worries now. Should my Master agree, we could arrange for a special treatment.”

“Special treatment?”

“The Dark Powers of Chaos are not solely utilized for sowing death and destruction, friend Escharum.”

“Hmm.. I’m skeptical yet intrigued. I wish not to perish yet. My end must be within battle’s embrace. Should you have that kindness and willingness within you…”

“Think nothing of it. I shall inform Emperor Glitchtrap after this communion ends. This mediocre disease will not the death of you, friend Escharum.”

“My thanks.”

As they spoke, Glitchtrap and Atriox stood side-by-side.

“You’ve pulled off something I personally didn’t believe possible. The Banished are now your willing allies.”
Remarked the Warmaster with a passing admiration.

“Just wait till you join the Conclave proper. The Helghast were fools indeed for pitting us against one another.”

“I ache to make them pay for disrupting my operations in that sector. En’Geddon was a prized asset of mine.”

“Soon. Soon. They are embroiled in conflicts of their own, and currently, so are we. You are free to launch continual raids on their territory and fleets as you see fit, however. Again, the Conclave exists not to tyrannize, but to share in conquests and glory. As you reap the rewards, you reap the difficulties.”

“Hmph. As you say.”

Springtrap was ready to state more, but his helmet beeped to life. Someone sought to contact him, and judging by the holo-signature, he knew who.

“Grant me but a moment, Warmaster.”

Atriox nodded and stepped off to parley with his own lieutenants and those of Chaos while Afton slinked to a room corner to receive the message.

“Changeling?”

From blue embers and holographic smoke fettered the visage of a mischievous, hooded figure within Springtrap’s HUD. An enigmatic Daemon whose true origins and nature were forever shrouded in mystery, and a recent member of Glitchtrap’s Primordial Legion.

The Changeling was as much asset as liability. Ultimately, it existed to enact childish pranks and tricks upon the unsuspecting and unwitting. During the Primordial Empire’s second year of existence, he disguised himself as the ruling warlord commanding a civilization of nomadic space-peoples and spat in Glitchtrap’s face during a negotiation. Only after completely ravaging this civilization and putting its citizenry into the charnel pits or encumbering them into a ruthless slave market or ingratiating whoever was physically able into Glitchtrap’s own military did he realize his folly. A useful possible ally rendered into naught but a dissected ruin.

William never fully trusted the Changeling, though after constantly messing with the Primordial Empire’s functionaries, Tzeentch’s herald appeared to undergo a change of heart, suddenly offering services to Afton, if only because realizing it got to play with countless various beings across the Multiverse by doing so.

Now its days were spent seeding cults of arcane knowledge and political deception upon worlds unaware of their imminent fate. Whispering beguiling thoughts into the ears of heroes, villains, conquerors, peasants, everyone that would ultimately grow into a fateful destiny were subjects of Changeling’s incomprehensibly complex manipulations. Having these tendrils of information active were useful for an empire sufficed on expansion and induction of new territories.

“Guhuhuhuhuhuhuhu! I report news of most pleasurable content Excellency! Or do I? Maybe I come with terrible news! Earth has been decimated by a giant ape! Whatever shall we do!?”

“I’m in the middle of something here.”

“… You’re no fun. I should give you a wedgie for being so cold to me, you know! My Dad doesn’t like it when people are mean to me! And you WORK for my dad, you know!”
Giggled the Changeling with a thousand voices resounding into a choral unison, though the overarching sound seemed that of a playful child toying with William. The father it referred to obviously meant Tzeentch, who could technically be described the Changeling’s originator.

“I’ll hang up then.”

“NO WAIT! Listen, I’ve done a little scouting ahead like you asked. Firstly, the Helghast are NOT happy you’ve smoothed things over with your monkey friend Atriox, though I believe that goes without saying. I doubt anything’ll come over it though. They’re way too preoccupied preparing for their adorable invasion of the UCN. I’ll have someone keep an eye on them. But the REAL juicy meat of why I’m contacting you…”

Changeling giggled uncontrollably before twirling about, blue magicks flying about his person as moths to flame.

“That Muzan fellow I told you about has agreed to accept our help. I mean, he sure was grouchy about it, but whatever. You two could get along over that prospect. Always grouchy, never smiling, etcetera.”

“… Well then. That is good news.”

“Yuh-huh! A new friend for you, more fun for me- we both win! I really like this arrangement we have here! I haven’t gotten bored ONCE!”

“You’re welcome. Inform the Demon-King Kibutsuji that I’ll be arriving within several days and to make according preparations. I want dossiers on everyone embedded into his command structure too. Lieutenants, officers, commanders, the whole deal.”

“Ehhhhh- that’s too much work. Just find out for yourself! More authentic that way! Anywho, I gotta skidaddle. I’ll see you topside bossman! Or maybe I won’t! Maybe I’m in your pants RIGHT NOW!”

Changeling shapeshifted into a writhing legion of snakes, before reconstituting and giggling madly as the call ended. William silently cursed the irritating Horror of Tzeentch and his continual insistence to become involved in Primordial Imperial affairs. Though at the very least, he’d managed to wrench a victory here.

Springtrap approached Atriox, helmet automatically disintegrating back to reveal William’s face, bearing a wolfish grin.

“Warmaster, are you ready to put your armies to the test?”

The Jiralhanae conqueror turned and harumphed.

“Always! Show me the plunder and the foe!”

“Perfect.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Earth – Unknown Bunker

Special Agent Kate Laswell witnessed the death of everything she’d known over the past five years. The downfall of democracy and free-thinking, the usurpation of an abhorrent imperial regime worshiping four destitute gods of malignant and evil nature; their installation of puppet governments the world over to cow populations into submission, their censorship of free press, their implementation of a draft across most regions on Earth under their control to fuel their endless wars of conquest, expansion, and resource-acquisition…

Their allies, a multidimensional alien empire and Hell itself consolidated territories within Europe, Africa, choice slices of Asia, and Australia, were arguably even worse. At least the ‘Chaos’ forces granted those under their whim chances for prosperity, as brutal, horrific, and twisted as they were. Laswell only received tidbits of information from those within Combine and Hell-occupied lands, yet even from minor description alone, it was beyond the most horrific things she’d had the displeasure of reading or viewing.

Someone needed to take a stand.

Formerly a CIA Special Asset deployed on missions overseas to terminate high-value targets, she’d become an inside woman within the chaotic politi-military infrastructure of the American Empire, a nation unrecognizable from the society it inherited. Moving through the bunker where workers tapped away on terminals or took encrypted phone-calls, she was soon joined by a gruff, older man of English descent.

Captain John Price.

“Just got word from Liverpool. Sutler’s clamping down. Bauer’s managed to get safe flight back to the States though. He’ll be coming back tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“As we expected. How’s Gaz?”

“Alright, for now. I’m not hedging bets on his team until we deliver them close fire support Kate.”

“You know that’s impossible John.”

“As you keep telling me. The task YOU set Gaz on; I might add.”

John’s indignant tone scored a momentary ire from Kate as she turned to face the SAS legend as they entered a command room within the underground bunker.

“He volunteered John. We’re running low on those everyday. I need more heroes now then ever.”

“You know how they operate Kate. Something bad happens on Earth in Primordial territory, the government answers to that Glitchtrap bastard. Heads will roll. They always do. Sutler’s gonna do everything in his power to rectify the effects of that ambush on his troop convoy if he wants to keep his job. And his life.”

“I’m counting on it. We’ll ride the people’s anger when they clamp down and light the fire which frees Earth. Don’t tell me now you’re faltering John. Not after all this time.”

 Price shifted momentarily, hat down whilst broiled in deep contemplation before sighing.

“What’s on the docket for today then?”

“Good. We’re about to receive Yorinobu Arasaka.”

“The corpo-kid?”

“Much more. The corpo-kid bringing an end to corpos, more specifically; his own father’s.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. You’re risking too much on his plan.”

“… I disagree. This is our best chance to strike against the infrastructure that really matters. If the corporations that finance and profit obscenely off Glitchtrap’s occupation are damaged, that’s the string we pull to bring the whole house down. I understand your reservations John, but this war isn’t a faraway proxy affair anymore. We’re not operating with smokescreens. The intel is gathered on the home-front, the battles are domestic. Sacrifices will be made. More then have been already.”

Price’s lips pursed before he retorted.

“I don’t need a lecture on sacrifice Kate. Before the Chaos Invasions I’d already lost more than you know. I’m acceptant of the fact that tomorrow, enemy soldiers could burst down our doors and wipe us down to the last man, and that’s our best-case scenario. What I’m hoping is that you aren’t wasting what little assets we’ve left on wild goose chases.”

Kate seemed offended at Price’s insinuation that she was becoming unfit to lead their organized resistance.

“John… I am running on fucking fumes. The situation gets worse everyday. The enemy gets more unbeatable. We are fighting monsters and devils, not just ordinary humans. I exist on the smallest of hopes. I can’t remember the last time I slept more than two hours. I… I don’t know if I can’t do this anymore.”

John’s expression worried as Laswell momentarily allowed the stress and fear built up over these fruitless years of battling against an unstoppable empire to overwhelm her. Her old eyes watered and her body language sagged from a confident leader to a mentally broken woman who wanted to retreat into the comforting arms of a lover or a friend. John wasn’t the former, but he’d certainly act the latter here.

“Kate, I didn’t… I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-“

“No- you’re right. I just- I wish I could do more. I’ve been trying John. I have. I-“

Kate began hyperventilating, though Price held her softly. This breakdown owed itself to many reasons, among which was Laswell’s late wife, murdered by a rampaging Khornate Bloodthirster during the madness wrought upon Earth five years ago by the sick tyrant Afton.

“You’re doing the best you can. I know you are. Don’t worry Kate. Everything’s gonna be okay, alright? Look at me. Kate, please, look at me.”

Price’s gravelly, deep, and becalming voice brought a small sense of comfort and relief to Laswell. She sniffled and turned up to see the Price’s reassuring face stare back down.

They still had each other in a world gone mad.

“Right. Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the bloke poking holes into all of your schemes, eh? Right arsehole I am.”

Kate innocently laughed at Price’s surprising joviality.

“Without doubt. But a necessary asshole, I guess. What would I do without your British dry humor, huh John?”

“Be that much saner I reckon.”

“Mm. Maybe. Though if being sane is accepting times like these, I’d prefer to err on the side of craziness.”

“Can’t blame ya there.”

Before Kate could reply, the Comm-Table brisked open with a call request.

“Identification verified. It’s Yorinobu ma’am. Shall I put him through?”
Asked a terminal jockey on the room’s far side, sporting a set of specialized headphones.

“Ten seconds.”

“Roger that.”

Kate wiped away residue tears and nodded to Price.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

John moved away to manage another affair as those ten seconds passed. The table whirred to life, forming together the visage of Yorinobu Arasaka. He stood tall and proud, piercing eyes sheltered behind black glasses and wearing a modest corporate suit and slacks, making him appear more an innovator and negotiator than a ruthless rebel leader.

“Agent Laswell. I wish we could have this conversation in-person, though I understand why we cannot."

“Agent Laswell. I wish we could have this conversation in-person, though I understand why that’s quite impossible.”

“Yorinobu. Good to see you’re still alive and well.”

“So long as my father’s tyranny, and that of the Primordial Empire’s persists, I shall not rest. I suspect you hold a similar mindset.”

“More then you know. Any updates?”

“Plenty. As you suspected, our three associates have decided to take matters into their own hands. They’ve disappeared from Washington D.C. To where I’m not sure. I’ve got my spies combing as much of America as possible.”

“Don’t bother. They’re rats at heart, skittering down to the quietest hole they could find. I’d hoped their self-serving natures would prove our gain. That they’d simply back the legislative package we proposed to lower corporate power via political channels.”

“I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. My spy inside Vladivostok KGB reports they’ve already begun an investigation into the Steel Dragons. Ostensibly it’s retribution for our attacks against the Tiberium mining operation eight months ago, but I’m certain the real purpose is finding and terminating the blackmail.”

“Erebus, Francis Underwood, and Richard Trager. Three of Afton’s most prolific lieutenants. If we break the lid on their misdeeds, we open a can of worms on this empire. They’ll eat each other. The corporate magnates, the dictators, the lieutenants, the generals… they operate in a jungle. If the people’s rage is unlocked…”

“Yes. Agreed. Perhaps they predicted that we intended to release the footage and audio anyway.”

“Mm. How much do your men in Vladivostok know?”

“Nothing that could break us, though enough to create a breadcrumb trail. After I decided to graduate from leading on the frontline, I still kept contact with the Steel Dragons and other Anti-Corporate gangs I fostered back in Japan. Our plan wouldn’t be possible without them after all, you understand that sharing even a little intel with them was a necessity.”

“So you’re telling me we’re at risk. I’ve been observing comm-chatter. Vladivostok’s under an unofficial lockdown. KGB Agents are crawling about the place. There’s no way your gang can escape the city.”

“I’m telling you it won’t matter. I’ve almost finished acquiring the allies I need to launch my seizure of Arasaka. And you? Have you prepped a team for Russia?”

“I’ve selected my candidates. They’ll be entering Russian airspace by this time tomorrow.”

“Good. Ostankino Tower is our greatest opportunity for the broadcast to reach the maximum amount of people. Stalin’s obsession with propaganda shall become our advantage. The sins of Erebus, Trager, and Underwood on blast for the world to hear.”

“And while the Primordials descend into infighting trying to fix the mess…”

“I march into Arasaka Tower. Declare my father senile and have my allied executives back a company acquisition.”

“Are you sure?”

“Saburo Arasaka’s barely shown himself physically the past several decades, only appearing virtually to reinforce what little control he holds left of his international assets. You’d be surprised how many are of the sentiment that their dear Emperor has finally reached his limits and want the throne for themselves.”

“Knowing you corpos, not at all.”

Yorinobu shrugged, accepting the jab with a nod.

“Another thing… you’re sure Sloane can be trusted?”
Kate brought up.

“No. He’s a madman through and through. Yet luckily for me, he’s a madman who hates the current regime as much as I do. He thinks by loaning me support he’ll be weakening the East.”

“Keep him thinking that. Once you’ve got control of Arasaka Corporation, everything becomes easier. You’ll be able to send us money, supplies, logistics, manpower; all while breaking it from within. Glitchtrap’s hold will begin slipping.”

“And at last, my father will learn that I never have nor will fear him.”

“Of course.”

A momentary pause hung between these two rebels with a cause, standing with mutual respect and admiration of each other, and nervousness of the days to come; that would determine their fates and that of those whom believed in them.

“Good luck, Agent Laswell.”

“Same to you, Yorinobu. Kick dear dad in the teeth for me.”

“I’ll do much more then kicking when I have my way.”

And just as quickly as it began, their communique ended.

It was go time.

Chapter Text

Citadel – Serpent Nebula

Citadel Councilor Sparatus was always wary of humanity.

Calling his feelings bigotry or racism would be unprovoked and emotional. Laiel did not despise the young race for their brashness and inadvertently destructive natures. As the predator could not wean itself off meat nor prey its grass, so couldn’t humanity refrain from exploring, innovating, conquering, and committing achievements of grand scale and atrocities of unspeakable horror with equivalent measure.

Such a species already skyrocketed among Galactic opinion. Humans defied the Turians and survived to tell the tale, rather than becoming a muted colony-people instead. Their willingness to mediate conflicts, adapt to technologies and rules whilst forming their own, and their generally creative mindsets allowed them to flourish in a Galaxy domineered by species too downcast in their own antiquated and narrow-minded schools of thought. Even the Salarians valued intelligence over wisdom, a crucial mistake these homosapiens hadn’t made.

Such a race needed cautious observation. If they ever malformed into a threat against Galactic peace and security, well… the other Citadel races needed to stand at the ready.

So, when Ambassador Donnell Udina, human representative to the Citadel, parleys unto the Council to host a meeting with Primarch Roboute Gulliman of the Imperium, a nation-state infamous throughout the greater universe for its backwards social policies, xenophobic humanocentric attitudes, destitute standards of living, and proclivity to violence to solve any manner of problem, well, Sparatus felt such weariness was deserved.

“You’re being overzealous Sparatus. We’ve seen the reports. Gulliman’s instituted reforms, albeit slow, are certainly beginning to alter the Imperium from within. A noticeable lack of hostile attitudes within their central government structures towards other species, alongside their small, recent outreaches to our friends in the Tau Empire are evidence enough to believe that even the most downtrodden can make progress.”
Tevos, the Asari Councilor, warmly spoke to her Turian counterpart. Sparatus huffed as they proceeded to their designated podiums, where their edicts often determined the destiny of trillions of beings teeming across the stars.

 “Since when did Asari place stock in the betterment of others?”

“Our reputation as superficial, nihilistic snobs is something I gravely detest. You know this.”

“Speak not to me of foul reputations. You Asari are lauded Galaxy-wide, rightfully so, for your cultural, political, and social contributions to culture and governance. This very Citadel owes its existence to your founding and tolerant nature of other races. And yet I cannot find myself giving similar accolades to mankind. They have displayed an invasive, warlike attitude not dissimilar to the Krogan. Yet unlike them, humans bear foresight to understand the consequences of their actions. They skirt Galactic regulation and believe wholly in manifest destiny. I agree their people hold potential, but only if corralled. Embracing humanity unchained is equally risky as keeping them oppressed and locked away.”

“Are you Turians so different?”

Sparatus visibly scowled at such insinuation.

“We Turians are noble. Our race prides itself on honesty and work ethic. Rarely have issues of nepotistic corruption or societal decadence plagued our ranks. Only when engaging with outer-species contact have certain Turians begun to display traits unbecoming of their native race. Humans, meanwhile, can be anything. They could be your friend today and your killer tomorrow. That versatility isn’t something we should allow to flourish.”

“On the contrary. I believe that very versatility is what this Council, and this Galaxy, sorely requires at such a time as ours.”

Sparatus wanted to retort, but noticed Salarian Councilor Valern entering with a neutral expression upon his warbly face. He nodded curtly to both politicians and stepped upon his designated podium.

“Councilors. Have your mornings been enjoyable?”

“I cannot find myself complaining, Councilor Valern.”
Warmly responded Tevos with a disarming smile. Sparatus seemed to linger on her bluefaced expression mildly longer than usual before giving his own answer.

“A standard affair. The wife sucks my salary out like a Palavenite Gnaw-Bat. I am considering divorce.”

“Oh no. That’s terrible! I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I could do Councilor Sparatus…”
Tevos interjected. Valern, being a salarian and thus an expert, noticed small telltale signs among the Turian’s body language and momentary reactions to Tevos’s words.

How curious.

Before this theatre could proceed, their podiums beeped passively.

Ambassador Udina had arrived.

All three turned to examine the human ambassador, clothed suavely and with a distant expression of muted intrigue always palpable upon his visage. A curt bow and nod of appreciation followed from Udina, seeming so robotic that Sparatus almost made a joke equivocating Donnell to the Keeper workers that upkeeped the Citadel infrastructure, though refrained.

“Councilors. A pleasure as always.”

“Let’s begin, shall we?”
Sparatus murmured unceremoniously.

“My sentiments exactly. Primarch Roboute Gulliman, on behalf of the Imperium of Mankind, has espoused desire to address the Citadel Council. As mankind’s foremost emissary within this Galaxy, I took it upon myself to arrange this meeting.”

“If I recall, we haven’t even agreed to grant this Gulliman audience. I believed that alone was today’s topic. Are you telling us you’ve this man waiting for our call?”
Valern inquired with curiosity and apprehension alike, head tilted.

“No. He’s going to hail us in approximately twenty seconds, depending on extra-galactic interference and broadband traffic between Holy Terra and here.”

The Council staggered momentarily. Even the resplendent and distant Tevos allowed her expression to betray shock.

“You’ve overstepped before Udina, but this…”
Sparatus’s shock quickly lowered into an accusatory growl. Donnell remained unintimidated, analyzing each Councilor’s reaction as if he was there to judge them rather than the opposite.

“Was necessary. It breaks perhaps every protocol and etiquette of this Council, yet I know this body would’ve never spoken with Primarch Gulliman through official channels. I respect the democratic process with my heart and mind, but today? I feel a decisive action is required over committees and debates, especially after the intelligence I’ve been given.”

“Intelligence? What manner of- explain yourself!”
Valern demanded. Yet Udina didn’t bother to reply, as moments later, the Council’s automated hologram receiver rung with notification of imminent call.

Primarch Gulliman.

A hesitation followed as the Citadel triumvirate darted nervous glares upon each other. To deny a foreign dignitary’s request for communique directly could be viewed as diplomatic insult, a political shame that neither of these assembled delegates would prefer to hold on their records.

Hesitantly, Tevos accepted the call.

If their preceding conversation didn’t gather the attention of Citadel officials that were presently occupying the tower, the subsequent holographic image did.

Even only represented by this measly machine’s blue outline, Roboute Gulliman stood proudly at eleven feet and radiated a golden enlightenment even from lightyears away. A neutral, discerning expression upon a head of light golden hair, a mighty warrior’s body encumbered within aqua-blue colored armor, though the specific hue was unknowable thanks to the hologram’s nature.

Gulliman’s posture was nonthreatening and approachable, meant to indicate not an indomitable warrior-king lording from afar, but rather a noble diplomat wishing to make political headway with a foreign faction.

“Great Citadel Council. It’s an honor to speak at last. I wish under lighter circumstances could this introduction be forged.”

Valern crossed his arms and observed with silent aptitude while Tevos seemed ensconced with deep thought, trying to discern Gulliman’s thoughts. Sparatus sighed and seized the initiative as always.

“Primarch Gulliman. I’ll admit, we weren’t expecting this call.”

“I’m aware. Apologies for the abrupt and strenuous nature under which this diatribe was arranged, though I believe it’s more than justified. I shall dally no longer. Great Council, you and your constituents across the Galaxy you inhabit, and throughout many Galaxies beyond- face a grave threat. It shall only increase with size and power. An all-consuming darkness annihilating all that stands before it.”

“Is this regarding those Reapers Commander Shepard mentioned a month ago? While Saren Arterius has indeed been proven a traitor, there exists no evidence pointing towards-“

“Reapers? No, I wasn’t told of this. I come instead to warn you of Chaos. Primarily, an empire that seemingly weaponized the darkness and created a demented iteration of order from it.”

“Chaos? What are you talking about?”
Valern inquired.

“There exist vast and ancient powers amidst this universe so imbued with wicked intent and deathly might that your civilizations have been fortunate enough to never encounter. I’m afraid this momentary bliss will come to a thrashing end soon.”

“Are you telling us that this ‘Chaos’ shall come for our Galaxy sooner or later?”
Tevos asked politely whilst tilting her head. Even during this negotiation Sparatus couldn’t help but dart a momentary glance at her, causing Valern to scoff internally. Show some dignity man!

“Indeed. My information on them yet remains scarce, a matter I aim to rectify. Even from preliminary reports, what I’ve to report is deeply unsettling. Chaos, by nature, is conceptual power based on disorder and anarchy, as the name begets. Somehow this legion has managed to temper Chaos’s inclination for destruction, warping it with a cruel mockery of civilization. They are the Primordial Empire, and judging by every statistic and metric, they shall come for us all eventually.”

 “Have you proof of these claims? Or merely your exclusive hearsay?”
Sparatus hissed.

“I’d not waste this honorable delegation’s time had I nothing to bear about the matter. I’ve statistics, spreadsheets, the like; alongside several-“

“You wish us to take action based upon spreadsheets and statistics? We are not office workers, Primarch Gulliman, we are the proud representatives of our peoples and wider Galactic interests here upon this Citadel. No authority claims us save objective proof and logic alone!”

“I’m afraid I cannot yield such material as we currently stand. The enemy has wisely barricaded their territories and rapidly conquered new ones, our spies struggle to keep up. They regularly purge their ranks and make good on efforts of paranoia on behalf of their sovereign, their Emperor, Glitchtrap.”

“Glitchtrap? I’ve never heard that moniker before.”
Tevos commented with a frown.

“You may soon will. Please, Councilors, I implore that our nations patch together a military alliance capable of defending worlds, systems, and other societies against the Primordial encroachment before it’s too late. I would recommend-“

“Dear apologies Primarch, but I’m afraid without any conclusive evidence regarding this Primordial Empire’s existence, your words alone cannot shift our decision-making. Should this body be acquiescent to every demand conjured from tales alone, we would’ve redecorated the tower a coat of bright pink and launched military interventions on behalf of ice-cream vendor rights on Irune.”
Joked Valern, earning a few small giggles from the observant audience- most of whom clearly didn’t take Gulliman’s warnings seriously. The frustrated Primarch tried to embark on reason, though seemed defeated at every turn.

“Indeed. We take matters of Galactic security very seriously, but I’m afraid you have brought nothing for us to estimate. Furthermore, and while I distaste making assumptions and labeling via stereotypes, your empire itself hasn’t been the most… welcoming to non-humans. Forgive us should our trust in you be wary.”
Tevos added with a small gaze of sympathy. Roboute seemed exasperated by now.

“Grant me time, I beseech you. Enough to acquire the evidence I need. We must bring together the disparate factions defending freedom and individuality across the universe, lest we all become crushed under the Chaotic bootheel. I know my people’s history is dark and tattered, and humans everywhere have oft suffered a poor reputation from our actions, yet everyday I work to improve our station. Now I seek improvement once more. Allow the Imperium to spearhead an effort of defense against these foes, because I can assure you; in my long and timeless war against Chaos, I have never seen a faction so gravely utilizing it as this. They WILL come for us all!”

Sparatus shook his head, doing best to hide an insidious Turian grin. So effortlessly batting away the Imperium’s blatant attempt at measly control over the Citadel would undoubtedly earn him political points, perhaps even the front page on Citadel News data-slates tomorrow.

“Apologies. We wish you luck on repairing the state of things back home, but we’ve no reason to follow your logic here. Until concrete evidence could be unearthed of the Primordial Empire’s existence, we shall treat them, rightfully so, as a hoax.”

“We cannot even give him a chance?”
Interluded Udina with a desperate plea.

“Chances are built on merit. You have brought us myth. Contact us if you’ve ever something solid, which I highly doubt. Goodbye.”

Giving Gulliman not another chance to vocalize, the holo-feed cut off, leaving a fuming Udina standing alone to face the political consequences of his failed gambit.

-

Gulliman’s neutral gaze melted into a disappointed reclusiveness. Around him laid the fineries of Holy Terra’s governance chambers. Stained glass windows, beautiful portraits, golden aquilas; hallmarks of artistry and civilization.

“I suspect failure.”

“Your scanners do you well Archmagos. The Citadel will not heed words alone. I cannot blame them perhaps; though their refusal to even dispatch envoys of their own to investigate the Primordial Empire heightens my frustration.”

Belisarius Cawl, Archmagos Dominus of the Adeptus Mechanicus, stood close by the Imperium’s Lord Commander and reigning Regent. Since Cawl’s assistance with Gulliman’s resurrection at Macragge, they’d become close allies working to repair the carcass Imperium into a society worth fighting for, whilst simultaneously warring against dozens of hungering enemy factions, most prominently being Abbadon the Despoiler’s Black Legion.

Until recently, Gulliman classified the Despoiler’s legions as the greatest threat to Imperium safety overall. However, such dynamics have shifted considerably. Having been mildly aware of Galaxies and Universes existent outside this war-torn hell, Gulliman privately OKed a project ordained by the Officio Assassinorium to dispatch agents throughout the greater cosmic plane and discover new civilizations to portend a variety of purposes.

These discoveries indicated that other civilizations had equally been observant of the Imperium as it sought to become regarding them. Considering their state of internal affairs, well… their Intergalactic reputation wasn’t squeaky clean.

More terrifying still was uncovering the Primordial Empire’s existence.

Until now, Gulliman didn’t believe it possible. Chaos’s servants were wholly focused on exacting anguish and atrocity upon everything and everyone. Even their smartest minions were single-mindedly sectored on such ruinous goals, having little else to aspire unto when under the command of uncaring deities. Such was Chaos’s self-defeating nature that after Cadia’s pulverization, Abbadon’s ceaseless hordes of madmen and monsters inverted upon each other in bloody cavalcades of carnage, with only recently the Despoiler managing to unite swaths of them to complete his next few war-goals.

This Primordial Empire resembled less a mob of disconcerted, unhinged butchers, and more a refined autocratic conqueror-state. Curiously enough, Gulliman could draw quite a few similarities between them and the Imperium, though he’d never dare verbally admit it.

While worshiping the Ruinous Four, they held genuine social cohesion. Their worlds were dictatorial and brutal beyond measure though relinquished suffering should you display merit and loyalty to state authorities. Chaos Astartes that were under this faction’s employ were dispatched to quell constant frontier insurgencies and thus lacked the capacity to unleash their crude urges onto citizenry. Curiously still was the reverence the people were shaped to hold for Chaos and its Legions. The Gods were viewed as enlightening truths requiring embracing rather than rejection, and their unquestionable sovereign whom they spoke through, this enigmatic ‘Glitchtrap’, would deliver the peoples all to new ages of achievement and greatness.

A Chaos Civilization was a danger far greater than a Chaos Warband. And Glitchtrap wouldn’t be satisfied until all the universe lied upon his wicked palm, meaning they’d arrive here eventually.

“Reliance on others was never a concrete possibility. We should’ve prepared for rejection and mistrust.”

“Perhaps. Where’s my brother?”

“Lionel Johnson makes his way to Holy Terra as we speak.”

“Inform him ahead of arrival to meet with me. I’m aware our relations weren’t perhaps the warmest, though now more than ever I require a sensible military head. The Primordial Truth will come to claim us all, I want to be ready. I’ll continue trying to make headway with those on my list.”

“A fruitless gamble.”

“If even a single foreign government will heed me, I shall count that as victory. I require not declarations of full support, only the patience to give me time enough to acquire evidence of the Primordial Empire’s nature and intention.”

“You are a dreamer Roboute Gulliman. That is why the Imperium needs you. And that is why you shall die disappointed.”

Just then, the Imperial communicator-machine beeped to life. Gulliman wordlessly and tentatively accepted the request; bringing forth the blue visage of an older gentleman clad in stuffy military regalia, his cap proudly brandishing the Systems Alliance logo, the Systems Alliance being the unitary socio-political organization representing humanity in the nearby Galaxy.

“Primarch Gulliman?”

“To whom am I addressing?”

“I’m Admiral Steven Hackett of the Systems Alliance Warfleet. Ambassador Udina informed me of you. What you spoke about just now to the Council, regarding the Primordial Empire… may I request you reiterate it?”

Gulliman kept that same distant expression, though wanted to strike an excitable grin at that moment.

“Of course, Admiral. Let’s waste no time then."
=================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================

Two days before the Chaos-Banished Summit Aboard Glitchtrap’s Might

Muzan’s Infinity Castle  

Why, somehow, was the Demon-King still disappointed?

These ‘Twelve Kizuki’ weren’t anything special, honestly. Their grandiose Blood Demon Arts and boastful skills of slaughter were a tired doctrine existent only to bring about the Demon Slayer Corps’ ultimate annihilation. Intriguingly enough, despite this order’s sole purpose of function being to bring gruesome death to Muzan’s most prolific of enemies, yet they’ve failed in delivering him even that providence. Gyutaro and Daki were slain by a glorified polygamist and his band of idiot pupils, especially that one wretched boy with the hanafuda earrings. Even mildly pondering that child brought about unpleasant memories within Kibutsuji’s mental projection, physically manifesting as a slight shudder.

He waited to address them. Firstly, he’d allow a tension to build among these hapless lieutenants. To allow the full scope of their colossal failure to sickeningly seep into their veins as they stood helplessly among a network of twirling staircases and rooms and hallways conglomerated into an impossible, eldritch maze. The otherworldly dimensional plane where Kibutsuji brought together his trusted, close servants to discuss plans and generally his place of residence.

Finally, only after allowing a suffocatingly worrying atmosphere to build, did the Demon-King grant his subordinates the pleasure of hearing his silky, authoritative voice.

“Gyutaro is no longer with us.”

The menial conversation espoused between the remaining Upper Moons till that point quieted all at once. Attention squarely focused on Kibutsuji.

“Of course, I knew that Gyutaro would lose. His necessity of protecting that insipid sister of his became the Achilles Heel which the Demon Slayers exploited.”

Kibutsuji simultaneously remained entranced with the alchemical combinations he’d been fixating upon for days now, seeking to create a workable compound that might provide his cells an immunity against the sun’s heat and thus negate the Blue Spider Lily Search. Unfortunately, all extraneous efforts to achieve were vain, forcing Muzan to continuously rely on Demon minions whose competence was questionable at best.

Muzan operated these experimentations from an elevated platform swung upside down, creating a mystical optical illusion that puzzled and terrified the miscreants below. Doma, the preening sycophant as always, watched with stark adoration. Gyokko, the fisherman-borne sadist, held an inscrutable expression considering that mismatched face of his. Hantengu cowered like the self-pitying mongrel he was, while Akaza stewed with confusion and resentment at recent events.

Only Kokushibo managed to escape Muzan’s quiet wrath. The silent ronin, plucked long ago owed to uniquely skilled breathing techniques and unbeatable swordsmanship, older brother of that dreaded bloodthirsty animal from century past that Kibutsuji dared not even ponder.

“What I despise most within this world is the concept of change. Change indicates weakness. It indicates lack of permanence. Knowing this, the Twelve Kizuki have allowed an unacceptable shift among the ranks to occur. The Lower Moons were disposable fodder, their worthlessness wasn’t surprising. But you Upper Ranks… I expect nothing of you all, yet somehow I find myself taken aback. How worthless could you all be!? One hundred and thirteen years without a single Upper Moon casualty, and suddenly I lose two!”

The Demon-King’s legendary composure withered momentarily, causing the beaker glasses he’d been toying with to shatter into dozens of scattered pieces. Whatever superficial wounds were incurred upon his palms through this action quickly healed themselves in stunning displays of regenerative capacity.

“I DEMAND an answer!”

Muzan’s authoritative voice shouted demandingly.

“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Kokushibo murmured inconclusively. Only the swordsman could ever provide such a flat answer and expect survival.

“Ohhhhhh, Lord Muzan, forgive us! Pleaseeeee! How should you like me to answer for Gyutaro’s demise!? Shall I gouge my own eyes out? Would you enjoy snacking on my intestines? Make any inquiry beautiful master, I’ll see it done! Perhaps ripping off slabs of my own skull and stabbing-“

“Silence, Doma!”

Doma understood and shut up subsequently, still bearing a dumb grin upon his face and earning a dirty look from mute Akaza in the process.

Into the conversation warbled Gyokko.

“Lord Muzan-samaaaa!! Do not despair, for I have brought information that could be decisive to your goals! I’ve uncovered the locati-“

Before Gyokko could finish his sentence, a distinct giggling peered upon the grouped Demon elites. It began as merely a snicker, though developed into an apparent chorus of maniacal laughter originating from man and woman, boy and girl, old and young alike. This noise brought immediate irritation to Kibutsuji.

“Who believes this is an appropriate time to laugh? Is my frustration a source of merriment for any of you?”

Strangely though, Kibutsuji didn’t detect any manner of joyous appropriation from these measly servants.

“No Lord Muzan! We would never!”
Akaza stated strongly whilst keeping his head lowered respectfully.

“GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! S-s-someone stop that laughing! It’s scaring me! Please help! I’m so scared! I’m afraid. This isn’t fair! I’m so small and weak, I don’t deserve being victimized like this!”
Wailed Hantengu, clambering akin to a fretful insect behind another staircase whilst shaking.

“Biwa-Woman, did you perhaps allow another guest into the Infinity Castle without informing us?”
Politely inquired Doma with a tilted head.

“I have only allowed the Upper Ranks and Lord Muzan himself into this Realm. We are being accosted.”
Coldly replied the Biwa-Woman, striking her instrument again, seeking to unearth where this loud bleating hailed from, though restructuring the Infinity Castle’s ceaseless corridors and rooms proved meaningless. The laughter echoed and reverberated malignantly, as if a thousand voices were enjoying the mindless drama of these miniscule fools from a throne above. An incredulous rage spurned Kibutsuji.

“Well go out and FIND the source of this incessant cackling then you useless DOLTS!”

The Upper Moons scrambled to obey their Master’s request, though it’d soon become unnecessary. Materializing from a sudden maelstrom of blue smoke and electrical magicks convalescing into malleable shape arrived a hooded, multi-armed figure of alien inclination. Clasping an esoteric, feathered staff hearkening magicks and fortunes unknowable, the visitor donned a hood, denying any possible viewing into its face, only an eminent darkness that even the Demon-King couldn’t pierce, a fact that perturbed him gravely.

“No need to work your poor soldiers so hard after you’ve just berated them, huh? Hehehehehehehehehehehehehe!”

“Explain yourself before I mantle your head on my wall you DELIQUENT!”

Muzan’s loss of self-control only served to amuse the levitating creature.

“Oh no! You’ll skewer me? Flay me? Devour me? Jeez louise, talk about needing an anger management class or two! Chillax Demon-King! I’m here to help out your current predicaments. As I dearly recall, you bear two major ones- a Demon-Slayer shaped one and a Spider Lily shaped one as well! My my, two seemingly unsolvable issues laden at your feet! It makes me so giddy! I LOVE problems, especially causing them!”

The entity’s attitude only served to flare effervescent tempers. Doma appeared unaffected while Hantengu pathetically cowered continuously and Kokushibo retained an unspoken sentinel observation, though Akaza and Gyokko were clearly just as incensed as their lord about this cretin’s flippant attitude.

“You DARE speak to our Master without blessed honorifics? You presumptuous animal, I’ll turn you into an art piece!”
Gyokko reinforced.

“How does he know about…”
Murmured Akaza with consternation.

“I’m what your simple minds would call a spy. An infiltrator. A snake in the garden if you will. This is just another version of Earth so I presume you all understood that Bible reference. If not, it doesn’t really matter. I provide solutions to unique issues, usually I create the issue and my solution makes the situation even worse, but you’re all quite lucky! I’ve developed a change of heart! Hold your applause till after my presentation though.”

“Enough of this. You know too much.”
Kibutsuji’s left arm mutated into lumps of sharpened and gnawed flesh, a series of lesion-mouths slaked upon this fetid and gross skin that hinged forth to consume the hooded mischief-maker.

 CHOMP!

That’s strange. When Muzan conjured this move, he’d always feel the trademark crunch of the victim’s body churning to meaty mulch and sludge.

No such sensation struck him.

“Oops! Looks like ya missed!”

Muzan turned around with infuriated surprise. Another surge of unflinching anger surged through the Demon-King at this prankster’s vexing antics. Instead of looking upon the hooded visage of earlier, he was staring at an identical copy of himself, suave suit, crimson eyes and all, besmirched with a stupid, playful grin.

“Would we become better friends if we’d speak like this? You seem the selfcest type, am I right?”

“How DARE you!?”

“Dare I what? Is your identity copyrighted now? Wait- are you a Disney property? Oh crap, then I’d be in real trouble, aren’t I? Then again, you seem unimportant enough to belong in the public domain by now.”

“I shall impart onto you sufferings that shall forever permeate the history books! For these insults against I, Muzan Kitbusuji, an undoubtedly perfect being standing proudly upon the apex of all creation, will strike you down!”

“Sheesh! I can see I’ve struck a nerve. Maybe this is why Dad said I could never make any friends. Ah phooey. Alright, how about this, I’ll show you something you’ll like! It’s a real present!”

Before Muzan could strike again, the Changeling whisked a hallucination that somehow pierced even his mental coating.

Only a second of actual time passed, though Muzan felt ensnared in eclipsed limbo for hours.

Visions of the Demon Slayer Corps’ many members slain by his hands and those of his followers. Their prestigious halls and proud training centers meeting fiery oblivions as their survivors were brutally tortured by a legion of horrific beings. They bore unkind, aggressive faces, and took a sadistic joy with bringing suffering to these righteous do-gooders that interloped Kibutsuji’s dream of godlike ascendance and conquering the sun.

Joining them were a variety of creatures. Some completely alien and unrecognizable that were executing Slayers by the bushel or dragging their screaming hides to fates unknown upon the gore-splattered field, others being humanoid and clad among dehumanizing armor, masters of terror and destruction who reveled in their own evildoing.

Standing within the cusp of this glorious sight was a man- no… a living god who’d conquered every adversity beset against him. The sun itself, an element of this world fell short before his indomitable weight. The very exemplar of human ascendance unto something greater. Basking freely and openly before crowds of supplicants bowing reverently at his every step.

Himself!

More amazingly, the next visions entailed Muzan moving beyond this measly world and the paltry entertainments offered by weak mankind, joining a likeminded order conquering new realms and bringing extinction to species unworthy of holding cosmic residence. Demonkind would flourish under Kibutsuji’s exclusive rule. That fantasy treasured long ago of embodying perfection achieved, and even bolder rewards lying beyond.

Everything he could’ve wished would become material reality.

Only if he’d accept the offer laden before him.

To swallow Muzan’s most prolific and foremost sin to accept this offer of alliance with beings of fellow greatness and stature, if only to achieve a mutual benefit.

What did these mysterious, otherworldly invaders garner from providing such boons to Muzan, blessing him imperviousness against the sun and victory against these unending Demon Slayers?

He couldn’t discern. This vision itself could’ve been a trap, a meager illusion dispatched by this prankster to acclimate Muzan’s hopes before dissolving them solely for immature enjoyments or darker purpose. Yet Kibutsuji couldn’t relinquish such a chance now, when everything pointed to a worrying development within the Slayer Corps; especially at the hands of that Kamado boy. No… this offer enmeshed his best chance at success within this crucial generation.

Muzan returned to present day, where the Upper Moons worriedly watched on.

A deafening quietude followed, broken only by Kibutsuji’s voice, evermore the silky, superiority-laced commandment, though slightly dripped with anticipatory inquisition.

“Is this real?”

“If you will it, Demon-King. Time is short. What decision hearkens you?”

…

“I accept. This alliance shall be commemorated. Let me meet with these emissaries beyond the stars.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Present Day

Inner Vladivostok, Russia

Earth Prime

“This guy should put ‘enjoys long walks’ on his Tinder profile if he hasn’t already. I feel like we’ve been here for hours.”
Trager muttered as the group proceeded stealthily through the back-alleys and hidden corridors of Vladivostok. Despite Russia witnessing an unprecedented era of growth and prosperity within the years after Afton’s takeover, certain parts remained destitute and fetid, this city included. Stalin’s emergence from Hell and seizure of Kremlin power also meant an inevitable number of excommunications and deportations. Whomever the Corporate and moderate Politburo Blocs would allow for societal persecution, mostly political enemies ranging from journalists to statesmen and their families. An era of Stalinist fear once more dawned on the Russian State and her restored Soviet colonies.

Vladivostok became home to Gulags on its outskirts. The inner city was meanwhile stocked with their families and friends, alongside alien refugees and migrants forced here to Earth after the Primordial Empire scoured their civilizations and homelands, leaving them without places of residency. These ‘nationless’ xenos were carted to Earth to serve as cheap labor with helping rebuild the planet. The Primordial Empire and its client-nations on Earth made killings selling batches of these laborers to Combine representatives, though Hell’s dominions appeared to have little need for rebuilding.

This created a congested, depressing environment domineered by snow and corporate exploitation. Mega-corps such as Arasaka, Apeture Science, Umbrella, SovOil, Techtroinka, Tyrell Corporation, CyberLife, and many others utilized informally termed ‘dump cities’ such as Vladivostok to accrue batches of workers for their projects, cutting lucrative deals with the Soviet Government. Ultimately, it created a circle of financial and resource-wise benefits for everyone involved: the Primordial Empire, Earth’s countries, and the corporations.

Well, everyone except the people doing the labor.

“If you’d shut up, it could go by quicker.”
Retaliated Cherdenko as himself, Trager, Sergei Vladimir, the Umbrella ‘Ivan’ Tyrants, five KGB Special Agents wreathed within armor head-to-toe, and six of Trager’s enigmatic goons kept close.

They were following Okiyo, a probable Steel Dragons member who’d embedded into Vladivostok three months after the Tiberium mine bombing and subsequent shootout. Lack of evidence or warrants wasn’t usually a problem for Soviet internal police, the reason everyone opted for a quieter approach was to allow Okiyo to lead them to wherever the Steel Dragons nested here in Vladivostok.

Thanks to Cherdenko’s prior intel about Okiyo’s movements throughout the city, they managed to shadow him from a low-end strip club and kept closely on his six without the man becoming the wiser.

“He’s probably walked halfway across Vladivostok by now. Bet he’s onto us and just wants to soak up the attention.”

“I doubt that’s the case. These guys are reckless, not stupid. Okiyo would bolt if he felt something was amiss. It’s kept him greased out of our palms this long.”
Anatoly remarked while draped in civilian winter clothing. Trager was equally slaked within a stuffy wardrobe to prevent anyone from getting too good a look at his mutilated appearance, as was Sergei. Their subsequent team-members were keeping away from civilian eyes. Essentially, they were hiding in plain sight.

“Maybe your palms weren’t the right ones for a case delicate as this.”
Sergei stated as they slipped onto a scarcely populated sidewalk, given life only by panhandlers and aimless bystanders.

“I would hear no lectures about how the KGB conducts business from a man who chose to walk away to serve a capitalist robber-baron.”

Already, Trager could see where this conversation was heading.

“Walked away from what, Colonel? Umbrella’s not merely another superficial company dedicated to expanding profit margins and pleasing shareholders. We have great goals involving the ascension of mankind through controlled biological evolution.”

“Give me not that tired response Sergei. I used to respect you. Look up to you! Everyone in my regiment did! Your actions those decades ago in Afghanistan…”

“Are the past. A past I’m proud of, but a past nonetheless. My loyalties have always been tied to Russia and her people. I am serving their interests even now. You are unable to see the truth.”

“Your truth? Or Oswell Spencer’s?”

“They are one and the same.”

“Hey, drop the sexual tension a sec and look!”
Richard notified while pointing over to Okiyo’s direction. The leather-jacket draped gangster made a sudden left turn, entering a seedy pub sequestered at the ass-end of town.

“Vas ponyal (Got ya).”
Eagerly iterated Cherdenko, narrowing his eyes on the pub.

“Should we kill these bouncers and Leeroy Jenkins the whole thing?”

“Nyet. That would only jeopardize things and miss us out on juicy information. Let’s act with caution before engaging.”
Sergei recommended, enjoying an accepting nod from Anatoly in response.

“Right. Follow the leader I guess.”
Trager responded, watching as Sergei made subtle hand motions to one of his Ivan Tyrants that were leaping from roof-to-roof in tandem with their group. The Tyrant nodded and toyed momentarily with its white trenchcoat, revealing a small black gadget encumbered within its grey palm. A listening device. Its twin brother kept close as they jettisoned over towards the pub.

Meanwhile, Sergei brushed off rogue slabs of snow from his coat and moved to enter the establishment himself, only prevented by Anatoly.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Sergei sighed with low exasperation.

“The listening device is my backup plan. It’s going to record ALL the sound from that bar. Dozens of minor, irrelevant conversations too. My primary plan is infiltrating and getting close to Okiyo and hearing whatever spiel he’ll make to his friends up-close. If that fails, we have the recordings.”

“You didn’t think to tell me of this plan?”

“I just did.”

“Perfect. I’m going with you.”

“And if you two are getting tipsy, I’m following through. Can’t have you guys screwing over Uncle Sam, can I?”

Both Russians turned to appraise Richard Trager. The unhinged psychopath was still noticeable within all that garb if one looked hard enough.

“Your appearance attracts too much attention.”
Cherdenko remarked coldly.

“Find a way to un-attract it then! I’m not letting you guys waltz on a whole part of the mission without me!”

Sergei Vladimir groaned irritably, and without second thought ruffled Trager’s coating roughly. Within a few moments, the former Murkoff Executive was completely masqueraded by layers of scarves, causing him to muffle a few curses.

“Yeah yeah, cry about it. Now come on. We’re wasting precious time.”

-

 Issokhshiy Kit (Withered Whale) Bar – Vladivostok

All manner of individual conglomerated among the seedy bar. It’d been famed throughout the poorer stocks of Vladivostok’s residents as something of a haven away from preening KGB eyes. For the most part, those gathered here were minor criminals, members of local enterprises that had various unspoken agreements with city officials about keeping their business within certain sectors and circles, thusly the KGB never cracked down upon this obvious nest of rogues.

Yet the Steel Dragons have gone too far. Unbeknownst to Trager’s Soviet collaborators, they’d blackmailed three of William Afton’s top lieutenants within a vain attempt to politically control the Primordial Empire and weaken it from within. It’d be idiotic to presume they didn’t have a backup plan should their initial gambit fail, and Trager intended to uncover what before his career was shot and he’d become Glitchtrap’s public relations fall guy.

"Shit, I don't see him. Where the fuck did he go?"
Murmured Cherdenko with an antagonized tone.

“Never been a fan of bars. Always preferred private luncheons.”
Remarked Trager as they slipped past the bouncers after Sergei made good with a sizable bribe of rubles. Cherdenko followed closely behind.

“Here in Vladivostok, bars are our bread and butter. New recruits learn the lay of the land after a few drinks in their system and a behaved girl on their crotch.”
Anatoly replied with a chuckle as this impromptu crew made their way towards a table to avert suspicion of their true purpose. While KGB tolerated this establishment- and others like it- they weren’t welcome here and knew it. Many of these individuals were constantly tyrannized and watched by the government, never given a moment’s peace, and their few releases culminated with coins, drink, and raucous laughter at their own foul circumstances.

“And you ask why I left. My country cannot prosper if such indignation is allowed within even the hallowed secret police’s ranks.”
Sergei said while motioning for a waitress to send them drinks.

“Your idealism was your greatest strength comrade… and most exploitable of your weaknesses. I believe in Russia’s superiority over the world. Communism will eventually triumph over the capitalist menace. There’s a reason Emperor Glitchtrap left our country mostly unharmed. Simultaneously, I know that nothing worth having comes without sacrifice, a prospect you’ve never understood.”

“Sacrifice? You’re wrong, Anatoly. I understand the concept better than most men alive.”

While they spoke, Trager tried eyeing where specifically Okiyo went, though came up short. Their men were combing every area outside the Withered Whale, if he’d managed to slip out, they’d know.

Leaving only one conclusion.

The slippery bastard lurked in the back.

“Gents, I think I’ve tracked our fugitive.”

Anatoly and Sergei paused their heated debate.

“He’s gone back. I’m guessing the bar owner’s a friend.”

“We should converge now.”
Sergei moved to stand up, though Anatoly placed a tough right palm on his shoulder and wrenched down the Umbrella Executive.

“And paint a target on our backs!? No. We’ll wait for our chance, preferably when he leaves.”

“I’m not sure what doctrinal changes have been issued to the KGB since I left the Party, but I didn’t believe cowardice was among them.”

“It’s called common sense fool! This bar is teeming with people aching to harm secret police officers or corporate stooges like you or me.”

“Big man’s not wrong. What if Okiyo knows we’re stalking him right now? He’d be preparing an exit strategy with whoever he’s speaking with, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was his cronies.”
Trager, when acting with logical decisiveness, proved an invaluable asset to any team.

“… Da, that’s true.”
Anatoly resigned, though still seemed against openly marching over to find out.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Go on, American.”
Sergei inquisitively growled.

“You two fight each other.”

A momentary pause of confusion followed.

“What!?”
Anatoly’s eyebrows scrunched with suspicion.

“I’m being serious. Obviously keep your real names and identities outta the picture, but y’know- make some story up and swing your fists. That’ll provide ample distraction enough that either Okiyo and friends emerge from the back to check out the commotion; or if they’re smart enough to hold position, I’ll head over there without so much as an eye bat. We win both ways.”

“Why would Okiyo consider an average bar brawl something of concern?”

“Because, dear Sergei, I’m assuming months embedded inside a country where everyone has ample reason to execute you, managing a quasi-terrorist gangster faction low on allies, supplies, and manpower, is enough to drive even the toughest mind to paranoid delusion. A simple fight between two scorned souls could be interpreted as the KGB’s arrival. If not, well, I’ll give it ten seconds and check it out myself.”

Anatoly and Sergei appeared hesitant at first, so Trager gave them one final verbal push.

“If anyone’s got any better ideas, I’m all ears. Well, whatever’s left of them, anyway.”

It didn’t appear that way.

“Ugh. I hope you’ve kept up on your Sambo lessons dear Anatoly.”

“I’ll admit, my physical prime seems to have long eluded me. Though when it comes to you, traitor, I’m sure I can summon the strength.”

“Guys, remember, fake. Bodily harm and fatal injury not required.”

Both Russians stared at Trager with expressions emanating unfettered doom, and the maligned murder-doctor simply shrugged in response. Whatever worked.

As the waitress delivered them glasses of chilled vodka, both men eyed each other carefully and stepped away, leaving the woman perplexed. Several moments later, they were moving towards the pub’s center, snagging a few curious eyes from various tables. Subsequently, Sergei suddenly turned and pushed Anatoly roughly onto the ground.

“OI! Watch where you’re going!”

“ARGH! You little bastard, how dare you!?”

“Little? Check your eyes recently, cyka!? I can crush you like an egg!”

Cherdenko, incensed by rage that Trager couldn’t exactly label fake, stampeded forward and launched a fist into Vladimir’s stomach, causing the Umbrella Commander to belch out a small streak of vomit, bile, and blood. At this, the patrons erupted into encouragement and cheering.

“IT’S ON NOW! I’LL SEE YOU SCREAM FOR MERCY!”

As they barreled towards each other, Trager patiently eyed the ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ door.

One second passed.

Two seconds.

Three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…

Richard grasped close the Bone-Shears sleuthed right under his coat and prepared to move ahead when providence struck.

Exiting the backroom were three gangsters. Okiyo couldn’t be sighted among them, but he certainly belonged to their number. After realizing they’d emerged to witness just another apparent drunken barfight they prepared to recede back before anyone realized they’d peered out from their hidey-hole.

That’s about when Trager slipped out those trademark bone-shears of his and carved a bloody hole directly onto a Steel Dragon’s forehead.

“C’mon Kai, let’s go ba- AAAAAAGGGGGHHHH WHAT THE FUCK!”

“SEASON’S GREETINGS MOTHERFUCKERS!”

Trager wrenched the Bone-Shears free of their fleshy prison, drawing forth a geyser of spewing blood and smattered brain matter everywhere. That noise combined with the horrified screaming that froze the fallen man’s comrades attracted everyone’s attention away from Sergei and Anatoly’s distraction. No matter, they’d opened the locked door, all Trager needed do was advance forward.

After shaking free their initial shock, both men reached for pistols holstered at their utility belts, though Richard outdid them and whisked the Bone-Shears corkscrew and decapitated another man, shears easily chopping past neck muscle. The final leather-jacketed goon managed to raise his gun and angled it at Trager, though received a steadfast plethora of bullets and collapsed to the ground.

Sergei and Anatoly dropped their act, the former revealing a Mauser kept nestled within his sizable coat with the barrel sizzling. While the confused patrons didn’t piece together what fully was occurring, they understood enough to realize these men were aligned together and hunting down the Steel Dragons, a criminal outfit often given harboring by the establishment and its guests. Instead of balking and running away, most of the muscular attendants instead charged them, a few detaching to confront Trager.

“DAMN FUCKING AMERICAN, YOU’VE JUST JEOPARDIZED EVERYTHING-“

Anatoly’s rant was cut short as a drunken madman cursing the corporations and Soviet Government alike in drawled Russian slammed a meaty fist into his cheek. Warm blood accompanied a harrowing POP that crackled from Cherdenko’s jaw as the KGB Officer fell back onto the floor, feeling as though a freight train had collided with his face.

“CRY ABOUT IT! I’m gonna make sure our mutual friend doesn’t get away!”
Richard cried, ripping away his costume and laughing maniacally whilst rushing into the backroom!”

Sergei rushed to join Trager’s efforts, only for three patrons to physically restrain him, their foremost goal being to smack away his gun.

“IVANS!”

Soon enough, the ceiling fractured into haphazard splinters of wood as the Ivan-class Tyrants who served as Sergei’s private bodyguards rushed into battle, their superior physical strength and battle-sense owing them supremacy as they punched and kicked back packs of crazed Russians and indebted foreigners alike who clambered hungrily on the opportunity for a little bit of revenge. They weren’t the only ones, as the KGB Agents belonging to Cherdenko realized the foul play partaking and burst inside with batons abreast, seeking to yield only non-lethal casualties to avoid further commotion. As the agents rushed forth and began beating and scattering the fanatical attackers, Cherdenko saw a pale, meaty palm outreach to his crestfallen visage to help him up.

A palm he never expected. Sergei neutrally and wordlessly offered it. Anatoly sighed and seized the opportunity, having no time to question motives.

“The crazy imperialist’s gone on ahead!”
Vladimir announced while Cherdenko wiped a slick of blood away from a loosened jaw, before readjusting it carefully.

“This is OUR mission! I won’t allow that idiot to procure any rightful Russian glory! COME ON!”

Anatoly mustered strength and speed only deeply entrenched adrenaline and motivation could grant, Sergei right behind while the Ivan-Tyrants and KGB Agents corralled and made arrests against the Withered Whale rabblerousers.

“C’mon Kai, let’s go ba- AAAAAAGGGGGHHHH WHAT THE FUCK!”

“SEASON’S GREETINGS MOTHERFUCKERS!”

Trager wrenched the Bone-Shears free of their fleshy prison, drawing forth a geyser of spewing blood and smattered brain matter everywhere. That noise combined with the horrified screaming that froze the fallen man’s comrades attracted everyone’s attention away from Sergei and Anatoly’s distraction. No matter, they’d opened the locked door, all Trager needed do was advance forward.

After shaking free their initial shock, both men reached for pistols holstered at their utility belts, though Richard outdid them and whisked the Bone-Shears corkscrew and decapitated another man, shears easily chopping past neck muscle. The final leather-jacketed goon managed to raise his gun and angled it at Trager, though received a steadfast plethora of bullets and collapsed to the ground.

Sergei and Anatoly dropped their act, the former revealing a Mauser kept nestled within his sizable coat with the barrel sizzling. While the confused patrons didn’t piece together what fully was occurring, they understood enough to realize these men were aligned together and hunting down the Steel Dragons, a criminal outfit often given harboring by the establishment and its guests. Instead of balking and running away, most of the muscular attendants instead charged them, a few detaching to confront Trager.

“DAMN FUCKING AMERICAN, YOU’VE JUST JEOPARDIZED EVERYTHING-“

Anatoly’s rant was cut short as a drunken madman cursing the corporations and Soviet Government alike in drawled Russian slammed a meaty fist into his cheek. Warm blood accompanied a harrowing POP that crackled from Cherdenko’s jaw as the KGB Officer fell back onto the floor, feeling as though a freight train had collided with his face.

“CRY ABOUT IT! I’m gonna make sure our mutual friend doesn’t get away!”
Richard cried, ripping away his costume and laughing maniacally whilst rushing into the backroom!”

Sergei rushed to join Trager’s efforts, only for three patrons to physically restrain him, their foremost goal being to smack away his gun.

“IVANS!”

Soon enough, the ceiling fractured into haphazard splinters of wood as the Ivan-class Tyrants who served as Sergei’s private bodyguards rushed into battle, their superior physical strength and battle-sense owing them supremacy as they punched and kicked back packs of crazed Russians and indebted foreigners alike who clambered hungrily on the opportunity for a little bit of revenge. They weren’t the only ones, as the KGB Agents belonging to Cherdenko realized the foul play partaking and burst inside with batons abreast, seeking to yield only non-lethal casualties to avoid further commotion. As the agents rushed forth and began beating and scattering the fanatical attackers, Cherdenko saw a pale, meaty palm outreach to his crestfallen visage to help him up.

A palm he never expected. Sergei neutrally and wordlessly offered it. Anatoly sighed and seized the opportunity, having no time to question motives.

“The crazy imperialist’s gone on ahead!”
Vladimir announced while Cherdenko wiped a slick of blood away from a loosened jaw, before readjusting it carefully.

“This is OUR mission! I won’t allow that idiot to procure any rightful Russian glory! COME ON!”

Anatoly mustered strength and speed only deeply entrenched adrenaline and motivation could grant, Sergei right behind while the Ivan-Tyrants and KGB Agents corralled and made arrests against the Withered Whale rabblerousers.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bridge of Glitchtrap’s Might

Orbit of Earth 114-3.

Initial invasion schematics had gone exactly as predicted.

An Earth still relegated to early Twentieth-Century technological capabilities. Glitchtrap enjoyed these hostile takeovers the most, where the enemy was so hopelessly outclassed, outgunned, and outmanned it’d be stretching to even term them a proper ‘enemy’. They were victims within every sense of the word.

The Newtopians commanded personally by Coredrias led subjugations of North and South America, while Europe was pacified by Zargothrax’s endless legions of undead peasantry, unicorns, and various space-orcs and foul creatures united under the evil sorcerer’s foreboding banner. AFO interceded upon Africa, thousands of Nomu at the Demon Lord’s side. The Banished dispensed their howling ranks of xeno mercenary doom-bringers onto Europe, Atriox personally captaining the evisceration of Paris.

Everything else was Chaos’s prize to pulverize, Japan purposefully kept as the final objective to secure. After everyone else closed their warfronts, they’d converge and join with Demon-King Kibutsuji and his amassed legions to finish off his hated Demon Slayer enemies.

Glitchtrap truly devised an ingenious system. The Primordial Empire’s member-states held genuine motivation to participate within these invasions of expansion. Whatever their armies secured was theirs to exploit, from captured individuals to whip into slave-markets to an undeniable plethora of natural resources ripe for extraction and economic proliferation. While it hadn’t occurred for quite some time, Earth Prime’s nations found it an exceptional honor to participate in Emperor Glitchtrap’s military campaigns. Given how busy they were engaged in menial political games against one another though, they’d not been able to delegate the forces necessary to justify intervention.

“Mighty Lord, everything moves according to your design! Congratulations yet again on another successful venture!”
Advisor chortled, the robed seer shuffling closer to his liege-king.

William’s arms clasped around his face, creating an analytical pose from which he carefully observed the laden sights before him. Aside from Glitchtrap’s Might, the Hellfire’s Scalding and Obsidian Guardian Chaos Dreadnoughts, a litany of Banished cruisers and frigates, and several spherical Newtopian battle-platforms hovered carefully above the world’s orbit. This invasion fleet could’ve been described as overkill, but after many events preceding throughout his storied life, Afton preferred over-prepared compared to under.

“We’re not done. The Demon Slayer Corps requires pacification, and Demon-King Kibutsuji must join my Conclave without incident. Should I desire dominance and control over this infinite Multiverse, I’ll require a council of equally ruthless and strong leadership. That means competing with many other egos, some deign to overshadow even mine. It’s a careful gamble I play. Even now I wonder if Kibutsuji intends to renege our contract and play at resistance.”

“He would surely crumble under our might! Should our olive branch dissatisfy him, our sword surely won’t.”

“Undoubtedly, though as my own Prime Minister says, I don’t believe fear an effective motivator; at least regarding my upper echelons. Those the universe calls ‘villains’ are individuals who defy the moral and societal shackles entrapping them, building worlds of their own to replace the void. To sully that with intimidation and coercion would be such a waste. I aim to revolutionize Chaos itself. I want a sustainable empire built on alliance, diplomacy, and cutthroat politics just as military strength. That balance can’t be achieved should I rely always on brutal throat-stomping always.”

“You speak truth, though I recommend against remaining loyally to such a modem of thinking. Versatility shall prove your friend, Mighty Lord. Should a subject prove too unwieldly, violence may prove the only option. Your constituents are war-hungry killers and psychopaths, madmen given power unlimited.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that here. Summon my Glitchtrap-Guard. I’ll be making landfall shortly.”

“As you command.”

The Advisor shuttered away to make good William’s commandment whilst the Afton patriarch watched from afar. Craters of incineration and explosion were blossoming visibly from this doomed Earth’s surface. Oceans boiled and landmasses erupted with chaotic flame as Daemons made obscene bouts of cruelty to appease their Father-Gods.

Even observing at such a distance, Afton could feel the absolute terror those beleaguered on the surface were enduring. Crowds stamped over one another, all previous identities and nationalities swept away as white, black, brown, all manner of skin-tone and ethnicity were terrorized equally. Hulking Space Marines cackled and bleated whilst gunning them down aplenty or rendering them burnt crisps or allowing the Daemons to lacerate them instead. Banished Brutes glutted upon fleeing citizenry while Unggoy ravenously bit at their toes and fingernails like demented miniature munchkin rats, Sangheili happily skewering them upon their Energy Swords meanwhile. Frobots soullessly exterminated entire cities’ worth of human beings with their laser-cannons, Death-Knights of Crail performing dark rituals onto captured foe, civilian and military alike as their lesser zombie counterparts infected thousands, only generating more disposable frontline fodder for the next campaign.

These invasions where only parcel amounts needed salvaging were Afton’s favorite. The Primordial Empire’s full might was unleashed through its savage Chaos Astartes, Daemonic legions, and their regular human Chaos adherents, ranging from Cultists to organized battalions specializing in fervent worship of Tzeentch, Khorne, Slaanesh, or Nurgle. Gold and valuables were plucked clean and the devils under Afton’s command had their sated fun, keeping them from turning against each other.

William dearly loved it. He felt sunken into their suffering. The grand executor behind this orchestra of destruction. His body may’ve been human, but his soul was truly eldritch, an enmeshed destitution of malevolent darkness. These psychic outcries of billions mindlessly put to their damnation fueled Glitchtrap as electricity to a home. Confused souls were slated for consumption by the hungering Chaos Pantheon, and leftovers were delegated to their Daemon Prince’s feast.

Enough reminiscing. He wanted gravely to personally join the fun before the world was plucked clean of entertainments. Firstly though…

“MXES.”

Formulating upon the bridge was an artificial intelligence shaped as a humanoid hare, resembling Springtrap’s design. Its name held an acronym previously meant to indicate it an asset helpful to Fazbear Entertainment employees. Now? It meant Masterful Xecutor of Errant Slaughter.

Glitchtrap really was a child at heart.

During ages past, MXES served a more secretive role: Fazbear Entertainment’s private digitized presence was meant to protect their dirty laundry from peering outside eyes. Henry Emily, shortly after crisping Scraptrap, found himself short on cash and rummaged through his childhood home where many a fond memory was shared with that malignant serial killer, finding blueprints and designs. William, before ever turning the route of a serial killing maniac, had many grand ambitions interred for the future, including the creation of a sophisticated computerized machination that could handle delegation of tasks.

It seemed prophetic that William drafted a concept mirroring modern understandings of Artificial Intelligence. Henry plastered his name over the correct documents and sold their conceptual patent to Fazbear Entertainment to make ends meet, just another reason Afton rightly detested that pudgy patriarch. Ultimately though, that snide act of plagiarism served Glitchtrap well. Fazbear Entertainment’s coders manifested MXES to reality, where it served as their private ace-in-the-hole at the Pizzaplex, providing crucial intel and ensuring the animatronics were cowed and obedient to the best of its ability, all while never being detected by those it was charged to monitor.

Burntrap soon contacted MXES. With hindsight’s gift, William mused that the finnicky AI should’ve served as his first lieutenant rather than incompetent Vanny. Nevertheless, the entity was corrupted by Afton’s ageless charisma, becoming an invisible ally carefully spying on the gigantic Blob lurking about the facility’s dilapidated corridors, attempting to haggle Gregory and Michael’s overnight journey. Most especially though, MXES aided Burntrap’s cause by cautiously watching and inconveniencing a being Afton could only term ‘The Mimic’.

A wretched, uncontrollable creature. William enjoyed creatures he couldn’t initially control. They weren’t boring, providing entertainment and growing into amazing things outside the narrow-minded potentiality he drummed for them. However, Mimic’s case didn’t follow suit. It bore an uncanny sentience and irritating imposter syndrome, believing Burntrap as the inferior copy of itself, shifting between thinking itself Afton resurrected from Hell’s clutches or Afton’s superior incarnation. Whatever the case, Burntrap survived not only Gregory and Glamrock Freddy’s antics at the Pizzaplex, but also the Blob and the Mimic which had somehow found itself caught within that rank mess. MXES was the crucial ally that granted Burntrap control over the other Glamrock animatronics and exoskeletons which he converted into a private army.

After burning Earth asunder and eradicating billions, ascended Glitchtrap returned once more unto the ruined, torched Pizzaplex with an envoy of guards. MXES automatically activated its security systems, initially believing Afton an infiltrator before hearing his voice.

Since then, MXES acted as yet another of Glitchtrap’s unspoken assets. An Artificial Intelligence gifted heavy degrees of sapience, giddily assisting its master by unearthing traitors from within and controlling a network of spy drones spread across dozens of star-systems. It also acted as the Glitchtrap’s Might’s informal AI control-system. Did Afton already have hundreds, if not thousands of spies seeded across civilizations immaterial, and thusly the need for another tendril of information-gathering made redundant?

Yes.

But if William was anything, he was a vengeful, ruthless paranoiac, only further so. Turns out, being the King meant a thousand more knives and hungry mouths eyeing your every step, just aching, waiting for a singular misstep they could take advantage of.

“Emperor Glitchtrap. What says your will?”

“This invasion presents a unique opportunity for us. I intend to test these new… creations of mine. The Demon Slayers will act as perfect sport for that purpose. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly My Lord. I shall dispatch them at your command. Though… they still relegate among their prototype stages. Are you certain of this undertaking?”

“I’ve copies prepared, and if they fall in battle it only means they were unworthy of initial service. If they succeed, all the better. I lose nothing either way.”

“Of course. Simply utter the command and they’ll be deployed groundside.”

“Very good.”

MXES’s hologram dissipated as Glitchtrap stood up, toying with an encrusted gem he’d plucked from his crown with adoration.

“What a pretty thing you are, hmm?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moscow

It was two AM Moscow Time when John Price and his team made landfall.

Added together, they were among the resistance’s most crucial fighters. Experienced assassins and killers who couldn’t stand the Primordial Empire’s grip over Earth and wanted to make decisive change for the better; their motivations all varied though angled towards the same goal.

CTU Special Agent Jack Bauer trudged over to the Briton’s side with a grim expression as everyone else in their delegation spread out and secured the immediate area.

“Ostankino Broadcast Tower’s not far. You’ve got the discs?”

Price nodded, ruffling with his vest-pockets and revealing three shimmering discs with black sharpie labeling. One titled ‘Erebus’, another ‘Underwood’, and the last ‘Trager’.

“Evidence of the bastards’ wrongdoing. Any fool that thinks the Primordial Empire’s got their best interests at heart will learn otherwise. Once this plays, people will take to the bloody streets.”

“People will die, you mean.”

Price’s stocky figure stood unmoved at Bauer’s insinuation. Another team member, the former mercenary-assassin turned rebel fighter, Johnathan Wick, approached with an indiscernible gaze. Wick happened upon the resistance, or perhaps the other way around, Laswell never told. Either way, his grudges against the incumbent regime ran deep, as the High Table, a shadowy organization of crimelords from Earth’s prettier days benefitted greatly off Glitchtrap’s takeover. Wick’s enmity with them ran deep, and their newly appointed Marquis would stop at nothing to see Baba Yaga’s head served on a silver platter.

“We’re loaded up.”

Wick announced. Price nodded and Wick moved off to debrief everyone else, mostly a grouping of specialized military operators and high-contract killers, mercenaries, generally anyone with a bone to pick against the Primordial Empire and its puppet governments or whoever Laswell scrounged up with her financial network.

Price turned back to appraise Bauer.

“That’s a reality we’ve gotta accept. Jack, we’ve had our differences before, but I need everyone’s head on a swivel for this op. Can I trust you?”

Jack contemplated silently for several moments before nodding begrudgingly.

“I’m at your disposal, Bravo Six.”

“Good man. We’re moving out in five. Arm up.”

As Bauer nodded and moved off, John turned to his assembled crew. It was no Task Force One-Four-One, though given the other members of that team were fulfilling missions elsewhere, they were the best John could hope for.

And hope he did. Hope is all anyone had left in a world so doomed as this one.

Chapter Text

Butterfly Manor

Tanjiro winced as Kanao applied greased healing ointment to the wound.

“I-I’m fine, really! You don’t have to worry about me, alright Kanao? Zenitsu probably needs this more then I do.”

Kamado, alongside his two close comrades Inosuke and Zenitsu, were recently returned from a calamitous encounter against two Upper Moon Ranks- Gyutaro and Daki. Their struggle was narrowly won, though Sound Hashira Tengen Uzui entered retirement after the severity of his wounds became too overwhelming to bear.

The Butterfly Manor held a certain ethereal beauty about it. Perhaps that’s why it was a favorite locale of Demon Slayers to medically recover from their battles and heal their wounds. It was administrated by Shinobu Kocho, the Insect Hashira, alongside her various working staff. The importance of this location to the Demon Slayer Corps’ functionality couldn’t be understated. This Manor was their chief nexus of healing and often served as a defacto tactical planning area when Ubuyashiki’s estate was otherwise occupied.

Kanao seemed quietly miffed at Tanjiro’s insinuation, refusing to leave the Demon Slayer’s side as she continued carefully applying the healing cream. Inosuke and Zenitsu, sat in adjacent cots to his own, received similar treatment from Aoi Kanzaki and Sumi Nakahara, another two members of the Butterfly Manor crew.  

“OI! I don’t need any of this! Just lemme back out there! I wanna kill more Demons! Ey, Ganpachiro, tell these guys! We don’t have time to waste on this crap!”

Inosuke suddenly shouted, causing Tanjiro to freeze up with secondhand embarrassment as Aoi, his current medical overseer, delivered a light slap to the Boar-King’s face, only causing the serrated-sword wielder to balk with contention.

“OIIIIII!!! WHAT WAS THAT FOR!?”

“Stop acting like a bratty child and hold still! These wounds need bandaging or you’ll get an infection you irritating wild child!”
Aoi responded sternly, only incensing Inosuke further.

“I don’t need to worry about wounds! Who the HELL are you to talk down to me in such a manner!? I’ll have you know I’ve killed more Demons then these two clowns combined! AHAHAHA! Tell her Monjiro!”

Aoi seemed ready to strike Inosuke again, which Tanjiro was sure would lead to more meaningless conflict, so the boy quickly stepped in.

“Ahhh, Inosuke, calm down, okay? You’re an excellent Demon Slayer! Your ferocity and tenacity are inspirations to Zenitsu and I! So please just calm down and let Aoi tend to your wounds, alright? We can’t have our terrifying Boar-King succumb to damage when there’s still so many evildoers that need punishing!”

Tanjiro’s becalmed words accompanied with that effervescent, golden smile of his brought Inosuke’s wild heart to a rare ease. The Boar-King loved praise, especially when it originated from him, so his wild nature melted into a begrudging allowance of Aoi to continue her work.

“Fine… I suppose you’re right, Gonpachiro Tamago.”

“Ugh- could you guys quiet down? I just woke from the nicest dream I ever had!”
Zenitsu suddenly said, grabbing Tanjiro’s attention.

“Oh? Apologies Zenitsu! What’s this dream you speak of?”

 “Well I was cuddling up next to the beautiful and adorable Nezuko-channnnn~”

“Nevermind. I don’t wanna know.”

-

Nearby…

Under the crisp night sky, Doma casually walked alongside a small cadre of loyal Demonic retainers. These minions were comprised of converts yielded from the Eternal Paradise Faith religious organization, a fanatical group that worshiped Doma because of his multi-colored eyes; which they believed were direct communiques to the gods. Those whom the false shepherd trusted or manipulated enough to become Demonic savants usually dropped such delusions upon entrance into their new existence, their worship now being centered upon Kibutsuji Muzan, though a reverence and diehard loyalism to Doma remained.

These goons were joined by a hulking seam of alien mercenaries. Unlike graceful Doma and his adherents, they moved more with a militaristic stomp, casually trampling below any fauna or grass or dirt they walked upon. These animalistic killers, dubbing themselves ‘The Banished’, were assigned by Glitchtrap, Muzan’s newly minted ally, as part of Upper Moon Two’s battlegroup. Doma wondered, privately and away from Muzan so his thoughts wouldn’t become easily read, how long this supposed alliance would last knowing Kibutsuji’s boundless pride and arrogance. Though at least presently, it appeared to yield grandiose benefits for the Demons.

“Hmppphh- this is surely taking a while! You certain the Butterfly Manor is close by?”

Doma inquired with a frivolous pout, turning towards the allied Banished Commander- a monstrous Jiralhanae war-beast clad in vicarious golden war-armor, a malevolent terror of battle who’d seen many epochs of conflict during his prime.

“Intel is good. Bassus can smell them. Mewling human meat writhing about. Patience is key to success, Demon-creature.”

“Ohhh, patience! That’s a key difference between us, Brute-friend. I’m quite used to getting exactly what I want when I want it! The cutest women, the freshest meat, etcetera. I suppose that’s a privilege only the cosmically wicked elite like myself can afford though, huh? You must’ve had to work hard to achieve victories your whole life I bet! Though certainly even an ugly beast as yourself could empathize with a brilliant, beautiful angel like me?”

“Bassus not like you. Annoying. Makes me want to crush you. Play with squishy insides. Orders dictate I must help you. Remind yourself Bassus not always obedient to orders.”

“Hmph- I was just having a little fun...”

“My version of fun better. Involves destroying puny enemies. Hearing them scream!”

“Tch. You’re so boring.”

“Both of you hush up! We’re almost there, if these coordinates are correct.”
Hissed another voice. A distinctly reptilian, raptor-like cadence entered the conversation, belonging to Barroth, another Covenant veteran who defected to Banished ranks. The Kig-Yar’s highly decorated marksmanship would prove an invaluable asset against the Demon Slayers, who primarily relied on melee attacks and breathing techniques and were thus completely vulnerable to long-range weaponries. Likely why he’d been specifically assigned the mission to storm and sack the Butterfly Manor.

Soon enough, they’d bicker no longer. Coming into view was indeed the quiet retreat of which the location was only scoured through rumors and hearsay. Demon Slayers themselves weren’t made aware of where specifically the Butterfly Manor was located, and even the Changeling took months of in-depth spy-work and infiltration into the organization’s highest ranks before it could become nascent of its position. An espionage well-worth the time and effort.

“There it is. Do we attack, Demon-Creature? Reminder that if you deny Bassus his prey long enough, he grows hungry…”

Doma paused as they massed together for their unified assault, intaking deeply his surroundings. Nighttime meant their assault could proceed unimpeded and judging by the technological superiority of his ‘allies’, it wouldn’t take long for the healing estate to fall. Rare was the occasion when Doma slinked from his cult paradise, yet such occasions always yielded a special event: whether it was the recruitment of Gyutaro and Daki, the recent Upper Moon meeting, etcetera. Tonight would become no different.

“We ought to waste no time. Lord Muzan wants everyone to finish up their personal assignments quickly for the imminent Ubuyashiki Estate Operation. I enjoy taking my time with these pleasantries, but I suppose we could make an exception today. Fine then, brute-man. Let’s have our fun. Maybe there’ll be some entertainment for me yet.”

“Harumph! Bassus has given the signal. Banished, Demons, BEGIN THE ASSAULT!”

-

Butterfly Manor Interior

“UNFORGIVABLE! PERVERT! BASTARD! EVILDOER! DISGUSTING LECHER!”
Shrilly cried Aoi as she whacked Zenitsu’s head several times with a rolled-up newspaper. The electric-type Demon Slayer was leering at the girl several seconds longer than needed, causing him to become the object of her wrath.

“OWWWW!!! OWWW!! I-I’m sorry! Forgive me, PLEASE! AAAIIIIEEEEEE-“

Before the beatdown could proceed, Shinobu Kocho, the pre-eminent Insect Hashira of the Slayer Corps, rushed inside the healing room. Immediately, the vibe twisted from mildly comical and embarrassing to tense. Her expression was dotted with sickening worry and fear, and a terrible sensation that a great calamity was shortly to befall the Manor premises came upon everyone inside.

“K-kocho-san!”
Tanjiro spoke with immediate reverence. Instead of addressing the boy, the Insect Hashira turned to Aoi.

“Evacuate the Manor. Get everyone out of here. NOW!”

Aoi’s previously stern face morphed into an expression of serious understanding.

“W-what’s going on-“

“Just do as I say!”

“Kocho-San!? What’s happening!?”

Before the graceful, elegant Shinobu could respond, the manor’s very foundations shook; a calamitous earthquake that practically threw Kamado off his bed and flopped onto the floor. Inosuke cried with alarm as he faced a similar fate, while Zenitsu managed to cling onto a bedrail.

“It’s too late… Aoi, take them and all the other injured to the emergency evacuation routes. I’ll stay here and hold them off until help arrives!”

“OI! NO FREAKIN’ WAY YOU’RE GONNA BLOW ME OFF LIKE THAT! I’M THE BOAR-KING OF THE MOUNTAIN, I CAN STAND AND FIGHT JUST LIKE YOU FANCY SHMANCY HASHIRA!”

“INOSUKE, JUST LISTEN TO HER! WE HAVE NO CHOICE! COME ON!”
Tanjiro’s sudden vocal heightening alerted the frantic, feminine-seeming wild-boy. Another shake reverberated throughout the manor, this time destabilizing several tiles comprising the ceiling and causing them to falter and crash down onto the floor, causing further alarm to the impromptu triumvirate and their caretakers. A strange smell also seeped in around them, an acrid odor of crisp, burnt edges.

This insidious smell was accompanied by scores of crackling fires that were beginning to warm up the Butterfly Manor’s entirety. Shinobu whispered a final set of instructions to Aoi and her various retainers and staff before preparing her katana and rushing forth to meet the enemy. The dreaded day had finally come: the enemy had found their precious Butterfly Manor. A sanctuary supposedly nestled away from Muzan’s darkness now laid bare. What other secrets of the Corps were now open for the Demonic foe to feast upon? Kocho didn’t want to consider even worse implications as she jolted down the hallway, such mental traps would only displace her fighting capability.

As the Manor exploded and dissolved around her, entire swaths of thatch and tile eviscerated within moments by a force she couldn’t hope to comprehend, Kocho felt nothing so limiting as terror or fear. Such weaknesses would only bolster the enemy’s cause. She was the Insect Hashira; silent poisoner of Demons, avenger of those lives which they callously and joyously consumed with their careless massacring. No matter what manner of devilish power they’ve conjured, Shinobu would destroy them. She’d inject them with Wisteria and make them regret having found this sacred temple’s location.

Such thoughts soon dissolved into a balked incomprehension as Kocho managed to enter the garden-courtyard. A racket assailed her ears unlike any manner of noises she’d been acquainted with prior. Singing bolts blasted from mysterious weapons, roaring from creatures so ferocious and abominable that they eclipsed even Demons… though a few familiar sounds became known. The crunching of bones, screaming and begging of the weak and annihilated. A weathered Demon Slayer as her was known well to the cavalcade of warfare, and while several unwelcome familiarities were retained, a majority of this bloody picture was unknown to Kocho.

A strange menagerie of creatures was attacking the Butterfly Manor. Some fiends were toughened, furred, titanically large and towering above their meager counterparts- human or otherwise. They resembled apes, gorillas more specifically, though horrifically larger and lacking an animalistic innocence, replaced instead by predatory hatred and domineering. These entities appeared to lead the charge, rushing after fleeing Demon Slayer Guards who figured their weapons were ineffective against the mighty armors these thugs donned, grabbing, and crushing them with their bare hands or blasting them apart with these ranged weapons capable of pulverizing human skin with momentary contact- others receiving fates even unkinder as they were eaten alive within sickening displays and more sickening sounds accompanying.

Others still were joined with these malefactors. Lithe, lizard-like villains wielding sword-esque objects that were preening with an unholy light as they skewered the Demon Slayers flailed about the Manor premises. Smaller, scruffier raptor-seeming scavengers that hobbled about amidst their packs, pinning down and picking clean the flesh and valuables of whomever they came upon. Most numerous of these goons were a strain of stout munchkins with faces that resembled masks. They were goblinoid and munchkin-seeming, making strange statements or babbling to each other or their distracted superiors while waddling about and generally wreaking havoc by overturning or pilfering or destroying every object they saw. Shinobu even spotted one resting near the small pool formerly surrounded by bushes of distinctive flowers that were now all thoughtlessly trampled into a sad, crushed, pitiable state. Quite choked of life.

“What manner of demons are these…”
Murmured Kocho, her anger slowly bubbling unto the surface behind her usually becalming façade. Within this killing field, a Brute noticed the Insect Hashira momentarily paralyzed by the grisly and unbelievable scene splayed before her. This one appeared designated above his comrades, his shimmering golden plate denoting superior rank, and the greyed hair patched alongside his weathered gait indicating a life long lived in service of murderous madness. The old warrior grunted with bloody excitement, raising a sizable hammer-weapon close to his chest before ushering a roar of challenge and stampeding forward to crush Shinobu into naught but pulpy stains. Just then though…

“Oh! How delightful! You must be here to offer yourself up as my dinner!”
A silky, sultry, villainous voice somehow peered through the chaotic soundboard of carnage.

“Bassus, don’t thoughtlessly demolish this one, okay? She’s mine. Her scent alone is pure and wonderful. A gracious profile of olfactory sensation meets mine nostrils. A perfumy, rosy embrace welcoming even the wicked Doma into its arms! Perfect! Just perfect. I’ll savor every bit of you, so don’t even worry!”

Bassus, still carefully eyeing a combat-ready Shinobu now locked into her battle-stance, merely grunted with minor irritation, and stepped back, slinging the Gravhammer over his shoulder and staring about for other targets that were yet unmolested by his fellow Banished killers.

“Prey-hoarder.”
Murmured the Jiralhanae angrily under his breath as he sauntered off to find targets within the obliterated Manor. Kocho seemed puzzled, though still ready to engage in battle.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to proceed further!”
Shinobu announced with a slowly dissolving calm, arcing her weapon and activating Insect Breathing, preparing to angle her Wisteria-coated weapon to strike several crucial points throughout Bassus’s body. As she jettisoned towards the Old Jiralhanae’s back though, a sudden scourge of icicles nearly skewered her body. Forced to change course last minute to preserve her own life, she staggered back as two of these freezing potencies slit her sides. Warm scores of blood flowed from visible scratches besmirching Kocho’s Demon Slayer uniform as she grit her teeth and fell against the ground; managing to stabilize herself last minute and return to a defensive stance.

“Oh my! I sense a great familiarity within you my dear! You remind me of a Hashira I slew long ago. She bore an uncanny sense of calmness and serenity about her. This distant, otherworldly nature didn’t save her though. I must say, of all the women I’ve devoured voraciously over my many years, that lady’s flesh was particularly sweet with savory hints about it. Perhaps it’s owed to that defiant attitude of hers, hmm? The more defiant and rageful a person is when battling against the closing of their own light, the tastier they are! I wonder if that same logic will apply to you!”

Shinobu prepared to waylay Doma with her specialized techniques derived from Moon Breathing. Indeed, she remembered this foul monster. This smiling devil who wreathed about a violent end to her precious sister- and countless others. Kocho’s spiritual tranquility began filtering away. Everything convalesced together at once to create the perfect storm. Her fellow Demon Slayers being senselessly butchered by an unknown, foreign enemy seemingly aligned with the Demonic menace, Kanae’s killer having personally arrived and gloating over her grisly demise to her, and the Butterfly Manor falling to their vile clutches. Her expression descended into the very textbook definition of unkempt rage. She brought about a malignant scowl, silently promising to complete her sister’s legacy and behead the unseemly, parasitic abhorrence that was Doma.

“Why don’t you shut up and go to hell!? Not even the dogs will piss on your corpse, you unspeakably pathetic death-worshiping animal. So just do me a favor and lower your head!”

“Hohoho! Let’s have some fun then! Ignore your friends being brutalized around you, okay? I want to savor this precious moment with you, ONLY you, my precious dear! Now I don’t even want to kill you!”
Doma flitted two lavish fans upon the spindly edges of his palms whilst preparing to unleash a cavalcade of attacks on Shinobu. They rushed each other, a culmination eschewed within destiny’s holy annals many years before, fates intertwined by sinful Demons and heroic defenders that manifested to stop their cruel killing streaks. This would truly enact itself a duel entrenched forever within the histories-

Observing the one-sided battle from afar, Barroth snarled and pulled fast his trigger. A coordinated seam of beamed energy arced directly onto Shinobu’s left knee from a three-mile distance.

PEWWW!!!

Kocho hadn’t realized her left kneecap no longer existed- nor everything beneath now becoming detached from her body, till she reached Doma’s striking distance. By then, a small rivulet of blood escaped the cauterized wound; though nothing else. An unknown sniper interrupted their imminent duel; firing a projectile which carved through the cloth and easily surpassed any innate spiritual defense or technique the Insect Hashira could conjure. She struggled to not issue any whelps of pain as whilst collapsing onto the dust below, still clasping her blade closely.

Doma sighed irritably, rolling his eyes and kneeling down.

“Do forgive my new comrades. They lack respect for theater. Uncultured swines, the lot of them.”

“CHOKE ON YOUR OWN BLOOD!!”
Shinobu’s sudden surge of boiling hatred brought an undue excitement to Doma as she attempted to slice at him with her katana, though lacking any manner of momentum and being now little more than a writhing body upon the gore-slaked Manor Garden, she accomplished naught but enticing the malevolent cult mastermind further.

“But I’d so much prefer choking on yours, my cute dear. How amazing… your scent belies it all. The graceful elegance of a superficially cold woman! I simply must have you. Till now I’ve never felt a thing.  But seeing your cute face so engorged in mindless madness- I must explore these boundaries. How farther can I push your puny mental state, eh? Shall we discover together?”

Doma utilized Blood Demon Art: Cryokinesis to freeze up her gaping wound to prevent blood loss. Around them, the Butterfly Manor was finished. From above streaked, crimson-colored spacecrafts that were responsible for their structural dissolution. They fired sizable projectiles of crackling energy that were demolishing the sides and dispatching further payloads of alien deathbringers like the ones currently tormenting the Manor Security Detachment. All manner of deaths were being inflicted onto the poor Demon Slayers, most youthful recruits assigned an early and easy post by guarding an outpost previously believed unassailable by the enemy. Now these green fresh-faces were being eaten, ripped limb from limb, turned into goopy jelly and crisped corpse by concentrated plasma fire, or mobbed and beaten to death by chattering Unggoy.

Upper Rank Two leered downward at crestfallen Shinobu. Before she could try her menial act of rebellion, another storm of frigid ice materialized from thin-air, ensnaring predatorily around the remainder of her wounded, broken body- a smattering kept around her mouth to prevent further curses and verbal lashings- keeping the biting Insect Hashira squarely in place.

“I’m sure Lord Muzan won’t mind if I keep a trinket for myself. After all, I deserve it, right?”

Doma warmly smiled. Not a terrible, cruel, heinous grin stretching ear-to-ear; though rather a warm expression one could expect from a trusted loved one or friend. That is, perhaps, what terrified and infuriated Shinobu the most. It was over. She’d lost.

And her precious Demon Slayer allies were soon to follow.

Aoi… Kanao… Giyu… Inosuke... Zenitsu... all her fellow Hashira... Kagaya...

Tanjiro…

Everyone!

No…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ubuyashiki Estate

Concurrent with the Banished-Demon Storming of Butterfly Manor and Chaos Invasion of Earth 114-3’s Japan

“I’m surprised you arrived personally, All For One.”

William, wearing the SPRINGTRAP Chaos-Armor, politely remarked as himself and AFO advanced through the chirping forest expanse. As per their agreement delegated via Changeling as their negotiating middleman, they’d link up with Muzan near the base of this old-fashioned Japanese castle and finish the Demon Slayer gnats personally. Springtrap personally viewed this exercise as overkill.

He was a damned Daemon Prince of Chaos. Why specifically was it amended his personal presence was required to dismantle a band of delinquents whose skills lied solely in swords and quips? If Changeling’s intel was good, and it’d certainly been these prior days, absolutely no lifeform on this planet would have presented any real threat to him. So confident was William regarding the imminent massacre that Horatio and the Glitchtrap-Guard were disseminated to handle the Tokyo front of their campaign instead.

It just happened that after mopping up remnants of African resistance, AFO elected to join William on this excursion of theirs.

“It’s simple, really. As a fellow Demon Lord, I’m inclined to meet this Kibutsuji in-person for a true evaluation. If you intend to ingratiate him into our alliance, shouldn’t a second opinion about his character be nothing but helpful to your decision?”

“Perhaps. Come, we’re close.”

Before long, a dapperly and devilishly handsome fellow emerged from cover of night’s unnerving darkness. His eyes were stricken and bloodshot with vicious insights spanning centuries of villainous exploits, though an unfeeling expression indicated a being devoid of mercy or consideration about these very atrocities which had brought such infamy upon his dark name initially.

 It was quite eerie. The entire planet burned under the scouring curse of William Afton’s unrelenting Chaos armies, yet here, within this secluded sector of alternative Earth Japanese territory, one could breath fresh air and frolic about the fields without a care.

“Very good. You’ve arrived as I expected. This agreement might hold veracity yet. Who’s this strange slave with you?”
Muzan murmured offhandedly to William, physically signaling over to AFO, currently masked though staring quietly at the identical Demon-King.

“Not a slave. Another ally. Those who are worthy are allowed to become my equal and often accompany me on missions such as these.”
William responded, a tense edge to his voice at Kibutsuji’s indignant attitude. The Demon-King made no effort to apologize, instead motioning over towards the humble estate awaited, its lights still shining even at this twilight hour.

“Careful with your words, Kibutsuji Muzan. Our assistance is conditional on your own writ of allegiance to our alliance. I suggest not burning bridges before they’ve been fully constructed. A poor first impression you’ve made indeed!”
AFO calmly stated with a thinly veiled threat. Muzan appeared momentarily perturbed at being so brazenly disrespected, though decided this matter could wait until after the Slayer Corps was destroyed.

“Our destination awaits. When we arrive, I shall personally dispatch the Ubuyashiki patriarch. He’s been a particularly crafty little creature, so you two shall provide security for my person. Do this and I shall sate our agreement as outlined by your little hooded jester.”

“Whatever you say. Lead the way then.”
After William replied, they silently clambered down the hill. Before they knew it, the Demon Lords and Golden Hare were standing face-to-face with a downtrodden, scarred man with an exuberantly serene outward personality. Medically tended by his beautiful wife and daughters, the former noticed the arrival of these three megalomaniacs and called out desperately to her husband. However, Kagaya exhibited no fear. Body wrapped with bandages, resembling more a living corpse than a functional human being, he looked up with that trademark neutral distance of his at Muzan.

…

“Who’re these friends you’ve brought with you? Did you grant them sects of your cells and power? No… I sense different manners of impure corruption about them.”

The Demon-King stared down at Kagaya, examining his family and wondering how delicious a snack they’d be whilst addressing the man.

“Allies of mutual convenience, Ubuyashiki Kagaya. Not like it matters to you. A weak, destitute excuse of a man. What an unsightly figure you are now. Brought down by the poor afflictions of your backwards health.”

“… My family’s had the misfortune of being beset by this vile curse. The gods have stricken us with calamities such as internal organ failure until you are bested, preferably by our efforts. So that’s what I’ve set out to do. Just another side-effect of suffering created by your monstrous nature, right? I doubt you care.”

“Absolutely correct, worm. I’m here to decapitate the head off this snake. The Demon Slayer Corps’ insinuation that I could ever truly be beaten is the most laughable implication of all. Your members endure trial after trial, becoming great warriors of their own right and reaching the apex of human physicality and mental fortitude. Yet these advancements do little but mildly inconvenience even my lowest-ranking Demons. You, just as the remainder of your accursed stain of my perfect lineage, will die having achieved nothing, Kagaya Ubuyashiki. What I deliver to you tonight is a mercy.”

“You’re wrong. Fortunately for me, the Demon Slayer Corps are quite fond of me. Should any unspeakable fate of yours befall my rotted frame, I expect they’ll come rushing over to attempt a vain rescue. I only hope that mission turns quickly into an extermination against you, wretched Demon-King.”

Kagaya still smiled. William couldn’t help but admit a small shake of nerves at that. How could he retain such an enlightened, uncaring disposition. As if those words and insults from Muzan were predictable slop and affected him naught. AFO’s battle-mask hummed with technological scintillation as several minor Quirks materialized together from his fingertips and palms.

“Finish this, now!”
He incensed to Muzan.

“Taking orders from others now? I never picked you the type. I thought you despised change and reveled in your own permanence- though I suppose eventually even the Great Muzan will conform to evolution. These new ‘allies’ of yours… I wonder just how long the bond will last without any real love or warmth insinuated throughout.”

Those words got William thinking, though Muzan only scowled back at AFO for unduly commanding him and advanced forward to exterminate the wretched Kagaya.

“You’ll never know. I shall bequeath onto you and this doomed branch of my lineage the kindest mercy I can fathom. Goodbye, Ubuyashiki Kagaya.”

“Indeed.”

AFO’s ‘Danger Sense’ Quirk suddenly erupted with a series of alerts beaming across the Demon Lord’s mind.

The deception was revealed!

“WAIT-“

Before his warning could reach any ears, the Ubuyashiki estate began warming up to incredible levels within two seconds. Springtrap noticed it too, and Kagaya’s face dashed a now ruthless expression. A face of righteous justice, an angel’s final spiteful strike against the prideful Demon.

“Demons belong in Hell. ALLOW ME TO SEND YOU ALL THERE!”

KA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!

Kagaya Ubuyashiki had a killing sense after all. That otherworldly sensei of the Slayer Corps, who guided and advised so many countless of them, from Hashira to even their lowly workers and attendants, was merely active as a front. Not Afton’s Chaotic omniscience, AFO’s Mental-Reading Quirk, nor Muzan’s own Demonic intuitions could’ve detected that real persona of vengeful detesting of evil roaring beneath that enlightened surface. And now, they all paid for it.

Kibutsuji endured the blast’s brunt as the estate evaporated and exploded around him. His tailored suit was undone, leaving only scarred and dirtied pants behind. Now shirtless, the Demon-King attempted to escape the killzone and regenerate whatever bodily damage had been incurred- though found that option dwindled suddenly. Several trapdoors suddenly shifted open upon the ground now scattered with estate remains. A horrific whistling sound followed as a series of spheres engulfed with bramble-esque sharpened edges careened directly at his person, all landing and delivering uncouth squelching noises as they pierced into the Demon-King. He didn’t howl with pain, though a confusion and panic soon settled in.

“DAMNATION! WE’VE BEEN FUCKING PLAYED!”
William frustratingly cried, attempting to quickly ascend into Daemon Prince form… though found he couldn’t.

What?

No. No no no no no! What in Tzeentch’s name was happening!? How couldn’t he have foreseen this!?

Afton was a brilliant strategist and intellectual overlording mastermind, yet even he bore crutches of his own. One was over-reliance on the dark gifts and blessings of the Gods Four. His mind raced before settling on the reason: the residue explosion damage. The SPRINGTRAP Armor was pulverized owed to that daring blast and would take precious time to reconstitute, and William’s Chaotically-enhanced body needed equal time to restore itself. He’d been rendered into a condition similar to Muzan’s, though with incrementally greater amounts of his dress shirt underneath the armor still slathered on.

No matter. This regeneration would take several minutes max. From there-

Just then, a damnable war-horn preened throughout the immediate area. Afton could sense a cavalcade of swift footsteps as what seemed a practical small army was rushing their way. The Heretic-Armor needed restoring, meaning until then he couldn’t access his communications and request reinforcements from any Chaos or Banished or Newtopian or Zargothraxian or Nomu forces.

So that’s their gamble! No matter. Kagaya didn’t calculate the arrival of otherworldly visitors such as AFO or William Afton into his pitiable plans. Besides, what problem could these gnats, so removed behind his own superiority, pose?

“ALL FOR ONE! Are you still alive!?”

“Such a basic, weak-willed trap couldn’t prove my undoing Emperor Glitchtrap. I utilized my Warp-Quirk in the nick of time. I’m afraid the suddenness of it meant I couldn’t provide the same for you two. What’s that blaring horn noise?”
AFO remarked, brushing off fiery splinters of former Estate pieces off his suit. The Battle-Mask of his appeared slightly dinged, though aside from that, he seemed intact.

“Ubuyashiki’s pathetic spawnlings come to claim our lives. Prepare yourselves, this is the battle I warned you of! Finish this and I shall join your wretched alliance!”
Muzan hissed out whilst dealing with these unknown objects that were slathering and skewering upon his toiling skin.

As if moving to confirm Muzan’s hypothesis, a host of swordsmen soon emerged from those same hills this triumvirate clambered down to initially reach the cratered estate. William recognized them instantly thanks to Changeling’s whispers.

The Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps.

“Hoh. A housewarming party? They probably expected to ambush Muzan alone. Our invasion began yesterday, and we made careful assurance to destroy the local countries’ chances to communicate of dangers and warnings to each other. That in mind, these Demon Slayers somehow managed to acquire word of what was proceeding or bore a vague idea enough to prepare a contingency like this. I must admit, I’m impressed by their quick-thinking. It won’t save them though.”
Haughtily laughed All For One. Instead of providing another disparaging insult to shore up those words as usual though, William only worriedly watched as these six young men and women charged to confront them. During situations such as these, when the enemy’s already pulled the curtain over his eyes once, Glitchtrap decided it best not to further underestimate them.

“Muzan!”
William cried as the Hashira approached, turning around and then noticed Kibutsuji’s problems were now not limited to those mysterious spike-objects; which now grew to such enormous sizes and confinements that the Demon-King found it difficult to move. A Japanese woman stocked with a kimono was ramming her fist through Muzan’s heart, and they were exchanging words of mutual infuriation at each other.

“By the Dark Brothers.. All For One!”

“I see. Our new ‘friend’s’ currently experiencing the consequences of sorely underestimating the enemy. Something I suppose we too are guilty of.”

“A mistake I intend now not to repeat. Can you call for help?”

“My radiowave Quirk bears a limited reach, though my Chaos-imbued power can amplify it significantly. Even so, who’d you intend to call?”

“Bring Zargothrax, Atriox, and Coredrias. None else will suffice. And go assist the other Demon Lord. I’ll deal with these dogs. If any slip by me, well… I’m sure you could handle it.”

“A gamble surely! I see your plan’s logic. Good luck.”

AFO jettisoned over to avail Muzan while the Hashira at last reached them. Six of them comprised their total, all with distinctive outfits and expressions that betrayed their personalities. Truly a strange crew that was cobbled together, though Springtrap didn’t intend to ruminate long on their diversity. He would slaughter them all.

“Who’s this clown!?”
Cried one boy with spiked white hair. William hated him the most. The boisterous heroes were always the mouthiest ones.

“Ohhh dear- I definitely do NOT want to marry you, creepo! Going half-nude before a group of young adults? How old are you!?”
Stated another, a female with her chest slightly revealed from a creased opening on her shirt.

“Friends, please relax yourselves. This must be one of the ‘comrades’ of Muzan that Master Ubuyashiki spoke of hours earlier.”
A sizable, toughened, blind Hashira stepped into the limelight. If six was all this laughable effort could muster, this wouldn’t be a problem whatsoever. Even weakened, Glitchtrap was a force of nature, an avatar of destruction.

“To willingly align yourself with that monster… that’s simply unforgivable. Justice calls your name, stranger. If you’re indeed aligning your efforts with Kibutsuji Muzan, there shall be no mercy from us.”
Calmly remarked another boy, stout and short with hair bangs that lingered down his sides.

William moved back several paces and allowed these interlopers to gain more ground, lulling them into a false sense of security whilst baring his fanged teeth.

“You’re all truly bacterial. Infectious organisms desperate to shine brightly despite your innately lesser natures, so you latch onto the ambitions of greater lords and masters. Calling me unforgivable? Daring to enact some manner of JUDGMENT against me!? No. NO! I’M A DAEMON PRINCE OF DARKNESS! A LORD OF CHAOS! AN EMPEROR PRESIDING OVER WAR-LEGIONS OF APOCALYPTIC FERVOR! I WILL ANNIHILATE YOU ALL!”
Glitchtrap’s British accent emerged amidst this short rant as he screeched hatefully, his body warming up accordingly. Standing at six feet of height, the handsome child-murderer suddenly unleashed a stream of coordinated lava guzzling from his palms, a general attack directed specifically at none.

To his bemused amazement, they all managed to avoid the attack. Despite their aloof and wacky personas, he could sense a genuine rage fueling them all. The loss of their precious Master Ubuyashiki scorned them so, yet so skilled and admirable were these warriors that they allowed not that loss to hamper them in battle, only energize their determinations to win.

If only Afton brought even a few Glitchtrap-Guard. Just Horatio. Or even a meager escort of Chaos Marines or Daemons. But no. He just HAD to cave to that childish overconfidence of his!

It doesn’t matter. He’d soon recuperate the damage and shapeshift into a Daemon Prince. And if AFO’s Radiowave gamble worked, MXES could send those reinforcements his way-

SHHHRRRRRLLLLLKKKKKK!!!!

Afton’s eyes widened.

One had just severed his right arm.

The culprit’s face soon materialized before him. Giyu Tomioka. The Changeling reported on the characteristics of these elites that stood proudly and tall above the Slayer Corps, and even within the elite circle that denoted Hashira’s standing, Giyu was remarkable. Their incumbent Water Hashira, he mastered flowing strikes, bringing the frittering ocean with his every stroke.

How did he manage to reach William so quickly!? Daemon Prince omniscience should’ve warned him. No… it’s because Afton still didn’t take these fools seriously. That indignant pride subconsciously refused. That vow to not underestimate them made only minutes before forgotten.

Worse still, the flesh and sinew and bone and cartilage worming and interlinking back together to reform his arm stalled time from full bodily restoration. Glitchtrap felt truly insulted now. His face eschewed into an angry grin as Giyu shifted his stance and shifted the blade horizontally.

“A neat trick. I suspect your friends will follow up by harrying me further whilst you continue harassing me openly. Is that your plan? I WON’T LET IT HAPPEN!”

William’s other arm engorged with size, becoming a massive lump of pulsating, writhing, twitchy flesh which subsequently slammed into the earth, creating a shockwave that dogged away the Hashira temporarily. An effect that’d last only a few seconds. Afton needed less.

The shockwave revealed incisions into the earth mirroring the Ubuyashiki Estate crater. Swirls of dark magic coalesced around these holes which soon revealed their holding. A series of Fazbear Animatronic Endoskeletons, four or five from each gash, clambered out, stampeding over each other; some with patches of dried-skin attached onto their metallic persons. These weren’t the special units he’d discussed with MXES over, merely imitations and horrors grafted as contingencies.

“Allow me to introduce my little friends! They’ll tear your bodies asunder! Even though your leader’s heroic sacrifice temporarily weakened me, I’ve still enough power to deal easily with the likes of YOU ALL!”
Glitchtrap cackled as the Demon Slayers balked and struck against the Endoskeletons. Even these withered and weak animatronic hollows were resistant to their blades, only metal sparks batted off their sheen as they advanced forward and gave the Hashira something else to focus on. William believed fully in victory’s imminence, only to hear another blasted war-horn.

What now-

Oh no.

It wasn’t just the noisy Hashira who’d staked their presences here. Stampeding throughout the hill were scores of regular Demon Slayers. Most of their insipid order, an army stocked by various ranks and levels of ability, united by common cause. They would bring an end to the Demons.

The Changeling had failed Glitchtrap. Or perhaps these protocols were so embedded into the Corps that only a few impenetrable circles knew of such plans. Even more plausible is that the Tzeentchian Daemon-Trickster purposefully reneged mentioning the Demon Slayer’s emergency tactics to Springtrap in hopes this very situation would surmise.

Glitchtrap wouldn’t die here. However, Daemon Princes could endure fates worse than death. These Demon Slayers happened upon an incredible stroke of luck with their initial explosive deception and ambush. If enough people struck him at once, thereby compelling his regeneration to focus on smaller wounds instead of total repair, they’d force him to retreat. Maybe even risk banishment back into the Warp. He’d only been a Daemon Prince for five years, practically an infant in those terms. He couldn’t imagine the Dark Gods pleased with his performance if that came to pass.

Without Daemon Prince form, he couldn’t psionically request assistance from Chaos forces either. No. His best and only hope was fighting them all here and trusting in AFO’s Radiowave Quirk.

“What a nasty little trick you kids have devised. Thought long and hard about this one in your forlorn crypts, huh!? Nothing can save you all now. NOTHING-“

The Blind Hashira interrupted Glitchtrap’s spiel, crashing a flail into his stomach that staggered him. His well-kept black hair scattered apart into flowing locks, turning aggressive shades of purple with significance to Afton’s mood. After muttering a manner of prayer, the Blind Hashira wrenched back the flail and prepared to strike again, though William summoned a more concentrated stream of lava instead of the general attack utilized prior, directly colliding with the weapon’s chain-links and melting them into slag, causing it to uselessly fall apart.

“Don’t interrupt my monologue, child!”

“Shut your GODAMN mouth already! No one wants to hear spiel from a dumbass like you! Just fight and die for our sakes!”
Hissed the white-haired boy, engaging William with Wind Breathing and performing a flurry of powerful attacks that almost seemed as though a whirlwind was carrying their strength. Now resembling an unhinged barbarian from ancient times (with really beautiful hair I might add) rather than a composed Chaos Warlord or Daemon Prince, William’s ferocity increased with every assault waylaid against him. It was obvious the Slayers were attempting only to distract him long enough to pierce through and reach Muzan and AFO, the Endoskeletons were slowly falling apart as they realized their unique breathing techniques were more than a match for them- plus the arrival of Demon Slayer regulars meant they’d be occupied either way.

William summoned forth another fissure at the Estate’s destroyed base, creating a howling cavern of orange glow from which bemoaning dead spirits consigned by the Warp’s eldritch influence reached out their ghostly, mutilated, tortured hands, desperate to clasp them onto flesh and blood and feel that effervescent joy of life again. Eighteen Demon Slayers that were rushing towards Muzan and AFO were grabbed by these horrific Daemonic spirits and grabbed into oblivion, though the Hashira gathered themselves and launched a unified series of attacks on Springtrap- quickly closing the fissure as it was a high-mana move requiring his dedicated concentrate to upkeep.

“We’ve almost broken him! Push forward and eliminate the Demon-King!”
Alerted Tomioka, unfortunately with accuracy to that statement. His subordinates and fellow Hashira roared with excitement at that proposition. Glitchtrap forcibly gave up more ground to avoid being mobbed, tossing fireballs and summoning Endoskeletons, sprouting deadly vine-esque objects from his palms that slit and cut at his various enemies, though these weren’t enough. Whether it was Mitsuri, Sanemi, Giyu, Muichiro, Gyomei, or Obanai- their names he’d memorized from the Changeling’s intel-reports, they weren’t allowing him to regenerate!

Could it be they knew his secret? That they were exploiting his weakness?

No… they were treating him as any ordinary Demon. William wasn’t sure what prospect infuriated him further.

“ALL FOR ONE, MUZAN!!”
Glitchtrap alerted, conjuring a toughened slab of rickety rock-wall that temporarily ceased the monumental advance of the Demon Slayer Corps. Turning around, Afton saw Muzan recovering from some manner of ambush. The woman from earlier was clutched in Kibutsuji’s hand as but a dismembered head and was weeping, begging for him to return her to that beloved family torn from her clutches. After whispering a spiteful rebuke about fulfilling that very wish, the Demon-King crushed that decapitated head like a splattered watermelon. All For One was deep within concentration, Radiowave slowly accessing the battle-communications of the Primordial Imperial armies invading this Earth, but it wouldn’t be fast enough. The Slayers were about to pierce the rock-wall, and these three were backed against the crackling remains of Ubuyashiki Estate and their righteous wrath.

And that’s when Muzan smiled.

“I’ve got tricks of my own to deploy against these sneaky samurai-wannabe. Allow me to handle this front.”
After saying that, Kibutsuji moved to address the Slayer Corps that so dearly bayed for his corrupted, evil blood.

“Delinquents of the Demon Slayers- far you’ve come. Farther still you’ll go to destroy me. Yet I’m afraid your efforts will meet only ruination. My allies have already despoiled all of Earth. Japan will become my personal dominion. You must be thinking: ‘It doesn’t matter. So long as we avenge all our fallen comrades directly or indirectly slain by the Demon-King, these grievous losses won’t matter’. You spoilt children. Babies that should’ve been aborted! You won’t even reach your primary goal of killing me. Listen here: Heaven has never punished me. It has forgiven my killing of thousands. And in a thousand years, I have never seen the gods or Buddhas. You’re all going to Hell tonight! None of you will escape. I can’t be cornered. Not by worthless miscreants like yourselves! And when the morrow’s sun rises, I shall be unaffected. Demonkind will stand victorious!”

That’s right… the plan William discussed with Muzan and AFO before this madness began. A series of attacks launched upon all major Demon Slayer locations dotted about Japan, yet a specialized surgical strike upon their healing facility: Butterfly Manor. Doma and Bassus of the Banished would storm the place and force the recovering Tanjiro Kamado to escape down the evacuation route which led directly towards Ubuyashiki Estate, unknowing that it was similarly compromised. When they arrived, the Primordial Empire would be waiting for them, and Kibutsuji could absorb Nezuko’s blessed cells and achieve eminence against the Sun.

Obviously, that whole design was elaborate and intricate, but also a backup plan. If William was allowed to evolve fully into Daemon Princehood, he could simply issue the Dark Gods to grant their blessing upon Kibutsuji as he’d done AFO and the Consortium during his own Earth’s apocalyptic hour. Now though? It seems that plan was their best bet.

“I won’t be undone by these mindless ambitions of yours! Now truly does the battle begin!”

As the rock-wall dissolved, the Hashira and their subordinates stampeded forward… only to lose their footing.

Below the earth, now taking shape within its own dimensional space, the Infinity Castle- Nakime’s Blood Demon Art- manifested around the corners of spacetime. Muzan’s private retreat, where he’d need not face these rebels alone. Placed strategically abound the Infinity Castle and patiently waiting their chance were the other Twelve Kizuki Members, alongside a various entourage of disposable fodder Demons.

Glitchtrap joined Muzan within this transport as AFO fell into another section of the Infinity Castle- he was stuck with about fifty confused, angered Demon Slayers and William suspected he’d have a grand old time enjoying himself. As for the Purple Guy himself though…

All the Hashira were plucked alongside them.

“Couldn’t you have CONTROLLED where they landed!? I thought you ruled this dimension!”

“I was backed into a damn corner, sue me! And Nakime technically manages this place, not I.”

“Tch- I’ve little time for your excuses. Can you call your minions here?”

“The Twelve Kizuki will arrive shortly. Each of them is gifted with my blood. They shall gravitate towards me naturally.”

“All For One will call the reinforcements we need. All that matters now is holding our own until then.”

The Hashira seemed to understand the score. Timing was of the essence. Whatever came next, if they could bring death to Muzan Kibutsuji, all their sacrifices, all their pain, and all of the loss they’ve endured… it’d have amounted to something. They wouldn’t cease until victory or death came about.

Glitchtrap’s body flared with dark Warp energies, as the climatic melee was shortly to begin.

“Come then children. Show me what you all REALLY believe in!”

Chapter Text

Tokyo - Earth 114-3

Coraxas Rackard observed carefully as the Black Legion initiated their ‘cleanup’ operations. After a settlement was completely decimated by their wicked hand, structures ablaze or destroyed and everything of financial note thieved and their intakes of slaughter sated with mountains of gore and begging whimpering silenced by the thunderous Bolter or merciless Chainsword- these maligned Space Marines whose souls and lives were now owed to Chaos’s dark path were tasked with bringing aboard any spared individual.

From experience begotten over outstretched millennia of war and campaigning, Rackard understood the greatest Chaos Warbands prospered not solely from mindless brutality alone. Such was a natural cornerstone of existing within such a demented, backwards society that the Primordial Truth espoused, though it didn’t alone constitute success. Warbands that lacked the infrastructure or willingness (usually both) to establish sustainable systems of recruitment and approachability with their conquered populaces died out whenever larger campaigns initiated by Chaos Champions were declared.

Already miniscule in size owed to their number whittling down over their constant bloodletting against the false Imperium and several other factions, they were easily bullied into these greater seas of vengeful destruction ordered by the Champion- commonly entailing the employment of idiotic tactics such as charges into fortified enemy positions or foregoing any manner of political subtly or trickery in exchange for salting the earth and creatively bisecting every innocent civilian they came across. Life wouldn’t change much for the hypothetical Warband in question, though over time, they’d find their specific banner upheld by fewer and fewer individuals, their desperate war-cries and unique traditions slowly enmeshed into the goop of the greater Chaotic warfront constituting the Long War.

Coraxas managed to avoid such sad fates by allowing the Carrion-Carvers to build somewhat an empire of around eight planets. These worlds were granted slivers of autonomy and even rewards from victorious wars should they behave and provide a slave-tithe. A Warband marched on its slaves, whether for tending to the Astartes and their demented desires, cleaning up after their vessels, or even subject to the unspeakable experimentations and biological mutations that entailed becoming a Chaos Astartes.

Rackard was relieved when William Afton appeared to not only follow that same model, but perfect upon it. Every realm that fell under the Primordial Empire’s dark reign were shaken up, their pride expunged under the roar of a million Bolters and guttural cry of a thousand laughing Astartes taking devilish pleasure in the rampant suffering of their hapless denizens. After everyone’s ‘fun’ was had though, the Primordial Empire generously provided options for those spared.

They could exist as slaves or operate within the Empire’s wider functionality. Young boys who displayed the correct genetic signs would be carted away eternally from their families for induction into any of the present Astartes-Factions that constituted the Primordial Empire’s fighting force, ranging from Death-Guard to Emperor’s Children to Black Legion obviously. Those unfitting of these certain criteria weren’t discarded foolishly. They were conscripted into the Terran Chaos-Guard, officially prescribed the ‘Militarium Chaotica’. Not simply as soldiers, but as janitorial staff, cooks, IT workers, clerks, middle management- etcetera.

“STOP! PLEASE! NOT MY BABY! PLEASE DON’T TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME! HE’S ALL I HAVE! DO YOU HAVE NO HEARTS!? NO SOULS!? WHAT MANNER OF MEN ARE YOU?!”
Coraxas was alerted from his dull forethought, the Chaos Lord’s sight turned to a wailing, younger Japanese woman wreathed in kimono fretfully grasping at thin air, held back by two Chaos-Guard soldiers. Another was carting away an equally distraught boy wanting to return to mother’s warm embrace. They were speaking in their native language, though thanks to automated translators that were embedded into the helmets of Glitchtrap’s soldiers all: Astartes, Chaos-Guard, or otherwise- it was discernible to them.

Coraxas approached the decimated street corner. Amidst the foreground, Banished merceries joyously marched out with coffers-full of misbegotten treasure, Newtopian Frobots were casually obliterating rows of older-age cars, and Zargothrax’s Death Knights of Crail were roughly handling several kidnappings of their own. The Primordial Empire’s member-states who partook within its dramatic military actions were entitled to whatever loot uncovered.

 A fair system of distribution was carefully detailed among every faction taking part within the invasion, meaning none would emerge from the conquest feeling slighted. If they were, the Primordial Conclave existed to air out grievances and disagreements of such nature. And nothing exactly prevented anyone from taking what they wanted, claimed or not. So long as problems didn’t spiral into civil incidents, Glitchtrap and his circle turned a blind eye.

Coraxas leered over the woman, kneeling and placing a gigantic hand upon her head. Should he desire, it’d be crushed as one would a tomato over the cooking board- though the gravelly warlord held back.

“Despair not. The milk of your womb shall serve a purpose grander than anything this doomed world could’ve offered. He shall crusade upon a thousand worlds, see the fires set to a million civilizations. Should the Gods find mercy in their omnipotent gaze, he will find ascendancy and brotherhood. Is not a mother’s goal to see her children succeed? Why weep?”

The woman seemed momentarily calmed, though examined Coraxas. His helmet, belying nothing but two red-eyed visors and malignant horns protruding out; was unfeeling, cold, and cruel. She couldn’t trust this monster, nor any of these monsters who’d so joyously and excitably annihilated the world around her. They were Oni, the Demons bespoken of within ancient cultural legend. She struggled once again, causing Rackard to sigh. Her son cried for her again.

“Take him away. Remove his memories all, this one especially. We’ve little need for bleeding hearts.”

The Chaos-Guard holding the boy nodded and sauntered off towards a nearby dropship hovering within the obliterated Tokyo street. As the night sky, alit with a ceaseless chorus of horrible fires, peered over the scene, Coraxas turned back to the woman. Her face no longer evoked mewling terror, but rather an infuriated defiance.

“Someday… someone… someone will deliver Amaterasu’s divine justice onto you- and ALL whom follow you, Oni!”

Coraxas giggled at the insinuation.

“I’d welcome the challenge. Nothing gained from deliberating with you though, is there. Admittedly however, your beauty is… alluring. You’ll fetch me an acceptable slave market price, methinks. Take her away- and retain her beauty. This season may become mine most profitable yet.”

The other two goons obeyed and dragged away the resisting, kicking woman without much effort. Rackard sighed and stood quietly, soaking up the surrounding cacophony of bloodshed without so much care throughout the universe- until his Vox-Channel crackled to life.

“Require… assistance!”

Hmm? What?

“This is Coraxas Rackard of the Carrion-Carvers Division! Report!”

“Send help- ambush! Lord Glitchtrap-“

Rackard soon recognized the voice. Beneath his helmet, the maligned Space Marine’s beady eyes widened.

“Seems though I may have fun here yet.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Battle of the Infinity Castle

Six Hashira and numerous Demon Slayer retainers stood carefully around Kibutsuji Muzan and William Afton. Elsewhere within the Castle, All For One alone stood against a majority of the Slayer Corps, likely making mincemeat of their ilk- though unfortunately distanced from his allies and thusly unable to provide support. An acceptable loss.

Glitchtrap’s pride overrode any modicum of self-preservation. Having already been dealt flesh wounds by these swordsmen, he wanted them to bloodily suffer and die. Their resistance was unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable! Their eyes fiery with hope and willpowers unbreakable reminded him of other sickening gnats such as Henry and Charlotte Emily, or even worse, his own pathetic son Michael. Horrible memories- memories of vulnerability and fear momentarily bubbled back to the Daemon Prince’s mind, reminiscing he quickly stuffed back down the mental piehole.

No. Never again would ‘good’ ever victimize him!

The Hashira strategically surrounded both devils, intending to attack shortly. If William could call upon the full might of his Princely Daemonic iteration, they’d be mulch within nanoseconds, if not less. Afton cursed his own overconfidence, though subsequently bottled that fear too. It doesn’t matter. Their lives were only extended several minutes longer!

“Only six of you? Weren’t there more of you detestable Hashira? Oh- wait, I can answer that question. The rest of you must be dead already. This conflict is merely the dying gasps of a failed organization trying jealously to strike against a great man, a visionary! I have existed longer than your feeble minds could comprehend sentience. What a joke to insinuate any of you could stand against me!”
Muzan bloviated as they silently approached the duo, cornering them within the generically styled liminal room they’d found themselves in. William didn’t offer any verbal jousting, sensing something was off.

Turning towards the Demon-King, Afton’s eyes widened.

“Muzan… that woman who ambushed you back at Ubuyashiki Estate- did you happen to absorb her cells?”

“Hmm? Oh- Tamayo. That witless wench. Of course. I granted her the gift of immortality and she responded by literally spitting in my face. I simply retook my rogue investment. Why?”

Being a Daemon Prince afforded one an impressive cavalcade of powers, among those being an ability to inspect one’s biological makeup with microscopic precision. Muzan’s cells were being degenerated- assailed via a virulent, invasive specimen, probably a drug cocktail that was embedded into that very same woman.

“You’re aging beyond your limits! Any longer and your body’s going to start buckling!”

The Hashira, seemingly clued onto the plan, grew worried and incensed. They rushed forward to begin their attack- though Afton mustered a drum of power, creating a psionic barrier mirroring his earlier rock-wall. It’d outlast their strikes by only a few seconds.

“Impossible! I couldn’t have been outwitted. I know everything my progeny think, so how couldn’t I have detected such treason-“

“That doesn’t matter! I can reverse the drug’s effects; it’ll only take a few minutes.”

“I’m not sure you noticed, but there’s a swarm of gnats preventing us from having those few minutes!”

“I’m certain they won’t allow us a moment’s peace, especially now that their pretty ruse’s been discovered. They intended on weakening you throughout the battle and stalling your fighting capacity till dawn no doubt.”

“So what’s the plan!?”

“Follow my lead!”

“Follow your- I am MUZAN KIBUTSUJI! I DO NOT FOLLOW! I COMMAND!”

“If you want to live, perhaps consider diversifying your portfolio a little.”

Muzan considered his options. From a few minutes what should’ve been an easy execution of Kagaya Ubuyashiki had descended into an insane bloodbath that could very well result in his demise. The Demon-King didn’t like it, but…

“I can’t believe this. Fine! If this insidious drug’s chemical composition isn’t removed from my body by the end of this, there’ll be HELL TO PAY!”

“Enough shouting, I get it already. Can you fight?”

“Surely. Can you?”

“Heh. You’ve no idea.”

William sighed. He was half-naked, still regenerating from the explosion and wounds dealt by the Hashira from their earlier encounter, and without any manner of backup or alliance at his side save an incessantly prideful Demon-King who refused to accept responsibility for anything; alongside being surrounded by the elites of an ancient Demon-Killing Order hellbent on seeing them both become corpses tonight.

Just another day at the office.

The barrier dispelled, and immediately, a coterie of attacks were waylaid against William, another angled directly at Muzan. Their strategy was simple but effective, three of their ilk would carve after Springtrap, the other three Muzan. Divide and conquer, eh? Two could play that game!

From Changeling’s intel, William discerned he’d be facing Sanemi, Giyu, and Mitsuri. Their styles of breathing and swordcraft were superb, practically beyond any other skilled warrior existent on this planet. Unfortunately for them, Springtrap evolved beyond their miniscule, puny world.

The Love Hashira, Water Hashira, and Wind Hashira all struck at once. Should Afton had been merely another regular opponent, lacking the reflexes and skills he did, he’d surely have perished then and there. Instead, his left hand warbled with a dark purple reflection. A series of small trans-dimensional portals sheared open, catching their katanas and sifting them elsewhere momentarily, giving Springtrap enough time to conjure a counterattack.

His right palm followed through, arcs of purple-colored lightning zapping away and beginning to shatter and destroy entire sectors of the room they inhabited; though these were simply uncontrollable splurges of power, this move was concentrated against this nascent triumvirate of attackers. Mitsuri and Giyu managed to avoid the miniature lightning storm, but Sanemi wasn’t so lucky, the half-shirtless Hashira enduring scalding burns to his side and front. Instead of predictably yelping in pain, the warrior instead grit his teeth and leapt back within the spacious room.

“Such a damn creep. Don’t you have any shame preying on kids your junior!? Adults like you make me sick! They call it arrested development or something, right? Why don’t you grow up and pursue something productive!?”
Mitsuri cried, her Nichirin sword’s composition being noticeably thinner, more flexible than her counterparts. William noted that while she exuded a ditzy and idiotic disposition, there wasn’t a combatant underestimated here. Her strikes could constantly whittle away against his body, forcing a constant defensive on his Ultra-Regeneration and preventing ascension to Daemon Prince indefinitely throughout the fight. The other two were equally a threat, however.

“Talk about arrested development… you kids fixate on fighting Demons at your age? Where’s the point in taking up arms against a being that’s objectively greater, stronger, smarter than yourself? Claiming to act as humanity’s guardians on this world… that’s laughable! Mankind can’t hope to evolve through defying the natural order but embracing and mastering it from within! Your ideation of defeating the darkness rather than controlling it will be your downfall!”

Yet as Springtrap spoke, Giyu Tomioka unleashed a careful series of Water-based strokes that slithered across his chest. Afton couldn’t muster the psionic energy to teleport without Daemon Prince or SPRINGTRAP-Armor channeling that latent Chaotic power- having to settle for athletically jumping away from most of these blows, though a few superficial strokes landed that were quickly patched. Right- less talking, more killing. Afton unleashed another incantation in retaliation, one that summoned a series of barely visible energy waves that knocked back the enemy, successfully batting Giyu with such force that he broke through the room’s wall with shattered wooden planks and splinters to announce that.

Sanemi and Mitsuri weren’t going to let up though, their attacks would come momentarily.

“I dunno what manner of bullshit you’re spouting, all I hear is the airing of an asshole no different than Kibutsuji Muzan! YOU’RE JUST ANOTHER SHITTY DEMON!”
Sanemi roared, katana abreast and ready to swing horizontally down upon William’s body. Any hesitation, any momentary pause, it could spell the difference between victory or death on this battlefield.

William enacted another spell of his to prevent Sanemi’s offensive. His left palm twitched again with unholy powers convalesced, and emergent from a fleshy tear carved upon it came a Funtime Foxy Animatronic’s head, albeit with certain hellish alterations. The chomping creature screeched horrifically, a dead child’s agonized soul forever inscribed into its metallic makeup and thereby providing the construct the ferocity Springtrap needed.

Even rage-minded Sanemi, so incensed with righteous fury against Demon-King, staggered upon seeing this abominable creature. His strike twisted instead to a clumsy last-minute defense, swatting away the head so it smacked upon the room’s side. Like a nightmarish incarnation of chattering teeth, the head continued spattering and sputtering, a series of thrusters grafted onto its back giving it mobility (as it lacked a proper body), allowing it to continuously prey on Sanemi, biting and even drawing slivers of blood against even the agile Wind Hashira.

“Enjoying my tinkering? I designed that specifically with agile opponents such as yourself in mind. Don’t bother trying to fight it- any move you make it’ll mirror and overtake.”

William laughed at Sanemi’s blood-slicked misfortune, though still accounted for Mitsuri. Her Nichirin katana warbled and weaved, contorting into a series of imminent strikes.

“Love Breathing: Third Form: Catlove Shower!”

The Love Hashira leapt magnificently into the air, bringing down her hellfire of attacks with her. A zigzag of stabs and slices meant to weaken and disorient the target rather than annihilate them. A perfect opportunity to test a new move William had been testing.

“Endure AGONY, fetid harlot!”

A hypothetical substance experimented and devised upon by a personal scientist of Afton’s, Phineas Taggart, Agony was Remnant’s darker cousin. Rather than being a neutral emanation of soul-energy capable for any manner of malleable usage or shaping, Agony was the embodiment of highly negative emotions. William discovered this material long ago during his nostalgic days as a serial killing revenant, having created an impressive kaiju-esque vessel called ‘The Agony’, (very creative Willie), though after a crew of interlopers destroyed it, William settled on Agony being useless for his aims.

During these past five years, a particularly vicious and determined scientific mind, Phineas Taggart, devoted his life to studying Agony after being maligned by Fazbear Corporation; seeing Glitchtrap’s regime as his second chance for success and fame. Taggart gambled rightly, managing to reignite Afton’s interest with Agony after displaying several objects and prototype machines powered by it at a technological expo early into his reign.

While Remnant retained its status as Springtrap’s chief substance of toying, the Daemon Prince accepted Agony into his arsenal, managing to weaponize and mold the material into new forms and imaginings thanks to his Chaotic powers. Combine a material of literal purest negativity and anguish with eldritch darkness and you’ve got an untenable recipe for destruction.

Both Afton’s hands shot a viscous, goopy black liquid holding an innate willpower of its own- the substance gleaming onto the edges of Mitsuri’s blade whilst she pranced midair and dashed forward. Kanroji couldn’t have expected this as the Agony suddenly and violently jousted into her body with merciless speed. She bleated a scream of surprise and pain, pleasing William most succinctly.

“Feeling the heat, are you?”

The Love Hashira, a woman whose entire identity built off social relationships and flowering, budding kindness for others, found Glitchtrap’s very existence anathema to her good-hearted nature. A series of horrendous images howled into her mind. Memories that weren’t hers. Echoes of the suffering William brought onto those five children, onto dozens of others during his Funtime experiments, his Pizzaplex killings, and several other murders committed in-between. Her eyes watered, teary with feeling all the pent-up rage and sadness and negativity of these children whose futures were robbed by an unassailable villain whose actions, rather than cosmically punished, were rewarded by a quartet of evil gods.

“H-how… How could you…”

Mitsuri collapsed onto the ground, loosing grip of her weapon as her hands instead clambered onto her forehead. Agony dripped alongside the edges of her clothing and pink hair.

“I… you’re… you’re not just a Demon… you- you… you’re a DEVIL! YOU’RE A MONSTER! HOW COULD YOU-“

“Gut children like fish? Simple really. You angle the knife and plunge down into the artery. Or bleed surface-level if you want them to suffer.”

Sanemi couldn’t provide crucial support to Mitsuri, the Foxy-Head intent on menacing him and proving itself a surprisingly ardent opponent. Giyu, having taken the brunt of that energy-wave attack, was struggling to recover.

She was alone and darkly influenced by the Agony. Her sadness malformed into malicious intent.

“YOU’RE PROUD OF THIS!? YOU SICK BASTARD! I’LL KILL YOU!”

“Hoh? Where’s that innocent girlie I faced not a minute ago? How disgraceful… to think your conviction was so weak even the smallest slathering of Agony could turn you sour. As if I’d EVER die to someone whose beliefs were so fragile that a few dying kids could turn their worldview around! Cursing and whining when you were acting so bratty and haughty. Hah!”

Mitsuri couldn’t take William’s mouthing off anymore, howling with an extravagant rage. Her Breathing Techniques subsumed into her greatest assault, Cat-Legged Wings of Love- though it lacked the lovely demeanor and aura the Love Hashira supposedly carried. Instead, as the blade arced, it did so wrathfully. The Agony completed its task superbly.

Without warning, Springtrap jettisoned forth just as Mitsuri’s Nichirin Katana threatened to make physical contact. He’d managed to avoid being struck further since Giyu’s tantrum, meaning more and more Chaotic powers and strengths were returning unto his body. He could feel the power coursing through his veins. An addictive, amazing feeling he wanted more of.

Whilst teleportation remained tantalizingly out-of-reach, William could still cross distances with terrifying speed. Taking advantage of a singular misstep frothing, confused Mitsuri made, William’s hands physically warped, becoming reptilian talon-claws which swerved and stabbed into the girl’s back.

“GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

“Goodbye, Love Hashira!”

William relished in her agonized wailing as the petite woman’s body dissolved into fetid ash. Softened by the previous splotch of Agony that dismantled her willpower and strength, she lacked any notion of resistance as darkness enveloped her very being. Absorbing Mitsuri’s cellular composition, bone marrow, proteins, generally harvesting her like a hyper-efficient parasitical organism, Afton became privy to her private memories and backstory.

The Man Behind the Slaughter wasn’t impressed. A brainless girl who devoured enough Sakura mochi that it permanently altered her hair coloration. After being scorned from marriage prospects owing to her unnatural attitude and overbearing strength which scared off suitors, she encountered Kagaya Ubuyashiki and joined together with the Demon Slayer Corps.

Really? What a mind-numbing origin story. How lucky this girl should’ve felt that her meaningless existence was ended by Springtrap himself.

As her body frittered into skeletal dust that plopped unceremoniously onto the ornate floor, William turned attentions towards Muzan. Obanai, Muichiro, and Gyomei were attempting to keep the Demon-King pinned, though failing horrendously in their attempts. By now, Muzan discarded any aura of civility or high society approachability. His body was instead a score of gnawing mouths and snapping appendages and organic tendrils which whisked out violently against his attackers- his combat battle-form.

Even weakened by Tamayo’s cocktail, Kibutsuji was an impressive titan of warfare all on his own. Every move instigated by the Demon Slayers to bring low the Demon-King was met with rushes of spikes and tendrils that would’ve pierced them into gore-globules had they not dodged.

Glitchtrap’s face curved into an excitable smile. This wouldn’t be of consequence whatsoever. Even now, his hyper-regeneration allowed many Daemonic abilities to return. Whilst still divorced from full power, he clutched more than enough power already to swat away these flies and dissolve the poisons completely from Muzan’s biological frame, earning them certain victory here. Plus, when the reinforcements arrived, the Demon Slayer Corps could kiss goodbye!

“Sayonara children. Your doomsday was just another Wednesday for me-“

SCCHRRRRLLLKKKKK!!!

William’s back felt split-open. Sinew crackled and musculature split, though Chaotic hyper-regeneration rushed to repair the wound. Another delay before reaching full Daemonic strength!

Enraged beyond measure, Afton turned around and noticed his attacker. Tomioka! He recovered from the energy blast that quickly!? Worse still, danger-sense alerted Purple Guy that Sanemi managed to defeat the Foxy-Head by forcing his katana vertically through its mouth, rendering it but a shattered, discarded series of sparking electrical and metallic parts which clanged onto the spacious floor. Both Demon Slayers were injured and bleeding, though still intent surely on bringing death to Springtrap. Such insolent heroic determination…

“You slew Kanroji? I’ll make you repay that sin a billion times over.”
Giyu calmly promised. Sanemi only grit his teeth and grunted like an incensed wild animal that’d just spotted prey. Both reactions angered Springtrap immensely. More time wasted on these ingrates meant less crucial moments rushing to Muzan’s aid. The Daemon Prince conjured amidst both his palms brandishes of Warp-Fire.

“Come claim the soul of your dead friend, should you muster the courage to stand against a Daemon-Prince of Chaos Undivided!”

Before they could lurch into their second round though, the Infinity Castle’s structure began shaking. Rafters fluttered about and floors quaked under this new phenomenon. Mitsuri’s ashen remains were whisked away during this madness as even William and Muzan struggled to hold their grip onto anything, though Kibutsuji avoided this pitfall by plunging several organic tendrils into the walls around him to stabilize himself.

Soon enough, the cause was revealed. Shattering through the walls behind the Primordial Emperor and Demon-King were an entourage of familiar, hulking armored warriors, clasping closely enchanted swords or battle-axes or scimitars or countless other weaponries and clutching shields emanating dark power in their other hands. They roared with an evil ferocity, quickly rushing around their Daemon-Lord protectively and attacking gracefully yet destructively against the Hashira, forcing them all back.

Afton soon snarled a devious grin.

The Glitchtrap-Guard.

AFO must’ve done it! Horatio stood proudly at their center, the quartermaster and Lord Commander of this elite order of medieval knights dedicated to their Master’s protection and execution of his demented ambitions. They weren’t just Chaos Warriors, but rather Chaos Knights.

They parodied the nobility of ancient fraternal orders of past epochs, taking their likeness and culture and warping it unto their wicked liking. The Glitchtrap-Guard were an unstoppable legion of the Primordial Empire’s very best- chosen bodyguards of Emperor William Afton, alongside having battlefield priority and often leading armies in his villainous stead. Standing above even Chaos Astartes, their legends were etched into histories already. Wherever Glitchtrap stalked, these guards were close behind. At their head, Horatio Gibbons rushed over to his Lord’s side while his subordinates batted away the retreating Demon Slayers.

“These primitives really provided you trouble? I’m disappointed.”
Jested Horatio.

“Hold your tongue, Lord-Commander. These noisy brats only managed to incur my wrath, and shall momentarily suffer the consequences. I assume you’ve brought the cavalry with you?”

“We’ve got Banished and Crail Death-Knights scouring the Castle now, helping Muzan’s minions clear the place of stragglers. Detachments of your Space Marines have joined them. The next few minutes should see the cessation of this ‘Demon Slayer’ Corps forever. You should thank All For One afterwards, his communique alone saved this offensive.”

“Good. What of the other plan?”

“Our spies indicate that Tanjiro Kamado is headed here shortly. All their spy-crows are cooked thanks to Banished aircraft and their deadshot Kig-Yar snipers, meaning they’ve no way of knowing what awaits them here. Once you transfer his sister’s cells into Kibutsuji’s…”

“Yes, we’ll have won. Excellent work. Now stay here and continue with mop-up. These cretins’ lives are MINE to dispense with.”

“As you wish.”

William proceeded forward, reveling as the Infinity Castle’s chorus of battle quickly became a chaotic, confused massacre. Strong and tough and tactical as these Demon Slayers were, they were naught but insignificant insects compared against the vastly superior hordes that were bearing down upon them.

“Fulfill your promise.”

Muzan’s voice quickly broke Afton’s reverie.

“Yes yes. Best not make me regret this later.”

“That will be entirely your decision.”

Pleasant. Springtrap jabbed an elongated thumb into Muzan’s left shoulder-blade, dispensing an incremental batch of Chaos-infused cells. Usually, this’d serve to organically alter a victim until they became a hideous batch of mucus-slathered corrupted flesh, a Chaos Spawn. Given Muzan’s evolved biological state owed to thousands of years editing and molding his own body as clay, these injections only mildly annoyed the Demon-King. Frankly, Kibutsuji detested the idea of another’s genetic stock now worming amidst his own, though the current options rendered him little alternative.

Tamayo’s drug effects disseminated before they could incur any real damage. Muzan felt reinvigorated as the cocktail dispersed into harmless compounds quickly assailed by the superior Chaos-cells, before they were entirely annihilated. The Demon-King felt whole once again!

“Very good. Now let’s finish this.”

Muzan walked off, leaving William to sigh. Not even a thank you?
Nevertheless, they didn’t need to walk far. The remaining Demon Slayers that weren’t being decimated managed to coalesce together into a semi-coherent unit captained by the Hashira. Around them, the intact members of Twelve Kizuki (bar Doma) surrounded them as they’d done to Glitchtrap and Kibutsuji earlier. Gyokko, Kokushibo, Hantengu, and Akaza. A silent, tense standoff bubbled between them all.

“Gyohohohohoho! What do we have here? A cauldron of fresh meat!? How delightful! I’ll make beautiful portraits of you all. Your bodies will-“

Gyokko’s prattling was interrupted as the Kizuki psionically sensed the presence of their undisputed lord and master.

“Where were you all?”
Kibutsuji angrily muttered to his stock of minions whilst eyeing the battle-ready Hashira.

“Crushing the other Slayer Corps outposts. Once it became clear you were endangered, we joined these other forces in rushing to your aid. Greatest apologies, Master.”
Kokushibo obediently uttered as the Kizuki parted ways for their lordship and Afton.

“I’ll delegate punishments later. Just disperse and help the Chaos troops demolish whatever Demon Slayers still linger about.”

“Master-“

Akaza stated suddenly, though quieted as Muzan afforded him a death glare. Hantengu obviously detected the malice radiating from that single gaze alone, the tumor-stricken Demon whimpering and mewling whilst staring downward at the floor.

Understanding their lord’s command perfectly, all the Upper Moons dispatched throughout the shifting dimensional plane that was Infinity Castle. Doma was noticeably not among their rank, his place being to carefully pursue Tanjiro and friends over to the demolished estate’s ruins for Nezuko’s ultimate absorption. Until then…

Giyu, Muichiro, Gyomei, Sanemi, and Obanai stood squarely- a pack of warriors whose skills were honed nigh to perfection. William sensed an innate might shared among their number as they prepared to manifest their final stand. Marks of differing shape and insinuation manifested upon specific areas of their skin. Their full potential was unlocked.

It wouldn’t matter. Against the immutable godhood of Chaos, even the greatest fighters were rendered to disposable vermin. And their deaths wouldn’t be gentle or swift either. Muzan, traditionally cowardly and relegating tasks of such burden unto his minions, was so incensed by the killing intent they portrayed against him for his millennia of sin that he decided to personally bring them unto an early grave. Similarly, Springtrap couldn’t forgive that they managed to deal damage against him, even at his weakest form.

“You believe yourself greater because of these demented friends of yours? We shall not balk when faced with your ugly darkness. All we make of this is even greater resolve to cease the abnormality that is your existence.”
Gyomei calmly muttered, much to Muzan’s bemusement.

“Abnormal? You’re calling me abnormal? Isn't it enough that you're still alive? So what if I've killed your loved ones? Consider yourselves lucky and carry on with your lives. Think of it as if they simply met with some natural disaster. There's no need... to make it more complicated than that. Rain, wind, volcanoes, earthquakes... no matter how many people they kill, no one seeks revenge against them. Besides, the dead will not return to life. Let go of your grudges. Just go about your business and live a quiet life. That's what most people do. So why don't you? There's only one reason. Because Demon Slayers are abnormal. And I'm tired of dealing with you. I just want this to end."

Those words seemed to deliver even greater payloads of rage to these cornered Hashira. Sanemi’s Wind Breathing swirled about once more as he angled for Muzan, though Afton only smirked in response and turned to his newly minted ally.

“Together then?”

“Hmph. Alright. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

“I can tell we’re going to become great friends.”

William believed he imagined it, but for a split-second, he believed Muzan flashed the mildest of grins before they both charged together against the enraged Hashira entourage.

Despite only having physically met a few hours ago, they battled akin to brothers stoking a battlefield with their enemies’ blood and gore, standing supreme over that smoky expanse with nothing but each other and their own personalized fury.

A damned nobleman whose ambition to eclipse death’s grimy hand allotted him ascendancy into Demonic power and a former businessman serial killer whose unending scheming and evil granted him vistas of greatness unimaginable. These beings of remorseless darkness who brought suffering and terror unto thousands, if not millions, were the apexes of existence and evolution. Their potentials of conquest and control were unthinkable alone already, yet when paired together… they gave credence and honor to the term ‘villain’.

Muzan’s flesh-whips collided with such speed against the five remaining Hashira that they all visibly staggered and were forced to hold back their planned offensives. Seizing the advantageous window bequeathed onto him, William summoned another score of purple Warp-Lightning that exploded their surroundings and threw them back callously akin to pieces of furniture. Gyomei managed to recover early and seize action, William detecting the calculating battle-mastermind behind the façade of a blind gentle giant.

As the monkish man’s flails clanged together, they attempted to pierce William’s defenses as the fight expanded into an expansive, shifting hallway which preened outward as per the Infinity Castle’s nebulous nature.

“Congratulations on snatching my attention! I’ll destroy you first!”

“Such violence. Such hatred. Is that all which constitutes your being? I’m unsure whether to know you by pity for a life that could’ve been, or by disgust at a life always drowned in damnation.”

“Know me by the cold embrace of death I’ll deliver to you, insolent little prick!”

Gyomei continued employing Stone Breathing; to his credit the flails carried about them a mighty gravity that smashed against the Purple Guy’s mutations and defenses, though each attempt to leer for a heavy strike against Afton’s person they merely dinged off. By now, Daemonic resurgence was awakening owed to hyper-regeneration, meaning William could easily disregard any measly physical assailments these apes could foment. Knowing this, he enacted another superpower of his, hardening his outer layers of skin and rendering them impervious to any middling or lower-level insults.

Still, Gyomei’s forceful strikes weren’t anything to scoff at. William charged forward with intentions to finally obliterate the Blind Hashira, though found himself waylaid by a familiar presence.

Tomioka engaged with Water Breathing once more, determined more than ever to avenge his fallen comrades and protect those still living from darkness’s grasp. Unfortunately for him, a score of lacerations would soon appear upon his person whilst he leapt midair to garner another nasty wound upon Springtrap. Muzan’s tendrils were now snatching about everywhere imaginable, a coordinated hivemind of appendages capable of cutting through diamond directed by the Demon-King’s heightened biology. As Giyu held back jolts of howled pain, Muzan followed by contorting his right arm into a blackened whip of corruption rather than dozens of smaller barbs and lashes.

“Breathe your way out of this one, BOY!”

The other Hashira rushed to Giyu’s aid, though they couldn’t hope to reach within a timely manner as Kibutsuji managed to vivisect the Water Hashira with a single blow.

GRAAACCCCRRRGGGHHH!!!!

An unholy bloom of gore followed; a scouring of blood and mulched internal organs and pulverized tendons that escaped the bisection incurred onto Giyu’s chest. His top and bottom halves were permanently separated, and the Water Hashira didn’t even realize until he thudded onto the ground. There wasn’t even time for his comrades to allot cries of surprise and mourning at his untimely passing, as Muzan’s other arm continued menacing them all with constant barb-whips of deathly flesh. Gyomei’s unseeing eyes became wet with tears of sadness for his passed friend and colleague, though he’d face Springtrap’s wrath.

“Don’t cry! You’ll be joining him soon!”
Laughed Afton as they continued their short engagement. Seeing it was time nigh to conclude this pitiable struggle, the Primordial Emperor allowed Himejima to initiate his Fifth Form: Arcs of Justice- attempting to barrage him with flail and axe alike within a short timeframe and completely overwhelm him. Unfortunately for Gyomei, William grasped the edges of these weapons as they angled against him, concretely holding them in place, refusing to allow him to loosen his killing objects.

Momentarily Afton ponder Glitchtrapping Gyomei, essentially unleashing upon him an unstoppable wave of corruptive power that’d malform his very being into naught but a personal pawn of Purple Guy’s, though he decided against it. These Hashira were below his notice, only providing such trouble today because of missteps made on the other end.

Liquified agony erupted from his palms, sloshing corrosively as they quickly made the distance before Gyomei discarded his flail and axe. Similarly, to Mitsuri, the Agony invaded his mental space and began eating away at the stoic personality he’d constructed for himself. Uncouth memories were shortly resurrected, both Gyomei’s own and those of anguished children that William buried many moons ago.

“RAARGGGH- I will not… these illusions… these tricks of yours won’t pierce my-“

Gyomei wasn’t even permitted finishing his sentence as the Chaos Warlord rushed upon him, stabbing directly into his chest, mirroring the killing blow enacted against Mitsuri. The blind clansman of House Himejima coughed out spurts of blood that were muddled and mixed with viscous Agony, grasping at Glitchtrap’s reptilian claws. Subsequently, his body was suckled clean of its biological makeup, rendering the blind monk but a clattered skeleton which itself combed into dust that whisked away before the Dark Master.

Only Obanai, Muichiro, and Sanemi remained, all three desperately trying to waylay whatever they could against unassailable Demon-King Muzan; who didn’t ever appear the slightest being winded against the culmination of their effort. Perhaps if all the Hashira were gathered a manner of chance could’ve been manifested, though they’d all been forcibly retired, executed, or enslaved in Shinobu’s unfortunate case.

Afton dusted off some roguish dust that smattered onto his shoulders, before realizing his nudist disposition. Annoyed, he quickly formed together another iteration of his SPRINGTRAP battle-armor. The futuristic rendition of that old corpse-suit which once ruthlessly imprisoned his emaciated body returned upon him. He proceeded to approach Muzan’s side, the flesh-extensions evoked by the Demon-King instinctively avoiding him.

“Need some help?”

“Of course not. Though I’d prefer ending this charade sooner than later. These Demon Slayers have wasted enough time of mine already. Also, why does your armor resemble a bunny?”

“Agreed. And it’s a long story. We’ll discuss it over tea and crumpets after we’re done here.”

“Tea and…”

“It’s a British thing.”

“Sounds tasteless.”

“Most our cuisine is. We needed to pilfer half the world to find something worth eating.”

“I’d offer you the meat of these Hashira brats, but they’re mine exclusively.”

“Only if you kill them first!”

Scowling with silent acceptance of such challenge, they stood back-to-back as the Demon Slayers tried to deliver divine justice against them, only to realize their crusade of righteousness would end in bloody meaninglessness. Each stroke, each magic spell countenanced, each move unveiled was equivalent to a Renaissance painting. They fought with symbiotic brilliance, every attempt to slash them or undermine their moves covered by the other as flesh-barbs and sword-hands and Chaotic death-incantations swung about, creating a visual beauty as they casually destroyed the environment around them. Obanai Iguro attempted to stealthily utilize Snake Breathing to carve open William’s stomach, only for Muzan to suddenly catch on and unleash a storm of tendrils that erupted from the wooden planks below, impaling the ill-fated boy a la Vlad the Impaler. Afton finished the miscreant with a blast of Warp-Lighting that exploded him into smithereens!

Muichiro followed next, failing to skewer Muzan effectively with another Mist Breathing form and receiving retribution as scores of coin-sized Warp-Portals crackled around him, each unveiling the maw of some eldritch terror excitably seeking to break the veil between ethereal and physical for greater feasts, though sating temporarily their appetites on slabs of Muichiro’s flesh. As the Mist Breather sought to concentrate and regain his power, the hyper-quick Muzan delivered unto him an evil maelstrom of strikes that sliced apart skin and bone. Eventually, two tendrils found their ways to his eyes, crushing them with a memorable pop as they stabbed through, causing Tokito to shortly writhe from the gore-splattered demise as his nerve-clusters retained activity for a few seconds more, before his eyeless body collapsed onto the ground, enduring absorption from Muzan afterward.

Sanemi was final to fall. Without doubt the most wrathful of the Slayer Corps, his anger only vicariously spiraled after witnessing his order’s destruction and calm dispatching of those he fought alongside.

“You fucking DEMON SCUM! I’ll break your faces. I won’t let either of you hurt another soul. I’ll bring an end to this insanity here and now!”

“Come and try it, if you even can!”
Laughed Springtrap, incensing Shinazugawa to launch another brigade of careful assaults, swinging and trying to land even a single blow against his enemies. Combined, the Daemon Prince and Demon-King weren’t fazed whatsoever by this rage-minded boy’s posturing. Flesh-barbs whittled at his knees, rendering his mobility null, allowing Springtrap to follow through with a punch directly through his chest cavity. Sanemi gurgled painfully as blood spewed as an open faucet from the wound. William felt around the warm insides, finding the dying heart. His metal-covered fingertips wrapped around the bleating organ, increasing force until…

PLLHRRAAAKKKK!!!

Simultaneously, Sanemi was beheaded by Muzan, whose right hand was shapen into an axe, whilst Springtrap crushed his heart. The headless, heartless corpse stumbled back, no more angry promises and empty threats to eschew as it tumbled bloodily onto the ground below, writhing pathetically for but a moment before falling forever silent.

Sanemi Shinazugawa was dead; and with that- the Demon Slayer Corps was no more.

“That was quite the exercise.”
Muttered Muzan offhandedly, rescinding most his tendrils. Springtrap felt full Daemonic strength return unto his person whilst examining the Hashira corpses and remains strewn about the hallway. By now, the sounds of massacre were dying down as their minions were successfully exterminating any lesser Demon Slayers still skulking about Nakime’s domain.

“Indeed. By now the Kamado boy should be fast arriving. Shall we?”

“This moment I’ve awaited since the Heian Period… yes. I’m ready. I shall evolve into a truly perfect being, and from there, my potential will become truly unlimited!”

As Muzan moved ahead to alert Nakime to exit everyone present from Infinity Castle, William stayed back. From his balcony-position, he could view a series of half-cybernetic half-organic monstrosities brutally tear asunder and devour groups of wailing and powerless Demon Slayers. They were recognizable to him.

Amalgamations of technological prowess and unfettered organic mutation melded into a singular, unholy front. Shaped into the animatronic forms of Freddy, Foxy, Chica, Bonnie, and several alterations. Afton grinned gleefully watching these creations terminate those before them. Within them were the entrapped, Remnant-fueled souls of children the Primordial Empire executed for this vile program- the final evolution of his tampering with Remnant. Those Remnant Notes he acquired from the Pizzaplex Ruins those years ago proved their worth. They were eldritch horrors mixed with recognizable children’s animatronics, and they were perfect. William termed them ‘Anima-Cyborgs’.

After devouring another Demon Slayer, a Nightmare Fredbear Cyborg noticed Springtrap watching from afar. An otherworldly power allowed it flight over, to which it obediently bowed and spoke with none other than MXES’s voice.

“Are these creations all you hoped for, My Lord?”

“There’s room for improvement, though consider me pleased. They’d have come mightily in handy earlier.”

“You insisted on heading alone to join Muzan Kibutsuji and All For One. We obeyed your command to the letter, my liege. Your Advisor, if I recall, preached against such a plan in favor of caution.”

William groaned, knowing the old man with fester him with ceaseless ‘I told you so’ statements upon return to the Glitchtrap’s Might Bridge.

“A mistake borne of overconfidence. Ultimately, there was nothing to fear from these primitives. We’re almost done here. Have the Anima-Cyborgs congregate back on the ship. I want to inspect their battle-data personally upon my return.”

“Your will is mine to execute sire. I’ll see you soon.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------------
Ubuyashiki Estate Ruins

Tanjiro didn’t understand what was happening. Himself, Inosuke, and Zenitsu, and adorable Nezuko slung upon his back, managed to escape the Butterfly Manor’s undoing. However, their enemy was relentless, refusing them even a moment’s rest. Whenever Zenitsu suggested settling for camp, they couldn’t even assemble the firewood necessary before the familiar sounds of aliens roaring and Demons screeching for their next meal assuaged them.

Kanao couldn’t escape them. The trio were already damaged from their prior engagement against Gyutaro and Daki, leaving them undisposed to properly assist her. A host of cackling enemies surrounded Kocho’s apprentice, valiantly as she fought, beating her down ruthlessly and dragging her unconscious body away.

Hopefully Ubuyashiki could provide them with sanctuary. That was their best hope now. All night they were dogged by the massing, unrelenting enemy. They were all tired, worn out from traversing such a distance whilst given no quarter, though none, even notoriously cowardly and flippant Zenitsu complained about their situation. Silently, all hoped that this madness would conclude and Demon Slayer reinforcements would beat back this re-energized offensive the enemy was insisting on.

“Tch… how much longer Kamaboko!? I’m tired of running, I wanna kick these guys’ asses already!”
Inosuke finally caved under the unspoken pressure, wanting eagerly to bring elimination upon the Demonic foe.

“Just a bit longer Inosuke. I promise. And it’s TANJIRO-“

“Oi! Can you both quiet down! We don’t know how close those guys are.”
Zenitsu interjected as they wearily proceeded. Inosuke seemed ready to settle another curse upon Agatsuma’s name, though withheld for now. The Mountain King settled that enough time to torment both boys would arrive once they had warm room and board.

An hour or two passed. The enemy wasn’t chasing them anymore if sound alone could be trusted, and Tanjiro highly doubted that gigantic, towering monster clad in golden plate could fathom being stealthy to save his own life. The destined triumvirate exited the forest, though Kamado took note of camps and signs of militaristic preparation that were strewn about. Demon Slayer uniforms and katanas spread along too…

“What is all this?”
Tanjiro murmured apprehensively to himself as they emerged. Kamado tried to think of what exactly proceeded here, why there were signs of Slayer presence here beforehand…

“Tanjiro…”
Zenitsu uttered with a sullen voice rife with cowed terror.

“Hmm-“
Tanjiro’s eyes widened.

The Ubuyashiki Estate was utterly demolished. A beautiful outcropping of gardens and miniature lakes and homes now columns of wrecked infrastructure. Splintered planks and disseminated roofs and burnt interiors caked with leathery black dust and depressive layers of ash.

“Oh- Oh no. Oh my.. this can’t be…”
Tanjiro staggered back, eyes widening with abject horror as the unhappy emanation of his own family’s brutal fate befell him.

“HUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!??? ISN’T THIS THE HEADQUARTERS OR SOMETHING!? THIS MUST’VE BEEN THE DEMONS! WHERE ARE THEY!? I’LL DESTROY THEM ALL MYSELF! JUST ME! THAT’S ALL WE NEED TO CRUSH THEM! WHERE ARE YOU MONSTERS!? SHOW YOURSELVES AND I’LL PULVERIZE YOU PERMANENTLY YOU ROTTEN BASTARDS-“

“As you wish.”

A booming, thunderous voice exuded throughout the killing field. Familiar, no less. The Demon-King… more horrifying still, Tanjiro could now spot bodies cloistered about the ruins. Broken, shattered, sizzled corpse-pieces…

It couldn’t be…

He recognized some of the limbs… worse still some of the faces, forever emboldened with an anguished, failed expression.

The Hashira!?

Kamado reached direly for his sword- only to hear the clacking and cocking of a thousand weapons that were squarely aimed at the exposed, fooled trio of heroes. To their horror, they were encircled by hordes of hulking warriors wearing evil-seeming armor, joined by aliens identical to those which sacked Butterfly Manor, giggling scores of Demons, soulless automaton-seeming enemies, and beyond.

“No… this… this can’t be… we-we lost?”
Tanjiro quietly contemplated, his good-natured soul unable to comprehend that grievous loss hadn’t met the Demons, but rather their justice-bringers. Defensively did he raise his weapon, intending on defiance till the bitter end. The sun would soon shimmer on this razed world, meaning these overzealous Demons at the least would scald and burn into wisped ash, right?

“Come on then Demons. COME ON! I WON’T GIVE UP! NOT NOW, NOT EVER-“

WHAM!

“ARRGGH!”

“TANJIRO!”
Cried Zenitsu, before Inosuke and himself met fates similar, being casually and easily restrained by the Black Legion Marines.

Tanjiro found himself knocked to the ground by what felt a freight train. The breath was knocked entirely from his body, his lungs gasping for purchase, employing his techniques learned over the hard training he’d undergone.

Weakly darting back upwards, Tanjiro saw lording before him one of those armored villains. A horned helmet and dehumanizing visor greeted his own eyes, and an existential dread filled the Demon Slayer. Instead of bothering to exchange words, the attacker simply held down Tanjiro and stripped away the wooden cupboard-box attached onto his back.

“Wha-“

Despite being restrained onto the ground, upon seeing the villainous Kibutsuji Muzan calmly move from the gathered crowd of evil, he understood what was transpiring.

No. No no no no no no no!

NO!

Nezuko.

NEZUKO!
“LET GO OF THAT BOX! PLEASE! STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND LISTEN TO ME! YOU DON’T REALIZE-“

The corrupted Astartes rested his bootheel upon Kamado’s throat. Anymore force applied and it’d be splattered into butchered paste. Tanjiro could only choke threats and begging, as could Inosuke and Zenitsu who were treated equally pitiably by their captors. Muzan stared emotionlessly at Tanjiro for only an ephemeral moment.

“Kamado Tanjiro. Your family died, frankly, because I was bored. I felt nothing when I saw the life fade from your siblings. Your mother neither. Yet when I received reports that your older sister could survive the sun… I simply needed to investigate for myself. Lo and behold- she contains the secret to my eternal survival. Rejoice, boy. Your menial bloodline ended up serving a purpose greater than it could ever fathom!”

Muzan motioned to Tanjiro's tormentor, signaling that he could relief slight pressure, enough for Tanjiro to vocalize whatever feeble defiance he'd planned.

“MUZZZAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNN!!!!”

Oh. It was nothing.

Kibutsuji huffed and adjusted his suit, brushing off microscopic debris and approaching the box as the Chaos Space Marine rested back his bootheel onto Tanjiro's throat.

Nezuko burst forth, defiantly and furiously as always. Her demonic agility and strength made her an impressive combatant within her own right. But today, she was hopelessly outclassed.

Tanjiro’s sister muffled an angry cry of battle, instantaneously falling into rage upon locking eyes with the murderer who tore her family apart, literally.

Kibutsuji grimaced at such an unsightly and boring display, easily blocking any paltry blows Nezuko could deliver and slashing her vital points, causing the girl to falter and yowl with a sudden surge of sharp pain coursing throughout. Before regeneration could take effect, Muzan calmly, yet excitably, stabbed his right index and middle finger into her soft neck.

Tanjiro wanted to scream. He wanted to kill Muzan. He wanted to rip that demon’s lungs out and scratch his face off. He wanted…

He needed…

To protect Nezuko. That dying pledge was made to his lost family.

And he failed.

Nezuko knew the end was nigh. She looked at horrified Zenitsu first, unspeaking yet validating the love he harbored for her. Then, her tear-stained eyes locked upon Tanjiro’s.

Tanjiro mouthed something. His last words to his amazing sister that guided him through youth, that raised him. That he loved more than anyone on earth. He couldn’t protect her. But he could reaffirm their brother-sister bond in their final moments.

I love you.

The next moment, Nezuko Kamado was no more. A painful, final, unceremonious cry of aching and hurt exited her muffled visage, before she dissolved into red dust that palled away with the oncoming winds.

A deafening silence befell the crowd as the sun subsequently rose. Muzan tensed, fearing the worst and prepared to escape quickly into the shade the destroyed estate adjacent provided if anything went wrong.

…

God-rays peered upon the awaiting army. Kibutsuji met the sun’s omniscient embrace, the first time since he was nineteen years old.

And nothing happened.

It couldn’t be!

But it was!

Muzan Kibutsuji, at long last, had conquered the sun!

Slowly did he laugh, evolving into an excited chuckle that snowballed finally into a voracious shriek.

“I HAVE CONQUERED THE SUN! I AM FREE!!!! DEMON-KIND IS FREE!!!! TODAY WE LET LOOSE! FEAST UPON EVERY HUMAN YOU FIND! I DECLARE MY CURSE ENDED- NO LONGER EXISTS THE NEED TO HIDE MY IDENTITY!! VICTORY!!! VICTORYYYYYY!!!!”

A raucous cheer exited from the diverse army of villains and monsters and killers that surrounded them. Fists were raised into the air and celebrations were declared. The world was theirs, and a new member had joined Afton’s Council of Villainy!

Springtrap smiled from afar. Another successful gamble. Well, time to return to Glitchtrap’s Might and debrief his newest ally.

“My Lord?”

MXES chattered through Springtrap’s helmet mic.

“MXES? I thought I told you we’d converse upon my return.”

“I’m alerting you, Lord. Our ship’s communications are being hailed by an unknown frequency. I made inquires, but whoever this is wants to speak solely to you.”

“Huh? Did you get a name?”

“Yes indeed. The ‘Lord of Iron’. Says you’d be familiar with the moniker.”

“Curious… Advisor did mention… could it truly be? We need to investigate this. Setup a meeting, I’ll bring my Conclave along. Assemble my command staff.”

“Consider it done. I suppose your examination of the Anima-Cyborg battle-data will have to wait.”

“If this ‘Iron Lord’ is who I believe him to be, the delay will be well worth it, I assure you.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Muzan departed early from the festivities shared among Chaos forces, Banished, Zargothrax’s hordes, various villains and rabblerousers under AFO’s command, and of course now Kibutsuji’s Demons to personally convene with the Primordial Conclave. Still, upon the killing field that was formerly the nexus of Demon Slayer activity, scores of hapless humans were brought over to feast upon or execute in most grisly and unspeakable of ways. These evil monsters united and bonded over their shared love of penalizing the weak for their crime of existing. Blood and spilt, beer was drunk, and fun was had. The Newtopian Frobots mostly just stood around and made robotic noises. Kokushibo seemed stoic and didn’t partake within the barbarism, so too did Akaza refrain, not enjoying that women were so casually brutalized among those preyed upon by the victors.

Doma, who’d managed to join up with everyone else, seemed to have the most enjoyment, charismatically chattering with anyone from Banished to Chaos to Death-Knight of Crail, discussing plans to display his new ‘wife’ shortly, whatever unholy insinuation that meant. The Demons across Japan who’d been tyrannized owed to the sun were free, and they roamed pleasurably and took advantage of this anarchy to maim and slaughter to their dark hearts’ contentment.

Meanwhile; Tanjiro, Inosuke, and Zenitsu were carted along by two Black Legionnaires and vase-bound Gyokko to a meager patchwork of forest for their execution. They weren’t of consequence any longer.

“Gyohohohohohohoho! Delightful! Just delightful! You Demon Slayers lost! All that generational trauma, all those losses over those countless years trying to take down Lord Muzan and his gifted followers, only to utterly fail from an astronomical stroke of bad luck! I’m gonna enjoy this. The pleasure of executing you ingrates fall to I, Gyokko, the artisan of the Twelve Kizuki! Lord Muzan will LOVE the displays I make of you three!”

Gyokko’s constant mouthing didn’t affect these three. They were all befallen with despair, Tanjiro most especially. They remembered their fallen family or friends, mentors such as Rengoku who’d lost their lives against the enemy, only for the Corps to lose anyways.

“We’re good here.”
Vrath, Dushcar’s retainer and lieutenant who’d taken a leading charge during the Amphibian Campaign, announced. Gyokko made some warbly motion indicative of nodding, leading Vrath and his campaign to hoist the boys against a particularly large tree’s base.

“Annh- I’m soooo excited. You three- my crowning achievements of artistic vision! I can’t believe it. It’s so tantalizing! Ohhh, what pleasure courses through my veins! I love those looks of defeat on your faces. Those nihilistic understandings that you shitheads never had a chance against a being so gracious as Lord Muzan, or those whom enforce his will! How does it feel to lose your WHOLE family, Tanjiro Kamado!?”

Tanjiro’s face contorted into a deeply saddened and disturbed complexion, tears leaking freely, though he provided Gyokko no fuel of verbal retort.

“AAHHHHHHHH!!! I LOVE IT! DIE KNOWING YOU LOST, YOU WORTHLESS, MISERABLE LOSERS!”

Gyokko prepared his special move, listing together a series of fishing spears, prepared to skewer them.

Just then, a mysterious portal of blue hue sheared open behind the Demon Slayers. The Black Legionnaires and Gyokko visibly balked, as exiting was a superhuman warrior, similar to those corrupted Chaos Astartes, though carrying an undeniable aura of honor and nobility about him. 

“You shall not have them today, Daemons!”

Vicariously shouted the mysterious arrival, quickly grasping the three confused boys and rushing back through the closing portal, preventing Gyokko nor the Black Legionnaires from giving chase.

…

Vrath and the other Black Legionnaire stared ominously and quietly at each other as Gyokko turned around to appraise them, now infuriated.

“WHO WAS THAT!?”

Chapter Text

Streets of Vladivostok

High-speed chases weren’t like how the movies promised.

They were, in fact, far more intense.

Beholden onto a stolen civilian motorcycle and zooming directly behind a fleeing Okiyo and his remaining compatriots, Richard Trager cackled maniacally whilst speeding past the frigid outcropping of Vladivostok. Joined shortly by Erebus’s legion of Daemon-possessed prisoners who were keeping up solely through their enhanced gifts of speed and agility, the makings of a hectic scene were brewing amidst the Russian port city.

The Steel Dragons weren’t keen on being trailed, only signaling to Trager to continue pursuit. Soviet authorities usually indifferent to their presences were now politically motivated via this investigation to crack down publicly on the gang’s presence, lest face the wrath of Comrade Stalin for staining his state’s international prestige. Few dens of corruption thusly were left for the Dragons to flee unto that their enemies wouldn’t follow into save their original haven within the city, and Richard knew it.

Now- the only problem was getting there without enduring a sudden, painful death.

Their chase was evolving quickly and without warning. Okiyo and his sycophants loaded up into the back of an awaiting Cybertruck and were quickly joined by eight other vehicles, likely called up from other Steel Dragon cells in the area. Trager could vaguely hear them shout commands and alerts to each other in Japanese over the roaring of their engines and startled cries of civilians who quickly made way as they carted through Vladivostok’s urbanite sprawl. After several short moments, it seems their course of action was decided, as four of their vehicles were disembarking from the primary battlegroup to eliminate Trager and any other pursuers.

“Oh, really? That’s your tactic? No panache, nothing- Jesus Christ you gangsters have fallen off.”
Trager muttered under his breath as the Steel Dragon motorcycles and pickup trucks slowed their pace, their drivers and passengers revealing various SMGs, pistols, assault rifles, and one man even brandished a shotgun as they prepared to whittle Richard into oblivion.

Just as the anti-corporate youth gang primed their weapons though, Erebus’s possessed Daemon horde managed to leap into view, causing an equal amount of havoc as they rushed after these elusive insurgents. Their tactical gear was torn and ripped already, revealing small inklings of the monstrosities bubbling beneath as they leapt with unholy physical capability that no ordinary human could achieve. Clambering onto the sides of buildings and leaping off them, they viciously assailed the unsuspecting Steel Dragons, foregoing any manner of civility as their attacks consisted of scratches, bites, punches, virtually any inkling of physical assault they could conjure. The Dragons screamed horrifically as their leather jackets were torn apart and squishy skin beneath squelched as blood spewed and organs within mulched, their motorcycles swerving about and crashing into the side while their pickup trucks were stained with gore aplenty.

“Jeez louise, Erebus didn’t lie about the veracity of these things. Better for me- HOLY SHIT!”
Trager ducked his head close to the handlebars as storms of bullets whizzed above. The remaining Steel Dragons were desperately trying to wrench the former Murkoff Executive off their tail, and with the Daemon-possessed busy scrunching their current victims into smithereens, the chase returned into a solo venture on Richard’s part. Zipping by more crowds of indentured corporate servants, bystanders, and even Soviet police that concentrated death glares upon Trager, the chase anchored towards a highway entrance that Okiyo’s driver zoomed into.

Traffic was light today, meaning there weren’t many obstacles present save a few confused truckers and terrified drivers as Okiyo and his surviving escort zoomed up the ramp.

“Oh, come on! I’m freezing my balls off and you guys take the fucking HIGHWAY!? Show an older man some courtesy, huh? You guys are already blackmailing me- least you could do is-“

Richard’s impromptu rant found itself quieted by the sudden arrival of several roaring engines that blotted out whatever inane thoughts he would’ve verbally posited. Arriving from an adjacent, alternative entrance onto the highway were three Soviet Flak Cars. Antiquated pieces of mobile equipment hearkening to ages past before Russian military vehicle standardization, these APCs still contained a high-caliber rifle attached onto their roof compartment alongside a spacious interior capable of hosting at least six crewmen.

Cherdenko.

Trager quickly deduced that being the pre-eminent KGB authority within the city allotted Cherdenko the authority to carve through bureaucratic red tape quickly (to an extent) and call upon certain stockpiles of equipment within emergency situations. Preventing the escape of these notorious terrorists responsible for the Arasaka-Umbrella Soviet Mining Operation probably constituted such.

“WOOOO!! Never thought I’d be happy to see Russians in my life! Well, honestly, I’m still not, but whatever.”

One Flak Car heading the lead drove parallel to Trager, the window rolling down and revealing Anatoly Cherdenko himself, his weathered face an eternal scowl that just screamed approachability and pudgy kindness.

“WHAT HAVE YOU FUCKING DONE BLYAT!?”

“Relax your nerves Ruskie-Boy, if I hadn’t acted they would’ve escaped anyway; except I wouldn’t have garnered such a great lead on their asses!”

“They’ll not get far! The element of surprise’s been forsaken so I figured why not go all in! As we speak, every publicly known hideout of the Dragons is being raided. Okiyo’s being boxed in!”

“Careful Colonel, cornered animals are the scariest. I would know!”

“Just keep up the chase. I don’t need anymore advice from a hideous-looking American like yourself.”

Cherdenko rolled up the window before Trager could offer any retort, causing the Murkoff stooge to sigh irritably.

Russians. Always so rude.

Nevertheless, their efforts were turning fortune. The Flak Cars, aged as they were, proved their mettle as they kept up with the modernized trucks and motorcycles of the Dragons. It almost appeared they would catch up with Okiyo, in which case it’d become a matter of interrogating the location of his precious base to them rather than allowing him to lead them there, a prospect that sounded perfectly fine to Trager.

Unfortunately, things were never that simple.

Vrrrrr….

A low, mechanical groan permeated the snow-tipped freeway. It certainly didn’t originate from the preceding boisterous Flak Cars. As Trager’s apron fluttered with the Vladivostok winds, he could sense something amiss. A natural intuition garnered after being betrayed by Jeremy Blaine and stuck inside the Morphogenic Engine all those years ago…

Erupting right before the pursuers and causing chunks of freeway ground to fling haphazardly about, one chunk of debris smashing an unfortunate Flak Car flanking Cherdenko’s and causing a disruptive chain-reaction car crash as that vehicle swerved into two Ladas behind it, was a colossal artifice of warfare. Heaped via a set of custom-engineered thrusters which allowed it small feats of flight, this several-ton menace was armed with two frontal cannons and a strange, conical chamber sandwiched between them.

A Soviet Apocalypse Tank, though the hammer and sickle sigils were etched out and replaced instead with graffiti demeaning the establishment and the Steel Dragon’s symbol. Unsurprisingly, it was a dragon.

“Ohhh, that little shit Okiyo stole a tank, did he? I’m actually kinda impressed. What a resourceful kid. Maybe I’ll have a private luncheon with him before the Ruskies snap his neck.”

The repurposed, hijacked tank swerved around to face the pursuers whilst in-transit upon the highway. Cherdenko’s Flak Car, driven by Sergei Vladimir, anchored its high-caliber cannon towards the steel beast and unleashed a cavalcade of firepower against it. All the projectiles dinked off the reinforced armor of the tank harmlessly. Retaliating quickly, the engorged war-vehicle’s primary cannons angled towards the Flak Car. If allowed to fire unimpeded, Anatoly, Sergei, and whomever else was riding with them would soon become crisped corpses within a blackened metal coffin.

Thankfully, help arrived within the most unexpected of vessels. Dashing past Trager and the remaining two Flak Cars, Sergei’s Ivan Tyrants genetically constructed off his genetic material rushed with speed equivalent unto the Apocalypse Tank’s grifting treads, intending on disabling the thieved piece of Soviet equipment before it could dole out any further havoc. Forced to last-minute switch targets owed to necessity, the tank’s clearly inexperienced gunners (who’d more understood sticking up low-level corporate officials at gunpoint rather than managing a tank’s battle-systems) attempted to score their cannons against the Ivans.

BOOOOMMMM!!!

Two visible shells zoomed at incomprehensible speeds towards Umbrella’s deathly creations. For a moment it seemed hope was forsaken as the Tyrants couldn’t possibly avoid the shells’ trajectories before it collided against them. Yet they did, as they jettisoned together like hiveminded siblings, making a daring leap which landed them directly onto the Apocalypse Tank’s roof!

Unfortunately, the shells would still meet with ground, and two massive explosions flamed before Trager. Balking and yelping with unhappy surprise, Richard made an impromptu decision and abandoned his motorcycle, allowing the fiery sheen blazing before him to consume it whilst he jumped back and just narrowly made it onto the Flak Car’s side by clasping tightly with his emaciated hands the handle of a ladder which lingered down the side. Cherdenko exclaimed something angrily in Russian, but Trager didn’t care, not like he could hear the pudgy law agent either way.

The Ivan Tyrants went to work attempting to dismember and disable the war-craft, mostly by utilizing their immense strength to begin bashing against the cannons with brute force, seeking to crease their steel and wrench them from their handles. Okiyo’s men began struggling trying to exile these unwanted infiltrators onto their stolen equipment, two Steel Dragon gangsters emerging from their canopies and waylaying poundings of small arms fire against their attackers. Once more, it seemed bullets were ineffective, or mildly irritating at best as the Tyrants were given a free means to dismantle their enemy from within. Both of Sergei’s progeny rushed over and grasped their corresponding gangsters, tossing them callously aside and allowing their squishy bodies to become tank-tread gristle with horrific squelches and blooms of chunky red. Upon entering, the entire Apocalypse Tank shook about and swerved incoherently. The Tyrants were probably making mincemeat of the poor driver and remaining crew.

“HAHAHAHAHA! I love those guys! They’re like two peas in a pod. Remind me of Dumb and Dumber, except if they could rip out your vertebrae I guess.”
Trager commented to none, evidencing further his lunacy retained prevalence.

Nevertheless, the chase seemed to turn back into the Soviet and American team’s fortune, especially as the Daemon-Possessed, by now merely an angry, murder-lusted mob of random men and women with barely any clothing cobbled onto them rushed upon all fours or bipedally speeding at incomprehensible paces towards the Steel Dragon convey came into view. Erebus’s ritual had tied these hungry Warp-spirits to not interlude or harm the investigation should they desire to enjoy their vacation fully. Though how strong his incantations and talismens were to ensure these hungry Daemons didn’t break through their limits was something of concern yet.

Noticing their foes gaining traction, Okiyo seemed to signal for two more escort vehicles to detract back and confront them, buying him enough time to escape. Two motorcycles slowed, leaving the escorts at only two trucks and Okiyo’s transport itself. Upon closer inspection, Trager noticed their passengers were augmented with cybernetics, likely dosed with performance enhancing boosters and cocktails simultaneously knowing the gang. The motorcyclists revealed sets of buzzing katanas, virulent with electrical energy that sparked and hissed about.

“Oh. Great. Wonderful. Why wouldn’t they have magic katanas that could probably turn my organs into jelly? What’s left of them, anyway… I should’ve stayed corporate.”

The Steel Dragons disembarked suddenly, able to evade the high-caliber Flak Car guns and leap onto them instead. Two men for each. Trager momentarily darted to his side, seeing the other Flak Car’s unfortunate fate as the Dragons were able to pierce their katanas through the front windows, running their blades through driver and confused passenger alike before either could manage any resistance. From there they joined their comrades in assaulting Cherdenko’s Car as the other one, now driven by a cadaver, spiraled out of control, and swerved off the highway, crashing unceremoniously below.

This left a final Flak Car. Two Dragons athletically moved to skewer Sergei and Anatoly as whilst those who provided similar fates seconds ago focused efforts against Richard. Trager groaned and unfettered the Bone Shears that miraculously remained at his side while facing the anti-corporate Yakuza knockoff gangers.

“Come on then boys. We gonna dance or what?”

Unamused, Okiyo’s goons, one of whom seemed relatively normal save notable chromed indentations pockmarking his face, the other donning a visor masquerading his eyes thusly making the augmentations more visible, rushed forth into battle.

Trager moved to meet them, but the Apocalypse Tank’s chaotic movements created trouble as debris and civilian vehicles were crushed or brushed aside, creating a pathway reminiscent more a Third World country’s annihilated streets rather than a state-approved highway. Furthermore, driving could become slightly harder when there was a frothing Japanese criminal attempting to slaughter you with an electro-katana blocking your view.

An unwarned right turn to avoid slabs of disheveled concrete and piled cars nearly threw Richard off the Flak Car’s ceiling, though luckily doing the same for both enemy combatants. Quickly clambering back to retain balance, Trager charged forward and began swinging his Bone-Shears wildly, clasping them down against each other and creating a hideous ‘clanging’ sound whilst trying to bisect the confused Steel Dragons.

The man with facial indentations cried in terror, unable to restore balance and step back on his two feet in time to stop Trager from slicing both ends of the sharpened Shears on his neck. With immense killing force and determination, Afton’s Human Resources Manager succeeded in beheading the foe cleanly, a stream of sizzling blue viscous liquid and bright crimson exiting the unseemly wound while the head smattered onto the concrete below as the Flak Car increased speed. His friend roared with rage, shouting a war-cry in Japanese and charging the former Murkoff inmate. A series of surprisingly strikes and swordplay began as both men struggled to keep footwork intact and not fall off the fast-moving, swerving vehicle while focusing on murdering the other.

The man’s katana almost ran through Richard’s face, each time prevented as the Shears clamped down and yielded hot sparks emitting from the points of contact. Frankly, it was impressive Richard held his own considering the enemy was powered by artificial improvements that allowed for increased agility and dexterity.

“DAMN, you’re angry! What’s the matter? Mad I killed your boyfriend? Shouldn’t have joined such a stupid gang then!”
Richard laughed sadistically, though found his hubris punished as the katana edge nearly met with his throat. The Shears blocked the strike successfully, though it’d been merely a feint as the Steel Dragon found purchase and kicked Trager down onto the Flak Car’s roof. Murmuring a final curse, he twirled about his weapon and moved to rush it downward, only to notice something thanks to his visor beeping him for attention. Looking up, the man’s expression dwindled from incensed battle-fanaticism to horror, and subsequently resignation.

A billboard dictating the nearest exit in scintillating holographic Cyrillic SLAMMED into the Steel Dragon, turning him into a greasy stain on the object’s front. Trager being kicked down inadvertently saved his own life. Go figure.

Breathing heavily, the scarred monstrosity of a man tightened his right palm’s grip around the Bone-Shear handle, clambering over to witness the Flak Car’s front windows shot open and both Steel Dragons gone. Cherdenko, seemed to have solved that problem. Good. Consequently, it appeared Okiyo’s persisting escort-trucks were fraught upon by the Daemon-possessed, and they were smoldering wreckages on the highway-side with their passengers being horribly brutalized by them in turn.

They were catching upon the Cybertruck, now pockmarked with scars from consistent high-caliber turret fire. As the chase drew seemingly unto a close though, it became clear the gangsters would reach their destination momentarily. A shuttered, superficially derelict townhouse rotting within Vladivostok’s outskirts formed into view, and Richard instinctively understood this is where the Steel Dragons operated their activities throughout the port-city from.

The Soviet Apocalypse Tank continued stumbling about owed to the Ivan Tyrants’ lack of experience piloting such a destructive war-device, though they managed their best and kept it at veritably steady a pace. Trager knew the chasers still possessed the advantage, all they needed do was continue their hounding and-

Oh no.

The passenger seat window of Okiyo’s Cybertruck rolled down dramatically, the man himself shouting an angry spat in Japanese before tossing forth a circular, spiked object that beeped loudly. A mobile landmine.

Worse still, the object slipped underneath the Apocalypse Tank’s treads, finding proximity enough and exploding violently, causing the vehicle to stagger and destabilize. The Ivan Tyrants inside were certainly damaged if not outright terminated as the Tank flipped out of control immediately, its underbelly cratered open and leaking oil as it tumbled and began crashing directly into the path of Cherdenko’s Flak Car.

“Oh fucking SHIT-“

CRRRAAAAAEEERRRRRRKKKKKKKK!!!!!

Attempting to maneuver the Flak Car best he could, Sergei managed to barely scrap by the obliterated Tank, though impact still retained enough power that the Flak Car began screeching out of control. The turret-gunner was clearly smacked off his rocker, as the weapon began firing haphazardly and randomly, nearly cleaning Trager’s upper body off its lower half until he ducked once again, now feeling an inclination to vomit. Determined to achieve the objective, Vladimir zoomed the squeaking and sputtering Flak Car into the Steel Dragon Cybertruck’s backside, thrusting it forward past the gates into the townhouse courtyard with the Flak Car close behind, both automobiles caught together in a deathly crash which smashed directly through the gates, flipping onto each other and crunching like tin cans.

…

Get up.

Get up. This is not your perfect death, Sergei.

Sergei’s forehead boomed with an insidious headache while that mysterious voice whispered encouragingly. He could recognize that voice… who was that again?

Right… Viktor Petrov. An older classmate of his that ended up being a malevolent serial killer. The man kidnapped and tortured Sergei relentlessly during his youth, though paradoxically, the words he espoused while doing such engraved into Vladimir’s psyche forever after. Sergei sought a perfect death, to become a slave to destiny and fate’s controlling hand and perish in service to greater powers; whether that was the Communist Party and its Leninist tenets or Umbrella Corporation and its doctrine of forced human evolution.

When Glitchtrap violently seized control over the world, Sergei personally marched into Saint Petersburg’s chaotic streets, beating to death countless individuals to retain a sense of superiority against them. Those confusing, horrible days were counted and monitored by none, Oswell Spencer’s vast fortune and legions of international lawyers and obfuscating officials ensured the incidents eternally obscured. Those moments where he witnessed the blank eyes of men and women after battering them so sufficiently that no emotion could be wrung from them… he felt a strange ecstasy course through his body then.

Life was suffering’s infinite variations of flavor. Before Sergei’s ideal annihilation on Spencer’s behalf, he needed to experience and explore the more articulate tastes of those suffering. To see further the depths of human depravity on this world ruled by Chaos and evil, to see what more atrociousness could be reaped from those dark powers which now reigned over Earth.

So no, he couldn’t die here.

Wrenching his eyes open to a blurry expanse of vague building shapes and frigid, homely expanses, Vladimir discerned they were still trapped inside the townhouse courtyard.

Which, by all accounts, was the Steel Dragons’ nest. They were surrounded.

Turning sideways, he saw Anatoly Cherdenko knocked out. The KGB Officer was bleeding, dealt a nasty gash matted into his greying hair, slumped over and saved only thanks to his seatbelt. Sergei grimaced at such the pitiable sight of his old friend, weakly trying to shake him awake, before hearing a series of voices and shouts faintly come into audibility. The white-haired Russian looked back up, seeing Richard Trager dragged by two of Okiyo’s henchmen. The townhouse was roused into action, the Dragons calling this dilapidated hideout home emerging to witness the commotion.

The American fool was captured, probably after being flung off the Flak Car like an idiot. Vladimir continued trying to wake Anatoly, though unto no avail. Soon enough, they too were dragged out from their seats and thrown ruthlessly onto the derelict grounds below. Sergei blinked once again, his head still ablaze with pain whilst his eyes reflected upon the assembled tormentors. Okiyo, a sturdily built, toughened man carrying a custom-made baseball bat; slung over his side, approached the UBCS Founder.

“Ngh… Anatoly… stupid American…”

His words fell upon deaf ears as another Steel Dragon revealed a sidearm and clasped it directly upon Richard’s forehead. It was over. Sergei couldn’t believe it… dying to such useless ingrates fighting for a cause long dead. After they executed him, undoubtedly, they’d move onto the Russians.

GRRAAAAAGGGGHHH!!!

By the gods, what could’ve made such a horrendous noise!? It sounded like the vocal equivalent of scratching nails upon chalkboard. The next thing Sergei knew though, the world went black.

…

…

“Sergei. Wake up. I’m not done yet. We haven’t even completed your waterboarding regimen. Come on Sergei. I want to make the perfect slave from you. A perfect, good little slave that’ll do anything I say. I’ll crush your willpower, Sergei. Make you nothing and remold that nothing into a hollow husk of a human being. They told me it couldn’t be done. Psychologists, scientists… what fools they are, right Sergei? You and I, here together in this forsaken little shack, are proving them wrong. Isn’t that beautiful? We’re explorers, you and I. Sergei, wake up. WAKE UP!”

“WAKE UP!”

“D-da, Viktor-“

Sergei stirred back into reality. The sizable Umbrella goon, expecting to look upon Viktor Petrov’s face, instead sizzled into focus Cherdenko’s visage. Oh, right.

They were chasing anti-corporate terrorist gangsters. The chase was hectic and they crashed into an abandoned townhouse the enemy utilized as their front for operations, and…

“Viktor? Maybe your head really did get screwed loose. More than it was already, hehe.”

Anatoly offered a friendly hand to hoist up Vladimir, which the Umbrella officer seized.

“Urgh… you’re a big one.”

“Agh- my head. What happened?”

“Turns out the Americans were good for something after all. Those weird troops Trager brought along came upon this place like Biblical locusts to Egyptian crops. Not a soul survived, I think. Okiyo included. Sadly, I believe this means we can’t interrogate the man for information.”

“Even in earning us victory, the Americans wrest us a loss.”

“Somewhat, though not entirely. Come. Be careful, you got pretty banged up.”

Anatoly, whom Sergei noticed seemed wreathed in healing fabrics and his previously well-kept KGB uniform tattered and shredded, guided Spencer’s stooge into the townhouse. Around them, those mysterious creatures brought along by Richard were securing the area, growling among each other, and hissing animalistically. Joining them were KGB officers and local Vladivostok police, who appeared rather fearful of these unknowns. What manner of monster had the USA lugged along to Mother Russia for this investigation?

Sergei pondered this momentarily. Glitchtrap openly utilized Daemons of all kind during his worldwide takeover… was it possible abominations of that same quadrant were present here now? That only opened a world of possibilities regarding ingratiation of these dark forces into the arsenal of horrid creations Umbrella held at its disposal.

The townhouse interior seemed rife with insurgent activity. By now authorities were unearthing the rooms, revealing guns, katanas, and various other armaments under rugs, inside ovens and dishwashers, snugly stacked within walls; hell- some were even slabbed in the toilet. Sergei also noticed the disheveled, sprawled corpses of the Steel Dragons pocked about, certainly if not through visual means, then through the abhorrent stench their bodies exuded. Innards were splayed about viciously and nerves made their death-knells as fingertips twitched and mouths agape made the slightest and subtlest of movements. Okiyo himself was scattered in several different places, what remained of his head being more a half-skeletal sphere of vague gooey meat that Sergei accidentally kicked like a rolling basketball while being helped inside.

Upon sighting Sergei’s physical state, two KGB officers discussing plans to cordon off the townhouse for an official search dropped their talk, shouting over medics to tend properly onto his wounds. Anatoly grimaced, though nodded and gently rested Sergei into the arms of arriving medics.

“I’ll just bring over what we found then. Wait here a moment.”

As caretakers applied stims to numb Sergei alongside gauze and stitches thereafter, he faintly stared about the townhouse lobby. After two minutes, Anatoly returned with Trager limping at his side. Held carefully within the Soviet lawman’s hands was an advanced computer system. Kneeling down to meet Sergei’s eye level, the man flashed a confident smile.

“We’ve found the gold mine.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oval Office

Washington D.C

“Mister President, it’s an honor as always. I hope you enjoyed your vacation.”

“Of course, Caleb. Please, take a seat. I’m sure you’ve much to discuss with me. And thank you. It was quite… illuminating.”

“Wonderful. I won’t be here long- I don’t intend on taking up too much of your time.”

“Charmed. Shall I have something brought for you? Refreshments, maybe?”

“Scotch will do if you’ve got that on hand. And I’m rather peckish right now.”

“Perfect. Meechum, fetch us some Scotch and cream puffs, won’t you?”

President Underwood’s trusty Secret Service protector Edward Meechum nodded silently and obediently, exiting the room to fulfill his employer’s request. Sitting before the Southern Democrat appointee to the Presidential office was New Founding Fathers Party Leader Caleb Warrens. Before Glitchtrap’s maniacal world conquest, Caleb held an influential seat of power within American politics and business, never personally entering candidacy but throwing his impressive fortune of accumulated generational wealth and successes from his private banking ventures behind anyone whose policies he found agreeable; mainly paleoconservatives campaigning off platforms of shuttering borders to migrants, overturning progressive Supreme Court decisions, tripling police presence in urban sectors, etcetera.

After the Chaos-Hell-Combine invasions were complete and new orders began settling worldwide though, Warrens found opportunity among the suffering of his countrymen, as he typically did. Together with allies, constituents, and financiers the nation over, Caleb cobbled together a new political party with an updated platform to handle these harsh times America found itself in- the New Founding Fathers of America. Using an updated Christian methodology that adapted the Four Gods of Chaos into religious dogma and proposing radical social and economic reforms intended on hoarding resources and enriching the upper-class, Warrens and his associates secured an ironclad control over the new American Empire. However, it wasn’t entirely smooth sailing. Incumbent President Underwood and surviving members of the Democratic and Republican parties combed together to constantly haggle the NFFA’s efforts at securing control over the nascently reborn country.

Their rivalry was pronounced and unfriendly, yet both men needed to air a pretense of approachability and pleasantry. Warrens viewed Frank a watery bleeding-heart Democrat fool that prevented the NFFA’s full march to progress, while Underwood examined Warrens as an unhinged, unpragmatic, frothing idiot who wanted to pit the remainder of America’s damaged population against each other in pointless blood-games for short-term powerplays.

After sharing a soulless handshake, Caleb sat upon a sofa facing the President, noticing the rebuilt fineries of the Oval Office.

“It’s said Glitchtrap and Be’lakor fought their battle within this very Office. I can’t imagine how that would’ve looked.”
Warrens remarked offhandedly.

“Oh, I certainly can imagine it, Caleb. If Glitchtrap lost we’d all probably be dead, dying, or incarcerated right now. Now then, I’m aware you want something from me. Better put, you want me to do something for you. Is that right?”

“Always cutthroat when it comes to business Frank. That’s why I respect ya. It’s a shame we sit on opposite ends of this table. We could accomplish a great deal for America if we stopped our haggling.”

“The table is subjective, as are those who sit upon it. Take today, for example. You want me to intervene regarding Governor Edwards’ decision.”

Warrens fastened himself within his seat and nodded bravely.

“We’ve built strong ties between the New Founding Fathers and Sons of Jacob. They hold an inalienable right to public protest and demonstration. Even though much of the Constitution’s been rewritten and edited to affix our new era, I presumed that part remained intact, no?”

As Caleb spoke, Meechum returned with a tray stocked with the aforementioned food and drink. Underwood grasped the aged Scotch bottle and poured into iced glasses two helpings for himself and Warrens as they continued their diatribe.

“I’m not sure Caleb. You’ve been the one spearheading all these legislative rewrites and reforms, I suspected you understood this new Constitution better than I ever could.”

Caleb grimaced at this insinuation.

“Your sarcasm does none any favors, Frank. I’m trying to be diplomatic here. I want you call the Governor and order him release those men. They were exercising their basic rights, espousing their love of God on Baton Rouge's streets. It wasn't their fault a bunch of hogeys came and tried to fight them because they loved their country such!"

Underwood sipped a small dose of Scotch whilst pacing about the Office, keeping eyes preened onto Caleb as they spoke. Warrens similarly partook, though also stuffed a cream puff down his gullet with such disgusting mannerism that the incumbent President needed to look away for a moment, still enduring the crunching noises that croaked from the man’s throat thereafter before their spat resumed.

“And I’m trying to tell you that even in the reality where I bent over to every single auspice of your insane demands, of every maddeningly inefficient edict in your party platform, and accepted thereafter all the blood-money of your puppet-donors, there would be stiff resistance from my end regarding the ability of your precious ‘Sons of Jacob’ to harass and harry American citizens as they please. I should remind you Lord Glitchtrap’s allowed me to govern these blessed fifty states and our new Canadian dominion as I please.”

Warrens seemed angered, though his expression quickly morphed into a pleased, sinister acceptance of such a response- as if it’d been predicted Frank would utter a variation of those words sometime during their exchange.

“Not exactly true, Frank. Lord Glitchtrap, Emissary Pre-Eminent of the Chaos Gods, has allowed Earth’s nations autonomous management of their affairs if peace is kept. The Sons of Jacob are citizens too. They’re a niche group now, but with a few phone-calls, some canvassing, maybe putting them in a few local polls, well… things get messy, don’t they? I don’t like threatening this office, Frank- but you’ve made me pull this godamned card too many times now. My colleagues and I are growing tired of your rebuttal.”

Underwood didn’t back down. While he didn’t oppose the NFFA from any place of genuine goodness, he understood their leadership was downright glue-sniffing lunacy when it came to managing a coherent country. Their yearly Purges were already stress enough, though compounded with their insane doctrine of conquering other nations and usurping their resources and manpower to rebuild America into an empire was practically asking to make the world entirely their enemy.

“I’m afraid our differing viewpoints are what make our democracy so healthy Caleb. You wanna astroturf the Sons of Jacob into a problem? That’s fine. The Coalition Party’s got enough potency about it to pass more urban policing laws. Double the number of officers patrolling every street. We can play this game whatever level you’ll reach. Don’t test a Carolinian- you’ll find us an insufferably stubborn bunch.”

Caleb seemed ready to unleash another tirade far less civil than his previous dialogues, though caught himself. Whispering instead a buried curse under his breath, the man stood up and brushed off his suit.

“You resist, but America’s only prosperous now because of us. When Chaos pilfered our wealth-coffers and forced our people to kneel, it was the New Founding Fathers who stepped in with plans to ensure societal preservation. You’ve already outlived your term limit Frank. By all rights you should’ve left this office years ago.”

“What a heartwarming story Caleb. I’m sure you tell your donors that every damn day verbatim. But I’m afraid I won’t be bullied into releasing the Sons of Jacob. They were threatening my citizens in a public place. Disturbing the peace, I think it’s called.”

Warrens finished another cream puff, staring down Frank with a gaze of unmistakable hatred.

“This isn’t over.”

He stormed out subsequently, leaving Underwood to sigh and continue sipping his Scotch. How such a man was allowed to march haughtily into the Oval Office and made such ridiculous demands was only evidence further of America’s descent since those dark days, though it wasn’t like Underwood to cave into anyone. The NFFA were dangerous enemies to have, but so was he.

Slinking back into his chair and considering mentally the situation, Frank’s mind soon quietly regaled upon the implications of this ongoing blackmail scandal. If unimpeded now, it could prove a fatal killer. That sensitive information regarding his execution of Zoe Barnes those years ago to cover his bloodstained political career wouldn’t sit well with an American People already simmering with discontent at the current government. There wasn’t a chance they could win an insurgency against their Chaos occupiers, though knowing Americans they’d sure as hell try if their patience finally broke- forcing Glitchtrap to wage war against his own people and thus waste useful bodies that could’ve been employed elsewhere. To allow such a rebellion to foment, heads would roll, Underwood’s undoubtedly at the top of such a chopping block.

Coincidentally, his private cellular began ringing at that moment. Frank checked the number, eyes widening.

Trager.

“Meechum- mind clearing the room for a moment?”

“Of course sir.”
Meechum stepped outside and shut the door behind whilst the President accepted the call.

“What’ve you uncovered?”

“Hold yer horses Mister President, I’m trying to get our delightful third party into this shindig.”

“Must we?”

“Best to clue him in I’m afraid. He’s got resources and troops we don’t. If we wanna bury this cleanly, it’s probably best not to leave ‘em unawares.”

“Christ…”

It wasn’t a secret that despite them all being bunched among the same circumstances, Underwood distasted Erebus while Trager seemed ambivalent to both men. It wasn’t difficult to discern why. Even among the Primordial Empire, a murderous theocratic fascist expansionist hell-state governed by the edicts of Dark Gods and Daemons, Erebus stood out a particularly despicable, sniveling figure for consistently acting in selfish, self-preserving ways while sporting a talent to boundlessly enrage those around him. Even so, the Colchian Priest’s brownnosing and politicking was talented enough to retain a seat of power around the powerful. He still commanded loyalties from much of the Chaos Astartes that were emblems and symbols of Glitchtrap and Chaos’s might; alongside masterminding much of modern Chaotic religious dogma that was implanted throughout Earth Prime post-invasion.

Begrudgingly, Underwood admired that level of Machiavellian brilliance; though it only made him incredibly irritating to work with. Those with similar psychological traits really did have hard times getting along.

Beep!

“Tell me you’ve managed to unearth something of value during your flounder on that unseemly rock.”
Murmured a smoothly sadistic voice cutting into the call.

“A stroke of luck more like. The Soviets really helped out here, good on them for being team players. I love when people of differing perspectives and ideologies achieve things jointly. Isn’t it just peachy-“

“Get on with it.”
Underwood interjected, causing the Human Resources Manager to stutter up and sigh before proceeding.

“Right, right. We found Okiyo’s computer. Really advanced system, latest tech-specs and all. Turns out the Steel Dragons ain’t alone, they’re probably the lowest level on this food chain of bullshit.”

“Whaddya mean?”
Underwood inquired.

“We sifted through the guy’s e-mails. Most were encrypted, I’m guessing just arranging weapons deals or smuggling or whatever they utilized to boost their gang presence here. Thankfully, I recognized an address he’d been corroborating with since almost four years back. It’s Yorinobu Arasaka.”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar. I’m mildly aware an entity going by the name Arasaka often collaborates with the Primordial Government.”
Erebus remarked, a statement of his that surprisingly wasn’t a straight-laced lie. The Arasaka Corporation held enough wealth and sway to mirror a small country’s armament and influence. Findings origins among Japan’s post-Samurai age of imperial industry and zaibatsu economic dominance, it ultimately grew over the consequent decades into a monster that became the Japanese Shadow Government, controlling entire swaths of its Diet and even intermarrying into the Imperial Family after Glitchtrap’s Invasion. Corporations and private industry generally were key to William Afton’s stranglehold over Earth, so obviously good relations with Arasaka were cultivated and retained years after their initial cementing.

Arasaka served Chaos within several ways, though mainly heralded the Schemer-God Tzeentch through secretive rituals held among their corporate elites and financiers. Their presence even extended into other planets as Afton’s borders expanded, contracted to build crucial infrastructure and their military wing even hired to help keep order on riotous towns and settlements too insignificant for the grander war machine to pay heed unto.

“Saburo Arasaka’s son. If I recall, they haven’t always sported the best relationship. The boy’s always been rebellious. Though my last visit to Japan indicated they were on better terms now. Saburo certainly seemed to believe it.”
Francis added to their conversation.

“Must’ve been a front. The boy’s clearly still anchoring to bring about his father’s downfall through undermining his corporation. Doesn’t he understand the consequences of an Arasaka family member blackmailing us so blatantly?”
Erebus hissed responsively, unable to fathom how someone could pose the stupidity to defy his will.

“That’s probably the point. I’m guessing Yorinobu’s erred on the side of resistance. Whatever scheme he’s cooked, holding our dirty laundry over us is probably just an aspect of it.”

“Let’s ruin his plans then. Have you garnered anything else from the computer?”

Trager suddenly and inexplicably went silent, fomenting silent alarm from Erebus and Underwood alike before he spoke again.

“Trying to find a secluded place in this fuckin’ dump- reminds me of Mount Massive actually. Anywho- Yorinobu was aware of our investigation. Seems he expected us going rogue and not agreeing to his demands of backing that stupid legislative package.”

“… There’s a spy.”
Frank quickly deducted.

“Yep, probably inside the KGB’s ranks. Wouldn’t be the first time. They’re scrambling to finish their scheme right now.”

“Which is?”
Erebus added.

“Yorinobu didn’t seem to trust his lieutenants enough with the full details, though what I garnered is that they plan on airing our bad deeds for everyone to see and hear instantly, worldwide. Something about a broadcast. They’re probably working on that right now.”

This revelation stunned Erebus and Francis. They both stirred, knowing if their crimes already begotten were revealed unto a dismayed public, there’d be hell to pay.

“Wait… you mentioned broadcast.”
The President murmured, the draughts of despair slowly coming together into revelation.

“Huh? Yeah, I did.”

“Broadcast- broadcast…”

“If you’ve a thought spit it out already!”
Erebus hurried, much to Underwood’s annoyance.

“Hold on! Broadcast… yes, there’s only one place internationally with signal strong enough to reach nearly every television set and radio frequency. Ostankino Television Tower at Moscow, Russia.”

“We should inform the Ruskies-“

“What, inform the Russian Government that we’re being blackmailed by our misdeeds and need them to strengthen security at their prized Broadcast Tower lest everything become at risk? No. This mess needs cleaning up ourselves. The Soviets aren’t needed anymore within this equation. Actually… I’ll handle this myself.”
Erebus announced decisively.

“Yourself? You intend to march those hulking monsters of yours into Russia?”
Underwood seemed exasperated.

“No- I’ll go myself via teleportation incantation, a means alien to such small-minded ingrates as yourselves I’m sure. Meanwhile Trager, you continue discerning whatever Yorinobu’s planned. Originating from our misery may come opportunity. The fools made the mistake of approaching us with their demands first, making us nascent of their plot. We’ll undue the Arasaka boy’s meaningless ambition and become enshrined as proactive members of Afton’s hierarchy!”

Underwood wanted to rail against such a plan (solely because it was Erebus’s proposition); though it quickly clicked for him. If they undid Yorinobu’s plan to blackmail them and whatever other conspiratorial madness he’d been concocting, they would’ve been responsible singlehandedly for nipping a possible insurgency in the bud. William Afton, cruel and ruthless as he was, certainly rewarded merit. If they could finesse their way out of this situation without anyone the wiser, all the better.

“… Alright then. Trager, you know your assignment. Erebus, head on over and deal with this little problem of ours. I’ll continue utilizing my resources and capacities as President to handle matters on my end, try and see if I can’t sneakily uncover what Yorinobu’s up too. Unfortunately this means we’ll have to clue in the Soviets just a while longer, if only to provide Trager the assistance necessary to continue the investigation.”

Erebus audibly growled at this- for good reason no less. Keeping the Russians involved any longer than necessary could spell doom. Should the opportunistic Soviet authorities manage their grubby hands on evidence of Erebus’s abuse upon Apostle initiates, Underwood’s murdering, or Trager’s general… Tragerness- they would likely utilize it within a similar manner as Yorinobu, if not even worse still.

“Keep care, Trager. If we’re undone and misdeeds exposed by your hand, you shall have my retribution to worry about before any Aftonite stooge drags you out back.”

“Y’know, threats really aren’t conducive to making friends buddy. In the business world we’d call you an ‘unlikable piece of shit’.”

Trager hung up, leaving just Francis and Erebus on call.

“That’s not exclusive to business terminology. Everyone uses that expression. Damnable cretin…”
Erebus left, leaving Underwood to groan and rub his face with anguish at the mire he’d been caught up in. Hopefully he could wrench some political benefit of this yet. Until then, he paged his receptionist.

“Call in Doug. I want updates on the latest state poll numbers.”

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Ostankino Tower

Midnight – Moscow Time

Sneaking into Russia was the easy part. It only meant fake passports, identities, and staying overnight inside a mediocre hotel.

Getting close to the Broadcast Tower posed another matter entirely.

Price’s team constituted ten men, each split into five-man squads, one he personally helmed and another spearheaded by Agent Bauer. They were disguised with civilian clothing and perusing through the bustling streets of Russia’s Capital- by the looks of it, one couldn’t imagine it being the epicenter of an epic coup launched half a decade ago.

However, signs of such instability lingered. Mulling about the civilian population were embedded secret policemen invisible to the untrained eye, though easily detectable to Price. Towering above everyone were observation apparatuses that served some sinister autocratic, dystopic purpose that he couldn’t yet discern. Meanwhile, technologically scintillating tanks, mechs, and countless other war machines casually patrolled the streets and manned established checkpoints where queued citizens stood obediently to verify their identification papers. Red banners depicting the golden hammer and sickle of Soviet Communism, portraits of Comrade Stalin, and statues of countless Russian heroes and icons were stacked about. Most noticeably though, a massive bust of William Afton himself, adorning his trademark SPRINGTRAP battle-armor domineered over Red Square, an obvious tribute paying respect to the overlord who spared their civilization.

The Captain’s team consisted of himself, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, David “Section” Mason, Marcus Burns, and Michael Harper. Bauer’s unit contained himself, Agent Curtis Manning, Staff Sergeant Henry Blackburn, Sergeant Daniel Recker, Johnathan Wick, and former HECU Marine Adrian Shepherd. Altogether, their team construed of veterans weathered through many conflicts wrought throughout the Old World and New, ready to deal some real damage against the tyrannical regime which lorded over their planet and slaughtered billions without recompense.

“Ostankino’s in sight Cap’n.”
Murmured Gaz quietly as they moved down a snowy sidewalk. It was nearing Winter and Russia knew it. Children excitably tugged at their mothers’ clothes, pointing towards merchandise and toys advertised within stores. How could these people act so normal, wondered Price. Because they personally benefitted or remained unchanged by Glitchtrap’s takeover didn’t mean billions weren’t still suffering. Didn’t they care?

“Rog. Form up and keep it tight. Watcher-Two, we are gaining on objective, send traffic.”
Price affirmed over an earpiece-laden communications unit to Bauer.

“Loud and clear Bravo-Six. We’re observing the place right now, crawling with Ruskies and other nasties. Not as many as expected though, shouldn’t be too difficult to pinch our way inside, over.”

“Rog. Keep this line alive till we get there, keep us appraised.”

“Copy that Bravo-Six.”

Foggy skies permitted not the sun’s grace upon a gloomy metropolis. Everywhere on Earth’s been having gloomy, sunless, cloudy days since the Invasion, though aside from scattered reports on the phenomenon from Primordial-approved scientists, none ever spoke of it. Publicly, that was.

“Cap’n- stand fast.”
Section quietly alerted, and with good reason. Traipsing about the city with a loud alien whine, using spotlights to carefully preen upon citizens and ensure public order was a long-legged, insectoid war machine that struck apprehension into One-Four-One’s hearts. Price knew this monstrosity from experience. Nigh-unkillable death cybernetic killers standing at skyscraper heights with a frontal plasma mortar-cannon and several other armaments stacked about. They were nicknamed ‘Striders’, key aspects of the Combine’s occupational force on Earth. As Earth was split between Chaos, Hell, and Combine, they were often collaborating militarily with each other. Despite only rumors and hearsay emerging from Combine territories within Europe and Asia, it was known their manners of control over their people were legendarily unbreakable and totalitarian. Obviously, other regimes worldwide would be interested in working with them and loaning their wares.

The Strider seemed shadowed by dozens of City Scanners, smaller, blacker objects that snapped images of individuals without consent and filed them through their infinite database. Price’s eyes widened upon seeing them. Laswell moved mountains to ensure 141 could enter Russia unimpeded, the Scanners shouldn’t pose a problem, but even still… a gut feeling told him to avoid being spotted anyway.

“Pick up the pace lads. On me.”

“Rog. Christ… what kinda Nineteen Eighty-Four type bullshit is this?”
Added Marcus Burns as the squad hustled behind their leader. All dredged in civilian clothing with their body armor, weapons, and fatigues hidden beneath, they were speedwalking through crowds of ordinary bystanders. Unfortunately, an adventurous City Scanner leering above the street gravitated towards them anyway.

“Brothers- we’ve got trouble. One of those fucking things wants to take our Yearbook Picture.”
Harper alerted.

“No way they’ll know. Laswell’s falsified our records inside the Russian security database.”
Section whispered.

“I’m not keen on testing any theories today David. Plus, she only kept us safe from Ruskie detection. What kinda files do these shitty things have access too, huh?”

“Point taken. Cap’N?”

“I bloody know! Just lemme think a moment. Damn impatient Yanks…”

The City Scanner approached, beeping eagerly as it snapped pictures of passerby without warning, though seemingly having taken a special interest in Price’s group as it floated forth. Just as hope dwindled though…

“Mister- hey. Mister… my name’s Vasili. Could you spare a few Rubles Mister? I want Stims. The Slaaneshi Temple won’t give me anymore, even though I promised to join. But I’m not joining those fuckin freaks, no way. They’ll give me more Stims if I pay. Please Mister…”
A man with vodka-tipped breath grabbed at Price’s side. The beanie-donning British SAS Captain initially brushed off the incoherent fool, until a strategy quickly pieced together. Unprompted, John moved a balled fist with swift speed, slamming the poor hobo’s stomach, sending him spiraling onto the ground with an unseemly thud.

“Cap’N what the FUCK-“
Gaz exclaimed, though Price expressionlessly ‘shushed’ him as nearby bystanders turned suddenly upon hearing the commotion. Breath knocked out, the man’s cheeks flushed red with hot anger.

“ARGH! YOU LITTLE BASTARD!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Price said nothing back as the alley-bound drunkard leapt forth, swinging punches messily and without much hand-eye coordination. The SAS vet could’ve easily dismantled this idiot anytime he wanted, but preferred yet to allow his rampage without fighting back, merely dodging. Citizens murmured about each other in Russian, some even snagging their phones to take pictures or videos of the incident, before…

“Alert all citizens within the immediate vicinity- this is an alert that non-state approved footage of public incidents is punishable by a fine of three-thousand rubles; in most severe cases, temporary incarceration at the nearest detention facility. Please cease your activities and vacate the area. Move on with your business. Have a nice day!”

A calming female voice uttered from loudspeakers that seemed emplaced upon every nook and cranny citywide. As civilians began dispersing consequently, Price and friends managed to seep away within the confused crowd of humanity, leaving the drunkard beset upon by nearby Moscow police which seemed used to his antics, and thus unbelieving when he angrily proclaimed the scuffle wasn’t of his making. Soon enough, he began wailing about needing drugs and his innocence as they dragged him off into a police cruiser nearby and drove off.

“What’ll they do to him?”
Whispered Harper.

“Beat him senseless a few hours and release him tomorrow. If he’s lucky.”
Coldly responded Price as they slipped away, Ostankino Tower now in sight.

“Damn. Poor fuck really deserve that?”
Garrick pondered.

“No one does. That’s the world we live in Garrick.”
Section replied as they advanced, now coming into view of Bauer’s team, equally draped within indiscernible hoodies, suits, and clothing making them ingratiate into the Moscow population. They were waiting upon the lush green fields and well-trimmed gardens and trees surrounding Ostankino Tower. At the structure’s base, it almost seemed it was piercing the skies and entering Heaven itself.

“Glad to see you guys made it in one piece. You’ve got the files?”
Bauer said, meeting Price’s arrival with a strong handshake.

“Course. Ran into disruptions on the way, nothing we couldn’t handle. You?”

“Right here. Every awful thing we could compile. Lead the way, Bravo-Six.”

“Rog. Everyone, link up.”

Bauer and Price’s collective teams melded into a singular force. A group of eleven men loitering outside Russia’s largest broadcast station would certainly raise eyebrows eventually, so they needed to act swiftly. Bauer took a place at Price’s side whilst the Briton overviewed the crack team assembled here. One couldn’t ask for a better outfit of trained killers brought under a single purpose- Laswell’s Resistance really was bankrolling everything on this, and for good reason.

“Gents, we’ve only got one shot at this. Agent Bauer and I carry files with video and audial evidence of three of our world’s most powerful men engaged in shit that frankly makes even MY skin crawl. Richard Trager, Francis Underwood, and Erebus. Three of William Afton’s most prized lieutenants and enforcers, keys to his control over our fookin’ planet. We air this shit for people to hear, there’ll be blood on the streets. Innocent blood. But it’ll push our enemies to the brink. Every dictatorship relies on a network of fear and reward to keep power. We break those links, make people more angry than afraid? We’ll win. Rog?”

A series of affirmative murmurings and nodding proceeded from the gathered soldiers. Price nodded and outlined their team placements, with Adrian Shepherd, Blackburn, Recker, Manning, and Garrick handling the rearguard and securing the entrance while Price, Bauer, Wick, Section, Harper, and Burns moved ahead to finish the mission. They soon sifted into the Tower lobby, where Soviet radio workers, local families and visitors, and tourists mulled about, managed by friendly guides with shining, artificial smiles.

Bauer quietly handed Price a disc-esque object as they infiltrated the impressive manmade structure in-transit, all seemed moving according to plan. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t last long before a security official noticed them. Even as the rearguard broke off and disseminated into the small crowd, six hulking, lingering men drew attentiveness from those charged with keeping Ostankino secure. A Soviet officer with a kind face and lean build approached, his well-ironed and pressed uniform indicating a man adherent to protocol and nationalistic to a fault.

“Good day my friends! I’m afraid further access requires specialized visitation passes. Please present them here for verification, if you would?”

Price grimaced and turned to Bauer, whose expression was neutral. They could play this anyway they wanted.

“Right- uh, gimme a moment, yeah?”

“Of course sir. Ahh, is that a British accent? We don’t typically get many guests from the UK.”

“Well, suppose I’m a worldly man, eh? Explorer and all. Ahh, right, here we go.”

Taking only a split-second of motion, Price undid his civilian jacket and revealed the Kevlar body armor beneath, alongside an unpinned flashbang clutched tightly in his right palm. Before the shocked security guard could react, he tossed it with mighty force directly at his feet.

“FLASHBANG!”
He announced- before it went off with a loud and succinct BANG!

Everyone else quickly exited their clothing and revealed themselves. The rearguard dispatched of four Soviet security goons that were moving for their attached sidearms as civilians screamed and either buckled onto the floor or bolted for their dear lives. Bauer unveiled his Sig Sauer and eliminated another two security officers manning the metal detectors that blocked passage towards the elevators and staircase, while Price terminated the initially friendly officer himself.

“RULES OF ENGAGEMENT: WEAPONS FREE! Garrick, man this entrance. We’re heading in!”

“ROG, CAP’N! GOOD LUCK!”

Four guards who’d heard the calamity downstairs rushed down the staircase, though Wick thrust out his Glock pistol, expertly headshotting all of them before they even could react or discern how many enemies there were, their craniums exuding sprays of blood as their bodies fell as dominoes onto the lobby floor below. Price and friends moved past the metal detectors that rung with alarm and none left to enforce it, calling for an elevator that soon came.

Price, Bauer, Wick, Burns, Section, and Harper piled into the elevator after it unloaded a payload of tourists that witnessed the grisly carnage and screamed, rushing out of Ostankino. They didn’t take hostages, and thusly Garrick’s rearguard allowed them passage outside and instead seized strategical positions about the lobby while Price pressed for the restricted top floor, utilizing a specialized card Laswell’s associates hacked to fool Soviet digitized security systems.

Now came the awkward ascent- completed by a faint playing of ‘Kalinka’ over the elevator intercom. Price figured to utilize this time productively as they could.

“Weapons check, we good?”

A simultaneous series of cackling noises moved throughout the cramped elevator as every man ensured the veracity of their respective weapons. Harper inspected his SCAR-H carefully as Section ensured his frags were fastened and M27 Automatic Rifle was prepared for battle.  Wick nodded after darting eyes to everyone else and seeing their faces of solidified resolve underneath their tactical helmets.

“Yeah…”

“Copy. Let’s kick some arse lads. We make it outta this, I’m buying.”

“Better be American beer you’re buying then. That pisswater you Brits drink ain’t that charming a second time.”
Jovially jabbed Harper.

“Bah- I’ll have that attitude of yours whipped soon enough Harper. Soap’ll take us to his favorite place. One pint of Guiness will remind you Yanks what you lost when ya kicked us off your home turf.”

“I call bull on that. How much you wanna bet?”
Section interjected.

“Hundred bucks, how’s that sound?”
Burns considered, to which everyone save Wick and Bauer murmured with agreement. Jack Bauer and John Wick were men scarred by their pasts and losses, less sociably inclined than their compatriots. Even still, they weren’t averse to this idea, merely focused on completing the mission first.

Ding!

The elevator door slid open, a pretty young Russian tower operator tilting her head before freezing with total shock.

“O-oh my-“

…

“Get a move on kid.”
Bauer announced coldly, to which she obliged without further question and dashed into the elevator adjacent as their team combed about the area. Screens of television displaying Russia’s major cities, premiere news programs (mainly state-managed propaganda channels hailing statesmen such as Stalin or Deputy Premier Zakheav), or entertainment. A worrying amount of time was used, but they eventually found the induction port for disc-files.

“Cap’n, it’s over here!”
Section cried before a whizz of bullets missed his face by inches.

“ZAKHVATCHIKI! UBEY IKH!”
(INVADERS! KILL THEM!)

More guards, probably from the preceding floors whom used the stairwell.

“TAKE ‘EM DOWN WHILE I UPLOAD THE FILES LADS!”
Price shouted authoritatively, moving towards the induction port Mason motioned towards. Meanwhile, Wick, Harper, Bauer, and Burns held defensive positions behind cubicles or overturned tables, bullet-holes quickly whittling their cover as they returned fire occasionally. One guard sought to advance forward, but Bauer noticed and downed him with his Sig Sauer, two shots expertly lodged into his throat saw him collapse onto the ground.

His comrades, all wearing their coats proudly and Ushankas on their heads blasted away their machineguns, breaking several television screens and disrupting a few broadcasts midway. Burns held close his MP5, peeking from cover and providing cover-fire for Harper and Bauer to move ahead and push out the Tower Guards.

BRRRRTTT! BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM!

Red liquid mingled with light brown coat hues as more Russians died trying to secure the Tower Broadcast Station. Sparks flew haphazardly as Price rushed towards David’s location with both discs labelled ‘File Compilation One’ and ‘File Compilation Two’ in tow. Wick managed to retain his cool as always, perfectly executing another two attackers.

Price knelt down, both discs thankfully unharmed by the brutalities or stray bullet-fires that strung about the Tower. By now alarms and warnings across the city would be rung and citizens carted into their homes. Undoubtedly that monstrous Strider would arrive to personally destroy these interlopers. They’d just kicked the beehive. Section checked quickly, nodding to Price.

“Main broadcast signal’s still active, they haven’t cut that yet. Settle in the discs and we’ll get our evac!”

“Rog. Let’s cause a rebellion, eh?”

Just as Price moved to insert the first disc into the fitting port though, an unspeakable wellspring of energy suddenly burst into the claustrophobic room, knocking back the infiltration team. The discs were flung from the SAS Captain’s arms and clattered onto the grey floor below as everyone yelped or were taken by surprise. Price was first to recuperate, blurry eyes refocusing. Emanations of ghostly green power seeped and danced about like an evil iteration of the Aurora Borealis, these lime-green wisps surrounding the perpetrator.

The Briton’s eyes widened with aghast surprise.

Erebus.

His appearance was unmistakable. A seven-foot-tall abhorrence with drawled tattoos upon his bald, smugly grinning face, clasping close a staff of riveting, crackling Chaotic power with a sorcerous book page-turning atop it. The remaining guards seeking to retake the Tower were momentarily shocked as well, their jaws dropped, though not for long. A single word of power escaped his lips, manifesting much of the swirling green energies that surrounded him into a spearlike projectile of cosmic power that darted at them, vaporizing their bodies into ashen smithereens. He turned to appraise Price and his crew, knowing he’d arrived just in time.

“Well? Don’t stop on my account.”

What followed next could more aptly be described as a massacre rather than a battle.

Harper roared and levelled his SCAR, blasting away his clip, though only managing to dink harmlessly off the Word-Bearer mastermind’s armor. Laughing, Erebus answered by summoning another pall of green balefire burning off his staff’s skull and casting it against Mike, the fire momentarily taking shape of a dragon’s head before chomping down on the frozen, shocked former U.S Marine. A cascade of flame and burst, sizzled tissue scalded off Harper as he burnt alive, screaming desperately and with agony, unable to even foment any final words before turning into a crisped, blackened shell.

“Oops? Did I do that? Maybe that could serve a lesson to you all about the importance of keeping secrets. Especially mine.”

Another hailstorm of bullets. Marcus Burns attempted to get close and pelt Erebus’s face with MP5 bullets, though the Dark Apostle quickly caught onto such feeble-minded plan, twirling his staff about and wrenching a hand  around the normal human’s neck. Taking no prisoners, he quickly clenched his left palm. A noisy CRACK followed, alongside several pops and displacements of neck-bones as Burns went limp.

“BURNS! HARPER! NOOOOOO!!!”
David cried tearfully, moving to confront Erebus himself. Instead of allowing himself distraction, the madman noticed Price rush for the discs.

“Just have to clean up that mess…”
He laughed madly, casting a smaller bolt of Chaotic energy that zapped onto the discs containing audio footage of his misdeeds and abuses against the Apostle-Initiates among the many other malevolent crimes adorned, shattering them into useless pieces. Price roared in frustration and moved to join Section, but Wick and Bauer grabbed him.

“NO! DAMN IT! DAMN IT ALL-“

“IT’S OVER PRICE! WE HAVE TO GO! GET INTO THE ELEVATOR! MOVE!”
Shouted Bauer, quickly taking command of a deteriorating situation and lugging Price back towards the elevator while Wick provided covering fire, trying to draw Erebus’s attention. An invisible magic shield protected the Anointed Hand of the Gods as he advanced on a rageful Section who too late realized the mistake of facing an Astartes, especially a Chaos Astartes, as naught but a normal man. Alex Mason’s son received a fate harsh indeed as Erebus casually punched his upper body clean off, allowing it to clatter onto the floor with a geyser of goopy blood following.

“MASON, NOO! DAMN IT!”
Cried Bauer as Erebus turned his attention to them.

“Oh? Don’t go. You’ll share in their fates, if they meant that much to you.”

Erebus advanced with terrifying thumps, though the elevator doors shut before he could gore them. Price, Bauer, and Wick were the only survivors, and even the distanced and cold John Wick felt unnerved after having bore visual to such an awful sight. Bauer left his index off the ‘roof’ level button, which is where they needed to head for evacuation.

“So that’s the power of a Chaos Marine…”
He murmured, having only heard of them in rumor.

“CAP’N!”
Shouted another voice from the comms, Kyle Garrick, with some gunfire audible in the background.

“Gaz?”
Weakly inquired the Briton.

“WE’RE OUTGUNNED AND OUTNUMBERED DOWN HERE! DAMN RUSKIES ARE EVERYWHERE AND THAT STRIDER BASTARD’S HEADIN’ OVER! DID YOU INSERT THE DISCS INTO THE BROADCAST STATION!?”

“I…”
Instead of replying, Price radioed Nikolai, a personal longtime friend of his and the Resistance’s premiere helicopter pilot, mechanic, and plant in Russian territory.

“Nikolai, we need pickup!”

“Da Captain, I’m on my way! Fair warning, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. You’ve roused all of Moscow from what I can tell! Worse still, I’m pretty sure that fucking Strider thing’s-“

“Garrick’s appraised me Nik. Just get here!”

“… Da, sorry!”

Nikolai quieted as Price sighed grimly.

Everything really had gone to shit, hadn't it?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------          

The Dodekatheon

The Iron Blood – Flagship of Primarch Perturabo of the Iron Warriors

William was happy that for once, it was someone else’s ship being boarded.

There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with the Glitchtrap’s Might- it was a powerful warship armed beyond measure and capable of levelling civilizations into oblivion with its glorious cannons, stocked with Chaos Astartes and Militarum Chaotica ready to fight, kill, and die on their Master’s order. Even so, every inch of that several kilometer-long dreadnought had become aware to Glitchtrap over these early years of campaigning and conquering. The vessel acted as an informal gathering of state considering Springtrap Maximus’s unavailability regarding most junctures, considering the Conclave's members were typically too geographically distant to gather at the hovering space-fortress.

When the ‘Lord of Iron’ instead invited Afton and his Conclave on-board his own vessel, promising amenities and even allowing the Primordial Empire to shore up with their warfleets and private countermeasures should this invitation have been ensnarement, Glitchtrap became excited indeed. And thusly, his enjoyment only spiked as they traversed the Iron Blood, being escorted by three unmoving, unspeaking Space Marines with light-grey armor and industrial helmets staring immutably down upon the visitors.

“Mighty Lord, you appear awestruck. Is something the matter?”
Inquired Advisor thoughtfully. Currently, Afton wore a helmetless variation of his SPRINGTRAP Battle-Armor complete with an eye-catching purple cape emblazoned with the Primordial Empire’s sigil, a golden version of the Chaotic eight-pointed star with the faint outlines of Springtrap’s Hare likeness painted within the middle. He was joined closely by Muzan Kibutsuji, All For One, Coredrias, Zargothrax, and Atriox, whom either spoke amongst each other, or in Muzan’s case, remained silent and observant of his surroundings.

“I’m happily surprised. This entire vessel seems built upon the philosophy of efficiency and strong battle-tactics. Not an inkling of vanity. Only cold, generic grey brilliance. The gun-batteries well stocked upon the windowless corridors, the miasma of walkways only those weathered upon the vessel could understand the destination of, the rhythmic hum of the pipework, the bubbling energy-cauldrons… what more could an industrialist ask for? This place is perfect to hunker down privately and work.”

“The Lord of Iron enjoyed status as among the Imperium’s finest siege-crafters, though rarely found appreciation for his dark work during those forsaken times. His legions broke empires and sundered armies, forcing planets under Imperial Compliance with a righteous, cold indignation. However, never once were his efforts lauded. His Legion were dispossessed as merely an afterthought by those he proclaimed were his brothers, the empire which he served dispatching his legions and he on tasks and wars unfit for a demigod of such rank. Such indecency drove him into Horus Lupercal’s arms many millennia ago, though perhaps only for worse. The Dark Gods are duplicitous, their servants evermore their willing enactors emulating such behavior. He was perhaps worse treated among the Traitors’ halls than his own.”

“If that’s the case, why call this meeting instead of simply making war? I hold capabilities he’s surely unknowing of I may deploy upon any moment should this meeting unveil into treachery… there’s simply no benefit of his treating with us should you speak truth Advisor.”

“Of that I’ve only garnered whispers and rumors. What I may positively incline Mighty Lord is that not an unwelcome thought permeates the Iron-Commander’s mind when applicable to this gathering.”

“Let us hope so. For all our sakes. I’d hate to lose such a lucrative possible alliance. Especially if this is what I’m in for…”
William once more motioned to his surroundings. The Iron Blood was a battle-cruiser truly deserving of the Purple Guy’s admiration- being an innovator, tinkerer, and creator at heart himself. That aspect of his deeply complex and villainous personality found itself ignited, roaring with fires fed by possibilities and creativities whilst witnessing giddily how every inch of this Warp-touched, yet strangely unchanged ship seemed deigned for warfare grandeur more than superficial prestige.

“We have arrived. The Lord of Iron shall arrive shortly.”
Murmured an Iron Warrior, presenting before them a circular table hosting detailed cartographies and star-maps of numerous Galaxies and recorded descriptions of countless planets beyond. As the Astartes nosily clanked away, their armors providing the quiet, somber hallways with sound. After performing a quick Danger-Sense Quirk search and noting nothing of imminence, AFO nodded to Springtrap and friends, allowing them to take seats around this impressively designed custom War-Table. Advisor stood darkly at William’s side, almost as a crow perched upon its master’s shoulder.

“I must appreciate a warlord whose work equals justifies tithe and name. This one’s certainly done his homework.”
Zargothrax commented.

“The vessel notably lacks any mainline viewports into space’s endless expanse. We find this a rather drab decision. How specifically are gunners supposed to outline and assail their foes?”
Coredrias brought up, crossing their arms whilst making itself comfortable on the rigid chair.

“I figure there’s some manner of system or mapping intuition that’d allow those staffing this vessel to unveil the coordinates of where their enemies are hidden and pulverize them. Take my word not for assurance though. This technology is entirely alien to me. Just yesterday I existed within a world having not a single craft capable of space travel, yet now I am within the confines of a vessel unimaginably complex to even my boundless imagination.”
Curiously remarked Muzan.

“You’ll learn eventually. Besides, although the scenery’s changed slightly, the game hasn’t. Space, Earth, wherever you find yourself within this great grand universe, there’s always the problem of advancing before one bastard or another buries a dagger in your back.”
AFO responded simply, espousing plainly his philosophy.

Atriox haughtily slammed himself down upon a chair, snorting before applying himself into the discussion.

“I’d prefer that bastard aims for your throat. Then there’d be more honor affiliated within the affair. I understand the utilization of subterfuge and subtly within the gains of warfare, though those traits alone beget not my respect, only my eternal spite.”
The Brute said with strong conviction.

“What’s it matter if one fights dirty and wins? The only matter at hand is winning. Shouldn’t you among all understand such principle?”
Zargothrax spoke, not with his typical dark wizardry-induced arrogance, but rather a genuine curiosity.

“I have learned that relying on underhanded methods will draw you enemies and hatred either way. The Covenant have made their own graves and shall lie into them eventually for that very reason.”
Atriox replied, a response that gave pause to Zargothrax while Muzan, AFO, and Coredrias pondered his answer.

 “Undoubtedly this vessel contains layers of secrets and quirks that puzzle even my discovering nature. That only drives my curiosity to know more. To understand every secret and piece together that calculus which allows me to weaponize what I’ve learned into workable tools of war-waging.”
William added, seeking to return onto subject, still carefully eyeing the Conclave members. They were among the universe’s worst terrorists and autocrats. Even at benign points of discussion, the slightest assurances couldn’t be punished. Always keep your eyes peeled.

“There’s hardly anything here worth uncovering. Just more boring pipes and windowless hallways that could fit the definitions of words as ‘bleak’ or ‘depressing’. We may be tyrants and killers here, though I suspect all of us still pose appreciation for the finer arts. We Newtopians do at the least, this vessel leaves much to be desired.”
Coredrias added with an unwanted snark. Before anyone could retort or add onto that comment, the Dodekatheon’s impressive doors, scribed with the Iron Warrior sigil upon them, parted momentously.

“Ahh, our man of the hour.”
William muttered, watching intently as arrived indeed their host did. A walking warmachine that dwarfed even the Astartes nearby, coated head-to-toe in hard-forged battle-armors, a myriad of minerals and alloys construed together to form elite plates and crevices that allowed for stunning mobility despite the appearance suggesting that of a slow-moving, steam-hissing tank-esque monstrosity. Each step invited another TINK or THUNK, though the face itself was masqueraded behind a red-eyed helmet evoking a dark knight arriving from Hell’s blackened breadth rather than an evolved human demigod. Joining this unstoppable titan were a collective of five tall Astartes, taller still than their normal cousins though notably shorter than their Lord. Each of them bore something of significance, whether a mechanical eyepatch or faces marked by dried scars significant of their endless death-campaigns.

“The Warsmiths, our Iron-Lord’s chief council of advisors, tacticians, builders, and commanders. Their statuses and brilliances are secondary to their sovereign, though they alone still possess incredible power. Power, perhaps, that our Empire may utilize within the coming struggles.”
Advisor whispered to William as the Titanic Being approached. A sudden pall of smoke seeped forth from his helmet, revealing underneath a face wrenched within cybernetic augmentations, a pale-skinned necrotic horror mirroring Muzan’s complexion, though lacking the handsome finesse that came with it.

“When engaged with an act so pressing as wartime, the ‘finer arts’ become aspects irrelevant.”
Murmured an authoritative, exceedingly calm, soothing, yet equally poignant and roughened voice of deep masculine growl.

Coredrias seemed visibly insulted, the multitude of Newtopian monarchs stored within its database cortex thinking this defiance should become met with fire and steel. A Warsmith appeared to whisper something to an openly distant Lord of Iron when this trend was noticed. Before Springtrap even posed the chance to dissuade the Core…

“Your database system… it seems encased within that stark metal apparatus. It’s somehow absorbed the consciousness of your nation’s greatest leaders and thinkers into a singular world-matrix. I must say, that’s rather remarkable.”
The Primarch stated warmly. Coredrias seemed to welcome the change in tune, wrenching the slave-body of Andrias’s hand away from its Greatsword hilt.

“Well… yes, indeed. Birthed by our grandest engineers and builders to immortalize our empire’s greatness.”

“It must’ve worked. That achievement alone vast exceeds most civilizations I’ve tread upon over my storied career.”

The Iron Warriors’ Genefather turned to appraise Springtrap, forming something barely hinting upon a smile.

“I am the Primarch Perturabo. Emperor Glitchtrap, an honor finally to make your acquaintance. Make no mistake however, your exploits and tales have been known to me quite some time already.”

William’s eyebrows raised. This fellow carried an aura of command and leadership, of pragmatism and elitist strategy dwarfing those of his petty Warband-Warlords of God-specific armies like the World-Eaters or Thousand Sons, delved too deep into their fetishes of bloodletting or knowledge-seeking.

“Have I become that famous already?”

“The society you’ve strove to create can be classified unique. Plus- entrusting a worm like Erebus with handling the transfer of Astartes and war-equipment to your home universe wasn’t a sustainable scheme. Within the Eye of Terror’s beleaguered madness, people talk. I have heard whispers. You aim to create a sustainable empire with Chaos as your tool of construction?”

“That about sums up my plans, yes.”

Perturabo’s half-smile contorted into something hideously resembling a normal human’s- though with an uncanny nature about it.

“Your empire’s borders require expansion. That means you’ll need builders. Creators. Technology-masters that can oversee production quotas and lay superb siege to worlds that refuse to buckle. Furthermore, I suspect other empires bordering those of yours and your allies will jealousy watch your success and prospect it thereafter. Against such threats, an Iron Shield would best serve your grandiose ambitions.”

“Your line of thinking seems aligned with mine.”

“Does it? Pertinently above all, you ought to divulge proper appreciation to those who exercised such efforts on your dream’s behalf. Could you guarantee such?”

Afton nodded confidently, knowing exactly what Perturabo sought. Admiration and recognition for one’s own deserved brilliance. As horrific as Glitchtrap was, he understood that cultivating loyalty was centrifugal to a sustainable empire.

“I know exactly what you mean, Perturabo of the Iron Warriors. Trust me, your efforts will not go unrewarded, should you indeed choose the Primordial Empire as your patron. I have many purposes fomenting tasked for your specialty already.”

A tense silence momentarily permeated the area. Springtrap almost worried his words fell upon deaf ears, reminiscent of similar false promises stated by Father and Brother within the Primarch’s past. Ultimately, this acted as his very first interaction with a Primarch- and William found it an illuminating experience indeed.

Finally, a result.

“Should you prove this thesis… the Iron Warriors will request formal induction into your Empire. Though how best will you, I wonder?”

William pondered best a response, about to seek Advisor’s help, before his personal comm-link beeped with a new alert. Inspecting the telekinetic message, he embellished a wide grin of his own.

“I think I know just how, dear Primarch.”

Chapter Text

London, Britain

Buckingham Palace

The British Empire counted itself among the luckier nation-states to have survived the desolation of Glitchtrap.

Even though their empire retained only a shadow of its former influence and found itself competing with countless other factions, organizations, and institutions to restore themselves that prized influence which etched them historical immortality, they were personally favored by William Afton for an uncharacteristically sentimental reason: The Afton Familial Lineage itself.

Before Be’lakor infiltrated the family to genetically manufacture a Daemon-son that could’ve proven his vessel-adherent, the House of Afton were financiers, commanders, tacticians, landed gentry and aristocrats alike, whether through marrying into the correct estates or garnering legends of their own during the heyday of the glorious British Empire. His Majesty the King, George the Third, even knighted one of William’s ancestors, Hubert Afton, after he saved the Duke of Wellington’s life from a stray cannonball during the Battle of Waterloo. William always appreciated his heritage and ancestry, even if their family’s fortunes disintegrated after the World Wars. Many emanations of Britain’s past were allowed return unto their mortal coils and Earth from the charged Gates of Hell, taking up various positions throughout the Primordial Empire, though a majority returned to their devastated homeland to rebuild and bring about a glorious new age for Britannia.

King James was elected by Parliament’s tattered remnants to helm this march of progress, a choice unanimously accepted by their Primordial Chaotic masters. James, having authored several notations of witch-hunting and demon-scourging about his lifetime and even penning his personalized version of the Bible, wasn’t exactly pleased that Daemons and monstrosities were calling Earth home, though recognized for his nation’s security, their existence needed acceptance and integration into societal bounds. Like America, James restructured much of Biblical insinuations and Godly propagandas to include the Chaos Gods, remarking them as spirits identical to their benevolent Lord, and their invasion headed by Glitchtrap as divine revelations and cleansing. Whatever helped people who grieved the loss of their families and friends sleep better at night.

Buckingham Palace became once more a centerpiece of monarchical political power. James organized the country to survive postwar, putting the British population to work and moving past their scarred days to create a society unassailable. Glitchtrap’s assistance via financial donations, advanced technologies, and vast quantities of slave labor to help with constructing new infrastructure certainly helped.

Escorted by his trusty attendant Ian Mercer, alongside a modest cadre of EITC bodyguards, Lord Cutler Beckett, a recent inductee into British aristocracy, stepped into the bounds of Buckingham Palace. This wasn’t his first visit, though even now was the trademaster and industrialist taken aback by the sheer majesty availing his eyes. Extravagant rooms of glistening gold and stellar red, portraits of various monarchs and their children and descendants scampered about and fireplaces crackling eternally, servants whom seemed blessed to even attend the Royals were mulling about- those working here weren’t the indentured treasure-slaves shipped by the Primordial Empire from faraway cosmic frontiers, but rather a lucky few, ordained butlers and pages and squires and attendants whom gracefully ensured their masters’ satisfaction. The British, whatever you could remark of them, had eyes for prestige and glory.

“Never gets old, does it?”
Murmured Ian Mercer as they stepped inside. Beckett nodded faintly and adjusted his puffy wig and Tricorn hat.

“The halls of power ought to resemble halls of power. Our world is strictly material, and rightfully so for that.”
Beckett wisely replied. A servant accosted them and motioned for their escort to wait outside within the wider hallway. The King’s Guard were the only ones permitted to carry weapons amidst these hallowed chambers, even the mighty East India Company’s mercenaries were but glorified thugs when abashed in their regal presence.

“Lord Arnold will see you momentarily. Please wait here until then. May I interest you sirs with tea and crumpets?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”
Ian kindly replied, though that mean gaze of his indicated a different mood entirely. The man needed to remain hawkish and observant at every moment. Beckett had no shortage of enemies within and without.

Beckett nodded curtly to signify he wasn’t interested and the servant moved off. Mercer turned to his Lord subsequently.

“It wasn’t the King who summoned us this time. Did we really need to entertain this traitor?”

Beckett sighed whilst lounging inside the waiting room, admiring the grandiose paintings and comforts of his sofa embroidered with scenes of British military victories, their proud lions viciously ripping apart countless foes.

“Benedict Arnold’s defection retains its importance now as it did during the Sixteenth Century, I’m afraid. The man’s a worm, politicking his way through gentry, royalty, even acquiring a few lowly supporters among the peasantry. Most everyone recognizes him for what he is- a backstabbing turncoat. Though right now, the Crown needs backstabbing turncoats. His Empire’s colonies have been whittled down severely, to restore that lost hand will require cooperating with those we’d preferably avoid.”

“Is the situation really that poor?”

“The Americans have annexed Canada. Our dominion. Verifiable intelligence has it they’re holding similar inclinations for their southern neighbor Mexico. Russia isn’t keen on friendship since the Soviets retook power, and even fathoming an alliance with Nazi Germany is unthinkable, the Fuhrer views us as weak and deserving only of extermination- and the feeling’s mutual. Our allies number few, our enemies number greater. How would you describe such a situation?”

Ian sighed and leaned back into the sofa, comprehending the hectic state of things on Earth.

“Surely Emperor Glitchtrap won’t allow harm to come upon our Isles?”

“For now. We cannot rely solely on his generosity. The British are conquerors. We don’t need charity, even from one of our own.”

“You believe this summons regards a countermeasure for our empire’s revival then?”

“I’d certainly hope so. Even Arnold knows better then to waste my time.”

The servant returned, beckoning Beckett follow.

“What of Mister Mercer?”

“I’m afraid only Lord Beckett has been granted express permission into Lord Arnold’s office. Apologies for the inconvenience sirs.”

Beckett grimaced, though nodded to Mercer, and advanced anyway, guided by the kindly servant. Passing through more rooms of beautiful brilliance, they arrived upon an equally impressive, eloquent office. Incense burnt on wax candles, piles of papers with mesmerizing cursive handwriting strewn across a mahogany desk, and shelves stockaded with books of diverse origin surrounded them on both sides. Benedict Arnold, traitor to America’s people and turncoat loyalist unto the British Empire jotted down important notes to a financier apologizing for the Crown’s recent uptick on mango prices.

“My Lord- Cutler Beckett.”

The servant announced and bowed. Arnold looked up and nodded, silently shooing away the attendant and motioning for the corporate official to take a seat.

“Apologies that your plus one couldn’t enter… one could never be too careful nowadays. Especially myself. I hear my enemies in Parliament multiply by the day.”
Arnold spoke with complete disregard for tact, already understanding his precarious position relating to Britain’s political intrigues.

“I’m but a privateer my Lord, I could make no comment on anything else but stocks, investments, and sale of commodities. When their costs fluctuate, especially.”

“Modesty’s the devil’s sword, I think. Speaking of fruit, I’m currently writing to Lord Urquhart about such a topic. Due to those troublesome rebellions over at the Caribbean, it seems like mango imports will witness a significant slowing. Many stocks will find themselves strained- I believe the Mango Fielding Corporation will find itself broken up and devoured as a carcass by the carrion stockbrokers soon enough.”

“A shame. Those were good men with pristine eyes for mangoes. If I recall, the East India Company offered to assist local authorities with those rebellions, though were turned down.”

Arnold chuckled while continuing to pen the letter, sinister face alight thanks to his nearby candles.

“The Crown has its pride, Lord Beckett. You’d do well in understanding that.”

“As would you. Or are your enemies within Parliament no longer issue when you’re punching down? I don’t intend on remaining expulsed from royalty forever.”

“Hmm. I work out of Buckingham Palace. Most your days are spent managing merchant-fleets and protecting them against Pirate scum. I think I’ll be allowed to punch down for quite some time, no matter your lofty ambitions.”

“Pirates are natural curses of territory. The economically destitute will become drawn to pathetic tales of plunder and adventure, seeking freedom that doesn’t truly exist. And don’t take your workplace too kindly. The King’s affinity for you keeps the daggers away, though even the Crown’s love can only extend so far.”

Arnold seemed annoyed by that remark and readied for another retort, though thought better of it.

“We could sit here and annoy each other all day. I’m aware your private musings regarding me, Lord Beckett.”

“Private?”

“Hmph, fair enough. We may dislike each other, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help each other.”

“I see very little means in which either of us can become party to another.”

“Ahh… think creatively, Lord Beckett. You’re keenly aware as I of Britain’s precarious situation within the new world. The Americans have taken our Canadian dominion, the Reich’s aggressive border-actions raise alarm, the Soviets, well… they’ve little reason to treat with us. The Chinese have grown wise to our tricks and act stingy with their ports, as have the Japanese, it seems."

“What of Hell, or the Combine?”
Beckett genuinely inquired. Even if the other intact countries weren’t privy to Britannia, maybe the other Great Powers that occupied Earth could provide some assistance.

“Hell are more concerned harvesting human souls, and the Combine are indifferent to our conflicts should they not spill into their lands. We’re facing an uphill battle. That recent convoy ambush in Liverpool didn’t improve our chances either. The King intends on penalizing Prime Minister Sutler for the security failure.”

“So… what are you proposing?”

“… Since Glitchtrap’s conquest, nations of Earth were expected to assist Chaos with marching into new worlds ripe for the Primordial Empire’s taking. To join a Chaos Army, to fight alongside Daemons and Astartes- that’s a mark of prestige that could be floundered over the other countries, reminding them of the participant’s strength and power that it could delegate military might to assist Lord Afton. Recently though, our glorious Britannia has ceased full-scale participations. Conflicts on Earth and the rising cost of rebuilding our nation piece-by-piece has rendered Glitchtrap- and by extension the Dark Gods’- faith in us low. Should the British Empire seize that mantle, prove itself internally stable and thus able to delegate resources to the next spacebound invasion, well… that’ll grant us ascendancy. And time. We desperately require time. Our enemies will think twice before messing with the country that helped Glitchtrap.”

Beckett crossed his arms as Arnold sipped some tea.

“You think the East India Company could help you?”

“Why not? If this succeeds, we’ll become legends. My name will turn from a tainted one that draws few allies in Parliament to an elated moniker that every Lord, Lady, and Governor will trip over themselves to parley with. And you could have that springboard into true royalty you’ve dreamed of, Lord Beckett. We both win.”

“If we succeed. I don’t doubt Glitchtrap would accept if we formally requested joining with his next invasion- but without the King’s permission, such a move is politically suicidal. And perhaps more literally so too.”

“I’ll take full responsibility, convince the King if I must. But Britain’s armies are occupied worldwide. Yours, however, aren’t. The EITC holds thousands of mercenaries at its disposal, yes? You shall represent Britain upon the cosmic front.”

“Though if this becomes a net loss…”

“Think optimistically, Lord Beckett. Ponder nothing of risk!”

“I’m a representative of the Company. I must always consider risk. Though luckily for you, the reward outweighs the risk immensely, I think. If you could earn us a Rite of Conquest from the Primordial Empire, I shall assemble the available battalions.”

“It’s settled. Let’s shake on it.”

Beckett, albeit carefully and with numerous contingencies prepared already if Arnold should hold ulterior motive, shook Benedict’s hand. This could be the saving grace Britain needed right now.

And he was man of company and country, after all.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vladivostok KGB Headquarters

After pilfering clean the Steel Dragons’ hideout, everyone seemed content with returning to home base. Sergei needed better medical attentiveness, and Cherdenko needed to debrief his agency about their recent raid. It’d been a rousing success thanks to the monstrous American help and the Umbrella Ivan-Tyrant variants, who survived the explosive Apocalypse Tank ordeal and managed to eliminate straggling Steel Dragons whom desperately sought to escape Vladivostok, trying to seek aquatic transport to North Korea or Japan.

Trager also elected to stick with the KGB; unbeknownst to them, aiming to figure Yorinobu’s plan out. What exactly was the rogue Arasaka Prince scheming? From what preliminary analysis revealed, his communiques with Okiyo involved transportation of raw materials and weaponry to certain safehouses and locales across the world, though it seems the circle of trust was kept tight, as these areas were encrypted and Okiyo’s gang weren’t even aware of where they were sending supplies too- only delivering them to middlemen who handled the rest.

The KGB, Trager, and more secretively; the Erebus-Underwood-Trager triumvirate, decided against informing Patriarch and legendary corporate relic Saburo Arasaka of his son’s treachery. There wasn’t any evidence directly implicating Yorinobu in crimes against Arasaka Corporation itself, meaning any moves made against him now even with the evidence revealed could result in Saburo shielding his boy from harm and allowing him respite at any one of the hundreds of Arasaka facilities worldwide. Worse still, Arasaka were invaluable components of the Japanese economy. All For One could step in if the situation unraveled, and that’d mean the Primordial Empire would get involved; something no one who valued their career or life really wanted.

The KGB Headquarters was abuzz with activity as Cherdenko, Sergei, Trager, and their respective posses clued inside. Trager noticed a considerable warming of relations between Cherdenko and Sergei since their initial meeting. It was true then, they were friends once, before Vladimir abandoned the Soviet Army over ideological rifts. It seems they viewed Trager slightly warmer now thanks to his minions saving their bacon at the Steel Dragon townhouse, though kept him still at distance owed to lack of trust with Americans. Considering Richard’s real reason for being in Russia, they were correct to do so. Well, that and his general mangled horror movie appearance.

“The computer told us much, but not everything. We’re still uncertain of Yorinobu’s plan.”
Cherdenko muttered as they entered the lobby.

“He’s covered his tracks well. On that, he could be commended. There’s thousands of conclusions we could draw from the message alone. Maybe he’s intending on launching attacks against Corporations rival to Arasaka for hostile takeovers? It’s been done before- the last Corporate War ended in an unfavorable conclusion for them, even though it was technically a stalemate.”
Sergei proposed while hobbling behind Cherdenko and taking a position standing near his desk.

“No… from what I remember, Yorinobu was always the rebellious one. He never appreciated his father’s work. I doubt the years have changed him- his communique with the Steel Dragons is evidence enough of that. He wouldn’t do something that benefitted dear old dad or his legacy.”
Cherdenko replied.

“Could just be he wants to blow shit up. I know the feeling well.”
Trager implied whilst crossing his emaciated arms.

“No. This is Yorinobu Arasaka we’re talking about. The man formed anti-corporate gangs during his nascent years, even before Glitchtrap. We’re missing something.”
Sergei replied.

Before Cherdenko could reply, Cadet Kalkov called him.

“Colonel! We need you over here a moment!”
He cried, shouting from the bathroom away. Cherdenko sighed and turned to his fellow investigators.

“Keep going over Okiyo’s computer. I’ll see what this’s about.”
The pudgier Colonel walked off, while a television hanging over the Vladivostok Headquarters described a news story about carnage at Ostankino Television Tower from a group of terrorists. Trager stared at the broadcast for a few seconds longer than Sergei before mulling over the e-mails with him.

“If this is about the leaky faucet Kalkov, I’ve already called someone to fix it. They’ll arrive tomorrow I think-“

Cherdenko hushed upon feeling the cold barrel of a Makarov pistol pressed against the back of his head.

…

“Cadet- what are you doing?”

“What I must, sir. I’m sorry… this, to you, is treason. To me? This is the ultimate patriotism.”

Kalkov’s colleague, another KGB youngster recruit named Kivet, closed shut the bathroom door before anyone could notice the foul play.

“You’re making a mistake, Cadet.”

“No, sir. No mistake. Surely you understand it too. That something’s terribly wrong with our world. Our nations bow before a Demon. We participate in nothing but atrocities and genocide. We have allowed Mother Russia to become perverted into a monstrous abomination of her former self. If you can’t see that it’s wrong to partake in such actions, to remain a willing member of a system that enables them… then you’re far gone, Colonel.”

Cherdenko paused, gathering his thoughts.

…

“Glitchtrap has given the Soviet Union a second chance at existence. Restored Communism when the world mostly expulsed it ideologically. He’s been the hand which feeds us. Surely, if we didn’t benefit his ambitions, he would rescind that hand. But we have, and thus it stays there, feeding us. Kalkov, I’m sure you’ve nothing but hot-blooded youth coursing through your veins. I’m sure you woke up this morning, knowing what you’d do, thinking it’s the right thing. That’s what everyone does. But you’re wrong. Your ideals have always been wrong.”

Anatoly felt Kalkov grain the gun against his head tightly. Kivet seemed annoyed he wasn’t dead yet. Outside, a series of shouts played out, joined by a chorus of gunshots.

That’s why Yorinobu didn’t bother telling Okiyo were the materials he shipped were being delivered. He possessed an ace-in-the-hole the entire time. The Vladivostok Committee of State Security was compromised.

“And what ideals would those be, Colonel?”

“That humans could simply lay down their weapons and be friends. Call me a cynic if you want- I don’t care.”

“I just want a world where the weak aren’t exploited so callously. A world where we don’t worship Demons and Evil.”

“The game’s changed. To survive, Russia must adhere to those rules. To those new gods. All of us must.”

“I’d sooner die fighting to undo that world than live submitting to it. Yorinobu Arasaka’s given us something to fight for. Something real.”

Cherdenko figured a long time ago, when he was a younger, sprier man, he’d pick up a gun and join Kalkov.

But Yorinobu was an idiotic idealist. As were his followers. Anatoly was older and knew better.

“Then die you must.”

Kalkov squeezed the trigger, but it was too late- Anatoly ducking just in time. The bullet slammed instead into the mirror, sending glass shards flying everywhere, a few ricocheting back and slitting the recruit’s cheeks. He screamed and Kivet moved to unholster his own pistol as Anatoly slammed a fist into Kalkov’s stomach. The Cadet was momentarily stunned- long enough to allow Anatoly to grasp the Makarov pistol’s handle and wrench it from him.

 Kivet tried helping his friend, unleashing a tirade of bullet-fire Cherdenko’s way, though only succeeded in executing Kalkov, utilized as an unfortunate human shield soaking up damage with a few insidious pops- clouds of blood sprayed everywhere throughout the bathroom. Anatoly discarded Kalkov’s body while his friend screamed in alarm, long enough for him to angle the weapon and execute Kivet with a shot rung right between the eyes.

Breathing heavily, Anatoly temporarily examined the grisly scene. Both men were corpses caked in their own blood now. A shameful end for two promising young soldiers of the state, though it couldn’t be helped. Rushing outside, sweat glistening across his face and already winded (Cherdenko surely wasn’t the physical titan his youth once posited), he witnessed a total bloodbath. KGB Officers were confusingly shooting at each other, wondering who friend or foe was. Men’s heads exploded as watermelons left and right when they collided with bullets, people flailing about death. Trager wasn’t sure who exactly to kill, neither was a still-injured Sergei whom both remained crouched at Cherdenko’s desk.

“Shit! We’ve been outmaneuvered.”
Cherdenko muttered, wondering how specifically this could’ve happened. A man’s ferocious roar returned him to reality, a rogue officer brandishing a combat knife charging Anatoly’s location. He levelled his Makarov pistol and pressed forth the trigger… and nothing happened.

Jammed, at the worst possible moment.

Before the man could deliver Cherdenko an early, stab-induced grave, a familiar sight crashed down through the Headquarters roof, causing immense property damage though saving the Colonel’s life as debris smashed upon the charging hooligan’s head, probably breaking something as the man collapsed haplessly onto the floor. Leaping into the fray was an orange-goggled Ivan Tyrant.

Sergei’s bodyguards!

The blue-goggled iteration arrived subsequently, and both became avatars of carnage- though couldn’t differentiate between ally and enemy. Ultimately, they decided to protect their gene-father Sergei instead of causing mass casualties among loyalist KGB members, displaying that they bore innate intelligence. Either that, or Sergei somehow could relay orders telekinetically to them. Knowing Umbrella, that wouldn’t be surprising.

“God damn it… GOD DAMN IT!”
Cried Cherdenko as he joined Trager and Sergei under the desk. Okiyo’s computer was busted, probably a stray bullet or piece of debris; it was now fried and sputtering, exuding unhealthy amounts of smoke.

“Turns out your posse’s been compromised the entire time! Who knew!?”
Trager shouted over the chaos as the Tyrants soaked up bullet-fire, forming a protective ring around all three men.

“Tch- just shut up! I can’t figure out who’s on our side anymore!”

“Don’t worry, it won’t matter in a second!”

“Huh!? Hell do you mean?”

“My guys won’t care.”

Cherdenko’s eyes widened.

“WAIT! CALL THEM OFF, I CAN’T HAVE THEM MASSACRING ALL MY MEN! THERE ARE LOYAL OFFICERS FIGHTING HERE!”

“Figure it out Ruskie- if we don’t take decisive action now we’ll become grated parmesan! I’m just thinking ahead!”

“You fucking American dog-“

Sergei placed a hand on Anatoly’s shoulder.

“He’s right! I’m sorry to say comrade, but he’s right! We can’t really differentiate who’s friend or foe. For all we know more than half the Headquarters are infiltrated. If we capture even one of these traitors, we hopefully learn more about his plans, whatever they are.”
Cherdenko didn’t like it. Leaving the fates of a Soviet secret police at the hands of overseas-brought American terrors. Then again, destiny’s cold hand left him little choice.

Shit.

“Damn it… okay. Here goes nothing.”

Anatoly leered up his meaty head, cupping hands together to shout a message to whomever still fought for the Soviet State and not Yorinobu’s insanity.

“BROS'TE ORUZHIYe! SEYCHAS!”
(THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS! NOW!)

To those fully committed to killing Anatoly and ending this investigation, this was merely a dire cry for surrender. To those loyal to him, his demand was inconceivable. Throw down their weapons!? They’d be executed. Was he possibly a collaborator of these turncoats after all?

It became clear as the Daemon-possessed surged inside. A cavalcade of hungry human vessels inhabited by their Warp-bound masters scoured the formerly orderly interior of KGB Vladivostok Headquarters, using their enhanced athletic and physical capacities to begin assailing every officer and footsoldier unfortunate enough to catch their sight. Anatoly’s command became clear, and those acquiescent tossed down their weapons. The traitors, realizing if Cherdenko was permitted to overview the HQ camera footage, they’d be caught anyway, vainly trying to gun down the attacking beastial entities.

It didn’t go very well.

The traitor officers screamed as they fell prey unto the Possessed. A few were initially knocked out, even these salivating mongrels understood they were kept upon an unfortunate leash and couldn’t break it without consequence and sought to keep a few prisoners for interrogation. Everyone else was ripped into as paper was broken, obliterated without much ceremony as their bodies flew everywhere with grisly return. Dark-green uniforms were drenched with custom red coating as they were carved down without mercy by the Possessed.

A few minutes of screams, tearful begging, and horrified silence from the survivors followed as Trager’s units dispensed with any dispersed resistance present still within the facility. Eventually, a haunting quiet fell upon the building’s entirely. When Cherdenko, Trager, and Sergei exited their cover, they encountered a scene more befitting Texas Chainsaw Massacre than a KGB HQ’s interior. Stepping over steaming organs and slithering bodies whose nerves still defiantly palled out, they approached the collective of traitors kept alive, stuffed into a pile at the corner conveniently.

“I must say, they know how to get things done. Spencer will be most intrigued by my report.”
Sergei commented.

“What power have we invoked, eh?”

Cherdenko turned to the KGB loyalists, staring about with doe-eyes, unsure of how to proceed.

“Well!? Don’t just stand there! Take the turncoats and place them into the cells! I want one inside the interrogation room at once. We’ll wring the truth from them if it costs whatever modicum of life they have LEFT! NOW MOVE!”

Combined fear of Cherdenko and the Daemon-Possessed incited the officers to obey his instructions.

-
Grisha wasn’t budging. No matter what methods they’d applied, he was resilient. The dreadful, cold, foreboding grey room with an overhanging florescent light didn’t scare him. He’d endured much worse in training alone.

It’d been three hours and still no sign of his breakage was yielded. The man, and his surviving comrades, appeared indomitable.

“Come on you pussies… that the BEST you could do!? Colonel- come on in, give me a few punches, eh? I thought you weren’t averse to doing the dirty work yourself… so go on. Whack me, motherfucker. WHACK ME!”

No response.

Watching from invisible glass into the chamber, Cherdenko grimaced at the obvious provocation. Grisha was among his best men. The revelation of his defection was most troubling. How deeply did this corruption go? Sure, they weren’t Moscow KGB, but they still bore oaths to state and security. To Communist prosperity and Stalin’s dream. Where did those loyalties fritter off too?

“I told you- Russia is being bled dry. The private industries rob her blind, turning even the best men into counter-revolutionaries.”

Sergei spoke softly, groaning while leaning on the orange-goggled Ivan Tyrant for support.

“Your solution’s not much better. To prevent private takeover of the state, you join a private-sector corporation. What exactly am I meant to garner from that?”
Cherdenko seemed tired of Sergei’s demagoguery, though felt himself less and less able to retort it.

“I told you, Umbrella’s not just a corporation. It’s an idea that stands for more than the sum of its parts.”

Sergei noticed Cherdenko’s condition and decided to drop it.

“He’s not breaking?”

“Nyet. We’re working on an unfortunate timetable and have little in the way of progress.”

“Those monsters at the American’s employ… we could use them.”

“Much too violent. He’ll croak before anything useful escapes those fetid lips of his.”

Anatoly rubbed his face. This investigation had gone horribly. Nearly half of KGB Vladivostok was compromised, their only lead was destroyed, and there was nothing to show for it. The Politburo would have someone’s head if this investigation failed, and Cherdenko realized that his hated rival Krukov would seize the opportunity to ensure that head was his.

“So what’re our options?”

“I don’t know. Alright Sergei? I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I could help.”
Trager’s voice alerted both Russians, staring up from their malaise as the apron-wearing maniac stepped into the cloistered chamber with a neutral expression.

“This isn’t something that could be solved with your typical barbarism, Westerner. Grisha isn’t some weakling milksop that’s broken with a few shattered fingers.”
Sergei remarked, crossing his arms.

“My typical barbarism’s gotten me far. C’mon, gimme a chance. You’ve got nothing to lose with the other prisoners in your pocket still.”

Cherdenko mulled it over strategically. Indeed, they still held four other traitors in their grasp for interrogation. Grisha was the hardest man among them, so he figured within the circle of trust he was highest in rank.

“… Fine. Do your worst. Open the door.”

The guard manning the cell nodded, pressing a button upon the terminal which wrenched open an iron-studded door, allowing Trager passage inside. Upon arriving, the boney horror of a man assembled a series of tools attached to a belt upon his apron. The sight of them unnerved Grisha slightly, though the man still seemed toughened.

“You think these tools scare me scum?”

“Well, yes. But that part’s less relevant. They’re meant to hurt you. Hmm… no, nope. This won’t work either, ahh… y’know what?”

Trager set aside his available instruments, instead going with the traditional, trusty Bone-Shears he’d become infamously known for.

“Let’s deal with the classics, right? What are we without our beginnings, after all. Now, lemme just grab your left hand- agh, there we go. Ohh, perfect. Perfect. Nice, strong fingers. Lots of nerve-endings at those tips I reckon.”

“Rot in hell, motherfucker.”

“My boss is friends with the guys running that place, so… unlikely. Now then-“

Richard snapped down the Bone-Shears, carving off Grisha’s left index with a spine-chilling SNAP. Immediately, the man began howling with a shrill cry of pain. The suffering had only begun for him however, as the Bone-Shears moved to his other hand and anchored around that index too.

“They say the index is the finger you use the most, so really, you’re just shooting yourself in the foot by not telling me anything. Or hand, I should say. Wanna talk now?”

“F-FUCK YOU! BASTARD! I’LL RIP YOUR GODAMN HEAD OFF AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR OWN ASS! I’LL MAKE YOU CRY LIKE A LITTLE BITCH!”

“Bold words! Can’t exactly rip someone’s head off without hands though, can ya? Just illogical thinking, that is. By the way, I don’t think I’ve tested these for tetanus, so…”

Trager exuded a low chuckle. Not a maniacal villainous laugh that indicated full pleasure extracted from this torture, but rather a casual laugh shared between friends when recounting a pleasurable moment. He chopped off more of Grisha’s fingers, the meaty gibbets plopping onto the floor as they sputtered about, seeping out blood. The man was rendered into a wailing, crying excuse of his former self, his face covered in snot and tears while his hands were a gory miasma of blood and jutted bone.

“I-I won’t say a thing! I WON’T!”

“You’ll need some antiseptic for those wounds, I think. Anyway, that’s fine. I haven’t hit any vital points, we can keep going all day if you want. Hope we do, actually. There’s a few techniques I’ve been aching to try and you’re a perfect subject. I learned this trick from a friend back at Mount Massive. He emphasized cutting of the genitals. Should we do that, Grisha? Cutting of the genitals?”

“FUCK YOU!”

“You’ll never be able too. Hope you don’t have a wife to please at home- oh, what am I saying? She’s probably been taken out back and shot already. Because of you.”

Trager casually hummed, stripping away Grisha’s pants. The man, strapped rope-bound to his chair, grit his teeth and prepared for the inevitable, struggling helplessly as his body instinctively wanted to avoid the unimaginable fate Richard concocted. As the Bone-Shears lingered closely to his private area, Grisha couldn’t hold back his own wellspring of fear. This game was as much psychological as it was physical.

“WAIT! WAAAAIITTTT!!”

Took shorter than Trager expected. His Bone-Shears quieted just short of maiming Grisha’s genitalia.

“I-I’ll talk okay!? Just please don’t- Oh God please don’t- please…”

“Ababababa- less crying, more explaining. Oh, and let’s get some stims and healing gauze here please!”
Richard requested, turning towards the direction of the invisible glass. Cherdenko should’ve felt success at this revelation, though seeing Trager calmly maim one of his formerly greatest men without recompense or regret… it unsettled and upset him. Nevertheless, they were close to breaking the case. Anatoly motioned for the guard manning the interrogation room to acquire the requested items.

-

Grisha was their golden goose. Yorinobu Arasaka had managed to infiltrate Vladivostok KGB through his charismatic promises to jaded older Soviet officers and younger recruits alike, convincing them of their world’s innate wrongness, embodied through the tyranny of Afton’s Government and its corporate stooges. When specifically these points of contact were established wasn’t clear, Grisha had joined the circle later than most, but his divulging remained invaluable for their investigation.

To think even the hardened secret state police of Russia were susceptible to idealistic foolishness was a disconcerting idea, though nevertheless, Yorinobu’s full plan became known to them. The traitorous elements within Vladivostok KGB worked with local criminal syndicates, primarily the Steel Dragons, transporting large quantities of weaponry and material over to Night City- the premiere cosmopolitan nexus of gross corporate power within the United States. Their ultimate goal was simple: A daring coup of the Arasaka Corporation itself, culminating with Saburo’s demise. Yorinobu intended on dismantling the unholy titan of Japanese monetary power from within, sabotaging their projects and ambitions and freeing all those indentured unto their servitude- dealing a death blow to Afton’s Empire all the while.

No wonder the KGB showed up late to the Steel Dragon townhouse. The missing piece was flit before Anatoly's face the whole time, and he didn't realize.

The Primordial Empire couldn’t intervene if a corporate transfer of power took place. A point of their government was refusal to meddle within the private affairs of suits considering their heavy-handed role with financing and bankrolling much of William’s militaristic pursuits. To upset the balance of power and remove Yorinobu by force was a fool’s gambit that’d only draw ire from many other Boards of Directors, and the Arasaka rogue Prince knew it.

Trager, Sergei, and Cherdenko were nestled deep within contemplation inside the latter’s office.

“We can’t let things end like this. If Afton or the Soviet Politburo figure out we had a chance to stop Yorinobu’s power-seizure and didn’t… there’d be hell to pay. If Yorinobu secures Arasaka in hostile takeover, it’s game over. He just needs to kill his father and pressgang the remaining Board Members into submission.”
Cherdenko stated while palling out smoke from his cigarette off his office balcony.

“Rock and a hard place. My father always said in times like this to make the choice you will best be satisfied with.”
Sergei muttered.

“Neither Grisha nor the others could tell us when exactly Yorinobu intended to start his little shindig. It could already be over.”
Trager commented, now unsure of what to report back to Underwood or Erebus.

“No… we’d hear if Saburo Arasaka died. That man holds the ear of All For One himself, he’s quoted and termed as Japan’s modern Emperor. Saburo’s love for Yorinobu could only extend so far. This is familial treason. He won’t spare him.”
Sergei proposed, bringing back the idea of informing Saburo of this impending doom.

“Even if we did, would Saburo believe us? Our evidence is the word of several KGB defectors. Russia and Japan’s diplomatic status could be described icy at best, especially after confrontations between our navies. Besides, that man rarely leaves the Japanese landmass proper. How exactly does Yorinobu plan on murdering dear old dad?”
Cherdenko retorted, still trying to piece that part together. Even their KGB defectors didn’t know how exactly Yorinobu’s plan would unfold. It seems their enemy was highly cautious, divulging only piecemeal segments of his plan to subordinates to ensure that if the worst-case scenario was met, he could still proceed with his ambition.

“I’m not sure-“
Sergei’s mulling was interrupted via a phone-call.

“One moment, I need to take this.”

Beep!

“Da, Lord Spencer?”

Oswell Spencer, CEO of Umbrella Corporation- an enigmatic British nobleman and soulless eugenicist with plans of evolving mankind as a species into new heights, with himself captaining the helm of such grandeur.

“Sergei, report! How proceeds the investigation into avenging our Tiberium mining loss those months ago? You represent Umbrella’s military might, so I’m hoping for good news.”

“Well, we’ve made progress in our efforts…”

“Progress!? I require more than simple progress Sergei! I require results immediately! Listen- I’m seeking Arasaka Corporation’s favor as it currently stands. Our rivals, mainly BioSyn, are gaining strides with the Primordial Empire’s Biowarfare Department. I want the largest chunk of Afton’s next quarterly funding appraisal. Umbrella’s on the precipice of a breakthrough with the T-Virus strains, especially the Nemesis mutation type. With Arasaka’s mastery over technology and our biological intelligence, we could become a titan that dominates the corporate world! But that damned Saburo fossil refuses to approve any R and D projects with us until we prove ourselves and penalize those responsible for the Tiberium Mine Attack!”

“My Lord, we’ve already managed to uncover the culprits behind the attack.”

“You have!? Hah- that’s wonderful Sergei! I knew you could do it!”

“But we discovered a greater conspiracy in the process!”

“Hmm? Greater conspiracy? Oh please don’t deign to confront me with such drivel, Sergei. Saburo is making a rare appearance outside his home-country tomorrow, and I’ll be joining him for a meeting at Arasaka Tower. This investigation will be the utmost subject of discussion- so I’ll be right in saying you’ve made sufficient steps towards success, right? Make sure to send me details of who exactly the culprits were… I want to present them before Saburo to display that Umbrella is truly unstoppable!”

Spencer exuded a haggard laugh before ending the call, while Sergei stood frozen.

At once, it all pieced together. It slammed him as a telekinetic freight train. Gravely, he turned back to Cherdenko and Trager, face flushed of color and rendered a deathly porcelain pale.

“W-what? What is it?”
Anatoly inquired.

“Night City… we have to reach Night City. Now.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------

Unknown Resistance Bunker

 “I lost four men at Russia. I’m sorry, Yorinobu, but I can’t help you.”
Kate Laswell sounded strong as ever, but really, she was broken. Her recent mission to Russia ended up being a complete failure. Somehow, Erebus grew wise to their plans and intercepted Price’s team before they could play the blackmail. However, their plan wasn’t a total loss yet. Yorinobu possessed copies of Erebus, Francis Underwood, and Trager’s wrongdoings. Backup files. Laswell was requesting him transfer them to her for another attempt, though the rogue Prince seemed hesitant at best.

“… Miss Laswell, I respect you. Truly, I do. However- if there’s anything I learnt from my father, it’s that making the same mistake twice is naught but foolishness. Plus, if your group cannot delegate resources to my takeover, I don’t believe I’ve any incentive left to provide aid.”

“Yorinobu-“

“Don’t think me heartless for this. I understand your frustrations, but I have aims of my own. I’m working against the clock and prepared too long for this day.”

“Why withhold this from us? You could retain a copy of the backup files for yourself.”

“I entrusted you with the evidence once, and look where that got us both.”

“Ostankino was a bust, but I’ll find other ways. I’ll send it on internet forums, I’ll post it on Youtube or something!”

“They’ll censor it in minutes, you know this. We’re fighting a system that can’t be defeated conventionally, from the outside. Our partnership has been mutually beneficial, but I have to finish this my own way.”

“Yorinobu… I’m begging you…”

Laswell’s eyes spoke a tale of tiredness and resignation. She commanded a bolstered resistance faction from a secretive, repurposed Midwestern survivalist bunker previously owned by her exorbitantly wealthy father. Each day that passed, more friends died, worse news streamed in, and generally, any hope for Earth’s liberation agonizingly perished. She was isolated, low on manpower, scrounging and scavenging for supplies, and reaching her damned limit. Yet still, so many looked to her for inspiration. For confidence in their own internal battles. Everyone operating within Laswell’s group, ex-military, ex-government, or merely disenchanted civilians seeking to make some difference, had lost someone. Maybe multiple someones.

Whether during the Chaos Invasion or subsequent genocides and atrocities and Purges, they were all desperate, disparaging souls seeking to avenge the dead and keep safe the living, a mission that seemed to hold no satisfying end.

Yorinobu was forged by similar adversity. Born into a family that decided his destiny from birth, life constantly lorded over by that undying monster of a father. He too was known to concepts of nihilism. When he formed the Steel Dragons and similar bosozoku anti-corporate street gangs, members often constituted confused youth who looked up dearly to Arasaka, viewing him the father figure they never had.  

The simply yet dapperly dressed Arasaka Prince sighed.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll send your computers the backup files. Just be careful with them, please.”

Kate’s eyes were alit with rejuvenated hope, small as it was. Any victory was monumental for her nowadays.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. To us. I owe you one.”

“More then one. But please, it’s alright. I was just thinking stupidly, I suppose. I’m on the eve of the greatest risk of my life… and I thought I was stress-free about the situation. I wasn’t fretting or shaking. My lieutenants believe me impervious to fear because of it. I guess it just manifests in different ways. No matter what happens… it’s been an honor working with you. I hope someday, our world can see a brighter future.”

“See you on the other side, Yorinobu Arasaka.”

Yorinobu offered but a curt nod with reply before the hologram dissuaded. A few seconds later, a terminal nearby pinged with an alert of a recent e-mail delivery. He’d stayed true to his word.

Laswell sighed with immense pressure and mild relief, slinking back down on her chair.

“Get Price on the line.”
She ordered to an ensign, barely above a whisper.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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June 14^th, 2030

Residential Complex near Arasaka Tower

5:00 PM

Faraday’s triple-eyed cybernetic augmentations observed the interior parking garage carefully. Every vehicle could have a spy, an agent listening closely to the grave betrayal he was committing. These risks were known to him, though accepted nonetheless. If the alternative remained being a disposable stooge of callous Militech Corp, then Faraday would gladly take that daring leap into ascending the dangerous power-brokering ladder that existed within this tumultuous city.

The Fixer leaned against the concrete pillar, annoyed that he’d forgotten to bring his favorite Biotechnica cigarettes. They helped ease the stress of tenuous deals such as this one- and most certainly this was tenuous, the riskiest move made in Faraday’s storied career as Pacifica’s premiere criminal mastermind, though if his senses were right, a new order was taking power in Night City, and Faraday intended to become part of it.

“You’re sure of this?”

Murmured a gruff, altered voice from a car parked behind the column where Faraday leaned against.

“Beyond reasonable doubt. My sources indicate notable caches of material, weaponry, and manpower have been carted into the city over the past several months, the last three weeks most notably. There’s also signs of imminent power struggle from within Arasaka itself. Numerous executives and middlemen are beginning to shirk their duties and miss their meetings, unspoken and preparing for the storm. These movements only happen when something calamitous is about to unfold- all signs point towards that being a coup d’etat of the Corporation itself. Though it seems Saburo Arasaka is convinced in the idea of his own invincibility. Tonight he’s hosting a summit with Umbrella’s CEO Oswell Spencer at his Tower.”

“What else can you tell us?”

“The crux of it all- Militech’s helping out the garden snakes. They’ve covered these movements ingeniously, disguising masses of troops entering through the Night City Ports as ‘hardware relocations’ or ‘employee reshufflings’. Not just them… recent cargo shipments my subordinates have spotted delivered on the ports seem too large to just count as advanced missile systems or mechanized infantry groups. Many people have vested interest with seeing Saburo perish.”

A momentary silence domineered the lot, as Faraday nervously waited for some manner of response from those he’d been speaking with. Despite his primary stock and trade being intelligence and information, Faraday knew painfully little about these shadowy affiliates save their loyalty to Arasaka. He’d been growing desperate though, knowing Militech’s growing coldness towards him could only mean they were planning on disposal of their Fixer, likely having found a more docile alternative that would suit their future needs. This move was unfortunate and last-minute, but necessary. A practical godsend, frankly.

“You’ve done well. Stay in your residence tonight and leave for nothing. Blood will soak the streets.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“One more thing: are there any factors personally regarding yourself we should be aware of? We don’t want any rogue elements getting involved into this already complex web. In a few hours, the balance of power in Night City will either change dramatically or be solidified concretely, after all.”

“… My primary enforcers are a gang of Edgerunners- though they shouldn’t prove much issue. They’ll transfer over with me to Arasaka. If not, you’re free to dispose of them.”   

“Understood. Send us their dossiers.”

“Roger that. So… what exactly will happen?”

“As I said- the balance of power’s at risk. If your intel proves solid, expect a call from us after tonight. If not, we’ll repay you in full either way.”

Euphemism for unceremonious murder. The mysterious, black SUV skidded away, leaving Faraday to make a quick getaway himself.

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Two Hours Later

Arasaka Tower Lobby – 7:00 PM

“What’d our Fixer say?”
Murmured Sergei Vladimir to Richard Trager. Alongside those two swiftly moved Cherdenko, a coterie of KGB Officers, the Daemon-possessed, and numerous Arasaka security officials and soldiers preparing a defensive enclave.

After their revelations regarding Yorinobu, Trager covertly informed Underwood and Erebus- proving an advantageous move indeed. Erebus promised an imminent legion of Word-Bearers to assist in defending Saburo’s hold over the Japanese mega-corporation, aiming to secure glory and prestige from crushing the Rogue Prince’s nascent rebellion. However, it’d take precious time convincing the other Word-Bearer Apostles to muster and properly arm an Astartes force to traverse from Springtrap Maximus down to Earth to participate within a conflict waged by lowly humans.

Thankfully, Francis Underwood provided another godsend. The American President, long a pronounced foe of Militech given their alignment with the NFFA, held surprisingly strong connections with Saburo Arasaka. It was moreso an alliance of convenience, as Saburo secretly viewed Americans as lowly degenerates and animals, and Underwood distasted Arasaka’s representation of foreign influence taking hold on U.S soil. Nevertheless, Underwood wanted a share of credit in crushing this anti-corporate, anti-Primordial Empire insurgency. Beyond that, Yorinobu seizing and dismantling Arasaka from within meant a necessary counterbalance against Militech being destroyed, only giving them more freedom to assist the NFFA in harrying his future plans.

Given these reasonings, Underwood managed to convince the hubris-stricken Saburo that his son was indeed plotting against him. Given the short notice of such warning though, Arasaka couldn’t hope to muster overseas reinforcements to bolster his Night City Tower. Worse still, simply leaving America wouldn’t suffice. Undoubtedly, Yorinobu would have spotters and agents planted within Night City’s airports, maybe even watchers stationed right outside the Tower itself or observing its roof complex. If Saburo tried running, his murderous son would know.

Saburo decided to hunker down within his hidden office. The security alert also meant Oswell Spencer’s meeting was postponed. Sensing an opportunity of his own, Spencer delegated a few special units to assist with the imminent defense of Arasaka Tower.

As the sun sunk beneath the horizon, the stakes were established and game set. Hold out until Erebus’s Word-Bearers arrived.

Eerily enough, Yorinobu’s assault hadn’t begun yet, providing only more reason for worry.

“Confirming our suspicions. Militech’s involved in this little gangbang- bet they’re sending goons to help out. We figured out the little shit’s plan too late.”

“Nothing’s ever too late, American. No cause is doomed if there’s but one fool left to fight for it.”

“Real inspiring, Ruskie-boy. These aren’t Elvis-cosplaying gangsters we’re worrying about here though. These guys are trained killers. Mercs. People with itchy trigger-fingers and training only obscene wealth could buy.”

“We’ve tricks of our own. Cherdenko!”

“Da Comrade?”
Anatoly spoke, joining their discussion. Cherdenko, alongside several dozen KGB personnel, had joined this climatic final stretch of their quest. Their motivations were simple: they’d indeed brought justice to the Steel Dragon goons who terrorized the Tiberium mining operation, though just like everyone else; the glory and fame earned from beating back Yorinobu’s insurgency would earn them commendation like never before. Cherdenko even saw a political resurrection amidst his immediate future should he survive this. Plus, a group of Soviets heroically defending Arasaka Corporation could do wonders in ailing Soviet-Japanese relations.

“I want your men taking cover wherever they can. Behind tables, sofas, wherever. Barricade the lobby doors, take advantage of elevated positions, etcetera. We’ll make even stepping foot into this place a death-trap. Yorinobu’s gonna regret giving us this time to prepare.”

“Gotcha! You know… seeing you like this?”

“Hmm?”

Anatoly chuckled a little.

“Reminds me of Afghanistan. Guess your commanding style’s never changed all these years, huh?”

“If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it old friend.”

“Dawwww- I’m seeping tears right here. Really, I am! Tears of sappy joy at our homo- I mean, bonds of friendship, right. Hey, this place got a bar?”
Trager inquired.

“It’s Arasaka Tower. I’d be surprised if there was a floor without.”
Sergei replied, even flashing something of a smile to Trager for the first time.

“Cool. You’re buying the drinks big man.”

“Me!? Nyet nyet nyet- we’re on YOUR home turf, American.”

“Well technically I was born in Oregon. Anyways, how’s that fair!?”

“Just how it works, eh?”

“How about this- whoever scores the least kills buys.”
Cherdenko proposed playfully.

“You guys will just bullshit your scores I bet. Besides, did either of you bring your wallets?”

Sergei and Anatoly checked their uniform pockets, coming up short. Trager sighed and facepalmed.

“This is just like Murkoff. Trager, buy us drinks! Trager, buy us those cute toys at the gift shop! Trager, Trager, Trager… Christ, it’s like I’m everybody’s sugar-daddy. Oh sure, just because I’m Glitchtrap’s Human Resources guy means everything’s on MY tab. Oh I swear..”
Richard angrily muttered while walking off to coordinate the Daemon-Possessed as Anatoly and Sergei turned to each other, flashing stupid grins and laughing together like fifth graders.

 As they shared an uncharacteristically jovial moment though, a hulking figure soon approached them, standing taller than the Arasaka, Daemon-possessed, or Soviet defenders. A few stopped to examine the trenchcoated menace, though most were too divulged within their own duties, trying to coordinate some miasma of last-minute defense. Anatoly appraised this mysterious, grey-skinned fellow, though Sergei seemed familiar with it.

“The T-00 Unit. A direct result of Umbrella’s extensive genetic research. Plus a little help from my own genome.”

“I can see the family resemblance…”

“Spasiba. My endurance and unnatural resilience to Umbrella’s concoctions made me the Gene-Father of their Tyrant Combat Series. They’re all based off my provided template. This fellow follows orders without question, is practically unbeatable by conventional weaponry, and heeds tasks with a monstrous brilliance. Isn’t he beautiful?”

“Definitely the doe-eyed type, I’d say. Can you talk?”

The T-00 only stared at Anatoly. If expressions could kill…

“I call him Mister X. The Tyrants aren’t exactly renowned for their verbal communicative skills, though he’s a class of his own. Never once heard a noise or grunt uttered from those lips of his.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. This is Spencer’s help?”

Behind Mister X stood the Ivan-Tyrant variants.

“Best he could accrue on such short notice. I should feel privileged, eh? The chance to fight alongside my sons upon a battlefield of glorious making… I feel blessed indeed.”

“Your way of looking at things is enviable, if nothing else.”

Noticing them, an Arasaka agent with a slick suit, holstered katana, and mechanical red-sheened visor approached.

“Oi! You two- the Russian leaders here, right? Your men are better suited encircled around the front entrance. Get them off their current standings!”
He shouted with a thick Japanese accent.

“Huh!? That’s just risking them unnecessarily, why the hell would I do that!?”

“This is ARASAKA Tower, you foreigners are merely welcomed guests. Arasaka Soldiers will make the better use of those defensive emplacements anyway.”

“Gods… we’ve no TIME for this! Yorinobu’s army could be invading any moment!”

“I was ordered by the EMPEROR Saburo Arasaka himself to manage this defense! Unless you don’t want to spring a diplomatic incident Mister KGB, you’ll do exactly as I say. Got it-“

Behind them reverberated an explosion powerful enough that the seismic dampeners embedded beneath the Tower mistook the affair as an earthquake. A sharp piece of debris flung directly into the Agent’s neck, severing head cleanly from body with an immortalized expression of horrified surprise, whilst everyone else nearby was knocked clean off their feet and on their ass.

KA-BOOOOOMMMMMM!!!

Another followed from the front.

That’s why Yorinobu’s troops took their sweet time with launching their assault. They had the defenders pincered on both sides the entire time.

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The Velvet Glove

Dining Room

William didn’t even need to eat anymore. Or drink, sleep, breathe, etcetera. Becoming a Daemon Prince yielded benefits beyond the superficially destructive. Even so, that didn’t prevent him from indulging. Afton enjoyed the fineries and luxuries of life. He wore extravagant, eloquent robes and stellar, shimmering articles of clothing. His residences were enormous fortresses and castles eschewed with a medieval style given a technologically updated architectural prowess, and his dinners often consisted of cuisine so flavorful and fanciful that it outclassed what most his own citizens could enjoy.

It was never greed that drove Afton to embody these aspects of himself. Even when he’d been a humble businessman and serial killer, the acquisition of financial gain was never truly important for him. Money was solely a means to achieve power. Afton enjoyed being wreathed in open extravagance, announcing unto the wider universe the innate superiority of his own being. Here he was, an unassailable Demon Lord, an all-powerful God-King, Voice of Chaos and Proud Enforcer of the Gods’ Will. Mother always told him that Aftons only deserved the best.

Plus, it felt good to indulge.

Afton enjoyed another bite of the alien food splayed before him. A writhing, spherical dish of purple coloration with a meaty, succulent texture. Apparently, a female from a faraway world which could either dispense egg-esque foodstuffs if unperturbed or slaughtered outright and made into an enjoyable meal. Across the table, his allies; AFO, Zargothrax, Atriox, Muzan, and Coredrias were delving into similar accruements. Perturabo also stood nearby, his towering frame making it unfeasible to hoist himself a seat. The Lord of Iron instead watched this room carefully, an unbreakable military-man’s gaze watching for any sign of entrapment or sabotage by their hosts. Advisor stood silently and observingly, a white crow perched upon his cloaked, hooded shoulder, next to Afton.

Horatio and two other Glitchtrap-Guard members, Manuel Demago and Oliver Johannes, were also present. The Chaos-Knights were unspeakably disciplined, elite warriors of an ascendant creed whom stood unflinchingly at their Master’s side, equally careful as Perturabo was of any imminent, unforeseen dangers.

“Geh… I grow tired of moving from meeting place to meeting place. I ache for battle. Hot blood ignites my bones, demanding carnage.”
Atriox muttered, devouring crudely a prawn-esque creature, shell and all with a few vicious cracks.

“When a host invites you over to dinner, you accept the invitation, friend Atriox. Frustrating as it may seem, these mundanities are equally part of reigning over an empire. They’re just as important as the exciting raiding and pilfering you’re acquainted so well with.”
William suavely replied, the exceedingly calm, handsome face of his boring into Atriox’s. The Daemon Prince formerly had black eye-pupils, though after becoming fully enmeshed with Chaos’s unfettered corruption, they seized a dark purple hue instead. The Jiralhanae mercenary Warmaster seemed unintimidated by them though, merely grunting irritably and continuing his messy feasting.

“Goodness, could you display some table manners? I’m sat on your opposite side and I can still hear that abhorrent chewing.”
Muzan said, toying with a plate-full of noodle looking objects with his fork, though taking little interest and not bothering to consume them. The Demon-King found most human activities, including the necessity of eating an annoyance, preferring instead to devour humans themselves.

“BAH! Should my manners displease you Demon, I’m more then eager to settle the disagreement with my Hammer here.”

“Are you threatening me!? Kibutsuji Muzan!? King of the Demons and the ultimate lifeform!? The daring of you… I’ll have your head!”

“ENOUGH! This arguing is only further troubling my attempts to eat this peasant-food.”
Cried Zargothrax, having trouble keeping up his mask long enough to stuff his own plate of writhing alien worms down his gullet. Atriox and Muzan stared each other down, providing a mild amusement to Glitchtrap, who made little effort to prevent conflict. Ultimately though, they settled down and resumed their misery of being stuck within such a dreary environment in silence.

“The sensation of eating is similarly something we’ve forgotten. Even though this food isn’t familiar to us, it’s delightful, nevertheless. Mmm, to have a physical body again. It’s just wonderful!”
Coredrias remarked.

“I must say, tasty as the entrees are, I’m left wondering what exactly the meaning behind our visit is. Maybe our hosts have a few Quirks they’re willing to donate?”
Scarily enough, AFO seemed the most… normal of anyone here save Afton. If he wasn’t a Quirk-thieving Demon Lord, the man’s business attire combined with an exceedingly calm attitude would make him seem more a bemused dinner guest than a member of a Villain Council.

“My hope is it’ll provide us with the battle I’ve been seeking. I haven’t tested my mettle since my contest against Glitchtrap aboard the Conviction. Chainbreaker’s hearth hungers for bodies to add. I hear her voice pummeling even my dreams, angered at my recent inaction.”
Atriox muttered.

“You sure that’s just not schizophrenia? I’m not sure you’re supposed to be hearing voices during your dreams. Sometimes I still hear Angus McFife’s accursed war-cries in mine. Proletius says I should take medication, so I have. It’s helped, slightly.”
Zargothrax added; even the dark wizard was perturbed by Atriox’s battle-lust.

“I can’t fathom wanting to fight so much. I became the ultimate lifeform, exceeded all my boundaries, and ascended unto practical godhood to AVOID having to constantly struggle against lesser beings.”
Muzan chattered.

“Only one raised in war’s crib could understand its call. That undeniable allure which commands the mind of every warrior to pick up their weapon and charge bravely into combat. The Banished understand this creed well. It’s why their performance on any battlefield, on ANY world is superb.”

As the Conclave spoke amongst each other, Perturabo knelt, warsuit metal clanking and creasing- moving to whisper into Afton’s ear.

“I find myself agreeing with the Xenos. A sentence I never thought I’d say, admittedly. I tire of this tallying. Where comes your proving ground? When comes the opportunity to prove that you shall value my Legion and its services of bleeding, sieging, and conquering in your name, Daemon Prince?”

Springtrap only smirked calmly.

“Patience, Primarch. Your chance to make war in service of my Primordial Empire shall come. And once that brutal business’s done, I shall show you the extends of our gratitude to those who expend their skills in our wreath.”

Before long, the Conclave were accosted by an arrival. Entering with his own entourage was a tyrant clad in stark, sterile white. Escorted by attendants that were physically identical save a few specifics to their obvious leader, he suavely moved past the observing, judgmental Conclave without a word spoken to them, sitting down upon the empty seat at the table’s head. Wiring tubes were visible strung down from flowing white hair, and an array of lime-green eyes carefully sized up those gathered conquerors and warlords before him with a soul-piercing gaze.

“Emperor Glitchtrap. I’m so glad you could make my summon. Shall we get started?”

“But of course, Horde Prime. But of course.”

Chapter Text

Velvet Glove Dining Room

“You were the one who summoned us? This should be interesting.”
Cooly remarked AFO, leaning back in his chair.

“Indeed. I’m foreign to all but Glitchtrap himself here. The Galactic Horde has long been a trusted ally and trading partner to the Primordial Empire, have we not?”

While William didn’t openly refute the statement, the idea of Horde Prime being a reliable ally was a laughable prospect at best. The Galactic Horde, even among the coterie of authoritarian states the Primordials engaged in business with, were notoriously crafty and self-serving. Their entire modus operandi was built around worship of Horde Prime himself. Through a refined, consistent means of genetic cloning and editing, the object of the Horde’s worship managed to create scores of identical clones that could act as his biological host vessels once the current frame perished. It was supposedly a grandiose honor to become a flesh-puppet for Horde Prime’s undying, eldritch spirit; though Afton couldn’t fathom enduring such a servile, sycophantic, and ultimately doomed existence. Maybe he didn’t recognize his own status in relation to the Dark Gods.

More relevant still, Horde Prime’s immense ego made even barebones deals of establishing embassies and trade an incredibly and unnecessarily complex and bloated affair. His name needed first placement on projects, his clones; stationed at every diplomatic envoy the Horde held within the Primordial Empire- never shirked opportunities to preach the word of Horde Prime, espousing a cosmic doctrine often in direct conflict with the Chaotic faith, something that irritated Glitchtrap gravely.

These factors in mind though, Horde Prime’s request for meeting couldn’t have dispatched at more convenient a time. Perturabo desired assurances he’d not be abused and ignored as the Imperium or his fellow Traitor Primarchs did. Should the Iron Warriors make their comeback into wider universal affairs, their appearance would be lauded and celebrated as hallmarks of this new order. Advisor told Glitchtrap much, including Perturabo’s neurotic requirement for approval. The Lord of Iron surely grew pragmatic over the millennia hence the destructive Heresy, though that desire for recognition always burned brightly.

Horde Prime wouldn’t request William’s presence- and that of his Conclave- lest he required assistance necessitating their direct intervention, most likely of a military nature. Now William just needed to deploy his newly acquired technologically-orientated Astartes onto whatever battlefield Prime ascribed and reward them accordingly for their deeds, and Perturabo’s allegiance was courted. A simple, refined calculus.

 “We’re known to each other, yes. What’s this about, Horde Prime? If you wanted an increase in munitions shipments, you didn’t need to coordinate a gathering face-to-face.”

“Ahh, ever the clever Emperor you are, Glitchtrap. Indeed! This matter doesn’t concern our usual back-and-forth of menial goods and services. I’m aware the Helghast recently contracted you to crush the Banished?”

“The Galactic Community really does blabbermouth it seems. Yes, and I successfully uprooted them from Helghast territory.”

Horde Prime motioned to a cautiously observant Atriox, who appeared comically oversized for the provided chair.

“Though your method of application was rather unorthodox. You chose instead to ally with the pirate force, I can see.”

“Among the wiser decisions he’s ever made.”
Snorted Atriox, picking clean his Jiralhanae fangs with broken off shell fragments from the prawns he chomped into smithereens only minutes ago.

“Whatever the case may be, I hope your trend of confounding an agreement by aligning with the force it’s writ to set against won’t continue here. I require your help, pains me as it does to admit. There are… discordant hums amidst the rhythm of my great empire, hums I believe your specializations are most suited to silence.”
Horde Prime vaguely spoke while two clone-servants brought another tray of steaming hot food- a smoking slab of meat resembling a cured ham with sides of mysterious, alien-seeming fruits and vegetables stocked upon its side and slathered with an anonymous, dark-red sauce.

“Another military intervention? My last one was owed because of a debt to Scolar Visari established years ago. I’ve no such oaths or agreements with you, Horde Prime. What exactly can you offer besides empty platitudes?”
Afton inquired calmly, now seeking to discern what Horde Prime’s ambitions here were.

“An understandable inquiry, if not a blunt one. Your Primordial Conclave’s becoming the talk of the town. My reach is inexorable, my eyes and ears hold dominion over a trillion writhing lifeforms. Hushed whispers of fear and proclamations of awe rumor of a Dark King whose empire reaches forth from the Milky Way as a tsunami of darkness, conquering and bleeding all in its wake.”

“Well, don’t wear it out.”

Horde Prime momentarily scowled at Afton’s snark before moving on.

“I am willing to align myself and that of my grand empire to your cause, Emperor Glitchtrap, should you succeed in your outlined task. Of course, whatever plunder your forces acquire should act as sufficient payment consequently. I seek nothing but the silencing of this troublesome rebellion.”

“Rebellion? Do tell.”

“Show, not tell.”

As if emphasizing his point, Horde Prime revealed a remote which transfigured the gleaming viewport windows into a series of holographic screens depicting a variety of brutal scenes, mostly entailing a series of insurgents and rebels desperately battling against unending hordes of automated drones of curious design. Upon closer inspection, several members of the opposition appeared as younger women utilizing an array of magical powers and martial arts skills to dismantle the drones, though their numerical superiority was overwhelming their capabilities to fight back. Eventually, the enemy forces managed a sudden retreat, forcing Horde Prime’s troops to give an unavailing chase.

“What ridiculous costumes they’re wearing. Are those… Princesses?”
Zargothrax muttered incredulously, taking a keen interest with those female warriors who commanded the battlefield’s forefront.

“Indeed. The ‘Princess Alliance’, as it’s officially known, situated upon the lush, effervescent world of Etheria, the newest planet placed under my benevolent protection. I’m afraid the natives lack the comprehension to realize my arrival is nothing short of a grandiose boon for them- most certainly resultant of my lesser copy’s efforts planetside over the past few decades. The fool’s been pillaging and slaughtering thoughtlessly, giving the Horde a horrible reputation among the locals.”

“How tragic.”
Murmured Coredrias sarcastically, yielding a few disparate chuckles among the Primordial Conclave, though Afton remained stridently quiet and analytical of Horde Prime’s words.

“What concern does this world pose to you that you’re requesting my intervention, Horde Prime?”
Glitchtrap inquired thoughtfully.

“Any missing piece within the intricate puzzle of my society will cause tremendous stress upon the wider system. I cannot allow such insidious behaviors to proceed unpunished. Surely you understand. Even a small fire of hope may kindle into an uncontrollable inferno.”

Afton sensed Horde Prime was withholding information regarding the real purpose and urgency of his needing to crush the Princess Alliance, though didn’t bother badgering forth. Ultimately, this conversation was merely a formality. The Primordial Empire didn’t require much cassus belli to engage in constant wars, there were already dozens of open fronts of constant battle waging throughout this enlarging empire’s borders, adding another conflict onto that hungering war machine could only careen war’s lucrative benefits further.

“I cannot lie and state your professed reward is underwhelming. I’ve long sought the Galactic Horde as members of my council… plus, I believe with the resources and troops at my disposal, dispatching of these ragtag resistors will be naught but child’s play. You’ve got yourself a deal. Unless, of course, the Conclave disagrees?”

William thoughtfully shifted his gaze untoward the Primordial Empire’s governing body. A small echo of murmurs passed about the gathered sect of tyrannical leaders, though ultimately not a whisper of opposition emanated.

“So long as plunder is ours to seize and the weak tremble under our might, what reasons have we to oppose this edict? I only hope these Princesses scream as strongly as they can fight.”
Chuckled Atriox, clearly eager to mat his greyed fur with blood once again.

“I always have new creations to test, and what more authentic means then a battlefield?”
AFO subsequently stated.

“Life beyond the stars has always been a private curiosity of mine. Frankly, ever since I’ve achieved my goal of conquering the Sun, I haven’t really surmised myself on anything to achieve afterward. Perhaps I may find my answer within this military campaign.”
Muzan followed.

 “Excellent to hear brothers! The Galactic Horde will remain forever grateful for your assistances.”
 
“Yes yes, enough pleasantry. I assume we’ll be provided military intelligence regarding the known locations of this Alliance, alongside subsequent geographical overviews of this ‘Etheria’ to understand where best my troops and battlelines could be posited?”
Perturabo interjected; now reaching his patience’s limit and seeking to carve through bureaucratic procedure already.

“Of course! My other guests will prove most useful to your efforts in this regard. Do bring them in.”
Horde Prime replied, the last sentence uttered directed at the clone stationed upon the dining room’s entrance. Wordlessly nodding, the inferior copy of Horde Prime’s unabashed greatness returned with two figures walking closely at his side.

One seemed a humanoid, feline esque creature with springing ears that reacted closely to any manner of surrounding sound. Her face was a visage of caution and apprehension, though it quickly delved into confusion and momentary horror upon witnessing the entourage of guests seated at Horde Prime’s dinner table; this expression itself then dwindling into a fake distant coldness. Joining her was a stout, chubbier girl with elegant grey-purple robes, her doe-eyed face exuded far more blatant terror than her counterpart. Both were carted inside, carefully escorted by two more clones.

“And who are these young women?”
William inquired with a faint bemusement about him.

“This is Catra and Princess Glimmer, two honored guests of my prestigious hold who have volunteered to act as guides for your conquests of Etheria.”

Horde Prime flashed both girls a look silently indicating ‘be kind to our visitors or I’ll punish you in ways unimaginable’, though it was mostly directed at Catra. Afton subtly picked up on the social cues, figuring that Catra was more obedient unto Horde Prime’s wishes, for whatever reason being unknown, while Glimmer was more the problem associate here. Nevertheless, both nodded and respectfully bowed before the villainous entourage.

“I-it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances… I hope through peace, understanding, and cooperation, we could-“

“If that’s settled, shall we move to preparations. I believe another second spent in a meeting room will boil my blood enough to classify me an Avatar of Khorne.”
Perturabo roughly stated, now marching out of the Dining Room with an audible clank to his armor. Horde Prime opened his mouth to give the Iron-Lord pause, though a singular look from Springtrap quieted him. He needed them, and that meant their bad manners would need toleration. The other Conclave members shortly stood up and provided barebones goodbyes, not even batting eyes at Catra or Glimmer as they exited.

“Hmph. Brutes, the lot of them. But useful ones, I suppose. Your world shall be tamed, your rebellion shall die, Princess. And Adora’s precious Heart of Etheria will be mine. Take them to our new ‘friends’ brothers, they’ll be most helpful as advisory council, I think.”

“Wait, I told you that Adora needed to stay alive if you wanted to use the Heart of Etheria!”
Catra pleaded suddenly as the clones grabbed onto her again.

“Indeed! Who said anything about killing? Now run along, little sister. You’ve much work to do.”

Horde Prime’s insidious laughter echoed throughout the Velvet Glove as his servants lugged away a newly terrified Glimmer and Catra, who provided only mild physical struggle after realizing the sheer extent of their enemies’ power and surging with an unbeatable feeling of defeat.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arasaka Tower Lobby

“Sergei, to an untrained eye you’d appear a knowledgeable Soviet intellectual. A boy versed in Party politics, affairs, every manner of Communist dogma thanks to your father’s entrenched connections. But I’m a man of truth, and I realize yours acutely. You profess nationalism to Russian statehood to masquerade your desire to follow a leader worthy of your unending worship. To become a perfect slave to someone so grandiose, whose ambitions eclipse the very skies themselves… I’m afraid no such person exists. There’s no Messiah who could carry your dreams beyond the dirt-crusted Earth. So settle for me, will you Sergei?”

…

Petrov.

Those words obliterated Sergei’s spirit whilst he languished in that godforsaken shack, shuttered amidst cold trees which silently observed this dehumanization. Everything felt grey and bled, every joint ached, every muscle singed with hot pain, every nerve sprung with newly acquired feelings of hurt that hadn’t graced them beforehand. Though all these superficial assailments were meaningless compared to Vladimir’s mental undoing.

The idea his faith in Communism was fake, his childhood idolizing Lenin was merely an expression of unspoken innateness to become someone’s happy, willing slave. No… under Soviet rule, none were slaves. All were equal under the proletariat’s vibrant wisdom.

Or were those ideas themselves merely weak echoes of his father’s drilling and indoctrination? The natural consequences of being born into an upper-class mining family with close ties to Soviet elites? Pondering on that inquiry drove Sergei further into darkness and despair. Into truly believing his destiny was stationed as that of servant to another. To become another man’s enforcer, carrier of his will, rather than ever hoisting an idea or intuition of his own.

Scars permeated the white-haired boy’s face as he tearfully stared up at Petrov’s wicked emanation. The man sported an eerily wide grin and clasped closely a misused surgical scalpel which had slicked Sergei’s face several times over during this unhinged exercise. He approached wordlessly now, everything needing saying having been said and now the enjoyment would bubble forth again.

Sergei’s eyes clenched shut in terrible anticipation of imminent pain, though when they opened… they were instead peering upon an exquisite marble floor. Alit braziers of torch-flame scampered the hallway, as sitting calmly before him, flanked by entourages of suited guards and intrigued corporate officials of high rank sat the unreadable Lord Oswell Spencer.

“It must be uncanny to kneel upon the feet of an aristocrat, Sergei Vladimir. I thought your kind hated ours.”

Spencer haggardly commented, though lacking that usual snark of superiority which usually accommodated his vocal tones when speaking to others. The British Lord viewed something special within Sergei Vladimir, a rare mental and emotional quality most humans lacked- the willingness to embrace their proclivity to servitude.

“The old ideas are dead, Lord Spencer. Should I have kept to them any longer, I’d have become a corpse or incarcerated by now. The new Russia is lorded by robber-barons. Thieves in suits whose armies of taxmen and auditors pluck clean the carcass of our great nation. It’s a shameful massacre that any citizen of any nation should never witness. Yet we are.”

“And I’m not classified among your definition of ‘robber-baron’?”

Sergei pondered the question for only a moment.

“If your agents aren’t lying, your goals and achievements lie far beyond those of greedy CEOs whose sole interests lie in acquiring and maximizing their profits. If you truly seek humanity’s evolution into a superior species that is worthy of inhabiting this Earth- is capable of disregarding all these made-up ideas and nations and formulating into a unified race under righteous command… I’ve no reason to deny your request of service to me, Lord Spencer.”

A short judgmental silence followed… before Spencer bleated out with an excitable chortle and nodded.

“Brilliant is the occasion indeed when I find a soul so shimmering amidst the rough as you, Sergei Vladimir. A diamond buried within the foul stench of common man. I appreciate your candor and enjoy your motivations. They are pure heart. Rise. You shall be Umbrella’s sword and shield. Her greatest protector and most valiant soldier. Let us work together and create a better, superior world.”

“Da, My Lord.”

These visions eventually amalgamated into a ghostly, wispy imitation of Sergei’s father, watching him curiously.

Was Petrov correct? Sergei’s final destiny truly was obedient servitude to another.

…

Did it matter?

Some humans were leaders. Others acted as followers. Ultimately, both are utterly necessary for the continuation of coherent civilization. Sergei Vladimir needed a bright star to call his own, a commander that he’d happily lay down life and limb on behalf of. Oswell Spencer’s vision was pure, refined as sharpened, cut marble, and unburdened by impractical greed and short-sighted prejudice.

His dreams weren’t invalidated. He left the Soviet Military for a reason and wouldn’t be discounted because of that. No matter what!

So, get the hell up, Sergei. You’ve got a man’s dream to protect via your body, mind, and soul!

 …

Sergei’s eyes peered open weakly, considering the sprawling scene before him. Howls of contorted agony screeched throughout the chaotic haze of a battlefield. Beautifully trimmed bonzai trees were now burnt husks thrashed from their display platforms and hastily scattered about the gleaming floor now stained by gore, bodies, and scalding flame. As the blur disappeared and fatigue gave way to succinct recognition of his own injuries, Vladimir noticed Arasaka soldiers killing each other within the short distance. It appears Yorinobu’s rebels were clashing with company loyalists as bullets streamed about and bodies fell. It was difficult to discern which side was succeeding given the similarities between their armor, though if the surprise ambush was anything to judge by, the Loyalist forces were held at disadvantage.

“Geh… fuck… fuck! I can’t believe this. Must… must stop… Yorinobu.”
Sergei muttered, hauling himself to an upright position. The explosion didn’t seem to fatally damage him, and thankfully the scattered debris nor shrapnel from it failed to impact his body meaningfully. Leaning against a blasted-out platform that formerly hosted an immaculately kept bonsai tree which now appeared crestfallen on the ground, he tried taking gauge of the situation.

The rogue Arasaka units were joined by camouflaged troopers that were assisting them in gunning down any loyalist who dared rear their head. Militech. Trager’s intel was correct then, Yorinobu’s coup had invested backers that wanted to see success.

Still though, if the enemy hadn’t penetrated through the lobby and secured the wider Tower yet, that meant hope yet remained. Vladimir staggered back, slowly regaining control and function over his body, and tried to spot any recognizable allies amidst the faint cacophony of gunfire and death- a task soon completed. Cherdenko crept behind a displaced slab of floor alongside two KGB officers and three Arasaka Loyalists that occasionally returned fire at the oncoming enemy. Behind them, whatever remained of the KGB force and Daemon-Possessed were holding back the line and preventing Yorinobu’s Pincer movement from taking full effect. If they faltered, the Loyalists would become totally outflanked and get wiped out in seconds.

The Possessed were a vicious bunch, tearing apart their enemies’ flesh and stuffing chunks of delectable squishy meat down their serrated gullets, making these attackers pay dearly for every casualty they reaped of their number. Even so, numbers were becoming instrumental as time increased, and even the monstrous Possessed were beginning to slowly chip away. Whenever one died, Sergei noticed a mysterious green wisp of ghostly energy manifesting as a horrifying face dissipating from the body and whisking out of fathomable existence.

Gripping hold of his intact Mauser machinegun, Sergei levelled it with an oncoming Militech goon that was nearly about to gun down an unaware Arasaka Loyalist, spraying down the enemy with ferocity even though Sergei himself could barely hear the bullet-fire thanks to his ears ringing soundly. The man lurched and predictably fell upon the Lobby floor, the Loyalist turning around and saying, ‘thank you’, at least Sergei assumed from vague lip-reading. Unfortunately, these good fortunes ended suddenly as another bullet projectile ran through the Arasaka Trooper’s mouth as he spoke, splaying blood and shattered shards of teeth and jawbone as he collapsed onto the floor.

Sergei noticed two Arasaka traitors’ approach with their SMGs abreast. Weakly angling his Mauser, he prepared for the worst…

THOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!!

Both men were physically crushed by superior force! Hearing quickly and violently returned to Sergei’s ears as he momentarily staggered and yelped.

“GAAHH! Mister X!? Oh- it’s good to see you, my boy! But warn me before you do that again!”

The Tyrant, whose trenchcoat was splayed with numerous tears and cuts earned from enemy gunfire, responded with a faint nod of acknowledgement as the battle continued. Beneath its boots were the writhing remains of the traitors. Instinctively, Mr. X shielded Sergei once more from a storm of bullets, as more Militech operators began fielding down the Lobby. How they managed to surpass Arasaka Corporation’s layers of security would be found through investigative committees and thorough searches later, right now they just needed to outlast this siege.

Grabbing Sergei whilst still shielding his gene-father protectively, Mr. X trampled over to where Cherdenko resisted the enemy forces. Around his slab of cover more Arasaka Loyalists, disparate KGB officers, and Possessed rallied forth, a valiant effort to stave off the enemy attackers as the defenders were being slowly surrounded. Explosions sounded throughout the lobby; windows cracked into haphazard glass pieces, and chaos subsumed the entirety of Arasaka Tower. The very structure itself began shaking under the weight of this unholy struggle.

Mister X rushed over to Cherdenko’s cover, Sergei kept closely in tow, kneeling and delivering the Soviet expat at the pudgy KGB Colonel’s side.

“S-sergei? SERGEI! I thought you were dead, blyat! Thank the stars!”

“I’m a little surprised about it myself! Where’s the American?”

“Trager!? I lost track of him when the bombs went off. We need to hold this lobby, if we allow them to pierce through here, the rest of the Tower’s at risk!”

“Tsk… I should’ve known Yorinobu had a devilish trick like this up his sleeve. It was all proceeding too smoothly.”

“Nothing we could about it now. Have any ideas?”

As Cherdenko asked, a screaming, charred body of an Arasaka Loyalist Samurai flew over them. Sergei contemplated for several moments, trying to unearth a solution to their predicament. The enemy had them outgunned, outmanned, and surrounded. If this pattern kept up a few minutes longer, any hope of Saburo Arasaka’s reign would perish forever.

“… Hand me your grenades, all of you.”

Everyone stared at Sergei as if the Umbrella Commander had finally lost his mind.

“W-what… are you serious!?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking Anatoly? Come on, all of you!”

“H-hey, wait! We don’t take orders from you! Where’s Sensei Aragawa!?”
Interloped an Arasaka Soldier into the conversation as another small explosion shook the piece of cover everyone crept behind, once more destabilizing it. Two or three more hits like that and they’d be sitting ducks out in the open.

“Sensei Aragawa is currently trying to navigate the intricacies of life without a functioning head on his shoulder’s kiddo, we’re the highest-ranking officials here and the best you’ve got to survive. Agh, damn it all- listen to the madman and give him your ordinance! NOW!”

Cherdenko’s authoritative tone seized control over the situation. With desperation about them were a series of frags and smokes clinked as they were handed over to Vladimir’s meaty palms. Upon hoisting all of them, Sergei, with a swift and bedazzling motion, unpinned them all simultaneously, causing everyone present to balk with alarm- save the Possessed, who were calmly observing the chaos unfolding with stark curiosity.

“Well, not the craziest thing I’ve ever done. Laws of physics, don’t fail me now!”
Sergei cried madly, tossing all the available grenades forth towards the lobby walls. They dinked momentarily upon their targets before a shower of explosions lined the structure of Arasaka Tower’s entry-point, undoubtedly causing a wider ruckus nearby as civilians were beginning to realize there was a war being waged in the city’s most prominent building. Scaffolding, more glass shards, bars, piping, and beyond began clattering down upon the advancing enemy host. Militech operators were buried by larger chunks of debris or outright pierced into oblivion, receiving numerous singing flesh wounds. Their Arasaka Rebel counterparts were confused and tried quickly to recover, and that’s all their foes required.

“Don’t let them recover! ATTACK, NOW!”

A resounding, energized cheer posited from the defenders as they leapt forth victoriously, their faces primed, and weapons bared. The Possessed motioned like fast, rage-filled zombies seeking to rip apart the flesh of anyone they’d encounter. The rebel forces were taken by unhappy surprise, beginning to fall like sagging dominoes as they were still dazed and some crushed under the rubble of Sergei’s making. As they advanced forward, Mr. X was seen pulverizing anyone that foolishly stood in his path, making no noise eerily while crushing skulls and trashing armor like crumpled paper with simply his bare hands.

As they persevered forward, a familiar figure was noticeable now, whittled down and scored with blood his own and those of his contenders. Trager, with a broken edge of his Bone-Shear, stood above a small pile of Militech corpses of his making. An Arasaka Rebel angled a vibro-knife and threw it directly at Richard’s back, though Trager managed to sense the imminent danger sufficiently, turning around and knocking back the flying projectile with a TWANG!

The rebel unveiled a machine-pistol with automated enemy detection systems and advanced, only for Trager to bury the broken-off Shear into his knee, causing a horrendous crack and splay of blood and bone as the man collapsed screaming. The former Murkoff official moved over, pulling out his killing instrument and finishing the man with a barbaric chest-stab, before noticing the advancing party of KGB officers, Daemon-Possessed, Arasaka Loyalists, Sergei Vladimir, Anatoly Cherdenko, and Mr.X. Waving over to garner their attention, he soon encountered the two Russian captains of this battle-effort.

“So, I see you ladies aren’t late for the party after all!”
Trager spoke with an increasing unhinged erraticism about his voice. It seems tonight’s festivities were already spiking the mutilated former convict and sexual abuser with adrenaline and a dire requirement to stuff something sharp into the enemy’s gooseflesh.

“Apparently not. We’re clearing the lobby, stay on our ass!”
Sergei replied, keeping his Mauser close and well-handled despite bleeding from an earned gash on the forehead, probably the wound garnered from the initial bombing.

“What about the enemy troops trying to sneak in through the back? They could still try completing their pincer movement, and if that happens, we’re screwed!”
Cherdenko rightfully stated with worry. In their foreground, Mr. X judo-kicked a terrified Militech soldier who’d decided dying for his air-conditioned corporate masters just wasn’t worth it too late, snapping the man’s backbone into oblivion as he careened across the lobby.

Just as he raised such concern, the back of Arasaka Lobby began falling to enemy control. Militech Minotaur mechs and Centaur-exosuits, another front of Yorinobu’s rebel infiltrators, scores of mercenaries and boostergangers waving about primitive weaponry such as blunt clubs began sauntering forth, overwhelming even the ravenous Possessed. Their Daemonhosts couldn’t make much of their ordinary human vessels save ripping apart the enemy, unable to properly use any conventional weapons and thus falling like flies as the enemy isolated and crowded them, slowly damaging them until they were exhausted and their Daemons expelled back to Warp-lands.

“That’s not good. That’s REALLY not good.”
Trager muttered.

“Thanks Captain Obvious. If I want anymore statements of that caliber I’ll consult my eyes from now on.”
Sergei irritably spat as the rebel coalition began overtaking all of Arasaka Lobby.

“Great. I get to die with the rudest Russian this side of the planet. I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Cherdenko seemed almost resigned, though a twinkle soon fomented among the corners of his tired, weathered eyes. Before the enemy mob could successfully destroy the frontal regiments of Arasaka’s defenses and advance forward to eliminate Saburo; currently cowering within his secretive penthouse office, a series of rocket-propelled grenades clashed directly into their midst, creating an orange hell as they were scattered about like ragdolls. Men burnt alive, screaming as flame overtook them, while others began spazzing out, sputtering and electrically malfunctioning as their cyberware failed them and couldn’t protect from the intense, sudden damage. By now, all these explosions were detrimental to Arasaka Tower, making Anatoly ponder how much the cost for rebuilding this fraught madness would be once it was over.

Sergei and Richard turned towards the RPG launch’s origins, only to look upon a godsend sight. Streaming into Arasaka Lobby and relieving the Loyalists, gunning down every Rebel or Militech goon within their sight were elements of the US military. Their presence soon coated the extensive Lobby’s entirety, their advanced machineguns and assault rifles carving down the enemy’s swelled ranks. Having an element of surprise, they were unopposed as they easily terminated all who dared oppose them.

President Underwood pulled through. Trager sighed with an inexorable relief as their group was founded upon by a gasmask-wearing fellow whose eyeholes were an overwhelming shade of reflective blood-red. He carefully clasped an SMG with a Red-Dot Laser sight attachment. Sergei appeared to recognize this person; eyebrows perked.

“Agent HUNK?”

“Sergei Vladimir sir- Umbrella Corporation and the United States Marine Corps have collaborated in relieving the illegal siege of Arasaka Tower. Our current objective is quite clear: elimination of all terrorist threats within the vicinity. What’re our defensive options? It seems much of this area has been demolished.”

“Understood. We’ll need to make our own cover from the destroyed parts of the Lobby. There’s plenty of spare debris we could repurpose. Do you believe another wave is incoming?”

“All intel suggests the night’s only beginning sir. Are they with you?”
HUNK muttered, motioning towards a bewildered Anatoly and Trager.

“Da.”

“Roger that. I’ve designated them as non-hostiles. Now come on, we need to establish a workable perimeter before more bogeys show up.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kingdom of Mystacor

Mystacor. The pearl of Etheria. Built upon an ornate First Ones Citadel and thus unknowingly containing a key to their planet’s destiny, A floating fortress domineered by serenity, where sorcerers practiced their magical arts whilst surrounded by complete peace and silence, only the chirping of birds and rolling steams of local hot springs providing them supportive sound. Currently reigned over by Princess Castapella, rarely could a quieter sanctuary be uncovered within all the world.

Yet even now, the drums of war echoed near even quiet Mystacor. The immaculate spires and wondrous chambers which contained accumulated centuries of arcane knowledge were at risk of pilfering and conquest via the vile Galactic Horde, who descended upon Etheria after Princess Glimmer’s folly of utilizing a nigh planet-destroying weapon, forcing Alliance hero Adora, also known as the She-Ra to destroy her sword in preventing a further cataclysmic destruction.

Castapella moved towards the Lunarium, typically used to observe the monthly lunar eclipse that would stagger even the most darkened hearts with its shining, ethereal beauty- though also doubling as the central auspice of political governance for the realm. As Head Sorcerer, Castapella convened bi-weekly sessions to discuss pertinent matters, though given the recent evolution of their long war against the Horde evolving into a resistance against an Intergalactic Empire, these meetings were often daily, and the effects of owing constant attendance were showing on even the brave Sorcerer-woman’s features.

Convened around her were Mystacor’s other various leaders, all pining with brave faces despite the unwieldly circumstances. The local Horde’s armies under Hordak’s deathly leadership were already threat enough, but to now contend with Horde Prime and his vile chipping technology which turned even the bravest and truest of individuals into unthinking slaves escalated this insanity to new levels. Losing would now entail the complete erasure of their culture, people, homeland, way of life… Castapella decided to exult such terrible thoughts from her mind. Kindness, love, and righteousness always persevered in the end, right?

“Good evening, everyone. I’ll skip the pleasantries and get right to business. What reports from the front? Let’s start with you, Sorceress Keela.”

An auburn-haired woman with a humble set of glimmering blue robes nodded and approached the center, where one would usually observe the beautiful crystals of the Lunarium chamber or bedazzling eclipse from. Ironically, that very monthly eclipse of three moons aligning was taking place tonight, though none really accounted for that celebration given the prevailing circumstances.

“Our allies embedded among the Alliance report an unfortunate series of losses throughout the forest and mountainous areas. Most available troops have fallen back to Bright Moon for rallying. We’ve utilized our magicks best we can to halt the Horde’s advance, but our newest frontline reports indicate a rather… disturbing development.”

“What’s this development?”
Castapella inquired, her voice betraying slight worry.

“The enemy forces are… growing stronger. We’re not sure what exactly they are or where they came from, but we believe Horde Prime’s called in various allies to assist with his campaign of conquest against Etheria. If you’d allow me…”

“Of course. Take center stage, Keela.”

Keela enmeshed herself in mystic enchantments, uttering an ancient word of power which allowed her to conjure an illusory vision. Across Etheria, within kingdoms such as Dryll, Plumeria, or Salineas among others, strange monstrosities and unknown aberrances were joining the Horde-Bots and Prime-Clones in their vicious attacks on Alliance entrenchments. Wicked, spiked things with horrid bayes for blood, soulless automatons similar to their Horde-Bot contemporaries; though bearing an amphibian shape and exterior, amidst countless others. The sights placed dread into Castapella, who could only watch in fervent horror.

“By Etheria… has word reached Adora and her friends of these developments? They must be ready for these new obstacles. W-what are these things…”

“We have already dispatched the necessary emissaries, though I believe they might’ve encountered a few elements of these invaders already. Head Sorceress… I believe I speak for everyone here when I ask- what exactly should we do?”

A trembled silence befell the Mystacorian council. Castapella anchored herself in monkish thought for a moment.

“Should the remaining Princesses be able, they must connect to their Runestones and call upon the strengths of their magic. I believe combined, they may place up enough resistance for Adora to make effect the Heart of Etheria. It’s only legend and myth, though if true, it could prove the key to saving our world. The Heart would contain a litany of magical power accrued over the millennia… unleashed upon these invaders, it could spell our salvation.”

“Or our doom!”
Argued another Sorcerer, Hudal, a tan-skinned young man wearing modest robes.

“We’ve little choice in the matter. We face an unpspeakable apocalypse upon our doorstep either way. Our hopes now lie in the Heart of Etheria and accessing it before the Horde or their vile new allies do!”
Retorted an elder sorceress, Jornia- whose wisdom and skill Castapella often consulted within the dark’s private hours as guidance to command Mystacor. Should even the reserved elder of her state’s governance agree that Etheria’s Heart was their only option, Castapella was inclined to agree. A short debate sparked among Mystacor’s premiere magic users, though Castapella silenced it.

“I shan’t lie… Etheria now faces struggle unlike anything witnessed before. The Horde was previously a paltry army, a local garrison commanded by the fallible face of Hordak. Now we face waves upon waves of enemies from outer space. Their intentions for our world are simple: if not outright extermination, then total slavery. The She-Ra is our prophetic savior, though that doesn’t mean we cannot pitch in. We must recall Adora here and prepare her for this ultimate mission.”

“But she doesn’t even have her sword!”
Hudal argued.

“I’m afraid it’s a risk we must necessitate for the future of our people, Hudal. Keela, can you prepare a summoning-“

“Ho there, friends! Fellow practitioners of the arcane arts are so difficult to come by these days. Mind if I join you?”

A new voice uttered menacingly among the group. Castapella’s chestnut eyes darted towards the source, as did everyone else’s. From a whirlwind of flitting blueflame cast upon the chamber’s end was a towering humanoid figure of ornate, aqua-colored armor with golden finishes about it; compounded with flimsy red-robes kept fitted throughout niches carved in the armor itself. A helmeted, lording figure reeking of magical insights and unknown powers, though tempered by an obvious lust for accruing more knowledge. Castapella could sense that this being’s knowledge of the mystical world that lurked just beyond material usage was extensive, perhaps exceeding anyone in Mystacor’s history- Shadow Weaver included.

Her stomach formed a pit as she concluded quickly that he wasn’t truly here to learn from Mystacor’s vast vaults and libraries.

“I-I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. We are hosting an urgent meeting. If you’d be so kind to follow our guards outside-“

“No- no… I believe I’m in the right place. I was told Etheria’s brightest magical minds gathered here to hone their skills and master the arts. Though looking upon this assembly, perhaps I was deceived. I’m presented a pitiable cobbling of novitiates falsely believing they’ve discerned the universe’s secrets and am told a great potential lurks within.”

The intruder’s voice licked with insidious intention, a thick accent of ancient, unknown origins. As he stepped closer moonlight peering through the Lunarium’s specific openings, Castapella could truly appreciate how large and physically grander this fellow was compared to herself or her compatriots. They appeared almost as insects before him. Instinctively, she prepared an attack spell that would unleash a bolt of righteous energy against this figure, though awaited the correct time.

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you then.”

“You certainly will be. Honestly, when I’d been initially tasked with this assignment, I believed it a snide act of discrimination from my colleagues and superiors. Ah- the magic user kingdom must be subdued by our own magic-users. Maybe they’ll chat the day away over books and tomes no one cares about. That’s how little they think of me- of us. Indeed, I was hoping before this bloodshed began, I could’ve discerned a few cosmic secrets with any one of you. Though if this is your absolute best… I doubt your libraries hold anything of remote significance either. Even still, out of respect for your dedication and practicing of magical arts, I shall have them preserved. Mayhaps one day, a single page ought to wrest value to my studies.”

“You’re with the Horde?”

“Affiliated. I am Lord Kozzan Vetgel of the Crystal Harbingers Warband of the Thousand Sons Legion. That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”

“I see. My apologies in advance then.”

Without warning, Castapella, whose hands were previously crept behind her back, unleashed her streams of attack- two bolts of energy containing much of her mystic might collided against Kozzan without warning at incredulous speed.

They harmlessly dispersed upon contact with his shield.

“RUN! ALL OF YOU, RUN!”

“But we can fight-“

“HUDAL, I SAID RUN! GO!”

“Sorceress-“

Castapella flashed the worried man a brave smile in spite of the imminent terror. Her beautiful complexion and fearless demeanor placed some false faith into Hudal’s heart as his compatriots bucked and fled. That maybe, just maybe, Castapella stood a chance against this foe.

That he’d see her again. That he could finally tell her how much she meant to him. Though something resonating deep within Hudal’s aching heart warned him that indeed, this faith was exactly what he truly sensed- a falsehood.

“I…”

He croaked out weakly.

“I know.”

Castapella softly replied, offering an acknowledging, comforting nod. She always knew. Of course, she always did. Hudal was just too damn scared to truly approach her.

“Please don’t make me go. I want to stay here. I want… I want to stay with you. Please. Castapella-“

Before Hudal could plead any longer, Kozzan audibly sighed and swirled upon his right palm (his left clutched a staff of entropic power) a vortex of hissing sorcery, manifesting together as a series of devastating miniature comets that levitated momentarily between his claws. Castapella, in that moment, had decided.

“I’m sorry.”

She huskily whispered. Before Hudal realized what’d been transpiring, an invisible gust of force tossed him outside the Lunarium chamber, the doors closing shut.

His begging scream only lasted two seconds before the breath was knocked from his chest.

“What a sad sight. Sorcerers and spellcasters holding attachments outside the study of arcane power. Truly, I pity your peabrained mind. It could encompass so much greatness if not limited by this suffocating realm and its dimwitted populace. Tell me, do you honestly find solace within this company of insects and ingrates?”

“I shouldn’t be the one pitied here, stranger. Whatever or whoever you are, it’s obvious you’ve lost sight of what truly matters. Magic’s potency is doubled when one is truly fighting for what they care about. What they love. Seeking only power will create a hole, a weakness that could only be filled by acquiring more and more to fill that unceasing void. One who formerly studied here learnt that lesson the hard way.”

“Shadow Weaver, was it? Her tales were quite verbose when it came to Mystacor.”

“She’s your informant? I should’ve damn well guessed. That woman couldn’t be trusted. Not after what happened with Micah.”

“She understood that bonds made her weak.”

“I’ve heard enough. Are we going to talk or fight?”

“I was finding our discussion somewhat enlightening on the way inferior magic-users thought. But if you’re so eager to die…”

Castapella managed only a meager defense of enchantments that dispersed upon meeting Kozzan’s comets of power. Two obliterated her defense, the last struck her body and incurred a sizzling, burning sensation, nigh mimicking the sun’s unfettered blaze. She wailed with hurt, though her mind forced a sudden recovery.

Fight. Fight till the end. Defiance. For Etheria. For Angella. For Micah. Her niece, her friends…

Everyone…

Biting her lip and holding back another screech, Castapella managed another assault, her hands flitting out scores of icicles that shot out with sudden might against Vetgel. The Thousand Son merely laughed condescendingly in response, a reverberating and terrible noise that shot into Castapella’s very bones- before twisting about his free hand yet again and dissolving those same icicles into sloshes of water pattered on the floor.

“Are you even trying?”

“Don’t patronize a Sorceress of Mystacor!”

Angella, sounding more determined than ever created another whisk of icicles. Kozzan, now toying with his prey, dissolved them yet again.

“Hahahahahahaha! Truly, you’re an insult to my skills!”

“Insult? No. THIS is the insult!”

Castapella cried out and surged another vest of icicles. Kozzan prepared to disperse them as he’d done prior, though realized too late it was merely a feint. Instead of her usual assault, Castapella stomped onto the Lunarium floor, creating a sudden fissure that unveiled a series of pink-colored spikes of wispy might. They were too quick for even Vetgel to keep up, and the last dinked off his helmet!

“GRAAGGHH! YOU BITCH!”

What Castapella now saw… truly frightened her.

Vetgel’s face…

There wasn’t one.

Instead of a discernible humanoid visage with noticeable features staring back at her, the Head Sorceress of Mystacor looked upon an empty husk of a being. Maybe once organic, this creature lost all humanity uncountable eons ago. What remained was a plume of semi-sentient dust. A cloud of malevolent blue smoke seeped about from the armor. Not even a pair of coherent eyes greeted her.

“W-what… what are you?”

“Me? I am the direct result of toying into the unknown. Hmm? You pity my condition? Me? Your enemy?”

“Stranger… I know not what drives you to harm me or bring death to my home. I know not why your master’s have chosen to align with Horde Prime… though all I know for certain is that NONE deserve the condition you languish in. For whatever sin was contemplated that turned you into this… thing… if you ever were a person… my condolences. Truly.”

This sudden outreach of empathy… it enraged Kozzan. Beyond all belief, he was drenched into emotions that he believed was impossible for one condemned by Ahriman’s Curse. His staff warbled as his bonked off helmet levitated back, affixing onto whatever shadowy excuse of a ‘head’ he possessed with an according click.

Vetgel experienced every major interstice in Thousand Son history. Magnus’s leadership, the Burning of Prospero, their wars against the Space Wolves and Ultramarines and obedience to Tzeentch’s unknowable machinations, and obviously Ahriman’s hubris condemning them Psykers all. Throughout it all, he always wondered secretly, a secretive question buried beyond the sight of even the most experienced telekinetic fortune-readers… What if the God-Emperor reached out to Magnus with kindness on that fateful day he shattered His grand design? What if someone, just a singular soul, saw the Sons for the tortured souls they were, offering a guidance not provided by an uncaring manipulator of a god.

Now experiencing even a sliver of that reality, even a miniscule dosage of that empathy which he’d been denied the entirety of his existence as a brutal killing machine…

It infuriated him.

Because now he understood just how warm that felt. But he couldn’t savor the feeling, not really. Being constituted of dust and death denied that salvation. And all he could have now was murder, destruction, and hatred.

And that jealous insight of seeing someone who’d so clearly been raised with love drove him madder than any spell could.

“Just DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!”

Kozzan unleashed a series of uncharacteristically destructive spells opposed to his usually becalmed arsenal. Lighting bolted from his clawed fingertips, his staff beamed with precise bolts of concentrated flame and magical energy warbled into rainbow-esque configurations of light that zapped against Castapella, causing her to once more wail out in anguish as she couldn’t fathom the powers waylaid against her, let alone cast a defense in time. Her body became bruised and battered as the gravity of magick cast against her shook the Lunarium’s very foundations. Debris fettered from the ceiling and windows broke, crystals older than Castapella herself broke apart from the vibrations of the killing they bore silent watch unto.

Eventually, Kozzan regained his composure. When the dust cleared, Castapella lay unmoving within a pool of her own lifeblood, agonizingly breathing and unable to make even the smallest contortion or movement. The Thousand Son approached with an audible clank, preparing a finishing move to end this unspeakably brief encounter.

“A curious trick you unveiled, Sorceress-wench- though it didn’t avail you. I almost feel bad for ending your life. Then again, it was so unceremoniously pathetic already. I’m putting down a dying animal, a degenerative copy of what a truly wizard resembles.”

Castapella hacked out a clot of blood, weakly staring up at her imminent fate as the bluelight reflected off Kozzan’s arc of power that would momentarily send her to whatever oblivion awaited the Etherian people.

“I…”

“You what?”

“I count myself lucky… for a life so filled with love… and you so unfortunate… to have never known it.”

Kozzan’s anger flared once again.

“Wrong answer. Die in disgrace.”

Vetgel’s right hand burst out a ghostly fleet of chains from an impromptu collective of transdimensional portals. These chains bore sharpened ends that pierced directly into Castapella’s flesh, ripping it asunder and causing her further anguish as she only gurgled instead of crying out with pain. Her robes were now tattered and ripped, caked in her blood and loose intestines, her eyes almost keeled over. The chains bore into her, wrapping around the entirety of her person, before a bright, light-blue light emanated from their constriction.

Subsequently, only a pile of grey dust was left of Mystacor’s mistress.

“What a menial encounter this was.”

Kozzan took a purvey outside from the Lunarium’s makeshift windows- made via a few stray explosion spells cast during their scuffle. The floating city-state of Mystacor was engulfed in fire and death. Above, Banished Cruisers and Thousand-Son starfighters dispatched payloads of ordinance upon population centers everywhere. Entire buildings evaporated into discounted dust and scattered debris. The screams of locals were hearable as alien warriors and Rubric Marines cut down everyone in their path, giddily massacring (or in the Rubrics case, soullessly) their way about Mystacor. A few Horde warships were also present, Kozzan could see Horde-Bots capturing swaths of unfortunate natives and hoisting them back into the vessels from whence they came, certainly to indoctrinate or experiment on them.

The Rubric Marines achieved their objectives, such as securing the city center and hot springs, with cold efficiency. Kozzan noticed how identical they were in function and nature to Horde Prime’s droids- it internally disgusted him. The Banished raiders were truly alive. The unique collective of aliens taking raucous pleasure from their kills and pillaging, from their devouring of terrified flesh and thieving of artifacts and possessions of note from homes. Kozzan wished he could express that range of emotion into anything.

Before further reflection was had, his helmet’s vox-channel beeped to life.

“Lord Vetgel, this is Commander Voridus! We took all major city-points, though have run into stiffer than expected resistance near the city square. Full control will unfortunately be delayed by about ten minutes. Is that acceptable?”

Usually Kozzan would spitefully threaten the officer in question, though today, he felt resigned to simply approve of this missight.

“A regrettable delay, but with acceptable reason. Just seize the square and meet me in their Hall of Sorcerers once you’re done. We shall meet with Ser Proletius’s army and prepare for the joint invasion of Bright Moon. The plan is unchanged.”

“By your will, Lord Vetgel. The Banished and Thousand Sons have scored a great victory today! Glory to the Primordial Empire!”

“Glory to the Primordial Empire.”

Voridus ended the call as Kozzan looked up.

The lunar eclipse had begun, and viewable from the destroyed, rubble-stricken Lunarium, three moons aligned together to create an unforgettable cosmic occurrence.

“Hmm. That is… beautiful.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arasaka Tower

Five Hours into Yorinobu’s Siege

They were unending as they were determined, the damned fools.

Arasaka Tower had seen blood and death unlike anything endured beforehand, the Lobby now choked with piles of bodies haphazardly stacked upon each other with reckless abandon. The unlikely combination of Umbrella’s UBCS, the US Marine Corps, Cherdenko’s KGB battalion, Daemonic-Possessed, and Arasaka Security Forces were vicariously holding out- a variety of motivations fueling them. Yet Yorinobu had planned accordingly for such vicious resistance, and while the American military’s involvement wasn’t expected, it was accounted for as Militech had little issue carting in more troops, armor, and ordinance to even the playing field.

The Lobby was caved out and adjacent Corpo Plaza excavated or caught amidst the crossfire. Helicopters belonging to rival teams pulverized each other within midair flight trajectories, mortar-troopers bombarded their foes from above, and snipers picked off choice combatants from afar. Sergei Vladimir could only be described as tired and fatigued beyond his wildest dreams, clustered with a group of KGB survivors, Possessed Remnants, Arasaka Loyalists, and Marines. Mortars shelled their cover, and they responded by peeking their heads out and spraying oncoming waves of hired mercenaries and rebels with enough bullet-fire to make an Afghan gun market proud.

They’d settled into this repetitive pattern after holding out for three hours until a pack of Militech Minotaurs and tanks rolled into the lobby, now clogging up the place’s entryway. Neither side could now risk a full push lest completely compromise their position, ending with a bloody stalemate. Should the rebels advance, they’d be cut down by the entrenched Loyalists and their aligned parties. Should the Loyalists advance, the tanks and Minotaur’s built-in grenade launcher attachments would blow them to smithereens.

Agent HUNK lurched over and blasted down another two Rebels that overstepped their boundaries, turning back to face his team.

“There’s a reason why they’re placing everything into this assault. Tonight’s their best chance at success. Should they fail here their momentum will collapse into nothingness and their armies will scatter. We just need to hold out until the sun rises and more reinforcements arrive.”

“You’re certain they actually will? I thought the Marines were the end of it.”
Sergei murmured hopelessly, realizing that perhaps their cause here was truly lost. Trager sought to make mention of the possible Word-Bearer arrival, though surmised that Erebus probably screwed them over after realizing investment within this entangled web of blackmail and political intrigue wasn’t worth all the endured trouble and simply abandoned everyone to their fate, comforted with knowing his dirty laundry was erased forever.

It certainly would be in character.

“Sir- we can’t lose hope. Our mission is defending Arasaka Tower until our last.”

Cherdenko groaned and wiped his face with a dead Arasaka Samurai’s handkerchief kept close on hand. Fewer than half of the initial KGB overseas force remained, only the hardest and toughest men, yet they were starting to display signs of fatigue. It could only be hoped the enemy was mirroring their slow death.

“He’s right. The mission comes first, as much as I hate to say it. I can’t exactly return to Russia empty-handed either way. They’ll have my head even if I survive this insanity.”

“At least you could expect a quick death if you fail your superiors.”
Joked Trager, to which a few dark chuckles emerged. Gallows humor was probably their sole saving grace right now.

“I suppose this isn’t the worst crowd to die with. I just wished the war was more instrumental than just a corporate power struggle between father and son.”
Muttered Sergei ruefully, having not envisioned such an inglorious end.

As some murmurs of agreement rang out among the survivors, Cherdenko felt nearly at his limit. The tank was nearly empty, so to speak. This situation felt familiar. When his battalion and he were ambushed by Muhjahideen mountain fighters and were totally outflanked. Death fast approached, only staved off via an attack helicopter’s bombardment. During those hours, it was Cherdenko’s ferocity, his charisma, his refusal to bend or break against the enemy’s willpower that saved them.

And so, it would here.

“No.”

“What?”
Trager inquired with a head tilt.

“I said no. We are NOT going to die like this. Gentlemen… on other days, maybe, you could be classified my enemies. Arasaka Corporate Troopers. American Marines. Umbrella mercenaries. Whatever the hell Richard Trager is. I’ll say this. Today- we are united under common cause. Yorinobu Arasaka wants to change the world; he thinks for the better. But the Primordial Empire is our only future now. If his minions march into the elevators and massacre Saburo and his security team, Arasaka Corporation will fall, and we’ll be powerless to prevent that madman from making ruin of the world order. Everything shall collapse into chaos. Our carefully cultivated lives after that murderous Daemon invasion half a decade ago will falter into nothingness. We’ve no choice but to place our faith in Emperor Glitchtrap and his commandants. Let’s do what we do best, gentlemen. We’re soldiers. We’re warriors. And so long as anyone among our number draws breath, these rebels shall NOT pass! WHO SHALL JOIN ME IN DEFENDING THIS PLACE!? FOR HONOR! FOR GLORY! FOR JAPAN, AMERICA, AND RUSSIA, AND ALL OF OUR BIRTHPLACES AND PEOPLES!”

It seems the cheer reached the beleaguered ears of everyone still left defending Arasaka Tower, as a vibrant roar of agreement followed from the weathered forces. Things began turning around as morale found itself steadily increasing before a thunderous stomping exuded about the Lobby area.

 Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

An Arasaka swordsman perked his head behind cover, though what he witnessed caused those cybernetically augmented eyeholes of his to widen to their maximum capacity.

“W-what!? What is it!?”
Inquired Anatoly.

“Oni. It’s… it’s an Oni.”

“I don’t speak Japanese, what does that mean-“

“Demon.”
Trager announced with a quiet tone.

“Huh…”

“He’s saying it’s a Demon.”

Following those thumping footsteps, a deep, reverberating growl echoed about the Lobby. A group of Arasaka Loyalists and US Marines stood up to flee the area, though they were prevented as the insidious creature exuded a furious roar; damaging the eardrums of anyone within the immediate vicinity as poring from its prehistoric, reptilian eyes was a stream of cascading lasers which collided with the escaping soldiers, causing them to momentarily howl before they were sundered into disparate, sizzling bone fragments.

Standing victoriously among the Lobby was Yorinobu Arasaka’s trump card. An illegally acquired Tyrannosaur genome genetically modified to high hell and back, with a series of serrated teeth and murderous killer instinct to boot.

A Blood Dragon. Only baleful legends existed scattered about the world. An apex of bioluminescent, primeval rage that stood ready to demolish everything in its sight. A mysterious artifice was posited upon its cranium area, indicating the rebels carefully ensured it didn’t harm any of their own.

“Oh… oh fuck. I guess that’s it then. I hope you’ve all got wills. And dinosaur-based life insurance.”
Chirped Trager deathly as the Blood Dragon sniffed out the largest cluster of prey and advanced on the primary pack of defenders.

“It’s not over yet. Besides, death by laser-shooting dinosaur doesn’t sound so bad, eh? Maybe I’ll get a seat in Valhalla for this. Or the Warp, I can’t really keep up with that shit anymore. Now then… CHAAAARRRRGGGEEEEE!!!”
Cherdenko calmly stated, having lost any manner of self-preservation and fully immersed into the battle’s hearth. Emulating a Soviet Commissar of old captaining legions against the fascist hordes, Anatoly provided a rallying point for the coalition of diverse troopers presented here. Joining their newly-minted leader, they all roared with an equal boast of challenge as they mustered forth to contend the Blood Dragon.

“ON ME! LET’S GO GRUNTS! MOVE! MOVE!”
HUNK cried as the retained Umbrella security officials conglomerated behind him. Within an instant, the Lobby’s series of back-and-forth spats became alight with a climatic firefight of bullet-fire, explosions, and vicious screaming that would consign the end of this struggle. Yorinobu’s tanks and Militech’s Minotaurs angled their weapons-systems against the charging Loyalist front, though found themselves distracted as US Marines launched RPGs against them, causing lapses in their targeting systems as they first retaliated, exploding the grenades mid-air and puffing out clouds of smoke. It seemed hope was lost already, the rebel ordinance would shred the defenders before they could even reach the Blood Dragon!

Until…

Mister X, joined by Sergei’s Ivan-Tyrant brethren leapt forth from the Lobby rafters, joined by the Daemonic-Possessed, whatever was left of them anyway. The Minotaurs were quickly alerted and turned to respond, though even their millisecond-level response times were insufficient as Mister X landed first, beginning to assault the first Minotaur with an ape-like tenacity, ripping apart circuitry and wiring without care, even ripping off its frontal cannon with a sudden burst of force and burying it within the head-area of the Minotaur mech, before then stomping down and forcing the cannon to fire its currently engorged shell, EXPLODING the mech outright into a cloud of smoke and scattered debris!

Another Minotaur turned towards the Tyrant, bursting forth with its two available machinegun attachments, though the Ivans and Possessed were already upon it like a writhing host of termites. Four more Possessed were gunned down during the attempt, but they managed to subdue the contraption and terminate it by simply wrecking so much of its structural integrity until it was but a sputtering series of pulleys and automated limbs that soon fell silent!

“YEAAAHHHH! UMBRELLA ENGINEERING BABY!”
Sergei cried joyously, beginning to lose his trademark composure as he laughed maniacally, gunning down another three mercenaries with his Mauser and leaping over another hill of corpses and sliding down a stair railway. The Blood Dragon turned its inglorious head, the primeval villainy noticing Vladimir and snorting; humiliated at him for daring to openly challenge the obvious apex predator. Its eyes warbled lifelike with an imminent barrage of fire-energy, though a peltering of bullet-fire and random pieces of scavenged ground gave it pause!

Cherdenko, HUNK, the KGB Remnant, and UBCS forces were doing their best to wrest the Blood Dragon’s attention.

It worked. A little too well, actually. The unholy beast exuded a mild roar of annoyance, redirecting its initial blast towards them. Sergei watched helplessly as Anatoly only gave a slight smile of acceptance before being blown back against the wall, everyone around him instantly vaporized with a frightful scream save HUNK, whom managed to dodge at the final second and continue blasting away at the Blood Dragon, constantly running and gunning and becoming something of an annoying insect that just wouldn’t perish!

“ANATOLLLYYYY!!! NYETTTTT!!!!”

Mr. X championed over to the Blood Dragon, beginning to wildly punch at its hind legs while the Ivan-Tyrants disabled the tanks by their standard method of infiltration and killing everyone operating the craft within. The Dragon tail-swiped Mr.X back instinctively, and before the Tyrant could properly stand up, another voracious beam of energy befell it. X’s power-limiter was broken, though it couldn’t even evolve into its true form as the scalding waves of Draconic power prevented the necessary flesh-compounds from linking together. When the Dragon let up, there was naught but Mr.X’s sizzled trenchcoat waft in smoke.

Trager rushed over to a bloodied and bruised Cherdenko while the Blood Dragon howled eagerly, turning back to Sergei. Everyone was scattering or dead.

It was time.

He didn’t want to unveil this trap-card, realizing that utilization could spell the possible end of his existence, though Sergei couldn’t imagine a grander cause to die for.

Ultimately, Vladimir found the master worthy of service, the cause worthy of representation, and the battle worthy of his life. What more could a man ask?

A particular syringe containing a vial of perfected T-Virus, previously hidden up Sergei’s coat-sleeve this entire time and refrained from usage given the implications, he stared at it only a second as the Dragon’s eyes warbled with imminent death.

“Heh. The gifts of science… Umbrella will bring this world a new age of order and evolution. I just wish I’d been there to see it. Good luck, Lord Spencer.”

Sergei injected himself with the syringe at his collarbone… and everything went black.

-

When he came too, the Dragon’s jaws almost clamped upon his mutated head. Sergei swerved successfully away from death’s grasp; having become a thorny, grey and red-colored abomination of refined organic destruction. A swerving, sausage-esque appendage struck out from his chest whilst various tentacles and skinnier limbs skimmed out from his back. His body didn’t feel pain, though it should’ve; a network of thorns piercing in and out from its corrupted body, a mouth agape and containing a red, orb-like compartment.

Sergei transformed into what he’d always mentally envisioned himself as. The perfect slave, ready to kill and die in servitude chained.

The Blood Dragon didn’t seem to care about the sudden metamorphosis, knowing only violence and murder as it beamed another score of energy. Monster Sergei was directly hit, crashing against a somewhat intact television screen that would’ve droned Arasaka propaganda on a normal day. Crashing into the apparatus and destroying it with a series of clanks and dinks, Monster-Serg quickly stood back up, unable to vocalize any thoughts, but still managing brain functionality and nascent understanding of the world and circumstance around it.

Kill. This. Fucking. Dinosaur.

Monster-Serg roared with equal animalistic challenge towards Yorinobu’s Blood-Dragon, slicing and dicing at its leathery, roughened skin with his thorny frontal worm, managing to even cause it serious bleeding as it staggered and yelped angrily. Responding with force, the Dragon chomped down, trying to bite at Monster-Sergei though missing every time. More beams of energy followed, most missed, though a few hit their mark and gave Sergei a scalding reminder of why Blood-Dragon fire was bad for your health.

It stampeded forward, uncaring of its flesh wounds even as bioluminescent crimson sloshed onto the ground before it. The crunching of dead men cracking under its sizable reptilian feet could be heard as the Dragon was intent on finishing Sergei here and now. A battle of pure animal instinct followed as either side sought advantage over the other. Clashes more befitting of the African Savannah took place within the destitute halls of Arasakan power. The Blood Dragon was mighty, powerful- most certainly a conqueror of its time. But Sergei had cruel intelligence. Every time the Dragon snapped down its baleful jaw he dodged, jutting out with his own thorns and scratching and wounding the reptilian monstrosity further despite his inferior size.

Finally, bloodied and crazed beyond all comprehension, breaking past the limiters of its brain-cage and ignoring any steady commands and instead thrashing about like the cornered creature it was, the Blood Dragon charged forward one final time, unhinging its jaw to clamp down while blasting a beam of ferocious energy eclipsing all of its attacks beforehand. Monster-Sergei fainted an equally foolish frontal assault, allowing his evolved form to soak up an incredibly painful burning that would make the radioactive wastes of Chernobyl seem paradisial by comparison. Ducking underneath the surprised tyrannosaurid at the final moment, Monster-Sergei’s primary tongue-esque limb carved directly into the Blood Dragon’s soft underbelly flesh, spilling open its guts while it bleated one last wail of injury.

As the creature collapsed onto the floor, so too did Monster-Sergei, completely spent from that struggle and unable to coerce even a single nerve to move. His T-Virus infused body was wholly focused now on cellularly regenerating itself, an attempt that might’ve been rendered impossible after that cataclysmic struggle.

Just as his vision became once more encumbered by black spots, Monster-Sergei noticed the remaining rebel forces advance.

So he’d failed after all.

How unfortunate.

THOOOMMM!!!! KA-BOOOOMMMM!!!! THAKA-THAKA-THAKA CHOOOOMMM!!!

Numerous blasts pockmarked the rebel entrenchments and positions. In mere moments, whatever remained of their tanks, their mortars, and their positions laden outside Arasaka Tower itself shook with Daemonic wrath. Instantaneously, they were silenced and vaporized. Militech Minotaurs crumpled as wet paper, Arasaka Rebels mulched into scattered bits and bobs; mercenaries breaking down into disorganized mobs and fully retreating- recognizing now the futility of their quest.

Sergei vaguely saw a familiar figure within the corner of his eye, utterly massacring the hapless rebels as they tried fighting back only to receive cold metal punches or blazing gunfire. Arasaka’s cyborg harbinger of death that’d become more machine then man, Adam Smasher. Alongside him were dozens of hulking warriors that arrived from seemingly nowhere, or wherever they originated from was unknown to Sergei’s fading vision. Their horned faces and devilish expressions betrayed them as Chaos Astartes. What the hell were Afton’s elite soldiery doing mucking about with a relatively small-time tug-of-war?

Monster-Sergei didn’t know and didn’t care. Because right afterward, he passed out.

-
Erebus watched callously as the leftovers of devastation crackled before him. The Word-Bearers, divided and factionalized between their Apostle-Leaders, were convinced by the Anointed Hand’s silver tongue and coercive nature to grant their forces to assist the Arasaka Loyalist Coalition. Even now, remnants of Yorinobu’s Rebel Army were being hunted and viciously exterminated by these epitomes of Chaotic corruption at its finest, the Rogue Prince himself shortly arrested and being brought before his father for ultimate judgment. Sighing satisfactorily as the sun rose upon a secured Arasaka Tower, Erebus’s attention settled upon the excitable thought of the glory and prestige he’d receive for stopping a coup within its tracks.

He'd already decided to cut Richard Trager and Francis Underwood’s contributions from the historic annals and war-reports that Emperor Glitchtrap would read. For all intents and purposes, they were merely caught within this whirlwind of entangled political connections and blackmail, though contributed very little to the wider investigation. Erebus’s efforts and bravery alone wrested the safety and security of Arasaka Corporation, a major friend of the Primordial Government, from devastating ruin. Though his co-conspirators didn’t need to know that. They’d figure it out soon enough.

“I presume Arasaka Tower’s been secure if you’re speaking to me right now?”
Underwood spoke over their joint-call. A wounded Richard Trager, hoisted by the two remaining Possessed, was adjacent to Erebus and joined in their discussion.

“Without fail. Anatoly Cherdenko will be treated at a Soviet infirmary, of course. Agent HUNK will be promoted, I think. Sergei Vladimir has been taken to some Umbrella laboratory hellsite, probably. Everyone who fell defending the Tower from hostile force shall be commemorated and such- yadda yadda yadda. The point is, gentlemen, we three shall be plastered on every news report covering this story tomorrow. We’ll be hailed as heroes.”
Erebus spoke with a smug, happy tone.

“Geh… sounds great. So long as I get some aspirin for the rest of my godamned life, that sounds great.”
Trager added.

“Indeed. We’ve won a greater victory beyond stopping Yorinobu Arasaka’s madness, however. Our win here has stumped the New Founding Fathers and their war machine, plus showing Militech that their best path forward is through cooperation with myself over that pack of idiotic fossils. A clear message’s been sent out towards the nation-“

“I care not for your Terran drivel, ‘President’ Underwood. Just be glad that blackmail never panned out. It would’ve been most ill for our reputations, no?”
Erebus hissed venomously, quieting the American sovereign.

“… Right. That should be commended equally. The fact anyone managed to acquire footage of our… secrets is itself worrying though. We need to look into that.”

“Indeed. I don’t care for my sins becoming public knowledge. Besides that-“

An interruption on their vox-channel. Curious. Was this the blackmailer? Erebus grunted with annoyance and accepted the interlude after recognizing it was the highest clearance available to Primordial Imperial personnel.

“This is-“

“Erebus. I’m aware.”

William Afton.

Immediately, Erebus seized up and nearly knelt instinctually despite Afton being lightyears away, though halted such movement out of sheer pride alone.

“E-emperor Glitchtrap! Forgive my indolent tone upon initial addressing! I didn’t realize it was you. An infinite sea of apologies, Master!”

“Spare me, you gaseous sycophant. I’m well-informed of the goings taking place within my own borders, especially on my Capital. You three have made a mess of things, I hear. What’s this about an attempted coup d’etat against Arasaka Corporation, hmm? You know much I dislike matters of Terran state being brought to my attention without warning.”

“Master, I-“

“I know your story, Anointed Hand of Chaos. How you allowed a measly band of resistors to blackmail yourself AND two members of my administration is a matter I’ll flagellate you over later. Right now I’m more focused on the current campaign, so count yourself lucky. Plus- it does seem you three have managed to clean up the mess and even prevent a potentially disastrous shift of power back home. For that, your heads remain affixed onto your shoulders.”

Underwood nor Trager dared spoke, their statuses being too lowly to even request penance to Glitchtrap. His voice alone rendered their bloodstreams cold, and hearts ensnared by dark tendrils of quiet submission and fear. The Shadow King of Chaos, the Dark Prophet, the Purple God, Master of Animatronics… that last title honestly sounds quite underwhelming by comparison.

“Mercies aplenty and thanks eternal Master. I assure you; this won’t happen again. Please forgive my impudence and lack of attendance among your campaigns. The Word-Bearers are free to utilize at your disposal…”

“Oh, I do pray for your sake these mistakes don’t repeat again, Erebus. You are a prized asset of mine, though mistake not my mercy for kindness. Your recent string of mishaps these past few years have been tolerated owed to your cruciality throughout my ranks… though should you EVER become more liability than use… I won’t hesitate to make you an example of failure’s consequence. Am. I. Understood?”

“Crystal, Master.”

“Good. Now finish up planet-side. I’ll want to see you face-to-face at the next Conclave meeting.”

As the call ended, Erebus shuddered and held back tears of relief and fear alike. No glory today, but his life would persist.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hill overlooking Bright Moon Castle

William ended the call, chafing privately to himself at the incompetence of even his highest lieutenants. Perturabo stood directly at his side, overviewing the ornate castle embedded into the mountainside before them. This was Bright Moon, Capital of the Princess Alliance, and center-hold of their rebellion. It would be where Etheria was broken and submitted to the Primordial Empire’s will, and where the Iron Warriors would prove themselves as adept siege-masters and tech-kings in exchange for Glitchtrap’s patronage.

Afton’s golden and purple robes fluttered calmly with a mild wind, overlaid by a mystically enchanted chainmail and steel battle-suit with the Springbonnie mask engraved upon its chest area. Wearing his crown proudly and narrowing those erudite features of his onto Bright Moon as its denizens marshalled and prepared to battle for their freedom.

“Are we to seize prisoners? If so, I shall inform my sons accordingly.”
Perturabo spoke after his helmet seeped open to reveal his embittered face.

“These Etherian primitives have nothing to offer me. Should your Warsmiths desire meat for their experiments, they are free to capture whomever they wish. I only want that Adora girl caught alive. I suspect something about her belies the real reason Horde Prime holds such vested interest with this dungheap planet.”

“Yes sir. Ninety percent of the world has fallen under our control, though pockets of resistance still persist. We shall silence them all. Do you… intend on marching into battle personally?”

Afton flashed a wicked smile at the inquiry.

“That’s half the fun, Lord of Iron. Are we ready?”

“The Lord of Iron is always prepared for siege and war-making, Emperor Glitchtrap.”

“Very good. Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

The Battle of Bright Moon

A beautiful sun would overlook the effervescent expanse of Bright Moon. A normal day would entail citizens mulling about their business while birds of all species and clade chirped eagerly to their tune. Yet today, this serene weather was betrayed by unfortunate circumstance. An empire of alien invaders hailing from cosmic skies beyond were interceding on behalf of intergalactic tyrant Horde Prime and setting fire to the world before them, engaging in deathly warfare with insidious glee and massacring hapless thousands with monstrous abandon.

William Afton, resplendent as would an ancient Renaissance king of old be- overlooked Bright Moon with a dismissive overhead glance. His various allies and minions secured most of the Etherian landmass, taking menial casualties and easily trumping over the primitive natives, though pockets of ferocious resistance continued plaguing their attempts for permanent occupation. All For One’s Nomu Battalions were being bogged down within the Crimson Waste, harried by scores of criminals, vagabonds, and natives that would prefer against enduring any manner of hostile enslavement. Ser Proletius, Zargothrax’s plus one and captain of his elite Death Knights of Crail, was snagged dealing with leftover insurgents pockmarking Plumeria, meaning his army couldn’t link up with the wider force poised to seize the Princess Alliance’s precious capital.

Even so, Afton brought along a vast coterie of monsters and madmen to ensure this planet fell squarely under Horde Prime’s control, though certainly acquiring large swaths of loot and luxury for himself in the process. It was merely a matter of when, not if this wasteful rock fell under Primordial control.

“I’ve seen these places before. Stellar kingdoms topped with grandiose spires of shimmering marble achievement. Their peoples, so proud and fat and peaceful, lacking knowledge of the universe’s cold, cruel, deathly truths. I cannot fathom languishing amidst such a profoundly meaningless existence. These beings aim for nothing, they search for nothing, their culture and history points only to prosperity mildly interrupted by forces of expansive progression. Looking upon this blighted damnation, I can only feel cold hatred seeping my soul.”

Perturabo suddenly remarked as his Iron Warriors moved to position. The Primarch’s progeny were preparing a series of technological marvels, siege-engines and war-machines crafted eons ago and still proving just as diabolically operational today as the day of their making. They whirred and seized with mechanical purpose, bristling amidst the picturesque forests that overlooked Bright Moon’s trademark castle which beamed proudly even now. Extensive crowds of unwashed refugees fearfully choked into the castle’s lower levels, local security forces struggling to find open spaces for the still arriving hosts of families and friends seeking vain escape from their inevitable fate as subjects of Glitchtrap and Horde Prime.

“Your views are certainly worldly, Iron-Lord. But I believe there’s a certain purity about this superficiality. Look upon that castle. It’s just as much a marvel of architectural engineering and accomplishment as are your monstrosities of warfare.”

Perturabo snorted at William’s retort, his industrial facemask automatically slipping back on with a distinctive ‘click’ while their respective armies made final preparations for blitzkrieg.

“Don’t compare such travesty with my glory. A singular Forgefiend produced by my Legion involves more skill and technique than their builders likely employed with creating this milksop castle- construed solely to provide comfort for a spoilt lineage of brats. There is nothing of genuine remarkability here. Nothing worth preserving.”

William felt tempted to remark the hypocrisy of Perturabo laughing over spoilt children and privileged lineage, especially judging by the backstory Advisor provided regarding his origins, though diplomatically refrained.

“Everything is worth preserving, Iron-Lord. Consider this; how best does an empire function?”

“Simple- logical artifices, utilitarian benefits for the greatest amount of subjects, futures secured through warfare and politicking, etcetera. A nation-state founded purely on principles of objective realism could provide the maximum benefit to its subjects whilst excessing the least suffering. A quotient that all rulers should aspire toward.”

Afton flashed a smirk at such a superficially mature, yet truly naïve answer.

“You’re wrong. The nature of mortal beings, especially humans, begets an empire that will indulge them. A society based purely on logic, where everyday life is procured into acceptable values and mathematical solutions that decides how best people should act for everyone to survive indefinitely would collapse within a year. Humans distaste the idea of utopia, subconsciously. Man will proclaim fiercely from soapbox and stage that he seeks egalitarian justice and freedom from all. If that’s the case, discrimination, genocide, war, separation, competition, ideas such as those would’ve faded out millennia ago. Humans subconsciously crave suffering. They crave discrimination, to separate themselves based on whatever ethnic, racial, economic, or political boundaries contemporarily domineer that day and age’s cultural ethos. A nation that provides them an eternal enemy, a series of forever goals to always strive towards to grow better, faster, stronger, and smarter in the process while never actually achieving those goals, only setting the posts back farther, will be the nation that wins.”

“So, you’re a nihilist?”
Perturabo inquired from behind that Warp-forged plate helm of his. As they spoke, Chaos-Guard, World-Eaters, Thousand Sons, Deathguard, Emperor’s Children, and Iron Warriors massed for their final approach. The army assailing Bright Moon was purely a Chaotic one lacking any influence of Banished, Newtopians, Villains, Undead, etcetera. None else could make it to their climatic party, it seemed.

“Nihilist? Gods forbid. That class of individual rarely gets anything done.”

“At the very least you sound misanthropic. Your words indicate someone utterly lacking faith regarding the human spirit.”

Afton audibly laughed at such insinuation, placing down a set of binoculars he’d been previously using to spy the affairs of doomed Bright Moon.

“Au contraire Dear Iron-Lord, I put great stock into the human spirit. If I didn’t believe in mankind’s supremacy, I wouldn’t have carved an empire spanning over seven-star systems that holds us as the dominant species throughout. No- I just believe how people have contextualized the human spirit is completely erroneous. Humans aren’t at our best with acts of charity or kindness. They prosper when it comes to enacting evil. Trust is difficult to accumulate, yet easy to shatter. That is why most relationships are forged through a clearly defined dynamic of power. Humans understand this innately, better than most, and owed to that reason, humans have become Chaos’s greatest pupils. We are the Gods’ favored race.”

“That’s definitely a unique viewpoint.”

“More common than you think, Primarch. Prepare the mortars. I shall personally command the strike-force into their castle.”

“As you bid, Emperor Glitchtrap.”

William shrilly whistled into the forest as Perturabo moved off to issue the appropriate commands to those delegated under his authority. The sound reverberated throughout the forests only a moment, before out lampooned a being only nightmarish folktales could apt describe. An abhorrent terror flew down, breaking apart branches, brambles, and various other forestry impeding its physical arrival. A two-headed eldritch nightmare snarled and snapped at even the Chaos Marines who balked at its appearance. The regular human component of Afton’s army was outright terrified of this unhinged creature’s appearance, actively stampeding away when one of its twin heads neared. Upon closer inspection, it became easy to discern why.

The creature was a dragon. Not a noble, ferocious entity hailing from old Arthurian legend. Rather, it parodied the righteous ideal of the winged lizard, corrupting such poignant and glorious belief into a wicked emanation of itself. Like everything Afton touched, it was warped, twisted, and ruined into an abomination unfit for mortal eyes, yet would assail them all the same.

Upon reaching its master’s vicinity, both heads leered down obediently, snorting, and sniffling and granting its King a wide berth to mount upon its back. Afton quickly saddled up, preparing his trademark sword which shone evilly with a baleful crimson light.  One of the heads heaved and vomited a manner of black bile which slopped onto the grounds below; an acidic substance that sizzled against grass and rock until it eventually dispersed into black nothingness.

“Easy, Slaughter. You’ll have your feast momentarily. Stay your beastial temptations till then.”

William cooed with a surprising gentleness to the tortured creature. This entity was Warp-christened, a gift hailed from the Gods for successive campaigns that initiated carnage and bloodletting in their four unholy names. Such blessings were commonplace to Daemon Princes that proved their worth and salt to their Masters, and Afton was even granted the pleasure of naming this creature. Its mere existence was torturous pain. Sinew and muscle were engorged and uncouthly layered upon each other in mounds of wracked flesh, its groans could be equally interpreted as howls of subdued pain just as they were angry callings to devour and maim all manner of creature. Chaos Dragons led forsaken lives, somehow mutated by Tzeentch; God of Change’s immutable will and transformed into demons that even their closest kindred sense innately a wrongness with, and therefore exiled from their winged tribe and left alone to rot and perish.

Often, primitive tribes of Chaos-worshipers would wrangle and tame these Dragons at the behest of their Lord-Champions, sometimes for their personal use or to curry favor with their Deities by utilizing these foul monstrosities as bargaining chips to grant unto other Masters of Darkness. Afton wasn’t particularly sure where Slaughter’s origins helmed from, though he didn’t really care. Turning back to his assembly of terror, he nodded a final time.

“ATTACCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!”

A resounding roar of hateful energy exuded from the Purple Host as they matched Glitchtrap’s evil willpower. Without warning, Bright Moon suddenly became victim to unholy projectiles screaming at them from skies above. They resembled meteors, though were stretches more malevolent and destructive in nature. Spheres of condensed steel slaked with explosive material and powdering laden within every nook and cranny- they imploded on impact against the starstruck castle of Bright Moon proper, sending debris flying and excavating makeshift holes into countless towers and rooms that even from Afton’s distanced view, could be noticed as equally glimmering and luxurious as the outer walls presented. Should the structure be properly rebuilt, Afton mused it would serve as a fine office for whichever governor was elected subsequently to reign here in Horde Prime’s place.

Slaughter was jostled into the azure atmosphere above, though Afton darted quick glances down below to witness his Astartes Legions and their cannon fodder compliments emerge as nightmarish terrors from the forests and onto the beaches. Refugees were taken by surprise and couldn’t even beg for mercy before Chain-Axes and Bolter-Fire met their squishy bodies, exploding them into gassy bursts of gore and flesh that were scattered about with reckless abandon. Hundreds were killed within two minutes as large scores of fleeing civilians couldn’t hope to avoid the superior technological might of the Space Marines in time. Iron Warriors used industrial buzzsaws and happily carved through ranks of confused innocents while World-Eaters curbstomped them on the sandy dunes, beginning to run the beach-waters a coarse red.

Thousand Sons cast their summoning spells, unleashing from the Bluish Warp scores of Tzeentchian Daemons that giggled and chortled as they tossed fireballs that burnt Bright Moon soldiery alive, crisping them into smithereens. Those attempting to escape outright into the lower-levels of the extensive castle which housed royalty were interrupted by gangrene mobs of Deathguard and their Nurglite battle-slaves, green totems of purest decay that would soon infect everyone they came across. It wasn’t even a contest of strength nor wills, but purely an unfair genocide. The EITC were lagging behind as well, using their organized lines of devastating musket-fire to gun down any stragglers whom dared an escape from the killing fields.

“Delicious. Once the Forgefiends are deployed, this farce will truly end. Though beforehand, I’d like to personally inspect whether this world could present me with any challenge whatsoever. Sometimes it’s all too easy. Isn’t that right, Slaughter?”

Grunts from both draconic heads followed, leaving Springtrap to chuckle. He noticed upon Bright Moon’s peak existed a shining blue stone of swirling magical power. That must’ve been the local Princess’s Runestone. Though if intel served correctly, their local monarch was imprisoned on Horde Prime’s flagship, leaving this hapless kingdom unable to muster their trump card against these Chaotic hordes. Slaughter was landed just before the Runestone, snapping and hissing, seeking direly the flesh its master promised.

“Slaughter, calm yourself! NOW!”

William’s forceful intention domineered the Chaos Dragon into submission, both heads now leering downward in acceptant sadness. He didn’t even dismount before a score of Bright Moon guards charged him with spears angled.

“FOR QUEEN ANGELLA! FOR PRINCESS GLIMMER! FIGHT ON, WARRIORS OF BRIGHT MOON, AND WE SHALL HAVE THIS DAY!”
Cried the apparent captain of these idiotic goons.

“Oh? How noble of you fellows to die for spoilt royalty that couldn’t bother recalling your names.”

A telekinetic snare symbolized by William reaching out his hand grasped all these charging foes, invisible tendrils of unstoppable darkness wrapping about their beating hearts and constricting mercilessly, until…

POP!

Each warrior coughed out bursts of blood whilst clutching their chests as their bodies writhed and keeled over, their fanciful spears of crescent silver clattering onto the ground with their unmoving cadavers. William dismounted Slaughter and advised him to hunt and join the battle wherever opportunities seemed most potent for feast, allowing the beast to fly away.

“How unremarkable. I cannot imagine fighting and dying for a cause that isn’t your own prosperity. Such inferior beings like you don’t deserve to exist in my universe. Now then, who’s next?”

Another coterie of Bright Moon guards exited the chamber leading unto the narrow pathway towards the Runestone, crying out their battle hymns and charging bravely the golden-armored Dark Lord that brought about such misery and annihilation to their homelands.

William smiled giddily under his helmet. The more the merrier.

He didn’t even need to evolve into his true Daemon Prince form. The same heart-grasp maneuver was utilized three more times, causing a triumvirate of enemies to falter and collapse. One more woman threw valiantly her spear against Springtrap, though it dissolved into a magma-esque substance before outright reaching his body. Agape with terror, the female warrior stepped back and mentally considered whether to flee and die in disgrace with the calamity below or die valiantly against the monster before her. Afton decided for her, casting a Chaotic word of power that malformed her face into a pockmarking of sores and scars. The woman wailed but only a moment before falling to the ground, viciously clawing and scratching at her own face until she ripped into the warm bounds of her own throat-flesh, now coughing and sputtering on choked blood before writhing and finally falling dead.

“I don’t even need to use my sword here. Is there anything whatsoever that might impress me upon the bounds of this pathetic castle? Or has Horde Prime, as typical of that rancid fool, wasted my time once again?”

“That’s enough out of you.”

A new, heroic voice permeated the area. Springtrap’s monologuing concluded, focused now upon a sorcerous figure clasping proudly a staff. The medieval-armored overlord stared upon this new challenger with a discontented indifference.

“And what is this manner of ape that comes to challenge me? State your name, so I may forget it all the same when I end you subsequently.”

“I am Micah of Bright Moon, proud husband of the late Queen Angella and father of Princess Glimmer. Friend to She-Ra and her noble Princess Alliance. More importantly, I’m here to cease your reign of terror. Permanently.”

…

Springtrap couldn’t even laugh- the sheer determination lacquered amidst that man’s voice indicated that he genuinely believed he could stop William. That wasn’t humorous whatsoever. It was entirely humiliating. Afton needed to crush such sentiments from the cosmos entirely to prevent even a smidgeon of hope from festering into something unwieldly. That meant individuals such as Micah here needed to suffer painful demises, sooner rather than later.

“Is that it? Your daughter’s being kept as hostage aboard Horde Prime’s vessel. You’ll likely never see her again. Not that it matters. She certainly failed you as both heiress and child- I heard it was her idiocy that allowed the Galactic Horde access to your worthless backwater in the first place.”

Micah grit his teeth, holding close his staff while approaching the verbally jousting Springtrap.

“If you’re trying to rouse my anger, it’s working. I warn you, the consequences for it will be dire.”

“Oh, dear me- I’m merely trying to inform you of your daughter’s condition. Where’s your hope, Micah? Your world barely lasted against a pathetic emanation of the Horde. Now that numerous factions have descended with fire and fury upon this unspeakably dull place, there’s little chance you could emerge victorious. I would suggest drawing up a surrender, though I doubt my troops would register that. Do you hear, Micah? Those sounds below? They fainted and mumbled to us here, but I can assure you- those are the screams of your people as they are subjected to every horrific torture imaginable. They shall be taken as slaves if they do not perish here. They will be sold as basic commodities to various conquerors and lords across the Galaxy. The fate of your people is like that of any other; humiliation and dispersal.”

Micah paused, only taking in those awful sounds for a moment. William recognized in those tired eyes a man who’d lost everything: family and friends were dead or discarded, and he’d already lost so much life from circumstances prior. Then, that sad realization quickly transfigured into an ardent rage. Micah roared with anger, leering forth a series of dark tendrils and wispy shadows that unleashed bolts of power against Springtrap. Every attack met its mark, as the tendrils grasped onto the surprised overlord whilst the bolts dinged against him.

“How trite. Dark magic… Shadow Weaver did mention you her star-pupil. I suppose she neglected to mention how menial that title actually meant to someone like me.”

“Shadow Weaver!?”

“Yes. That useless wench. You two shared a history, if I recall.”

Before Micah could retort, Springtrap’s sword; that extended knife which once carved into the fresh bodies of innocent children at the back of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, magically conjured from its sheath, levitating midair and swerving around with circular motions, slicing away the ironclad tendrils of darkness holding Afton and burning away the shadowy dark with hungry golden fires before returning to its master’s hold.

“Did you know, Micah? Your sister’s dead. Slain at the hands of my Warband-Captain, Kozzan Vetgel. Castapella lies not even a corpse, but a mound of unremarkable ash within her own Lunarium, according to reports.”

Micah’s eyes widened ever further. He couldn’t handle all these losses. All this sudden seizure and destruction of everything he held dear as a man.

“N-no… no… Castapella… y-you… YOU MONSTER!”

“That’s the idea. Anything else you care to observe, Professor?”

Micah roared with fury once more, grafting together all his magical might for a series of devastating attacks that would decimate any typical opponent into smithereens. A host of dark magical sorceries clashed against Springtrap, though for the Daemon Prince- it was equivalent to a child’s tantrum. His sword glowered, whispering eagerly for this fool’s blood, and William wasn’t in any hurry to deny it that according desire.

“You remind me of someone. Henry Emily. I hated that man. I brought death to him. As such, I shall bring death to you.”

William conjured the grounds below Micah. The Bright Moon marble below edited and crunched into a series of altering rocks that jettisoned upward and ensnared about the sorcerer, immobilizing him and preventing any further attacks as the suddenness of this move caused such discomfort he instinctively dropped his staff. Groaning and still cursing against the approaching Springtrap, William droned out whatever meaningless swords Micah spewed- content instead with delivering a final horrifying note before the execution.

“I’d say to prepare and join your wife in whatever menial afterlife she’d been carted away to, but that’s quite impossible. Your soul shall forever belong to my heap. Don’t worry, friend Micah. I’m sure you’ll encounter plenty of glorious sights during your eternal stay with me. I’ll show you such vistas of cruelty from within the confines of my blackened heart.”

“DEATH TO YOU! SOMEDAY, SOMEONE WILL BRING SUCH DIVINE WRATH AGAINST YOU- ALL YOU’LL DO IS CRY FOR MERCY AS YOU’VE MADE SO MANY OTHERS DO, BUT I SHALL NOT BE-“

Micah’s spouting was interrupted via a swift beheading. The man’s head severed from its shoulders, causing a gurgle and geyser of blood to follow. Slaked in decent amounts of lifeblood for now, the sword ceased its Daemonic whispering. William leered a boot over Micah’s perpetually anguished head, before stomping down and crushing it into fleshy gibbets of cruor-chunks.

“Damned waste of time. I hoped to meet the She-Ra here. Perhaps I may still come across such luck. I need to know what Horde Prime seeks from this planet, and sooner still.”

William proceeded alone into the veritable belly of the beast, intrigued at whatever lied within.

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Kingdom of Snows

Princess Frosta needed to hide.

She doubted that the enemy would resort to outright murder if she revealed herself, but they’d imprison and kidnap her for parts unknown, an equally undesirable outcome. The child gave pretense at strength, to her people, to her friends, an aura of mature toughness to indicate that her parents’ loss didn’t affect her whatsoever. That she could still persevere onward despite the emotional and mental wounds the Horde had dealt her.

Maybe that hypothesis was incorrect all along. Because right now, she was running scared, trying her best to remain quiet, to avoid enemy patrols. She didn’t dare conjure her magic to defend herself or wrest her people free of this new, abhorrent, immensely powerful tyranny that befell them. She only tried to save herself, like the cowardly little girl she was.

Patrolling about the captured Kingdom was the mercenary army of General Roman Barkov. While technically a Soviet General, Barkov’s private army consisted of Russian soldiers that viewed the life of privateering a more profitable venture over dying for suited politicians scheming about within the Kremlin. Their salaries were notably higher, though standards for entry were equally posited so. More conveniently, because of Barkov’s Forces being designated a Private Military Company rather than a state’s armed unit, they were able to participate in Afton’s wars easily, and without similar statues of bureaucratic mess in the way.

The battle was pitiably short. Frosta’s ice magic paled against the might of modern technology. Assault rifles and machineguns slew dozens of her soldiers per second until it became viciously clear that the Kingdom of Snows was horribly outmatched and outnumbered. Without reinforcements from the other Kingdoms, Frosta’s people couldn’t hope to even make time for evacuations. An unconditional surrender was signed, though Frosta herself managed to escape capture via a series of bored tunnels excavated underneath the breathtaking ice-castle she called home.

Joined by three loyalist soldiers that managed her escape, they were sauntering about the Kingdom’s outskirts, seeking to escape the cordoned-off zones Barkov’s mercenaries established. They weren’t alone- the Banished’s murderous ranks and Newtopian War-Droids were stalking the border, assisting the mercenaries with search-and-destroy missions of whatever pockets of resistance remained.

“I can’t let this happen. My people…”
Frosta muttered, feeling responsible for such a grievous loss. Her heart grew heavy with the weight of growing up too fast, of witnessing such atrocities and shocks at her nubile age.

“Princess- there’s nothing you could’ve done. The other kingdoms are likely facing an equal amount of adversity. The best we can do is ensure you live to fight another day. You’re a rallying cry for our people, Princess. Please don’t forget that.”
Calmly spoke Mirela, a softspoken political advisor and battlemage who’d known Frosta’s parents well, providing a voice of pragmatic reason and understanding that helped guide much of the young Princess’s reign after the Local Horde took mommy and daddy away.

“Come. They’re moving on, the path’s open.”
Spoke another knight, alerting the wider group. They continued moving about the ice-based landscape of the Kingdom. Above, Frosta’s ancestral castle that belonged to her family for generations was domineered by floating attack helicopters dropping off ziplining troops whilst jetpacking Amphibian robots and even a few Dragons were careening about. The enemy’s forces were incredibly various, Frosta noted, ranging from elite footsoldiers to monstrous magical beings hailing from other dimensions and realities outright.

As they moved ahead and hid behind another ransacked home, Frosta happened upon a conversation of the enemy. A member of Barkov’s Forces spoke to a hulking Banished Jiralhanae.

“You eat corpses during EVERY campaign?”

“Indeed, human! My pack and I have a game we’ve begun since the last invasion to determine whom among us can stomach the most man-flesh. A shame you’re not one of us, I’m curious to discern how much you could’ve stuffed down your gullet, haha!”

“… Right. Well, how do we taste?”

“Feh. It changes regarding which Jiralhanae you inquire. Me personally, I find the taste of you homosapiens an irritably bitter sensation, though obviously, the spirit of competition drives me to beat out my brothers every time.”

“That’s admirable in a… very disgusting way, I guess.”

“Glad you think so human. I’m rather fond of you. Perhaps if you fall in battle, I shall not consume your corpse, but rather bury it with full honors.”

“Oh. How uh… how thoughtful. Thanks.”

“But of course- hey, look over there!”

Jiralhanae and human alike watched an older man that’d somehow avoided most the mainline destruction sneakily attempting to escape as they were distracted. The mercenaries of differing species snickered between each other and raised their weapons.

“Fresh meat.”

“Don’t eat him just yet, I wonder what goodies we can peel off his body, eh?”

“Haha! I like your thinking human! Fine then!”

The Jiralhanae raised his Ravager, angling it at the doddering elder’s back. Frosta knew what would’ve taken place without intervention and couldn’t allow it to pass.

“Princess, we must- PRINCESS WAIT!”
Mirela’s words fell on deaf ears as Frosta rushed between the would-be murderers and their victim. The sight of a little girl stocked in garb of royalty and mustering about her elemental powers of ice caused lapse in judgment for Brute and Human both.

“You will NOT harm another one of my citizens. As Princess Frosta of the Kingdom of Snows, I demand you either vacate my borders or face the consequences of your trespassing!”
Internally, Frosta hoped she was emulating her childhood hero Glimmer and her bravery. Both the hulking ape-man and masked killer observed her keenly… before proceeding to laugh among themselves.

“BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! WHAT IS THIS WEAKLING THAT COMES NOW TO DISTURB MY FEAST!? Fine- fine, I’ll humor this. If only because this planet has been devoid of entertainment thus far. Do you seek the honors Karovitch?”

“Nyet, I’ve never had child-murder on my bucket-list. She’s all yours Koros.”

The Banished chuckled darkly and angled his Ravager, warming up the plasma-based weapon with an unmistakable vroom. A few seconds more and Frosta would become a crisped corpse upon the roadside, much to the engulfed despair of her hidden subjects nearby.

“You’ve left me no choice! TAKE THIS!”

Frosta’s hands twirled about, honing keenly the subzero climate surrounding her. Karovitch’s peering eyes quickly became drunken with confusion and terror as she mastered the element of ice within seconds. A lesion of sharpened icicles plucked from the structures of nearby homes and the wider landscape whisked about her. The Jiralhanae paid this little mind, only howling with further laughter and obviously not taking this seriously.

A dreadful mistake on his end.

The icicles jetted forward with incomprehensible speed. Their first two marks shattered against the Brute’s toughened armor and furred hide, though a third managed to sneak by and insert itself directly into the Jiralhanae’s throat through happenstance luck. A confused gargle followed as blood flowed like a fountain, before the brutish terror’s Ravager clanked onto the icy grounds below and the Banished mercenary finally sagged below.

“W-what… Y-you’re the Princess! You must be! YOU BITCH! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Frosta quickly responded, operating entirely off survival instinct, though it wasn’t enough. The man raised his AK-47 and would’ve eliminated her, had Mirela not managed a successful spear-throw directly through the enemy’s ear. The Russian mercenary gasped, eyes rolling back into his skull, as his weapon grip faltered, and he subsequently collapsed.

“PRINCESS! Are you alright!?”
Mirela cried, approaching Frosta with a terrified gaze about her. The rescued old man only nodded weakly and gave whispered thanks before continuing to hobble away, stricken with panic.

“I… I… they… they left me with no choice. I didn’t know what to do… I…”
Frosta murmured with reeling shock and complete regret. She’d never actually taken another’s life before, only having to combat Horde-Drones thus far. To have made a corpse of someone, even an alien that clearly meant her people and herself harm… she began hyperventilating, only saved by Mirela’s calming hand rested on her shoulder.

“They left you no choice Princess. Come, we can dwell on this later. More will be coming.”

Mirela lied not. The commotion was attracting nearby patrols of goons over, and they’d be overwhelmed quickly if they didn’t move. Reluctantly, Frosta nodded and off they went.

They continued moving past patrols, doing their best to ignore the reverberating gunshots and sounds of misery and horror as innocents were thrown into charnel pits of massacre by the ruthless mercenaries that seemed to take pride in their own vile war crimes. Valuables were looted and gathered, stocked into massive piles. All these sights only made Frosta weep further. How could these people be so monstrous? So wicked? What did Etherians do that would incur such an awful fate?

Perhaps most disturbing of all was powerlessly watching as these invaders handed over her citizens to Horde Prime’s minions. The Horde-Clones attached mysterious technological chips onto the napes of every individual delivered to them, causing their eyes to shutter and divulge into a state of lime-green coloration, and their personalities to become outright wiped and replaced instead by a robotic servitude to Horde Prime and his overarching goals.

“Someday… I promise you Princess, someday, we shall see liberation. For our Kingdom and for all Etheria. But right now, we must be brave enough to know the best actions are sometimes to engage in cowardice. I’m sorry. Please…”

Mirela’s encouragement helped Frosta, only a little, but it did avail her some sadness. They were nearly free of the Snow-Kingdom’s borders. Just a while longer and they’d move past the Ice-Gate that dictated official entry and exit into the icy dominion.

That’s when she saw him.

While Frosta couldn’t know who specifically the man was, an idea floated about her head. She was intelligent and intuitive for her youthful age and understood quickly that she was staring at whomever the leader of this enemy assault was, from an overhead platform that gave her a rather encompassing view.

Below her, Roman Barkov stood within a circle of bureaucratic aides and field commanders, doling out orders whilst bearing an expression of neutral indifference about the whole affair. A slick set of black hair and stony features distinguished him immensely from those mulling about nearby, with his arms crossed as he murmured unknowable orders before motioning for his staff to see them through. The field commanders and aides soon dispersed, leaving Barkov alone with only a humble escort team of four soldiers.

Frosta felt an untenable rage begin bubbling through. She wanted to punish this man for the sins he’d enacted against her homeworld. Her innocent people that’d done nothing to deserve the crimes laden against them. For robbing her of a bright future of friendship and happiness with her friends in the Princess Alliance.

Mirela dragged her away before those intrusive thoughts earned success. Just as it seemed they were home-free though…

“GENERAL!”
A hoarse, authoritative voice cried out, quickly snagging Barkov’s predisposed attention. One of his mercenary-soldiers.

“Huh? What’s going on soldier?”

“Two men were discovered dead near the outskirt towns. Karovitch was one of them!”

Barkov’s face darkened. Clearly Karovitch had proven his stripes previously to warrant such reaction from the usually cold and commanding General. Pretty soon, the impromptu command center he operated from quickly scintillated with activity as Slavic mercenaries, Banished troops, and Newtopian drones quickly spread out into coordinated formations, seeking out the culprit with extreme prejudice.

“Shhh. Don’t say a word, little Princess. They’ll find us. They will kill us. And they will enact the most terrible harm unto you. We will be quiet, we will be swift, and we shall escape this together. Understand me?”
Mirela stated with a fierce voice, yet one undoubtedly laced with fear. Frosta silently nodded in response.

Soon enough, the straightforward path to their Ice-Gate became a deathtrap. Men streamed like parasites into the frigid ice, their winter-coats bristling with the small breeze afforded to their climate. Banished Unggoy spattered about, hissing and sniffling the air, though their tracking skills seemed subpar at best as they only led their handlers to miscellaneous objects of little worth, leading to their public flagellation.

Frosta and her retainers decided on the longer path around the Ice-Gate, that provided access towards a road that directly led into Plumeria, the nearest Kingdom to the Snows. Whilst there was an unrealistic hope, Frosta still prayed that somehow Perfuma’s people managed a kinder fate to her own. Their path was devoid of obstacles, though such was merely a diversion. Before the road entrance was stocked another series of mercenaries and Amphibian drones.

“T-there’s too many of them. We can’t move through all of them. Back when it was just Horde-Bots things were so much simpler. We should surrender…”
Frosta muttered, having lost hope at the volume of enemy forces blockading her escape. These goons were far more powerful and adept than the mindless hosts of Horde minions she faced earlier. Hell, even Entrapta’s upgrades onto the Horde’s mechanical warriors were dwarfed by the might displayed by these assailants.

“We mustn’t lose hope Princess. Stand firm. Jora, Kaal, come hither. I’ve a mission to bid you both.”

Mirela appeared to whisper something into the ears of Frosta’s other retainers, whom nodded dutifully in response, though didn’t divulge the intricacies of their lead knight’s plan to the Princess herself.

“What? What’s going on? Tell me!”

“Princess… all you ought to know is that sacrifices are sometimes necessary to wrest about a greater good. Please, understand this principle well.”

“I-I know that. I lost my parents fighting this war. My home! Everything and everyone I loved was taken by this conflict. I know about sacrifice!”

“… Not well enough. Not yet. Allow me to provide example.”

Mirela darkly guided Frosta’s eyes towards the road entryway. Before long, a spear crested into the neck of a patrolling soldier, alerting his fellows. Frosta then realized Jora and Kaal were notably absent from her side. They emerged like demons from the cold shadow, charging forth the enemies with reckless abandon. Whilst they engaged, Mirela grasped Frosta and physically prevented her from enacting her magical abilities to intercede on their behalf. Without mercy or hesitation, the attacking knights were casually gunned down by the entourage of puzzled mercenaries. Their bodies were whittled with bloody bullet-holes as they spattered out with pain and collapsed.

“NO-“

Mirela clasped her free palm over Frosta’s mouth as they slipped by the impromptu border security, managing to now fully escape the Kingdom of Snows.

“This is what I meant, Princess. This is what sacrifice means. To give up everything and everyone- yes, but at a moment’s notice. To understand innately that life will beget loss. To fight means to invite death’s cruel reality into your heart at every interstice. Before this long war is over, you shall know this better than most your age. Hate me. Curse me. Call me callous and vain. But your parents bid me with your protection should they have fallen in battle, and I will fulfill that oath unto my dying breath.”

And with that, Barkov’s newest fugitives slipped away into the ever-present blizzard surrounding the Kingdom, heading for parts unknown. Mirela had a plan, and Frosta seemingly held little choice save participation within it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Fright Zone

Once the Local Horde’s Capital, the Fright Zone had become an emptied husk of its former self.

Which itself was merely a former husk of the once glorious, grand kingdom that was established there.

When Horde Prime’s invasion entered full swing, he decided to secure the Fright Zone permanently and personally, perhaps to spite that ill-fated rogue clone of his with ideations of freedom, buried deep within that tortured psyche which defined him. Hordak… what a pitiable creature, made only to serve, yet believing he could achieve something so menial as love. Horde Prime placed that incoherent insurgent in his place as but a soulless automaton, and now would finish the work he began aboard the throne of his Flagship.

Joining Horde Prime was the evil dark wizard Zargothrax, the Jiralhanae Warmaster Atriox, and Muzan Kibutsuji. Their various servants and enforcers were busy destroying resistance across Etheria and securing the planet, thus explaining the array of explosions dotting the skies and burning piles of rubble that could be spotted should a ship decide to make port upon this doomed world. Currently, this group was escorted by Kokushibo, the elite Demon Swordsman bodyguard of Muzan, a small detachment of Horde-Bots and Clones, a unit of Crail Death-Knights, and finally a few Jiralhanae Chieftains under Atriox’s personal battlefield command.

“This place reeks of pitiable ruin. I cannot fathom how any empire would make this their central base of command.”
Muttered Muzan ruefully as they moved inside.

“What matters is how a place is utilized, not its aesthetical designs. To focus on such details is merely a waste of time. It seems that whoever reigned here before our arrival made best with the limited resources at their disposal. That alone is worthy of respect.”
Commented Zargothrax in turn, his staff of dark magical power emanating and charging with terrible energies as they moved through a damp, dank hallway. Horde Prime merely chafed at such an insinuation.

“There is nothing impressive about my rogue clone. He believed himself worthy of breaking off from my grasp. An impossibility. All beings serve under Horde Prime, especially those bespoken of my genome. To consider otherwise is heresy of the highest order. I punished him accordingly.”

Horde Prime’s comments placed an end to such debate. Atriox seemed more interested in galvanizing their surroundings and ensuring their safety rather than engaging in meaningless diatribe anyway.

“Something smells off. Stay on your guard. I suspect we could be walking into an ambush.”
Atriox announced, causing their escorts to quickly prime their weapons and move with a renewed caution about them.

“Impossible. There’s no means the enemy possesses to know of our movements. They are terribly outmatched by the combined armies of the Primordial Empire and my own troops. And if there was a traitor, we’d have rooted them out by now.”
Horde Prime rejected the idea of possible infiltration or ambush, heavily underestimating the Etherians as he always had.

“Why’re we dallying here anyway? We should be joining Glitchtrap for the invasion of Bright Moon. Those Chaos whelps enjoy all the glory while we’re here playing explorer in this rancid place.”
Zargothrax commented.

“More exists than simple conquest upon this world. I could’ve burnt this planet to oblivion the moment my fleets hovered above it. In my infinite wisdom and power though, I learnt of a mighty device that contained this world’s gathered magical energy. Millennia of untapped might just waiting for use at the proper hands- those being mine, of course. I am the prophetic bringer of order to this maddening universe. With the Heart of Etheria, I shall be unstoppable! And I have reason to believe there exists a key to the Heart here.”

Atriox stifled a laugh at that bloviation.

“No relic could make one equal to a proper tactician who makes use of his troops and resources with logistical brilliance. What delusions do you slave under?”

The belligerence quickly fomented into unspoken tension as Horde Prime’s ego wouldn’t leave that remark unchecked, turning to face Atriox with irritated reptilian eyes that narrowed upon his sizable frame, unafraid of the physically imposing and massive Brute Warmaster.

“Power is not determined by the largest weapon- but rather the greatest mind. I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, being Glitchtrap’s blunt hammer of warfare and all.”

“Heh. If you believe a Jiralhanae has never heard an insult based on their brutishness before, you are naïve indeed.”

“I will admit, Atriox speaks more eloquent than most I know.”
Added Zargothrax with  hint of respect in that gravelly voice of his.

“That changes nothing. You have dared to insult the great Horde Prime, master of all that is and all who are! Your daring will bring you only my wrath, you insignificant-“

“Halt! Who goes there!?”
Muzan’s inquiry interrupted their imminent spat, everyone’s attention, escorts included, turning towards a figure that slowly stepped inside the blasted-out chamber. It approached with slow pace. Coming into shining view was a taller woman wearing striking red clothing. Her arms were crustacean in nature, her back laden with an insectoid stinger type appendage. The assembled villains tensed up as she approached…

“Oh- hiiiiii!!! Did I stumble onto anything by accident? I’m a little clumsy like that, so apologies in advance. I’m Princess Scorpia by the way, GREAT to meet you guys. I gotta say, you dudes seem like the toughest fellas around! I mean, you’ve got scary armor, sharp teeth, heck, I think brushing against your shoulders could kill me, y’know what I mean?”

“Princess? Are you with that blasted alliance?”
Zargothrax interrogated as his Death-Knights tensed upon the handles of their vibro-blades.

“Wha- me? NOOOOO. No! I just heard some stuff going on and wanted to check it out y’know? I like being where the actions at. I’m a BIG hugger by the way. Are any of you guys huggers? You! You look like a hugger with a GREAT fashion sense. I’m really digging that hat!”

Muzan felt annoyed at Scorpia’s bubbly personality, demonic eyes narrowing upon the muscularly framed woman with deathly intent.

“Kokushibo- detain her. I believe she knows something that may be of use to us.”

“Yes, Master.”

The multi-eyed swordsman cautiously approached Scorpia, whose demeanor didn’t seem to change even as the corrupted Demon Slayer advanced upon her.

“Oh, is this guy first? Perfect! I do love me some hugs!”

Kokushibo humored her not, preparing to physically overpower her without even unsheathing his blade…

Right beforehand, the fallen brother of Yorichii sensed an imminent danger. Given that portions of his cellular makeup also belonged to Muzan, the Demon Lord acquired a similar alertness too.

“LOOK OUT!”

A Jiralhanae Chieftain turned around within the nick of time, as a sea-bound trident clashed against the fanciful sheen of his armor. Roaring with angered surprise, the humanoid ape monstrosity stepped back and sought to raise his brute-shot to vaporize the attacker, only to notice a growing golden glow peer from the corners of his animalistic eyes. A strangely-dressed piratical seeming man originated from the darkness of this dilapidated, rustic chamber, swinging wildly his blade and irritating the Brute enough for it to stagger back and miss the first few shots of its weapon, causing instead the brute-shots to collide against the walls and unleash a wreath of explosive firepower that shattered debris and shrapnel everywhere.

“FOR ETHERIAAAA!!!”
Cried a powerful feminine voice, originating from the original trident-wielding assailant. The crowd of bad guys and their minions quickly sought to muster into attack formations and defensible positions, creating momentary chaos. Zargothrax honed his senses, made proper over centuries of practicing the dark arts, noticing fully their troubles hadn’t finished presenting themselves yet. Joining the seabound princess and her male accomplice was another figure exiting the darkness, a whirlpool of mystically growing ferns, brambles, and flowers accompanying her; which soon coalesced into tendrils that snapped at the enemy. Three Horde-Bots of the ten present were immediately impaled, their systems going haywire and sensory mainframes exploding as they were tossed aside.

“It’s a damned ambush! We’ve been tricked!”
Zargothrax alerted.

“KOKUSHIBO, SLAY THAT DAMNED WENCH! NOW!”

Kokushibo turned back, though the sizable woman was disappeared. His danger-sense quickly picked up a sudden attack, but even his capable reflexes and Demonic agility couldn’t avoid that inevitable fate. A blast of red electrical power slammed against Kokushibo’s side, causing the Demonic Enforcer to grunt with subdued surprise and slam against the wall.

The towering red crystal which domineered the room’s aesthetic became warmed up, alight with energies that Zargothrax mentally noted weren’t present beforehand. Was it possible…

As the Death-Knights of Crail unveiled their swords together and joined the Jiralhanae War-Chieftains who revealed their Grav-Hammers into a countercharge against the arriving Princesses, the helmeted Sorcerous Terror of Dundee uncovered where that blast hailed from. Scorpia, eyes glazed over with unknowable powers and properties, her body aflame with capabilities that weren’t there previously, stepped forward, her scorpion-esque limbs and appendages rife with scintillating power that would shock the nervous system of anyone unwise enough to approach.

“So, you’re connected with the arcane properties of this crystal. It shan’t avail you. The Horde’s intelligence told us everything!”

Zargothrax cackled, summoning forth crackles of dark power embodying as jetblack smoke seeping from his staff that jettisoned as the form of numerous opened palms seeking to rip apart any target they happened upon. Empowered Black-Garnet Scorpia grimaced, though her electrical power dissolved these attacks into dissipated black smoke; a move Zargothrax counted on. As the entire chamber descended into battlefield madness, a series of shouts and screams laced with the sounds of swords clanking and blasters firing, the Dark Sorcerer outreached his free palm not clasping his staff’s handle, coalescing all of Scorpia’s Runestone energies and reflecting them back against her, a move which she didn’t predict as she was blasted back against the wall similar to Kokushibo.

“How could’ve this deception occurred!? None knew of our location! This is madness! Purest madness! I AM HORDE PRIME, I CANNOT BE TRICKED OR FOOLED! I KNOW ALL! I SEE ALL! PROTECT ME YOU INDIGNANT CRETINS, I MUST ESCAPE THIS IDIOCY AT ONCE!”
Horde Prime roared as his Clones protectively surrounded him. The Velvet Glove was already enroute to pickup its overlord, though it might’ve been too late. Atriox and his War-Chieftains were ensnared by the Nature-themed Princess’s attacks, wrapping them up into makeshift slabs of bark and tree- while the Death-Knights of Crail were busy handling the water-based elemental assaults of the other Princess and her companion.

“Your reign of terror is OVER, evildoers. I proclaim this as Mermista, the mighty Sea-Ra!”  
Mermista shouted proudly, twirling about her staff and whacking away two Death-Knights of Crail. Another sought to impale her through the back, but her ally noticed the assault and twanged off the would-be killer’s sword, engaging into a series of parries, feints, sidestepping, and strikes against the aberrant minion of Zargothrax.

“Indeed! To slay such monsters that tarry not only OUR world, but countless others, is nothing short of great ADVENTURE! You foul villains have been fooled by your own hubris. I, Sea-Hawk, the greatest Pirate Legend of all Etheria, will prevent your victory from coming to fruition!”
Sea-Hawk vicariously stated, avoiding an overhanging sword-strike charge from another Death-Knight, twirling about and using his own sword’s pommel to angle a strike against the man’s back right-knee guard, causing him to stagger and fall down. Before the self-styled Pirate could finish the job, another Death-Knight wielding a halberd intercepted the strike, now leveraging it to push back Mermista’s companion against the wall.

“Sea-Hawk! Get AWAY FROM HIM!”
The nature-bound Princess, Perfuma, shouted, leering forth another cavalcade of Mother Nature’s unflinching wrath against this collective of tyrants and ghoulish servants of their wills. Another series of vines smashed against and ensnared the halberd-brandishing Death-Knight and his downed friend. Before she could imprison ALL the present Death-Knights though, a series of blazing katana-blows severed many of the tendril connections, causing Perfuma to gasp.

“W-what!?”

Standing amidst a pall of introductory smoke, Kokushibo silently moved into action. Muzan noticeably hadn’t engaged into the battle much, likely viewing it beneath him and resolving to allow his Upper Moon One to handle the matter.

“We’ve never encountered enemies like these before! Was this whole thing just a waste of time!?”
Mermista shouted as the tendrils dissolved into nothingness, standing back-to-back with Sea-Hawk as the freed War-Chieftains growled and bayed at them and the Death-Knights grasped their weapons and quietly moved to charge forth again.

“Don’t lose heart Mermista. The entire Rebellion’s riding on our success here. We’ll have to stop these evildoers here and now to save all of Etheria. It’s our best and ONLY chance.”

“We’re seriously putting our full trust into her!?”

“I’m afraid there’s not much choice presented to us. After Mystacor fell… she’s the best hope we’ve got. Besides, all we need do is hold out until She-Ra arrives!”

Sea-Hawk and Mermista’s conversation piqued Zargothrax’s interest. What specifically were they talking about? Who was ‘her’? Not She-Ra if context proved anything. No. There was a traitor embedded into their own ranks.

The Scottish Sorcerer’s greyed, decrepit eyes, clasped solely behind that war-mask of his, widened with realization. Every piece fell into place. Everyone was exactly where they needed to be.

“HORDE PRIME!”

“WHAT IS IT NOW CONJURER-TRICKSTER!?”

“YOU’VE A TRAITOR IN YOUR MIDST. IT’S-“

Before Zargothrax could finish his sentence, another bolt of Scorpia’s lightning nearly scalded him to oblivion. The wizard galled his staff and created a warbly shield right before he became toast, though it began to visibly crack as they entered a power-struggle. Around them the battle proceeded. With every metric, the villains were superior to these Princess foes, it was solely through their magic and determination alone their skulls hadn’t caved in. If only Springtrap was here- this wouldn’t be contested whatsoever. The Arch-Foe of the Questlords of Inverness figured that Springtrap’s absence was perhaps another design of the traitor’s making, though couldn’t be sure.

Nevertheless, their tussle continued. With their advantage of surprise discarded, the Princesses relied on sheer ability alone, which was overshadowed quite easily by these monsters who’d bled and slain entire worlds. Even Horde Prime who wasn’t a particularly combat-orientated opponent was throwing a few punches. His bodies were meant to hold physical greatness after all, unworthy vessels that couldn’t defend themselves in emergency situations were worthless.

“HOLD STILL YOU LITTLE WHELPS! I SHALL GUARANTEE YOU A WARRIOR’S DEATH!”
Roared Atriox, as Chainbreaker warbled and hummed with unspeakable power, the red electrical glow identical towards the energies Scorpia was harnessing. Despite the Princesses’ agility, Atriox managed a strike right into the squishy side of Perfuma before she could cower behind another sheen of effervescent nature. The vines shattered apart into sizzled pieces and Perfuma herself felt the full brunt of Chainbreaker’s strength.

She could only realize her doom too late. Perfuma winced as the specialized Gravhammer struck her with such fortitude that she could FEEL her skeleton breaking apart. Her musculature and organs were smashed into silly putty within the confines of a now seared skinsuit. A cough of slick lifeblood followed as she collapsed onto Black Garnet chamber floor, her tired eyes resting upon the person she most valued.

Scorpia.

“S-scorp…”

Whatever was left of Plumeria’s monarchical sovereign was quieted as Atriox angrily stomped her head into a mushy, squished oblivion beneath his steel bootheel.

“Enough from you, weakling. Those that cannot fight deserve not any place within this universe. Now then- Banished Chieftains, TO ME! Let’s finish this nonsense already!”

That move seemed to have changed the mood. Mermista’s jaw was hung agape with horror at the scene she’d just witnessed. Surely, the Princesses weren’t strangers to war’s ugliness and death’s cold embrace. Yet to witness such a merciless, senseless act of acute violence before her… Mermista could feel a pit of anguish forming into her stomach.

A really bad time too, as Kokushibo rushed towards her, katana prepared to sever the head clean off her aquatic body.

He’d nearly reached his mark, until a series of clanks and squelches drew Mermista’s disheartened attention as the Death-Knights, the five remaining Horde-Bots, and two Chieftains cornered her against the Chamber Wall.

Sea-Hawk had sufficed the blow. A poignant blade peered through his chest, soaking up those ridiculous clothes of his with rivers of liquid red. His expression dwindled into a defeated gaze, though before Muzan’s plus one could finish the job, he turned about and managed a weak smile back at his own beloved, Mermista.

“I-I really loved going on adventures with you… M-my Mermista-“

Kokushibo swiftly pulled out his katana embedded within Sea-Hawk’s ribcage and managed an upward stroke, parting throat muscle and spilling out another stream of blood, causing the Pirate to choke on his own fluids as he collapsed dead.

At that moment, both Scorpia and Mermista realized the fates of their beloveds. Even empowered by the Black Garnet Runestone, Scorpia was lucid enough to recognize Perfuma’s disgraced, headless corpse. Both young women failed to properly espouse their feelings in time, not knowing today, without warning and by cruel, indifferent fate, they would lose those they cared most about.

“How pathetic. Those that would willingly sacrifice themselves for another deserve nothing but eternal spite. What sad lives your friends commanded, and sadder still will be your endings. They perished only to extend your lives by several seconds at most. Languish on that thought before your execution!”
Zargothrax chortled, causing even the usually distant and lordly Horde Prime to break out into insidious, wicked laughter. Atriox, his lieutenants, and the Horde-Clones joined in, poking fun at those they’d just emotionally brutalized. Muzan refrained, finding this whole affair annoying and now simply moving about the chamber with mild disinterest.

However, their hubris would soon prove foolhardy. Scorpia uttered a sound only describable as a roaring sadness for those lost, and a determination to avenge them. An ear-piercing wail that even Horde Prime found irritating. With her wordless proclamation came another burst of the Black Garnet’s energy, this time surging from the crystal itself that knocked everyone back. Mermista too underwent a similar apotheosis, water forming from thin air and swirling about her like an angry, sentient vortex intent on claiming lives before it fizzled out.

“Impossible! These wenches were concealing THAT much magical potential between them!? Tch… no matter. Stand fast and annihilate these interlopers!”
Zargothrax commanded. It seemed even Muzan was annoyed now, seeing as his suit was sparked and damaged by Scorpia’s warranted tantrum. Kokushibo managed to avoid these attacks’ brunt, watching instead as Mermista’s water-vortex consumed the remaining Horde-Bots and turning them into scrap. A Jiralhanae War-Chieftain too was so overwhelmed by the intense water pressure that his armor cracked, and skin soon followed, though the rest of Atriox’s Chosen managed to hold against both power-ups relatively fine aside.

The battle entered a new stage of conflict, as the villains struggled against Empowered Mermista and Scorpia alike. Zargothrax recognized this; when heroes were pushed too far, they lost all their limits and acted in wanton destruction and hatred. When unprepared, it was truly a terrifying sight that the Dark Wizard had known well from past engagements. Though now, even though initially it seemed fearful, they were quick to reorganize. His allies in the Primordial Empire were ultimately proving more boon than liability. Better for him.

Empowered Mermista knocked aside Kokushibo and the Horde-Clones, aiming to silence Horde Prime; whom she recognized for orchestrating much of the suffering and harm Etheria’s ever endured, directly or no. She roared with a fierce warrior-esque determination and raised her trident to killing stance as Horde Prime tripped over his own robes seeking to escape. Before her blow could land though, a series of flesh-projectiles that mid-air mutated into horrific animalistic things that were more serrated mouth than actual body, snapping away and bloodily chewing at Mermista’s exposed skin that her armor left gapped.

“Hmph. Good work on doing your duty to the Horde, little brother. Mayhaps there is hope among the gaggle of barbarians that Afton names his counsel yet.”

Horde Prime huffed, brushing off his cloak as Muzan approached.

“It’s beneficial for us if you’re still alive. Mistake not my actions for any camaraderie.”

“In that case, you could’ve let me perish. I would’ve merely inhabited a clone body as always.”

“These irritating ‘Princesses’ ruined my suit. As the ultimate being, I shall not be made a fool of, especially not at the hands of these detestable gnats. Now quiet down.”

“How dare you tell the great Horde Pri-“

A death stare from Muzan shut up the intergalactic cult leader pretty quickly.

Empowered Scorpia and Mermista were tough opponents without doubt, damaging most the chamber around them and causing slabs of floor to croak and creak and patches of roof to loosen and clamber downward. Atriox continued trying to angle proper strikes with Chainbreaker, though remained wary of the watery and electrical properties tossed against him; and when they combined, it would definitely spell a bad time.

Surprisingly, the villains fought well together. Atriox and his Chieftain-troupe’s more heavy-hitting attacks that unleashed gravity swells that knocked Mermista and Scorpia off-balance were covered by Kokushibo’s swift strokes and the Death-Knights of Crails’ organizational tactics and slowly pincer moving the Elemental Princesses. Occasional bouts of help from Muzan and cantrips cast by Zargothrax helped to hem these troublesome foes in, until they were practically surrounded.

“Enough of this. Die now with your honor still intact!”
Atriox hissed, charging up another bout of Chainbreaker to completely envelop them in energy as Kokushibo kept them occupied, avoiding their elemental assaults and swishing with such fast and precise strokes that it defied imagination and comprehension.

Just then though, a shimmering overcast of light threw everyone off-guard.

“What’s this now!?”
Chided Zargothrax, though he staggered. Facing them was a young woman of flowing blonde hair, a confident, grimaced expression on her face as she observed the corpses of her fallen friends. Almost angelic in nature and boasting golden armor speaking a true heroism, unlike the false savior complex Springtrap’s gold posed… it was undoubtable. Horde Prime spoke of this figure as if she was extinct; though here she was, standing in direct opposition to the Primordial Empire’s darkness.

She-Ra.

“How- what… the She-Ra!? But you were… you were destroyed. This isn’t possible… unless…”

Horde Prime happened upon the same realization that Zargothrax did at the battle’s beginning.

“Shadow Weaver. That whorish cretin! I should’ve slain her when the chance was granted to me! She’s back on my Flagship with Catra and Glimmer- GET ME BACK ONTO MY VESSEL NOW!”
Roared Horde Prime with a distinctive panic to his nearest clone minion, who desperately tried to recall the Velvet Glove quick as he could via the Horde’s communications system.

Zargothrax meanwhile channeled another surge of unstoppable dark power.

“No light can stand against evil! No hero can defeat the Darkness! There is NOTHING you can do!”
He chided, sending forth a wave of darkness against She-Ra. Though she merely twisted her sword and set aside those powers. Muzan opened his right palm, peering forth another series of swirling eel-esque terrors, though the She-Ra viewed these with equal disdain and chopped them up into smithereens. Zargothrax and Kibutsuji stared at each other, understanding they’d need to get serious if they wanted to best her.

If Atriox, Muzan, Zargothrax, and Kokushibo unleashed the full breadth of their capabilities, She-Ra would be finished. Even she knew this, having been told that Horde Prime’s new allies were evils that even she couldn’t hope to best. Though besting them wasn’t her goal. Only buying time. Her sword channeled forth a rainbow energy blast that knocked back the oncoming villains. Empowered Mermista and Scorpia were beginning to lose their berserk stages. She-Ra had recognized that she arrived too late to save some of her friends… but all wasn’t lost.

“Come on! We’ve gotta get outta here! NOW!”

She-Ra encouraged Scorpia and Mermista to escape down the hall, though an enraged Horde Prime pointed at them.

“DO NOT LET THESE WRETCHES ESCAPE!”

Atriox turned to his Chosen and barked that same order. The Chieftains understood and primed their Grav-Hammers, barreling down the Fright Zone hallway after the fugitives. Finally, the Velvet Glove arrived with an audible hum…

“We must terminate all the prisoners in your custody. This entire offensive is now at risk because of your carelessness!”
Zargothrax spoke accusingly to Horde Prime, who scowled in response.

“This is an internal Horde matter, and I shall handle it at such. I suggest you all continue on your merry way and secure the remainder of this worthless planet!”

Atriox was about to retort, but Horde Prime flitted away via the tractor beam as his Clones perused about the Fright Zone, seeking about the lost piece of the Heart of Etheria key; though Zargothrax surmised that the Princesses’ other goal besides ambushing them was making off with that artifact.

“Shadow Weaver must’ve already made preparations to see her plan through. By now she’s probably aware that her cover’s blown.”
Atriox commented as Kokushibo cleaned his blade by sliding it upon Sea-Hawk’s corpse-flesh.

“Indeed. We need to contact Glitchtrap. Immediately.”
Added Muzan, frowning as he examined the damage done unto his suit. Zargothrax growled. Next time he encountered those Princesses, he would terminate them. But for now, he silently agreed that contacting Afton was their best bet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Whispering Woods

Today extracted a heavy toll indeed.

Adora rushed into the Whispering Woods of her homeworld, Scorpia and Mermista in tow. They’d lost Perfuma and Sea-Hawk; though those were just the casualties she’d just witnessed. Etheria itself was lost, and no amount of Etherian magical energy could shift the balance back into the Rebellion’s favor. Just as all hope seemed forsaken though; especially considering Adora’s bout of powerlessness after losing the She-Ra ability…

An unexpected hand outreached to help.

Shadow Weaver, the manipulative sorceress who’d been responsible for a childhood of abuse for Adora and her closest friend Catra, offered an olive branch. Perhaps recognizing that these visitors would discard her once her use shriveled, or maybe having a rare ethical pause of action, it didn’t matter. She-Ra last heard that Shadow Weaver apparently joined forces with Horde Prime, though this seemingly proved a ruse. Now the woman was spreading naught but pure havoc within Horde battle-comms and those of their allies, confusing their armies and stalling their offensives- even if by only a few minutes or hours at most.

The mysterious woman instructed Adora to enter the Whispering Woods and wait for her there, and she’d currently little choice save compliance.

“I-I think we’ve lost them. They’re not following us anymore, from what I can tell.”
Scorpia remarked, panting and darting her eyes back occasionally just to make sure. For nearly three hours since they escaped the Fright Zone they were hounded by enemy troops.

“Alright. Alright… good. We’re near the First Ones Temple.”
Adora replied, her enhanced strength and agility managing her a greater physical constitution than those of her counterparts, thusly she didn’t feel as tired or expended as them.

“And why are we trusting Shadow Weaver, AGAIN? The same woman that betrayed her own people for power in the Horde and betrayed the Horde for power in our Alliance? And matter of fact, how come YOU got to make that judgment call in the first place!?”
Mermista suddenly shouted, taking Adora off-guard by how vitriolic her words felt.

“I-we don’t exactly have many options. This all happened so fast I didn’t know what else-“

“Well you SHOULD’VE known, Adora! You’re the She-Ra. You’re our glorious leader that everyone looks up too! Inheritor of Etheria’s hopes and dreams, huh!? So THINK of something else! Because we’ve lost Perfuma, and we’ve lost Sea-Hawk, and we’ve lost… and…”

Mermista’s words faltered as she tried gathering herself. The sea-bound princess could only choke out sobs and gargles with utter sadness as the past few days’ events began to coalesce. Adora couldn’t even fault her- because really, she internalized those very same regrets. She should’ve stopped Glimmer. Found a way to prevent Etheria from becoming known to the wider universe and thus victimized by Horde Prime and his associates. She thought she was the hero that saved the day and prevented all these tragedies.

It turns out She-Ra was merely a fraud. Mara would be so disappointed…

“I-I’m sorry. I tried. I really did. I wanted to be a hero, but… I’m not good enough. Trust me, I know that. But if I can still salvage this, you better be sure I’ll try.”

“H-hey, guys, come on…”
Scorpia approached, despite the devastating loss she herself just endured, putting on a fake smile and patting both girls lightly on the back. It seems her and Mermista’s connections to their Runestones had died out, at the very least, they weren’t in their magically empowered states any longer.

“We’re not outta the game yet, right? C’mon. If Shadow Weaver wanted to sell us out by now, she would’ve. Trust me, I know that woman. Maybe not as good as Adora or Catra, but… I know her well enough. Let’s keep moving.”

Adora tried physically comforting Mermista, but she was swatted away unceremoniously. Their friendship was likely forever sundered, though she hoped not so. Nevertheless, their trek continued with uncomfortable silence until they came across a ruin slaked in vines and overgrown nature. Adora recognized it quickly; that being the same Crystal Castle where she encountered Light Hope and was told of her innate destiny. How foolish she was to believe those prophetic lies… that she could ever be a savior. A few guns and scores of murderous invaders had proved her deeply wrong.

They only advanced forward a while longer until a flash of sizzling black magic swept before them, embodied via smoke clouds. This sensation eventually disappeared, revealing Shadow Weaver… alongside two companions whose presence heightened Adora’s adrenaline and shock both.

Princess Glimmer and Catra. Curiously still, they were joined by Glimmer’s lifelong friend and gifted mechanist, Bow.

“I do hope we’re not too late-“

Shadow Weaver’s shorthanded introduction was cut short as Adora pushed past her, rushing over towards her friends. Glimmer tearfully embraced the Etherian warrior-princess, trying desperately to atone for her sins.

“ADORA! I-I’m sorry, I was so stupid and I- I tried-“

“Glimmer, Glimmer… don’t think about that right now, okay? We’re gonna get out of here. All of us. We’ll talk about it later.”

Glimmer heaved and direly tried to find her composure. Ultimately, she managed to stay herself. Adora sighed, trying to flash an encouraging smile to her.

“Hey Adora.”

Catra’s voice plucked her from the reverie. An unspoken history fluctuated between them as they locked eyes. A story of painful interpretations of betrayal, of slow reconciliation, of misunderstanding each other, and of suppressed love. Adora had so much she wanted to say to Catra, but so little time as it stood.

“Hey yourself, kitty-cat. Uh… w-where’s Entrapta?”

Adora quietly murmured.

“I’m not sure. After Horde Prime took me into his flagship, I’m not exactly sure what happened to her. I… Adora-“

“Save it for later.”

Bow stepped in with a do-or-die gaze about him.

“Let’s save the reunions for later. Deliver us what you promised. Now.”

Bow stated coldly, staring directly at the enigmatic Shadow Weaver, who merely chuckled lightly in response.

“Of course, of course. I didn’t call you all here just to fumble at the final moment. Catra, Adora… you two of all people should know I always plan carefully.”

“Just do what you said and get us out of here.”
Catra growled at Shadow Weaver. The group’s disparate nature was obvious, and Weaver recognized it probably best not to test them any further.

“Alright then. Stand back, the lot of you. This’ll take every bit of my power and I need to focus. So preferably, no distractions.”

“And if any distractions decide they’re not listening to you and show anyway?”
Adora inquired.

“Then do what you do best, She-Ra.”

Shadow Weaver began chanting a mystical spell of ancient power, swirling together a series of trans-spatial coordinates to her personage. Adora watched with shock, knowing she was always a talented magician, but to create something such as… whatever this vortex of power was, was truly something within a class of its own.

Yet even before Shadow Weaver’s dark arts were finished, a hideous, thunderous roar cavalcaded throughout the Whispering Woods, scaring away nearby wildlife with a rustle. The group of Princesses and rebels were alerted by the sound, darting up to witness a horrific sight. A two-headed mutated imitation of a dragon, ridden by an evil figure resplendent in glowering gold. Adora didn’t know how, but she could just sense that all the misery, all the separated friends and dead innocents and those murdered could be laid at his feet just as they could Horde Prime’s.

He was the master of the darkness which assailed Etheria.

“WE’VE BEEN SPOTTED!”
Shouted Mermista shrilly as Bow readied his notch of arrows and loosened an explosive-tipped one without fail and industrial precision to boot. It quickly fluttered high and collided against the beast square into its frontal area, causing both heads to howl once more with beleaguered agony as its master forcibly rushed the creature into battle nonetheless. A distinctive, haunting laugh could be heard from the rider- as if finding it humorous how much he’d taken from the assembled group of people. The sound both infuriated and terrified Adora.

Still in her She-Ra form, she launched a series of energy attacks against the Chaos Dragon, though it seemed to tank those blasts with relative ease as it made landfall and its respective heads began snapping at the Princesses. Scorpia and Mermista did their best to hold off the fragrantly monstrous reptile that snapped and howled and bayed at them, smacking it away, though with their Runestone connections seemingly severed, they were nothing against its might.

“How cute. The heroes put up a frail resistance against the Master of Evil. I bring forth power that you fools cannot hope to comprehend. I have broken your innocence and drunk deep the suffering of your people and your world. Now DIE!”

Springtrap’s eloquent voice spoke out. Upon closer inspection, Adora could notice the golden-bunny helmet he wore. A curious design to be sure.

“I won’t let you take anymore. Your reign of terror ends TODAY!”

The Daemon Prince only laughed haughtily and arrogantly in response, swerving Slaughter’s other head undistracted by the Princesses’ menial attacks and snapped it against Adora, who used her reflexes and agility to narrowly avoid becoming Chaos Dragon chow.

“I’m not sure how your pathetic friends managed to escape Horde Prime’s custody, but I presume it has something to do with your little sorceress friend here. Did she tell you? How about many secrets she divulged to enter our good graces? Oh, the stories she bloviated, Adora. Her betrayal was admittedly a clever trick, though I believe she held genuine intention of joining us. Perhaps that weak heart of hers gave out after I told her about I beheaded Micah.”

Shadow Weaver tensed as Glimmer, who’d previously been releasing one light-based strike after another, paused. She was frozen in place as a deer in headlights, trembling at what he just said.

“Y-you… you…”

“Oh? Was he important to you? Wait… I recognize that look. I’d recognize it anywhere. He was your Daddy, wasn’t he? Ohh- poor dear. I’ve committed a grave sin in separating this precious family, haven’t I? The best thing I could do now is reunite such lost souls. Allow me!”

William jolted Slaughter to unleash a sludgy bile attack that it practically vomited out, releasing noxious fumes into the air as a viscous blackish substance smeared against the crystalline ground of the First One ruin. Light Hope wouldn’t come to assist, Adora knew that the AI was lost.

“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM! JUST KEEP FIGHTING UNTIL SHADOW WEAVER OPENS THE PORTAL!”

“YES! Keep fighting for your dead world, your doomed cause! It won’t matter either way, so just provide me more entertainment. That’s all your kind are good for anyway. Truly, you’re all sickening. Playing princess in your glittering castles, unaware of the universe’s true purpose- to breed power and strength. The fact you’ve all fell so easily before my armies only displays that none of you held rights to exist in the first place. Now I shall pluck the very hearts from your chests. Prepare for the coming oblivion!”

Yet William’s diatribe was exactly the momentary respite needed for Shadow Weaver to complete her plan. A rippling portal was thrust open into existence, with static crimson coloration in tow. Afton surmised instantly what was transpiring. He’d heard the battle-reports from Vrath: a hulking, towering Marine stole away that Kamado boy during his conquest of the prior world. Could a similar phenomenon be taking place here? No! He wouldn’t let these pests evacuate. If he couldn’t make slaves and experiment-subjects of them, they’d die here!

“IT’S DONE! GO AND LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY, ETHERIANS! GO! GOOO!”
Shadow Weaver cried. Scorpia and Mermista were the first ones through, alongside Bow and Glimmer next. Afton roared with frustration at having lost those targets, angling Slaughter to pursue. Its wings fluttered as it careened across the azure crystal surface towards them. Shadow Weaver attempted to teleport to safety, though one of the hyper-quick dragon’s heads snatched her beforehand, wrapping a jaw around her forearm and leaking slick blood as the sorceress wailed with anguish.

“See now the fruits of your betrayal, witch scu-“

Springtrap was then tackled off his saddle by none other than Catra herself. She screamed and screeched with reckless abandon, though it was menial. Her claws dinked off Afton’s armor, and only drew his ire rather than inflict any serious damage. Glitchtrap punched the feline humanoid off himself, standing upright and unsheathing his sword, approaching her for a killing blow before She-Ra blocked his attack.

“ENOUGH OF YOU!”
Adora shouted, flinging about the Sword of Protection and trying to knock back Springtrap. It was a failed maneuver, as William’s superior combat expertise and natural Daemon Prince senses outmatched the She-Ra’s, and he twirled about and avoided the blow, responding with a kick to her stomach.

“ADORA! We have to leave, NOW! There’s no other chance!”
Shadow Weaver alerted. William moved to decisively finish off the She-Ra, though Catra stood up and harried him again.

“NO! I’m not leaving without-“

But Shadow Weaver left no room for debate, a telekinetic snare grasping across Adora’s body and jettisoning her over towards the portal. Catra and Shadow Weaver appeared to hold some manner of unspoken agreement that prioritized Adora’s wellbeing over all else. Though before she went, Catra tearfully looked at her soulmate, the one she always wished to express her true feelings towards.

“ADORA! I’m sorry… for everything. I-I’m so, so sorry. I-“

Springtrap smacked down Catra with the pommel of his blade, knocking her unconscious and then turning to Shadow Weaver.

The last thing Adora saw of Etheria was Shadow Weaver turning to confront the Daemon Prince, though not without a final batted glance.

“You’re welcome.”

A powerful surge of Chaos magic thrust forth as the portal closed, though Adora heard none of it.

She was deafened by her own screams.

Chapter Text

Springtrap Maximus

Primordial Conclave Meeting Hall

Glitchtrap never tired of shamelessly buffeting his own ego. If these meetings weren’t held at the flagship he named after himself, they’d be held at the floating golden space fortress illuminated by evil and grandiose architecture.

Currently providing visitation to Springtrap Maximus was the Marquis Vincent de Gramont, formerly the earthbound ‘High Table’s’ chief ambassador and executor of their collective will, Gramont’s assistance to William during his nascent crimelord days was rewarded heftily with a sudden promotion through the cutthroat ranks of his illicit organization. Gramont was expected to repay this generosity with continuous bouts of loyalty, utilizing his network of connections and whisperers to consistently inform the Primordial Government of recent happenings regarding Earth Prime’s criminal underworld. After all, the Primordial Empire relied upon a variety of factors to enforce their order over a multitude of subjects, and using criminal empires as a front to keep people in line was certainly among that number.

However, Gramont wasn’t alone. Joining him was an elderly statesman of trimmed facial hair and peering eyes, donning a becalmed and suave coat reminiscent of those capitalistic billionaires that were the ruling class on old Earth- Wallace Breen, the recognized Combine Governor over their Earth territories. Alongside Breen sat an equally draped out fellow coated with British clothing signatories, including a Tricorn cap and peruke wig. That was Cutler Beckett, chief trademaster and current visionary helming the revitalized East India Trading Company, which viewed a renaissance of activity and prosperity after Glitchtrap’s seizure of power.

Finally sat a neo-kitsch suited fellow with three augmented eyes stacked upon each other. A grim expression addled that snow-haired face that’d seen and experienced much, a career of violence, coercion, intimidation, manipulation, blackmail, and control swirled about this enigmatic figure as he joined this disparate gathering of colleagues at Glitchtrap’s informal meeting of state. That was Faraday, the recognized authority in Night City’s dreadful Pacifica district, where the only rules were crime and strength domineered over everything else.

These four men were escorted by various guards hailing from their respective factions as signs of goodwill and peace between their represented parties and the Primordial Empire. Unspoken as it was though, it was understood that should ever an unlikely armed conflict break out upon Springtrap Maximus- any invaders wouldn’t stand a chance.

Rather than appearing with his usual form of a handsome, towering man with uncanny features depicting the physical corruption of Chaotic energies, William appeared before these men as a wretched old man lined with dried scars and stitched tissue indicating damage from lifetimes before. A caustic bald head accompanied by a wretched grin and cybernetic left eye that peered robotically into their very souls, stationed upon a wheelchair attached to numerous IV bags providing vital fluids and monitors overseeing his bodily condition.

Obviously, Afton wasn’t actually close to death’s door. He simply enjoyed Shapeshifting, being a power gifted since his Daemonic ascension. If one could undertake any form they chose, Afton would seize full advantage of such an ability. Furthermore, he liked unsettling those he conferred with, thereby explaining the eerie and frightening nature of the monstrous iteration he physically displayed himself within. If you’ve got the power, might as well use it was his logic.

“Your report is most pleasing, Marquis Gramont. I’ve wanted the High Table to cooperate with Earth’s other premiere underworld organizations for quite some time now. To hear that Yorinobu’s failed coup d’etat was actually conducive to such purposes, of all events and affairs to kickstart such effort, was certainly a surprise though.”

Wearing an impeccably stylish suit complete with his own golden coat-of-arms pinned upon the breast pocket, Marquis Vincent seemed just as prepared for fanciful balls and glittering pageants as he would be secretive meetings of state with a Galactic Overlord.

“The alliance with your Purple Cartel was initially a reluctant one. We’re engaged in commerce with their number, but… there have been numerous incidents throughout our shared pasts which have given us pause. Since you graduated into Galactic conquests and left behind your group, it’s been left under…”

“You may speak candidly here, those permitted into my private halls hold that privilege innately.”

The Marquis nodded before continuing, helping himself to another piece of gruyere cheese from the adjacent charcuterie board whilst doing such.

“Lesser men, suffice to say. They elected a path of warfare and conquest against us rather than outreaching their hands to make good new roads to progress after you mostly departed Earth for this beautiful fortress of yours, My Emperor. Certain cartels within Latin America that held the High Table’s blessing and backing were facing attacks by their goons as retaliation for us refusing to cut them into our dealing routes back at Europe and North Africa- it’s a tale of bloodshed I’m sure you’re well-versed in.”

“What manner of ruler would I be if I wasn’t? But this tale holds a happy ending, I’m now told.”

“For now, oui. Yorinobu’s little insurgency paints a wider picture of dissatisfaction among particular… groups of this new world order we’re building. It’s given everyone pause. I hear even the Triads are mulling about newly minted olive branches towards their traditional rivals, us included. I suppose that’ll include wirings of money and gateways into the Sino substance market. Many have benefited from your takeover, Emperor Glitchtrap. Despite our differences, none desire the contemporary power dynamic shifted. There are unhappy rumblings coming from cities across the globe, most specifically Roanapur.”

“Hmm? That degenerate Thai city, yes… I recall paying it some choice visits during older days. Surely anyone that feels inspired by Yorinobu Arasaka’s failed rebellion and those of past resistances understand there’s no hope should I desire to burn their cities asunder with my Chaos Astartes.”

“Maybe not, but they could still hurt us.”

“Indeed, indeed. You’re all vital to my empire’s functionality. My dark legions secure new worlds through conquest and fire, though you all provide the nuance, the intricacy. Resource extraction, financial proliferation, banking, private security, judicial oversight, etcetera.”

“Emperor Afton, may I interject?”
Softly requested Cutler Beckett. While he’d arrived here regarding a different purpose, one William discerned before the fellow even made board upon the Springtrap Maximus, it wasn’t disallowed for meeting attendants to input their opinions on every discussed subject should it pertain to wider relevance untoward Glitchtrap’s purposes. De Gramont, who clearly disliked being interrupted, flashed an evil gaze towards Beckett, sitting upon the table’s other side.

“This forum’s open for discussion Lord Beckett- proceed as charged.”

“Our continual reliance on these… unsavory elements of criminality- whatever cloak they may attire themselves within- indicates a level of weakness, in my humble opinion. These vagrants and pilferers are little different from the disparate Pirate gangs that harass the East India Company’s mercantile vessels throughout the Caribbean. But a plague that needs extermination, if you ask me.”

Beckett’s ruthless attitude towards the lawless wasn’t exactly novel. The East India Company often acted without boundaries or remorse towards illicit cartels and secretive organizations that prospered off the proliferation of substances, armaments, money laundering, etcetera. The prior Lord who helmed EITC operations was a doddering old man who understood the game well and often enjoyed sizable bribes from groups such as Gramont’s High Table, the various Cartels acting as small kingdoms embedded throughout Latin America, the Purple Cartel, and dozens more. Once Beckett and his posse of lawmen seized power, restrictions and toughness against Earth’s criminal element on their end increased dramatically. Given William’s policy of neutrality from the central Primordial Government on the affairs and policies of most major Terran institutions, there wasn’t much assistance from their end to even the Purple Cartel; Afton’s former empire before he graduated to intergalactic pursuits.

“That’s certainly a poignant opinion- without doubt one fueled by an unyielding personal bias from your end, eh? Picture the profits EITC stands to acquire in their next quarter should private businesses such as ours go extinct.”
Marquis Vincent bit back with an equal retort.  

“Profit for us means benefit for His Majesty’s dominions, which means wider greatness for all the Primordial Empire. I see little consequence from such a move.”
Beckett smarmily spat back. While technically displaying an outward position of quiet non-intervention, Afton always took delightful amusement in watching those posited beneath him within the hierarchy fight over the scraps with vicious determination. These men were driven by ideations of greed, nationalism, and power that were completely superficial amidst the grander cosmic mandala of Chaos’s agenda, though to them; such ideals constituted the entireties of their identity, which only made watching their verbal jousting equivalent to a dogfighter watching his hound pounce on another’s; except he owned both pooches.

“Emperor Afton; you cannot seriously be entertaining this jokester. Weren’t you here on unrelated matters? Perhaps it’s best you stick to your specified lane and keep from discussions that don’t concern you. After all, your Empire fell for a distinctive reason. History saw Britain’s glory fade, it’s only through the benevolence of our Emperor here that were granted a second chance. Don’t squander it idly making the wrong enemies.”
The Marquis kept his legendary composure, though his offense at Beckett’s statements echoed like a minor beacon to Afton. Negative emotions such as hatred, jealousy, pride, anguish, sorrow, and feelings identical were akin to bright, ferocious fires that ignited about the Warp, and Daemon Princes such as Afton could feed on such psychic feelings. It allotted them energy beyond the most fulfilling foodstuff.

“Is that a threat, Vincent de Gramont?”

“That’s Marquis to you.”

Before either man could escalate their contest further, Afton raised a bony hand, ordering silence. While their infighting was amusing to witness, it couldn’t sprawl from control lest it develop into a genuine enmity that would disrupt Primordial operations. Certainly, the Empire had its share of instability. A primary contributor to Glitchtrap constantly seeking out new geopolitical enemies to conquer and subsume into his growing berth was the necessity of common enemies to rally the discontented people and politicians around- if such mirages of unity under Chaos’s banner didn’t exist, it could’ve been a nigh certainty the Primordial Empire would devour itself alive.

“Gentlemen, enough. The usage of underworld elements to facilitate much of Imperial commerce shan’t change, and Marquis Gramont’s complaints hold validation- you indeed speak out of turn regarding this issue- an effort I permitted given my respect for your efforts and skill, Lord Beckett, though if the result is mere bickering within my council chamber, I’d prefer if such disagreement was hosted elsewhere. I want productive resolutions drafted from within these halls my friends, anything less is mere heresy. Now then, Gramont, I expect your additional files regarding the High Table’s newly kindled diplomatic efforts before your departure.”

“They’ve already been delivered, My Emperor. I saw too that first when I arrived here.”

“Good man- showing initiative like that. Mayhaps even the High Table’s grandiose hearth will find itself outgrown by your ambition sometime. I shall watch your career with great interest. If there’s nothing else, Marquis…”

Gramont understood the message. A bow of respect and salute of power was issued to the wheelchair-bound Daemon Prince before two Glitchtrap-Guard Knights escorted the snazzily draped mastermind towards the space elevator apparatus that allowed visitors access into the majestic golden fineries of Springtrap Maximus, an honor a painstakingly small sect of individuals enjoyed.

“Regarding your invoice, Lord Beckett… permit me surprise that it’s you whose arrived on behalf of His Majesty. I appreciate the eagerness of which my original homeland seeks to participate upon the next invasion, though such enthusiasm would find itself more complete if the Crown itself knelt before me here. Or does King James forget the immense kindness I’ve bequeathed him and his people?”

Glitchtrap’s voice hissed with a subtle irritation. While distant and calculating as he was, there always existed the natural pridefulness that marked his tyranny. The King was foolhardy to not show himself at Maximus and instead send this glorified privateer to treat with Afton. What mercies now did Britannia expect? Their Primordial Emperor surely contained mercy, though its supply wasn’t infinite, and diplomatic slights such as these would be considered the next time Afton became personally involved with geopolitics on Earth Prime and which nation to privately back in their struggles.

“Please forgive the insolence, My Emperor. King James is currently visiting an embattled troop regiment at the Caribbean Islands. I’m afraid acts of Piracy have begun evolving into bold moves such as outright land-raids. The men are feeling demoralized, so the King surmised his personal interlude might alleviate pressures a slight bit.”

“He viewed this occasion as superiorly necessary than discussing with me the prospect of prioritizing Britannia’s participation in the next invasion? How trite. Instead comes yourself, Lord Beckett. Your presence here indicates me an unspoken guarantee on your end that any invasion will include the EITC’s participation. I’m not averse to such conclusions, I’ve never shied from usage of mercenaries and cutthroat brigands within my ranks before- it’s how my empire was initially established. Hell, the Etherian War saw much deployment of privately paid hands. What tickles my brain is you speaking for King James’ authority. Has the East India Company accrued such power, wealth, and influence now they could strut about the King’s name on missions of official diplomatic imperative and endure no consequence?”

Cutler shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Suddenly, the omnipresent, judgmental gazes of the Glitchtrap-Guard became acutely poised upon his very soul. Even the animatronic passerby that acted as attendants and servants here on Springtrap Maximus felt like unseen threats waiting to unleash their true power and ferocity upon a moment’s notice.

“I’ll… concede your points some- that indeed the EITC holds a degree of authority that we lacked during the Empire’s nascent revival. Whatever our internal situation may be, you cannot understate the usefulness we provide to your militaristic ambitions My Lord. Having British backing opposed to Chinese, Nazi, or Soviet assistance earns you not simply our Redcoat battalions marching victoriously against whatever enemy next dares your greatness, though also the India Company’s trade networks. Our connections to merchants and access to treasure-fleets combined with our honed distribution services make the proliferation of goods and services around your empire standardized to perfection. Surely you’ll agree there.”

“I’m not, and you’re right. Personally Lord Beckett, while I find myself continually piqued by Britannia’s comings and goings, I shan’t press the issues here. Earth’s countries are divided too deeply with their own squabbling to properly contribute to my Empire as they once had five years ago. I would’ve always accepted your invoice, though hearing your reasoning assures me of my decision. There’s not exactly a long line of nation-states begging to join up for the next invasion anyhow.”

Beckett nodded faintly in response, quietly relieved that Afton’s intentions were more benign than they initially seemed.

“You may depart. I expect a fully stocked army with provisions, logistics, and regimental officers provided before the next campaign Lord Beckett.”

“I’ll see too it My Lord.”

Beckett then was escorted away by the Knights, leaving only Glitchtrap himself, a towering Horatio and five other members of the dark order of Chaos-Warriors, Faraday, and Breen; both men remaining unflinchingly uninvolved about the affairs which unraveled before them. These matters were completely irrelevant to either man.

“Faraday, you’re next. I see you’ve been enjoying the complimentary champagne.”
William remarked with a cold sneer, eyeing the augmented Pacifica Fixer. Faraday coughed upon being suddenly called, though regained composure posthaste and turned to meet with Afton’s demonic, soul-piercing eyes.

Millions unwittingly served Glitchtrap’s impossibly complex ambitions and complicated designs each passing day, though only a sect of several thousand held an innate privilege to call that service a knowing writ. A small army of spies, whisperers, infiltrators, and double-agents were seeded across the breadth of Earth Prime and the Primordial Empire’s wider territories.

The Aftonites, organized into disparate cells and factions each with possessing their own unique identities, cultures, clades, and modems of operation who answered, usually indirectly or through middlemen to Tzeentchian cultists that helped manage the unseen apparatus in William’s name. Their purpose was clear; to keep careful watch on every manner of country, institution, organization, social grouping; etcetera within the Empire, always reporting to Glitchtrap or his followers about their happenings and whether they intended to remain of service or change their tune to rebellion.

Sometimes though, individuals were chosen besides any manner of group. Certain people whose constant drive for success was measured by acquired wisdom of their countless years, whose potentials were scouted by other agents during missions of their own and reported back to their superiors. On rare occasion, reports of such nature passed through every criteria necessary, which bespoke a rigid and tough necessity of requirements indeed, before reaching William’s desk. These people were standalone, personal agents of the Primordial Empire. They could’ve been anyone from the local librarian to a Prime Minister, though their titles and ranks meant nothing compared to their true occupation of keeping the Daemon Prince informed, a task they were outlined at holding immense specialty within.

Faraday was such a fellow. Superficially he acted as Pacifica’s warlord-king, using a combination of intimidation, coercion, manipulation, and false promises to keep countless hundreds of people in line, from various crooks and criminals to vagrants that owed him cash or favors. Mangy Fixers such as himself were dime-a-dozen within the hostile cutthroat arenas of Night City though, and thusly he’d been largely ignored by the corporate powers that mewed and flexed about their muscle on more public stages.

Truly though, Faraday served as one of Glitchtrap’s personal agents. He’d been doing such for four years now, enjoying an extensively colossal arsenal beyond the meager host of peons and bought-out gangers that most others viewed him as wielding to short ends. Nothing occurred in Night City without Springtrap’s knowledge, and this included Yorinobu Arasaka’s failed insurgency that Erebus, Frank Underwood, and Richard Trager roped themselves into. While they managed indeed to prevent disaster from overflowing and keep Saburo Arasaka’s reign intact and alive, they managed still to get themselves blackmailed by an unknown party. Furthermore, Yorinobu shouldn’t have been allowed to acquire such resources and might to allot a coup d’etat initially. The Resistances on Earth were growing bolder despite every effort of Glitchtrap’s, a fact that irritated him to no end.

“I-indeed my Lord. Apologies, the refreshments here are of fine quality. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Slaaneshi blessings imbue upon all the chefs here, I blame you not. Though I require a post-rebellion debriefing, please.”

Faraday cleared his throat and nodded.

“Of course. Yorinobu Arasaka’s being prepared for engram surgery at his father’s hand. Saburo’s lost any familial loyalties held with his child after that failed revolutionary stunt he pulled. We’re still trying to track down the exact originations of that small army the little rogue managed to swell together, but-“

“No need. I’m guessing Militech and the New Founding Fathers were his primary backers. They’re the parties that stood to gain the most. Poor boy probably didn’t realize his heroic movement was co-opted by such villains, eh?”

“Right you are sir, but there’s another group I’ve recently uncovered.”

“Oh?”

“Colonel Ike Sloan. He’s commanding an American Ultranationalist faction, probably in cahoots with General Shepherd if you ask me.”

“Sloan… yes, I remember. Fanatical fellow, though even he could surely understand that any presumptuous insurgency against me would result solely in disaster and fire.”

“I don’t doubt it. They must understand your policy of non-intervention well enough. Sloan probably seeks the best conclusion for his home country, which likely includes total destruction of all perceived enemies. An old head in that regard.”

“That fool will undo much of my designs should his ambitions ever see fruition. I’ll pull some strings and inform President Underwood to settle Ike Sloan on a meaningless peacekeeping mission somewhere in Kyrat or the Middle East. Those places are always hotbeds of menial conflict, perfect to keep a raging bull’s hot fires tempered.”

“As you say, My Lord. Is that all you wanted to discuss?”

“No, actually. You kept me updated on the activities of my idiot lieutenants. Erebus’s entire situation was only elucidated unto me through your efforts, and those of agents like yourself. My Empire rewards competency, actually; it encourages such outright. I believe it’s high time you were taken off your decayed post of Pacifica’s rotting neighborhoods and instead assisted my… Intergalactic expansions. I hope you enjoy traveling, dear boy.”

Faraday’s neutral gaze quickly warmed into that of an excitable child’s eagerness receiving presents on Christmas Day. His cutthroat philosophy of abandoning every ethical and moral principle in exchange for climbing the hierarchical ladder had finally paid off. Years of dedicated loyalty and acute service to his masters, of brokering information and constantly looking over his shoulder for vengeful former clientele and corporate opponents alike finally paid off.

“Sire… you can’t mean-“

“I always mean what I say, dear boy. And I dislike repeating myself.”

“O-of course. Forgive my impudence.”

“You shall serve adeptly as Deputy Spymaster. As my Empire expands, I find it requires more roles filled, more seats warmed, and more minds to staff the bureaucratic nightmare that comes after seizing a world’s resources and inducting its government. You’ll help me with such plans and see vistas of reality unimaginable to you previously. Congratulations, Faraday.”

Faraday stepped off his chair and knelt before the Primordial Emperor, nothing but complete devotion coursing through his augmented bloodstream. He’d been given the greatest promotive boon of his life and didn’t intend on squandering such bright chance.

“I shall serve without fail. Glory to the Primordial Empire. Glory to Chaos. And glory to you, Lord William Afton.”

“Hmm- that’s what I like to hear. You’ll start immediately, I’ll have Oliver Johannes here show you to your workplace.”

“Yes sire. May I inquire… what should become of my earth-bound assets? The crew of Edgerunners under my employ, for example.”

“If they’re useful, keep them around. Your prior post as Pacifica’s chief Fixer still needs managing, and I still need eyes to keep peachy Night City’s antics, till I find a suitable replacement for your old post, that is.”

“By your will, I’ll see it all done Master.”

Oliver Johannes, once a spritzy and bright officer of William’s will during the olden days and now a mute husk enslaved within magically enchanted Chaos Armor motioned quietly for the meeting hall’s exit, to which Faraday followed obediently. That left just Wallace Breen, the Combine’s chief human emissary to foreign powers and Administration of their Earth colonies. Breen oft visited Springtrap Maximus on matters of state. Whenever Glitchtrap returned home from a campaigning season, he’d patiently be awaiting his arrival to discuss the continual future of Chaos-Combine relations, and how better they could possibly become as the years peered onward.

“An interesting deluge of folks I’d say.”

“Humans are predictable animals. Give them the proper incentive and they’ll fall on the sword for you. Everything and everyone falls into that perfect mold. Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?”

“I’d argue that view precludes an absence of nuance, though I digress. The Universal Union have been watching from afar, Emperor Glitchtrap.”

“I do hope they’ve nothing but good things to say.”

“Good and bad are irrelevant to my superiors. They view matters through the lens of pure objectivity and benefit. Through that vein, you’ve performed well this quarter. I’ve been told you managed to conquer several worlds this season. A planet populated by froggish humanoids, an alternative Earth set during the early Twentieth Century, and now even a magical realm formerly ruled by Princesses and archaic law.”

“Your superiors are kept well-informed. As are yourself.”

“It’s the stock and trade of our Union. Firstly, a well-deserved congratulations on your progress thus far. I assume your season’s not over yet?”

“The Chaos Astartes always hunger for warfare, and there are snakes in every corner waiting for even a momentary lapse of failure on my part. I must keep the war-machine well fed consistently. Should I not, the Warband Chaos Lords will chafe and launch insurgencies of their own. The Dark Gods are ever-demanding and capricious in their needs.”

“I know the feeling well. The demands of our overlords.”

“Shall we drink to it?”

“I’ve no cause to abstain.”

Combine Transhuman Elites and Glitchtrap-Guard observed carefully as Elder William stood up and affixed for both himself and Breen two iced glasses of Scotch. Among those visiting today, Wallace was the man exclusive that Afton respected enough to offer a share of drink.

“Reminds me of our meeting in Russia, those years ago.”
Horatio commented suddenly. Afton valued Gibbons’ opinion even now, so allowed that remark to pass.

“Indeed. That seems an eternity ago. Much has changed, though an equal amount remains completely the same. I wonder sometimes if I’m getting too old for these power-playing games.”
Breen murmured with a sigh after getting slid a Scotch glass. Afton’s respect for him owed from Breen’s administrative capability combined with elderly, calculative disposition that didn’t allow weak emotion to cloud judgment. Every move Wallace made was a prepared one, not reactive whatsoever but instead commanding the situation ahead of time and fully mastering it without trouble. His opinion of Breen surely changed since their initial gathering those years ago, where he casually threatened the Combine should they make poor their agreement to split the Earth’s landmasses amidst each other and the dark forces of Hell.

“The game’s what gives me life frankly. But I digress- there’s always time for drinks and merriment, though I presume that’s not why you’re here.”

Breen sighed and sipped a portion of well-aged Scotch, savoring the subtle flavor notes of richness and bitterness which combined to create a unique profile of liquid enjoyment only certain alcohol brands could provide, and always was Springtrap Maximus well-stocked with the finest luxuries and delicacies one could imagine.

“No, unfortunately not. My superiors grow concerned about the happenings on their Earth-Colony’s borders.”

“I always thought Earth was merely an afterthought for the Universal Union.”

“Indeed so, but it’s still a matter of prestige should any of their colonies fall into disrepair and decay.”

“What exactly are your superiors saying?”
Horatio spoke with an authoritative tone, now interested in whatever the Union’s overlords were muttering about Earth.

“Security will be shored up throughout our presences in Europe, Asia, and Africa. I’m afraid that recent Corporate Coup alongside general resistance activity has genuine risk of spilling into our borders, according to them.”

“There’s no genuine risk- though if that’s their choice, why should I be concerned?”
Inquired Afton.

“As I’ve said, the policy of ob-“

“Just spit it out Breen. We’re all friends here.”
Horatio uttered from his helmet. If there was anything resembling a real human behind that oversized plate armor eschewed with dark enchantments and evil curses, Breen didn’t know.

“Alright then. Should these problems of resistance and rebellion continue, the Union is pondering a cessation of trade and open border agreements with the Primordial Empire’s Earth Colonies.”

“What!? That’s impossible… they can’t do that! Our agreements are the basis for their own colonies’ prosperity here on Earth. Talk about prestige, won’t their cities falling into starvation and ruin become besmirchment enough?”

“I’m afraid they can Horatio. The Advisors have planned every possibility, just as you have, Lord Afton. Take this not personally, it’s merely a precaution. It’s an assurance that if anything Earth-borne sprawls out of control, your armies will crush the subsequent resistance. However, the devastation it’d cause would be… untenable for our states’ respective relationship. I’m sure you understand.”

Afton’s expression was neutral and unreadable. Personally, he interpreted this move as nothing less than a grave affront against the Primordial Empire’s inroads with the Universal Union thus far. Should an actual insurgency garner steam, they should instead be offering signatories of assistance; such as military or economic bolstering to the Earth colonies!

The surge of emotional response was quickly calmed by cool understanding though. Even if Afton didn’t like it, the Combine’s response made total sense. They were a soulless multiversal alien empire whose success was determined entirely because of their offhanded, ruthless approach to everything. Ironically, Lord Davoth of Hell had made offers of dispatching Demonic help to Springtrap’s Earth Colonies. The realization that Hell was a more reliable partner of warmaking and service than the Combine nearly elicited laughter from the monstrous Daemon Prince.

“I wish it weren’t so, though the logic is implacable, I suppose. The situation will never descend to that level though, I’ve full faith in those under my command to keep my Earth-realms under authoritarian control. Let your superiors know that every move imaginable is being made from my desk to keep this resistance cowed and humanity docile to our aims.”

“That should reassure them, at least for now.”

“Very good. Are there any updates on my request for a more formalized military agreement with the Combine then?”
Breen pursed his lips, unsure of how specifically to address that query.

“Is there a euphemism for ‘bogged down in bureaucratic nonsense’?”

William elicited a dark chuckle at that.

“No, I suppose not. It’ll see the eyes of the Overworld eventually. I advise wait till then. The Union’s engaged in conflicts incomprehensible to all but your very gods themselves. To dictate even a fraction of their immense, infinite legions would entail discussion between the lot of them. I’ve pushed it best I could, but now it’s out of my hands. Expect disappointment, Emperor Glitchtrap, though pray for a kind outcome nonetheless.”

“I expected such, though shall await patiently nonetheless. My Daemons and Astartes and Animatronics fighting alongside the cybernetically enhanced armadas the Union may deliver would truly act as worthy sights to behold, no?”

“There’s nothing but agreement from me, Emperor. I’ve long sought growing closeness between our two powers.”

“And I thank you for such candor. I’d stay and engage in small-talk, but I’m afraid there’s another meeting after this one I must attend. The life of a ruler, eh?”

“Never easy, Emperor Glitchtrap. Never easy. I pray our next encounter comes sooner than later, and with kinder circumstances to mull over. Until then…”

Breen bowed unto both William and Horatio, before leaving civilly with his Transhuman cyclopean elites in tow, leaving the meeting hall empty.

“Can we really trust them My Lord?”
Inquired Horatio with an apprehensive, deep tonnage.

“No. But we can trust their pursuit of self-benefit. Instincts have always been a more reliable indicator than promise ever was. The Union are bluffing, trying to gauge how I’ll react. No doubt seeking to test the younger Primordial Empire, I reckon.”

“To what end, Master?”

“I’m unaware, though if I’d reckon a guess, wanting to estimate our reaction to such crisis. Every empire faces internal conflict at some point. The Combine want to estimate whether we’re applicable business partners or not. If I could crush whatever rebellion incensed Yorinobu into his little tantrum, that’d be proof enough we could hold our own.”

“I thought Faraday stated Yorinobu’s backers already. There’s more?”
“There’s obviously more. Even he can’t discern the psionic knowledge I divulge each passing nanosecond. A more kind-hearted resistance with plans to overthrow my reign over Earth or force me to a negotiating table at the least, with cleaner motivations than those of Militech or the NFFA.”

“Heroes, you think? I did lead several campaigns after your world conquest to purge Earth Prime of their ilk, though if any survived, I’m sure they could become icons for the people to rally around. Figures of hope, demagogues against the darkness.”

“It’s possible, though considering the Ostankino Shootout I’m hearing about, which I’m utterly certain of Erebus’s own involvement in, the snake, I’d bet this underground movement consists of regular humans. Special Forces types. Military rogues that haven’t accepted the new order yet. They’re an equally dangerous threat if we allow them to grow. I’ve already dispatched Elizabeth to investigate.”

“Your daughter, huh? I haven’t heard of her much recently.”

“That’s by design. She’s more trouble than she’s worth most days.”

The doors into the meeting chamber were leered open as William conferred with his chief lieutenant. Inside hobbled the robed, mysterious Advisor flanked by two Chaos-Knights, hastily approaching.

“My Lord, the Conclave hath arrived. Shall I grant them entry?”

“Mm. It seems we’ll need continue our discussions upon a later time Horatio. The vultures have circled.”

“Indeed Master.”

“Advisor, let them in. No use in stalling.”

The Advisor heeded obediently and moved back outside. Less than a minute passed before sauntered in Atriox, All For One, Zargothrax, Kibutsuji Muzan, Coredrias, and their newly-minted member, Horde Prime. Together these villains constituted a mighty power that domineered much of intra-universal affairs, economic, political, social, and societal. Their empires stretched across worlds and dominions, and joined with Afton’s own commandments they formed an impressive bulwark indeed- their string of recent victories proved that.

“If my membership to your Primordial Empire entails many more of these meetings, I’m starting to question whether providing my allegiance was the proper course after all.”
Groaned Atriox irritably, having grown sick of these conferences.

“Wonderful architecture, I must say. Nothing so impressive as my own vessel; but my benevolence guides me to commend things not of my making should they please mine eyes. Also, why do you resemble a decrepit old man?”
Horde Prime remarked offhandedly as he’d been guided towards a designated seat.

“I understand your stipulation, Atriox. Our conference shan’t be held within the standard format. And as for your inquiry Horde Prime… because it scares people.”

Afton giggled to himself, much to his allies’ apprehension. An attendant handed a remote unto the Primordial Emperor, who pressed the primary red-button upon its center.

The Meeting Hall of Springtrap Maximus began twisting and turning with a series of automated functionaries and mechanical pulleys, wires, and gears moving about and creating an addictive cacophony of clinking noises, a process streamlined by the best and brightest engineers’ money could’ve acquired, much of the creation streamlined and overseen by William Afton himself.

Pillars of marble enshrining a twinkling aeon of gold were seeping smoke and hissing white gas as they restructured and reformatted into the beautiful facsimile of nature. A bright, false sun peered upon everyone gathered, joined by artificial stretches of grassland that illusory magicks and futuristic holo-techs managed to eschew for miles on end, even though the horizon was but several hundred feet away. From their meeting room now christened a nigh-heavenly place of effervescent beauty.

“Remarkable… what sorceries could conjure this change in environment?”
Muttered Muzan with a humbled awe.

“Just simple engineering and mathematics. And a bit of slave labor.”
Replied Afton proudly as the picturesque backdrop shimmered over them. Their table now seemed more rustic, resemblant of a picnic table more than an eloquent meeting table of notorious tyrants. Attendants provided plates of bread, meat, cheese, and various dishes of simmering seafood and meats.

As everyone sat down and began digging in, Horde Prime refrained, still eyeing everyone around himself with a distanced apprehension. He only recently joined this group to make good on an agreement he slightly regretted now.

“If I’ll begin… the occupation of Etheria seems an initial success. Your armies were crucial in winning the Horde supremacy against the Princess Alliance. For this, I thank you all.”

Horde Prime’s words were met with various murmured agreements sprinkled about the Conclave. Zargothrax seeped off his deathly mask and feasted upon fresh, buttered lobster while Coredrias enjoyed some delicious cookies. Their silverware was elite and plates encrusted with mesmerizing designs.

“It’s our pleasure. Seeing those precious heroes lose their heart and falter before our superior glory… it’s a sight one never tires of no matter how many times its repeated.”
All For One stated, enjoying a fine medium rare lambchop with a red demi-glaze sauce.

“I’m afraid the Heart of Etheria remained tantalizing from my reach, though I’ve instructed my forces to turn the world upside down in its search. However, I’m sure that story won’t entertain anyone present. What’s our topic of talk, Emperor Glitchtrap?”
Inquired Horde Prime, turning all eyes to William.

“The state of our empire, friends, has become a pertinent one. All For One and Zargothrax who’ve been with me longest understand now that our progress has been lightning-quick. The Primordial Empire controls now a significant portion of Milky Way space, if your other various dominions are included. We’ve Banished mercenaries and Horde Clones at our disposal, Newtopian automatons, Supervillains, Death-Knights of the Undead, and of course, the limitless hordes of Chaos. With Etheria secured, we must properly carve a path forward and determine our future.”

“Are all the meetings this dramatic?”
Horde Prime whispered to Zargothrax, who merely shrugged in response.

“Our future? The current arrangement suffices for myself. My Banished have never been stronger, we march through worlds and marauder those we please, pilfering the loot of systems and enrich ourselves through the campaigns we participate in. What else needs clarifying?”
Atriox haughtily added, instead of sitting down, the Jiralhanae Warmaster stood upon his hind legs after eating his fair share, exploring about the fake grasslands and toying with the animatronic attendants that mucked about.

“I must agree with the Brute. There’s nothing else which needs overviewing now that you’ve the Horde on your side. Unless, of course, there’s something you’re not telling us.”

Afton immediately garnered that Horde Prime intended on being disagreeable for the duration of his time within the Primordial Conclave. The xeno-king was vainly prideful and egotistical beyond every parameter, having formed an empire and cultish religion around veneration of his own personage. He probably viewed himself as more fitting to command the Primordial Empire’s directives than Springtrap. Suffice it to say, Prime was merely another despot that William would’ve remained intensely wary of.

The Advisor whispered something into Afton’s ear before he replied. Horde Prime and Muzan watched suspiciously as the exchange took place, though made no verbal inquiry.

“That’s why I called this conference. I’m afraid our activities haven’t gone unnoticed. Other powers, without doubt hostile in nature, are watching us.”

“Explain yourself. You’ve piqued our curiosity.”
Coredrias replied, the dozens of Core personalities uttering with symbiotic unison.

“The Imperium of Mankind. An openly humanocentric empire lightyears away. My Advisor’s kept me well-informed of their existence. Personally, I’d hoped they would retain themselves satisfied with the large coterie of enemies that barge at their door currently, though it appears their current defacto leader’s more… proactive then I would like.”

“Proactive how? If these dotard idiots decide to involve themselves in our business, I shall ensure they face the ultimate lifeform’s full wrath. The apex of evolution cannot be bested by any meaningless pretenders. Interference won’t be tolerated.”
Growled Kibutsuji.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong there. They’ve already interfered.”

William activated a holographic emanation from the bench where everyone sat upon. Despite having the superficial inclination of a homely farmland picnic table, this vision was summarily betrayed by the warbly, bluish, digitized footage transmitted from the helmet of Black Legionnaire Vrath during the Demon Slayer Campaign.

The footage depicted Tanjiro Kamado and his two colleagues being rescued last minute by a towering warrior of righteous disposition, clad in Roman-esque blue plate armor. Muzan’s eyes twitched with anger watching this, his fist slamming onto the table and causing a shudder, with Zargothrax’s plate of steaming hot lobster slapped onto the Scottish dark wizard’s face.

Instead of acting with furious anguish, Zargothrax merely groaned with annoyance. Curiously, he seemed most mellow of those situated here today.

“The Kamado boy LIVES!? Furthermore, you only saw fit to inform me of this tragedy NOW!?”
Muzan roared, temper flaring to untenable levels. AFO watched on as Horatio and several other Glitchtrap-Guard kept their palms near their sheathed sword-pommels.

“I figured it would’ve distracted you from the Etheria Campaign.”
Afton responded coolly, unintimidated by Muzan’s little show of force. Zargothrax in the background continued slurping up that delicious lobster.

“You lack the RIGHT to withhold matters of such importance from me, CUR! That Kamado boy has provided no end of trouble to me. I ought to know if he still sucks air!”

“You know now, do you not?”

“Don’t you toy with me, Glitchtrap…”

Afton sighed and continued onward, unperturbed and being a master of negotiation, attitudes such as Muzan’s were easy to control once you figured out what made them tick, and how best to disarm them.

“This information was only recently dispensed to me after its verification. That was a member of the Ultramarines Battle-Legion of the Imperium. It appears this trend of enemies fleeing through portals has become something of an unfortunate constant.”

“And what plans have you construed to respond to these slights? Surely the Imperium shall feel your unflinching wrath.”
Horde Prime egged with a smirk, as Muzan’s display of momentary fury which lapsed into eventual docility still left an uncomfortable impression upon everyone present. Save Atriox, busy enjoying the fake environment and Zargothrax just digging into his plate.

“We’ve only been making war against lesser states. To muster ourselves against the Imperium… I’ve heard only rumors and hearsay, but it’ll become a titanic effort indeed.”
AFO muttered, though William raised his hand to assure everyone.

“I’ve already thought of a countermeasure. That’s what I meant by pondering our future.”

The holo-footage, which prior played on repeat, was suddenly transfiguring. A detailed map of the Multiverse, best it could be charted anyway, materialized before the entourage of peering villains. A network of planets, world-clusters, galaxies, and various cosmic bodies brought together through interconnected tendrils. Across this provided splay, several red spheres suddenly popped alight on the map. Inflection points, essentially.

“If the Imperium’s collecting heroes to stand against us, it only means we’ll array pawns of our own to oppose them. There’s plenty more conquerors like us, dealing with their own individual problems. Our Primordial Empire and the Conclave which governs it will become a safety net for all conquerors and slavers and villains the universe-across.”

“Scratch their back, they scratch ours type deal eh?”
AFO inquired, enjoying the sound of this design.

“Indeed. Consequently, the Imperium aren’t our only enemies. There are irritations at our border that we could manipulate into proxy wars to keep them occupied until an equal, if not greater force is mustered on our end to completely demolish the foe. I call this Operation Gathering Storm. From here on, the Primordial Empire’s overarching goal shall become the expansion of our Conclave, the induction of new allied states, and setting proxies to distract the Imperium while we rally a banner of power mighty enough to crush them. While the Imperium are notable problems indeed, they’re not our sole worry. I’ve a feeling other Champions of Chaos, and generally other factions seeking the throne will gun for the Primordial Empire. We’ve had an unprecedented rate of growth and prosperity for our opening years, after all.”

“You keep mentioning ‘we’, Emperor Glitchtrap. Yet I was led to believe the Primordial Conclave existed as the voluntary head of the organization. These wars ultimately land at your feet. We could simply pull back our resources and soldiery, leaving you to contest these enemies alone; should the going get rough, am I right?”
Horde Prime stated confidently, though it seems Afton predicted such an inquiry.

“You misunderstand the Conclave’s nature. Risk and rewards are shared in equal measure. My goal is multiversal conquest; of reigning over an empire that stretches across one incomprehensible outcropping of infinity to another. That vision cannot see fruition alone; yes. Most certainly, you’re all capable of fleeing my support should the ‘going get rough’. Yet that also means discounting the resources I provide. Warships, modern technologies, protection from hostiles, the endless advantages of Chaos- those are tied directly to me. Can any of you envision returning to your old existences?”

An uncomfortable silence set before the assembly of villains. Even Horde Prime quietly admitted that without Primordial support, the takeover of Etheria would’ve been a monumental struggle. If Etheria wasn’t secured, intergalactic judgment would’ve been harsh on the Horde, and other worlds would’ve risen against their tyranny. Afton really saved Prime’s bacon, rueful as it was to admit.

“That’s what I thought. We’re all in this together, for better or worse.”

“You’ve clearly thought this over. Have you outlined a possible faction for outreach? We could dispatch envoys of diplomacy. The Newtopian Empire’s slowly rebuilding its Ambassador Corps should that help.”
Suggested Coredrias helpfully. Of everyone gathered, Zargothrax, Coredrias, and All For One were definitely the most helpful and loyal to Afton’s creed, if only because their personal benefits yielded immense return. Horde Prime was stalwartly and stubbornly for himself, while Atriox and Muzan were temperamental wild cards. This dynamic would only complicate as more villains would join; a reality Afton understood well. The game was always played, and the greatest weapon one could wield was information.

“I appreciate the offer, but there’s no need. Our next campaign rests within a nearby Galaxy. My spies see and know all, and they’ve reported on an imminent powerbalance shift we’d do well to capitalize upon. Another empire’s birthing fire is sizzling its first embers, and-“

“Could we cease the poetry and get to the point?”
Growled Atriox, his amusement with this fake grassland having expired as he realized the holographic cows didn’t respond to being swung at by Chainbreaker.

“… Right then. Allow me to make a Holo-Call, gentlemen.”

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A Galaxy Far, Far Away…

Chancellor’s Suite, Coruscant

It’d be inaccurate to say Palpatine hated Anakin.

Privately chiding the boy for naivety unfathomable and impulsivity beyond the charts, sure. But hatred? No.

Ironically, despite the Sith creed that drawing from hatred’s well would proliferate one’s strength and power, Palpatine rarely found himself despising anyone actively.

Assuredly, he detested the Jedi Order and its innate weakness. The worthless monkish fools who led the Republic into unprecedented stages of political and militaristic weakness after millennia-past wars against the now defunct Sith Empires of old scared their number enough to begin signing off regarding matters of warfare and signing on to matters of state instead. By becoming ‘Peacekeepers’, following senatorial agendas and heeding the edicts borne from committee rooms and auditorial chambers could they absolve themselves of any personal blame whenever carnage took root within the Galaxy.

He was purely a psychopath, through and through. Sheev never truly cared for anyone else throughout his life, only placing them within an invisible rung of importance, those dispensable at the lower ends while those lucky enough to hold value unto the Sith Lord occupying higher seats. Though ultimately, everyone was circulated out. It was only a matter of time. Anakin enjoyed a higher station, for now. How long that would last after his grand vision was realized, after the Sith Plan enacted centuries ago would see fruition… that remained yet to be seen.

“It’s been so long since the war started, and yet… I feel Obi-Wan still doesn’t trust me with things. I’ve been a General fighting on the frontlines, taking down Separatists wherever I can- and it’s like he only ever listens to the Council. They don’t feel I’m ready to become a Master.”

Skywalker murmured irritably as they moved through Palpatine’s suite, the priciest and most luxurious piece of property on Coruscant.

“My boy- from all my accounts, of which I assure you I receive many, your deeds and conquests have placed you above those of certain Masters occupying the Council. Solely my opinion of course, but I believe the Jedi have been unfairly exclusive to you when it comes to your… career advancement, shall we say.”

“It’s not fair, you’re right. Because of them, Ahsoka’s gone. Yet Obi-Wan always defends them at every turn. And Padme- she’s growing distant. Every time I think I’ve solved a problem in life, another one materializes to ruin me. I never asked for prophecy. To be a Chosen One. Knowing how it’s all turning out, I’d preferred I never did.”

“Oh, but my boy, without the Prophecy, you’d have never trained in the Temple under Master Kenobi’s tutelage.”

“What’s expected of me grows by the day, yet my rewards dwindle. I’m not asking to become King of the Galaxy, I just… I just… argh! I don’t know. I just feel powerless. I thought being a Jedi would mean the opposite of that feeling.”

“Everyone undergoes a feeling of powerlessness at least once or twice in their lives. It’s simply natural, part of growing up and maturing.”

“Even you?”

Anakin turned in wonder, facing the Chancellor directly. The Jedi Knight couldn’t fathom that the man of politics and prowess he’d privately conferred with for nigh decades now ever endured times where he felt stripped of power. Palpatine flashed a smile, mastering the art of presenting a relatable front to everyone around him.

“Of course. Even aristocrats know pain and suffering, Anakin. You’re aware of my lineage, yes?”

“The Palpatine Family, yes. Naboo elites.”

“Formerly… saddens me as it does, I seem the last of their bloodline. My ancestors were practical royalty, marrying into the Nabooian monarchy several times over and holding good fortune throughout the millennia. Trouble perturbed us not. Though I always thought differently from my own father, Cosinga, you see. He believed the Republic was merely an invading force- a mindset not unlike our current Separatist adversaries. Naboo would’ve been better off without them, I believe were his exact words.”

“And you?”

“I wouldn’t be Chancellor of the very same Republic had I agreed, my boy. This caused tension between us. It ripped apart my family eventually. When the cards were dealt, I made choices of my own and left the Palpatine Household behind to carve mine own legacy. My father perished of a broken heart, poor man. I wanted direly to visit him upon his deathbed, though he refused even that small courtesy of me. Mother left this world soon after, my siblings, well… none truly cared much about anything save expending their shares of inheritance on booze and pleasure.”

“I… I’m sorry. It must’ve been terrible.”

“Family’s a complicated matter, Anakin. Be glad for the kindness of yours, it’s a luxury so few possess within this cruel Galaxy.”

Anakin nodded, intaking all that precious wisdom of his father-figure. Palpatine aimed to speak more, though the holo-communicator on Skywalker’s forearm began beeping, much to his chagrin.

“It’s Obi-Wan. I’m guessing the Council’s decided on the next Siege. This’ll probably be the last time we speak for a while, Chancellor.”

“I wish you luck, my boy. Come back soon, and think on what I’ve said today, yes?”

“Of course. May the Force be with you.”

“Indeed.”

Skywalker exited the Suite, causing Palpatine to sigh. Sometimes, the façade was exhausting. Sometimes, he wanted to unleash bouts of Force Lightning throughout the entirety of Coruscant and pulverize every man, woman, and child that still yet opposed him. Though such a beautiful reality wasn't yet realized, soon it would be. Soon Palpatine would be undisputed master of every living being with sentient though in this wretched Galaxy, and even those mindless creatures that sauntered without err a thought in their minds outside the barbaric primitivity of nature. His Empire would rule them all.

The Clone War was nearing its twilight. As Palpatine returned to his chair, he mused a comedic irony that he didn’t even need to manipulate much on the Separatists’ end for this conclusion to unravel. Many platinum-tier commanders, admirals, and general military authorities the Separatists utilized to initially smash Republic forces Galaxy-wide and secure colossal swaths of Outer Rim space with were either imprisoned or dead, bled dry from the long, terrible conflict their resistance against Republic taxation and tyranny unleashed. Worlds were burned, their industrial capacities obliterated and crops sizzled into oblivion. Clones and droids clashed everywhere, on every conceivable front, and billions of innocents suffered consequence of being caught amidst the crossfire.

Now, the Separatists were on their last legs, their major holdouts within the Core; alongside the Inner and Mid Rims uprooted and warfleets forced to evacuate deeper into their Outer Rim emplacements. The Jedi victoriously commandeered their Clone subordinates deep into enemy lines, destroying droid factories to cripple enemy troop production, capturing VIP targets for public trial within the Senate to earn PR boosts, etcetera.

Without realizing, the Jedi too had become spread thin. Just as Palpatine designed. That would make the beginning part of this play’s final stage all the easier. A daring spearhead from the Confederacy’s ace-in-the-hole, the Cyborg Butcher General Grievous, right into Coruscant- the Republic’s vulnerable beating heart. From there, a stagged kidnapping of his own person to incense the Senate and People alike into terrified frenzies of nationalistic fervor- enough to slowly condemn everyone, Republican and Separatists akin- into an eternity of servitude and slavery.

Palpatine mused over the infinite array of possibilities, the countless methodologies which his plan could fail, everything and everyone that was involved, the billions of souls roped into this unspeakably elaborate scheme that’s taken decades to solidify into their unknowing hearts and minds.

Unfortunately, he’d not have time to ponder long. Mas Amedda, Palpatine’s Grand Vizier, court logician, chief political gangster, and highest-ranking affiliate arrived at his side without warning. Of course, Sidious sensed the man’s arrival, though tensed naturally at it, nonetheless.  

“My Lord, you are being hailed by an unknown frequency.”
Mas Amedda announced. Palpatine instantaneously sensed not simply a feeling of servitude from Mas as usual, but rather… dreadful confusion. A heart-choking fear of the unknown swathed across his pudgy body. Something had roused Amedda enough that he’d not bothered to masquerade that feeling before his Master and co-conspirator. These occurrences were rare indeed, Sheev couldn’t recall the last time his Vice Chair exuded such delicious terror.

“What’s the matter? If these are more vagrants and anarchists who’ve somehow acquired the Chancellory line-“

“Sire- our techs have verified it. The call’s signature is… Extra-Galactic.”

“How curious. I do recall that Outbound Flight Project many years past. Could Master C’baoth truly still draw breath?”

“There’s no Jedi accompaniment with the holo-signature My Lord. It’s requesting a direct transmission to your line.”

“Or what?”

“I went straight to you instead of asking.”

Palpatine grimaced, though understood Amedda’s thinking. Better not allow minions to treat with what could be the first contemporary sign of life outside their native Galaxy. On the eve of his Grand Plan’s enaction too… Sidious pondered what travesties would unfurl from these circumstances.

“Fine then. Let’s humor whatever this is and move on. I’m sure it’s nothing- perhaps cosmic dust interference or solar-storms. Nevertheless, you may leave me, Vice Chair Amedda.”

The Chagrian hobbled away, Palpatine subsequently pressing a button upon his desk that shuttered the office windows. He was enmeshed totally and completely within the privacy of his office. On a world so urbanite and congested as Coruscant, such was truly an invaluable perk of being Chancellor.

Putting through the holo-call, Palpatine first witnessed sparks of holographic warbling. Using the Force, he sought to discern whoever was accosting him, though could only sense an almost… primeval darkness. Something so abyssal and monstrous that even the Dark Side quailed and felt dwarfed by comparison. This unknown force was a raging tempest compared to the coalition of menial dark clouds that was the Force. Sheev grit his teeth upon this horrid realization.

It was definitely no solar-storm.

Eventually, the call stabilized. Palpatine looked upon a fellow senior citizen, albeit scarred and wretched, a metallic eye with a red-dot center peering judgmentally into the Sith Lord’s soul, skin grafted and melded together, accompanying these physically displeasing features an unbreaking grin of terrible malice. This fellow, on some horrific level, understood the Sith Lord. They were carved of the same evil cloth.

“Chancellor Palpatine of the Galactic Republic. A pleasure I may term it to make acquaintance at last.”

“And who am I sharing the pleasure of this call with, stranger?”

“I’ve many names garnered over my decades of reign. I want us to become friends, so please, know me by William should that suit you.”

“Friends are a short commodity these days.”

“Are they? Lord Afton shall suffice then. In exchange, I’ll term your honorifics in conversation hereon, yes?”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

William chuckled momentarily, feeling the piercing cold eyes of Palpatine trying to discern something, anything from him; as stalking lions would their antelope prey on the Savannah.

“Glorious Chancellor, why, I’m outreaching my hand in service to you. I told you I was a friend, yes?”

“Don’t play coy with me. I can sense that your intentions are less then benevolent.”

Afton laughed once more, though internally, he was quite excited. Palpatine long had been an idol of William’s, ever since those dark, abandoned days where he was naught but an imprisoned heap of tortured flesh languished inside that rotting yellow mascot suit. To finally contact a figure from ancient days and treat with him as equal… well, it was brilliant. Furthermore, it appeared Palpatine’s design hadn’t reached completion yet, meaning this contemporary era was an epoch of imminent change for the Galaxy.

“My intentions? Like you haven’t been lying to the entire Galaxy for the entirety of your political career.”

At once, Sheev’s face became the very visage of cold wrath. Being exposed so suddenly, without warning by this stranger caused him pause and fury.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about stranger. We’re done here-“

“Oh, so I suppose that Sith plan of yours to undo the Republic’s democratic safeguards and transform it completely into an Empire built on worship of yourself isn’t happening? Don’t play coy with me, Chancellor. I want to help, but we’ll have to make some concessions of trust first.”

Palpatine sneered at this fellow. Feasibly there wasn’t any possible means this bungler possessed to expose his plots, though even entertaining that future invited risk. A thousand questions swirled about the Chancellor’s mind. Would he indeed be brought to parlay with this interloper?

“… I can assure you, this call is privatized. The archive of it will burn on my order. There isn’t anything you could do against me.”

“And why would I do anything against you. I’m here regarding diplomatic purpose Chancellor.”

…

“If indeed the reality is what you say, then what could you possibly offer me?”

“Why, everything, Chancellor. I command forces and powers beyond even your comprehension and intend on using them to help crush your enemies and solidify your imminent rule over the Galaxy. Trust me, I’ll be more help than harm.”

“Oh? How generous of you. And what exactly are you aiming to acquire from this exchange?”

Afton peered carefully over at Palpatine. He needed to tread carefully- every word exchanged could draw ire. Of all the allies he’d recruited thus far, Palpatine would by far present the most danger. He was an intellectual equal in every sensibility of the word, and who knows what maddening results would generate should the Dark Side and Chaos interact symbiotically rather than opposingly?

“A seat at my table. There are other rulers plucked about the universe, seeking the limelight. You’ve a strong foundation for your Empire now, but how would you like among your first achievements to be spreading its borders beyond the constricting boundaries of your current Galaxy?”

The idea clearly appealed to Palpatine. Long had mind pondered what specifically lay beyond the Unknown Regions’ veil. To have such a golden opportunity offered was nothing short of brilliant. When his Empire formed it would require foundation to build off. Accomplishments of early nature to boast unto the scared population to assure them that Palpatine’s vision was true and good, and all should bow before it.

“And you could achieve this?”

“I can be anywhere at any time. My means are limitless, and my determination is unflinching. All that’s required is your agreement.”

Palpatine sensed no perceivable treachery from this ‘Lord Afton’. Apprehension turned slowly to relief, and that relief molded into avarice. If he spoke genuinely indeed… this could’ve introduced the Sith to power beyond anything he dreamed of prior.

“Alright then Lord Afton. I’ve some time to myself. This best not waste my time.”

“I assure you, it won’t. I’ve many recommendations of my own to give. Let’s begin, shall we?”

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???

Bridge of the Vengeful Spirit

Abbadon the Despoiler watched carefully from his viewport.  Surely his enemies had been proactive these past few years. But then, so was he. From his throne wreathed and writhed crowds of screeching Daemonhosts and maddened Chaos Astartes taking part in debased rituals of blood and gore, slaughtering and stabbing and roaring openly their allegiances to darkness. This cacophony of sound would drive any normal man insane, though for the Despoiler and Destroyer of Cadia; this was merely another dreary day.

Ever since he tossed that Blackstone Fortress onto Cadia, the armies of Chaos quickly inverted upon each other into a bloodied frenzy of mayhem. Subsequent progress had become slow to achieve at best, resulting in frustrated warbands and warlords occasionally breaking off from the Despoiler’s mastery and engaging in fruitless civil wars of conquest and control against one another, only resulting in the slow bleeding of the wider Chaotic army poising itself to seize Terra.

The Gods’ chief emissary was feeling shunted. Especially after continuous rumors propagated throughout even his own rank regarding that mysterious ‘Glitchtrap’ fellow. His limelight was being thieved callously away, and the Despoiler intended not some unseen rival pretender to thieve the superhuman glories and attentions that were rightfully his. Abbadon intended fully on regaining his throne as the pre-eminent ardent of Chaos, though that meant changing up battle-strategies somewhat.

Constant Long War calculations against the Imperium were feasible, though at their current rate would yield Abbadon nothing more than being a continual destructive warlord. The Despoiler had plans beyond that. He wanted to become the new God-Emperor, usurping his Gene-Grandfather and ruling over a dark, yet sustainable empire of his own, similar to what he perceived the enigmatic Glitchtrap was enacting. New minions were required outside the constricting, controlling veil of Chaotic dogma, and that meant taking detours outside the mainline Galaxy.

At last, he’d arrived and looked upon the green-spotted planet below. An alternative version of Holy Terra, when it was named that archaic label ‘Earth’. Indeed, Abbadon sought something of immense value here. Some chattered this quest as mere vanity, of their Lord Warmaster seeking something so menial as a ‘pet’. Were the war-mounts provided via the Warp’s endless energies not enough?

No, they weren’t. Abbadon required engines of destruction to begin seeing his master-scheme through. And one such engine existed, ripe for the taking, encrusted on the world’s ‘Antarctic’ region. It only needed a little taming, some iron-fisted domination to make it understand its position in relation to the master that’d soon come to lay claim.

“We’re in position My Lord. The world’s rudimentary satellite detection systems have found us, though it matters not. Our armies shall lay relentless waste to them all.”

Threxos Hellbreed, Admiral of Abbadon’s fleet and Khornate representative pre-eminent to Abbadon spoke with an unmistakable snarl about his voice. Abbadon privately wondered if Khornates were ever in an amicable mood. Even their slaughtering often seemed more a release of anger rather than a joyous menagerie of executions.

“Good. That’s too be expected. What I’m more curious of regards my initial reports on this world. Does the creature still remain ripe for my taking?”

“Indeed My Lord. I must say… the energy readings have been off the charts. Even for hardened servants of the Warp such as we… it’s admittedly a rather intimidating thing to look upon, even through a HoloTable.”

“Are you telling me you’re scared Hellbreed?”

“Nay my Lord. The thought of such challenge excites me giddily; as it does the men. You intend to dominate the creature?”

“Yes. A rightful mount for the Warmaster, don’t you agree? When the other Warbands look upon what I’ve achieved today, it’ll give them pause before they listen to the rat-Erebus and his followers’ messages about that fiendish Glitchtrap. They will flock and return unto my banner, and I shall use that leverage to finish the decayed Imperium of my forefathers, and then punish the Pretender-Warmaster for daring to command my troops. Prepare my landing craft Hellbreed. I’m going to make this beast know true terror.”

Abbadon smirked and stepped away, leaving Hellbreed’s blackened eyes to stare upon a holographic emanation of what they were after.

Encased in ice were three draconic devil-heads, their mouths agape as they twisted and turned their scaly long-necks upon each other. A Three-Headed Demon that waited eagerly for its freedom.

And the Despoiler intended on granting it.

Chapter Text

Battle of Coruscant - Early 19BBY 

Never did the milksop citizenry of Galactic Capital Coruscant expect that war would come to their spires. To their cities, markets, and homes. Why should they? Until now the war had been a passing fancy of entertainment for many. Maybe it affected local businesses and economies, but then- so did all crises. War’s unique terror and destructive capability wasn’t known to Coruscant’s sprawl of sheltered urbanites and raunchy criminals until the first Recusant-Class Separatist Warships began populating the atmosphere above, raining ordinance and making no discrimination between targets civilian or military.

The initial hours were a massacre. Even with the Republic Home Fleet’s defensive output, the Confederates brought about the full extent of their military might to confront their hated enemies. It almost appeared as though every available dreadnought stockaded within the Droid Navy was scrounged for this daring assault. The Galactic Capital’s skies were ablaze with hellish fire, explosions dotting the atmosphere as attack craft engaged in high-risk dogfights attempting to obliterate the other. Hyena Bomber and Vulture Droid engines screamed bloody murder as they terminated entire sections of civilian infrastructure, masses of innocents seeking to escape the mass casualties buried under piles of choking rubble made from their own homes and entertainment plazas and workplaces. War crimes committed left and right as droid armies marched and confronted the outgunned, outnumbered, and outclassed Coruscanti Guard. Only through grit, determination, and knowledge of Coruscant’s byzantine labyrinth of streets, alleyways, backdoors, vantage points, derelict buildings from which impromptu command posts could be established from; etcetera- were they managing to hold on.

General Grievous, the monstrous Knightslayer who’d claimed dozens of Jedi lives and thousands of their Clone subordinates over the war’s course, commanded this grand affront against the Republic. The architect of countless genocides and atrocities, the Droid General was among the Confederacy’s last and greatest strategical minds, a baleful cybernetic hatred tempered by a cool mind of calculating tactical procedure. None other were so fit to provide this death-knell to the overzealous Republic than he. And the nature of his tantamount mission?

Kidnapping of the Supreme Chancellor himself.

What a brilliant orchestra that played Sidious’s tune. It was almost too damned perfect. Sometimes the Sith Lord believed he should amuse the Jedi dogs trying desperately to sniff his trail. Throw them a bone, maybe a loose holo-recording here or a loose piece of finance there. A cinematic blockbuster, the Galaxy’s worst contemporary conflict weakening every democratic institution and heightening nationalistic fervor to culminate with the greatest seizure of power ever known. Palpatine enjoyed playing into the lie of being a kindly, grandfatherly man with the ailing Republic’s best intentions at heart. Of being an exceptionally good politician who backed the struggling Jedi Order’s efforts and defended them against Senate critique. Who held back the Separatist tide and made good on his promises to restore order and peace to the Galaxy.

Well, in his mind, he truly was, though simply not through the means everyone probably envisioned.

Whilst sitting upon his chair aboard the Invisible Hand, Sidious now pondered more than he initially bargained for when setting out for this final epoch of the Clone War. Being accosted by that distant ‘Glitchtrap’ had given him much to think about. There were infinite possibilities being opened before the Grand Chancellor, each more tantalizing than the last should he properly play his cards. Of course, that came with certain accompaniments. Changes in plan that were instituted last-minute, unseen chess movements that would drastically change the post-Clone Wars Galaxy he initially envisioned.

Though there’d be time later to reflect on such decisions. Right now came a crucial turning point within the grand charade- one that’d subtly seed the death knell of that antiquated, pitiable Jedi Order.

“Master.”

Count Dooku’s voice, soothing, swift, and delicate as the refined wines he often indulged spoke with an authority undeniable. Palpatine’s eyes peered carefully onto his caped apprentice. Admittedly, while Dooku was always merely another means to that calculated end of succession Sidious envisioned, he was undeniably an intellectual equal. Their discussions were born from deception and lies, manipulations and half-truths meant to slowly anchor Dooku’s mind further into darkness and convince him of committing atrocities countless to bring down the oligarchical Senate and their Jedi bloodhounds.

Even still, Sidious recollected them not with the distant snark of superiority an overlord typically would when reminiscing about time spent with pawns on their chessboard, but rather a nostalgic familiarity. Sequestered within Coruscant’s industrial district, secretive meeting places and manors across the Galaxy, and even through classified Holo-Calls of which archival footage and audio was purged subsequently- their discussions lasted throughout the decades leading up and the few years constituting the Inter-Galactic conflict they’d manufactured to bring about a brighter, stronger future. They held talk on everything from philosophy to political ideations to cosmic truths and dialogues about what lied beyond the veil of Jedi and Sith- the dogmatic dichotomy of Light and Dark Side that unfairly categorized the Force. Dooku’s aristocratic pedigree made him something of a relatable ‘friend’ to Palpatine, as close a friend anyone could envision making with the sadistic Sith Lord.

“Yes, Lord Tyranus?”

“Would I speak out of turn if I brought up… concerns with your plan?”

An uncomfortable silence held for several moments. Visibly beyond the viewports could they witness Coruscant’s atmosphere choked with explosions and vessels clashing against one another. Ships fired their turbolasers whilst interlaced in combat as fighters chased each other to oblivion and back.

“Our relationship has been one of mutual respect and open dialogue, yes? What are your fears?”

“Thank you Master. Simply put, I… wonder if Skywalker will agree to take me prisoner after our duel. More concerningly thereafter, what guarantees exist that the Jedi would not seek to brute-force my execution once I’m brought before the Senate?”

“Valid concerns, Lord Tyranus. Rest assured; your capture is more a political matter than a Jedi one. You were once a decorated member of their Order, though your actions have dictated loss of life upon Republic soil. Even Senators that don’t belong in my pocket would outright refuse the Jedi should they demand your head prematurely and without proper trial. They intend to garner a relations victory by delivering to the public a grandiose show of yourself dragged through the legal system. A deconstruction and humiliation on every order.”

“Indeed- though I fear perhaps the Jedi may not adhere to those principles.”

“You believe they’re that far gone? Master Windu I could see raising mild trouble, but Yoda would never allow it.”

“I trust here that you’ll prevent any fatal harm from coming onto me once I grant Skywalker victory. But express honestly My Lord, do you believe Yoda’s control over the Order is ironclad as it once was? I cannot make proper judgment; I’ve spent this war primarily upon the Galactic Fringes as you know.”

“Were you not among the Jedi’s most prized, Count? Tutored under Master Yoda himself, many viewed you the epitome of greatness within that Temple’s insipid halls. Would your judgment now, therefore, be so inaccurate?”

“This war has changed the Jedi, Master. Moreso than the corruption which stymied them before. A darkness grows within the dogmatic of their number, Master Windu most pertinently. Surely you sense it?”

Palpatine’s lips pursed at that inquiry. Admittedly the war’s course had seen many Jedi outright disobey Yoda’s commandments of enlightened kindness and rigidity to their code for more… swift acquisitions of results. Hell, the fact Yoda was strongarmed by members of his body into validating Quinlan Vos’s assassination plan against Dooku several months back was proof enough that the Council’s dogmatic nature was slowly warping into a religious zealotry. Ironically, the Jedi becoming more ‘Sith-like’ was exactly the manner of justification Sidious intended on using to ultimately annihilate them- but if that actually happened?

That could become concerning indeed. Perhaps Glitchtrap’s interlude was a blessing in disguise after all. Especially with the assistance he promised. Dooku himself only knew a fraction about what and who Afton was, given paltry amounts of information by Sidious. Until the Grand Plan was completed, none would be kept in the know save the Sith Lord himself.

“The Jedi’s extremism won’t become a concern, my apprentice. Just play your part and I’ll play mine. Do you lack faith in my abilities?”

“No Master, of course not…”

“Good. Then prepare, Count. Our guests are arriving shortly. We don’t want to disappoint them, do we?”

“Indeed, Master.”

Dooku subsequently left to take his place, and arrive they did. Entering the room was Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, two decorated Jedi Generals who’d become beacons of hope for the Republic throughout this devastating conflict; and more importantly for Palpatine, Skywalker was becoming fast his candidate for the next apprentice he would raise in darkness and hatred.

“Chancellor, are you alright?”
Inquired Kenobi thoughtfully as the robed monks approached their benefactor.

“Count Dooku…”
Palpatine replied, everyone’s gaze turning upward to witness the Sith Lord arrive and flanked by two B2 Super-Battledroids. Curious that it wasn’t Magnaguards safeguarding Dooku’s side…

“Your swords, please. We wouldn’t want to make a mess in front of the Chancellor.”
Dooku confidently stated, striding with domineering posture and suave intellect that marked him a member of prestigious Galactic nobility. Kenobi and Skywalker obviously disregarded his threat and prepared for combat, years of unresolved hatred bubbling between the latter and Dooku boiling to their surface as the melee began.

Sidious never tired of witnessing lightsaber duels- perhaps the second most exhilarating feeling acquirable within the Galaxy, the first being participating in such a duel personally. Dooku’s Makashi Form starkly contrasted against the more aggressive swordplay of Skywalker, while Obi-Wan’s stance combined mixtures of defensive and offensive maneuvers and footwork, creating an elegant balance that was subtler, more admirable than Anakin’s roughness. Their sabers clashed, creating addictive sounds as their hyper-heated energies slammed against one another. A mesmerizing dance of power that evolved with every step, where victory and death both lingered behind every corner and where every move needed accounting for.

Anakin and Dooku preened off as the B2 escorts opened fire against Kenobi. The droids’ automatic laser-fire meant nothing against the skilled Stewjon native, who swiftly carved them into sputtering mechanical pieces. A swift contest of wills followed, an impressive play that even the most discerning detective would become fooled by. It genuinely seemed Dooku intended on winning and slaying both foes there and now, though was faltering solely owed to old age- a laughable prospect at best for anyone who truly knew the Serenno native.

After the old man kicked Kenobi aside into unconsciousness and continued this dance with Skywalker, they returned onto the main floor. Their prancing entailed strikes and strokes immutable to any naked eye that couldn’t dare comprehend the physicality and brilliance of lightsaber dueling. Even Sidious could barely keep up, though managed nonetheless. Anakin and Dooku’s struggle became interlocked right before his makeshift throne now, the older man’s stamina whittled with every moment, until Dooku was entirely on the defensive. Years of anguish, of unsettled grudges and bloodied vengeance bubbled unto the surface as Anakin continued railing against the Confederacy’s populist demagogue. So many lives lost- Clones under his command fallen and fellow Jedi slain throughout this destructive war, and Anakin’s heart leapt with excitement at the idea of bringing the Clone War to a sudden close at his decisive hand.

Sidious couldn’t allow Dooku to perish here though.

Initially, that was indeed the design, though circumstances had changed since the clandestine meeting with Lord Afton. Upon knowing of what exactly lay beyond his Galactic borders, well… Palpatine wasn’t so inclined to throw away potential assets any longer. There wasn’t any genuine loyalty owed to his Serenno-born Count here, only meritocratic necessity.

“Anakin, enough.”

Skywalker nearly carved off Dooku’s arms before the Chancellor’s authoritative voice snapped him from that bloody reverie.

“R-right. Of course, Chancellor. Forgive me, I…”

“Count Dooku’s vile war crimes are known to us all my boy, me most especially. Still, would it not please Jedi and Senate alike were he properly prosecuted before a standing court?”

“You’re right. Feel lucky that the Chancellor was here Count. More of a man then you’ll ever be.”

“If only you knew, Skywalker…”
Dooku casually muttered, expression inscrutable as the Jedi General jolted him upward, keeping the slimy villain held at saber-point whilst confiscating the Count’s curved lightsaber.

“How shall we depart this droid vessel with both your Master and the Count, General Skywalker?”

Anakin pondered momentarily before finding an applicable solution.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to do some grunt work Chancellor. Is that alright?”

“If that means departing this horrible place, by all means. What’s needed of me?”

“Keep watch on the Count here. I’ll have to carry Obi-Wan.”

“This really isn’t required. I know when I’m beaten, Skywalker, and I have my honor. You need not worry about any treachery from me.”
Dooku replied convincingly, and perhaps if Anakin hadn’t been on the receiving end of the Count’s treacheries, manipulations, and brutalities over the Clone Wars, he’d almost be inclined to believe him.

“Your life is a privilege I can revoke at any time Count. If you want to retain it, keep quiet. Chancellor?”

“Indeed. Come, Count. And no funny business here.”

“I’ve nothing but honest intention in mind. I shall stand trial before your Republic. Only the Force decides the outcome now.”

Anakin didn’t bother humoring the aristocrat, instead grabbing and hoisting Kenobi upon his shoulders as they exited the observation room. As they proceeded, Palpatine quietly pressed upon his forearm, a holo-communicator sheathed beneath his comfortable silk robe.

Everything was going according to plan.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Afton’s Quarters

Springtrap Maximus

William could never grow tired of this game.

The setting changed, the methods of completion, various aspects and background sects tweaked and edited, though the overall game’s objectives and those players who participated?

No, that could never change. Not in a million years.

The replica’s architecture was nigh perfect. A near-identical recreation of the original Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. Everything down to those dirtied checkered floors and pizza-stained tables. That irreplaceable, unmistakable nostalgic seventies to eighties feeling of being perpetually trapped in youth’s joyous clamor. Such an innocent realm that any parent willing to dish out cheap cash could grant their child.

Afton destroyed that within seconds. He sometimes pondered the true reason behind his murder-streak those decades ago. Acquiring remnant-strewn immortality? Expressing those repressed, dark desires grown from jealousy of viewing Henry Emily’s perfect life being the window of mediocrity that demarcated his own?

Maybe. Or perhaps, most correctly, William enjoyed bringing misery and suffering to others. He enjoyed hurting people. Ultimately, harming others, killing others; no evidence beyond existed greater of his natural superiority over the entire universe. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. An unquestioned god-spoken king who ruled over an eternal dominion of slavish minions that’d fall onto the sword if only asked. Power coursed through his every artery; his very soul howled forevermore to become emulsified in darkness. William wanted to become everyone’s unquestioned enemy and persist with few consequences. The unstoppable King of Evil.

Susie, Fritz, Jeremy, Gabriel, and Cassidy. Those fateful five. Whenever able to exercise the rare free time that accompanied managing a growing Chaos Empire, Afton often hoisted their captured souls into momentary resurrection, back into their very gravesites. Otherwise, they were permanently ensnared by the Warp’s hungry homeland population of snarling Daemons that feasted upon their misery. Through countless contracts and promises was Afton allowed to claim their souls on joyous occasion.

Once resurrected, the Missing Children were inclined to find hiding spots or means to fight back within the Fazbear eatery- as Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy watched on silently, their mechanical husks now eternally empty. William arrived in his trademark Yellow Rabbit mascot costume afterward, sometimes giving them several hours to even an entire day’s worth of preparation, other times merely a few minutes. Afton felt recent highs from his victories against the Demon Slayer Corps and Princess Alliance, and wanted surely to keep that momentum going, so decided to indulge himself this day and entered right away.

“I’m home kids!”
William announced, giggling wickedly while entering through the front door. Despite the Children having undergone this horrid procedure hundreds of times since Afton’s world takeover, the Warp’s unspeakable curses deprived them the privilege of getting used to their suffering. Every time that barbaric knife carved deep into flesh and blood was the awful, painful sensation renewed.

…

“No response, huh? Children these days, so ungrateful. Has your time within the Warp taught you nothing of discipline? That’s fine. I’ll simply reteach you the tenets of discipline. Who’s going first today, I wonder? Gabriel, that better not be you I hear rummaging about.”

Afton smirked underneath his mask, turning around to focus on Foxy’s Pirate Cove. That stupid boy never learned. Ironic- his birthday party was the catalyst these unfortunate souls came here initially. He wondered if they ever deeply regretted accepting that invitation, though didn’t consider it much. Who knows what thoughts bacteria held, and better yet, who really cared?

Afton stepped forth with killing intent and reeled back the purple curtain. Gabriel attempted clumsily to flee, though the serial killer didn’t allow it, wrenching a palm forward and grasping the boy’s foot-heel, dragging him back outside. He roared, begged, cried; nothing unique or extraordinary for a child shortly about to perish. William sighed irritably as he tossed down Gabriel and kept him fastened there with his stuffy Yellow Rabbit suit.

“Really? This same nonsense again? I thought you’d learnt your lesson about trying to appeal to my good graces with that whole ‘begging for my life’ shtick. Goodness, children really don’t learn, do they? Maybe I should start doing this with a new round of kids, or change up the rules a little bit so-“

Afton was shortly interrupted as a chair was smashed into his back. Staggered and stunned momentarily, the Purple Guy turned around and quickly discerned his assailant- Susie. Yet his reprieve was brief. A sudden shadow cast down forced the Yellow Rabbit to turn upwards, witnessing an entire table smash against him. They weren’t the mewling cretins he’d once stabbed so voraciously to death. They’d banded together and were fighting back.

William smirked from within his mask. The best game always provided challenge.

“GET HIM! GET HIM! KILL HIM!”
Roared Cassidy, commanding the effort as they all descended upon the incapacitated tyrant. Beating, striking, yelling, cursing his very name. Of course, Afton allowed them, if only to judge whether anything close to harm would befall him. It didn’t. The Daemon Prince quickly grew bored of their howling as they animalistically assaulted him, five innocent children whittled into horrid, nigh-caveman esque emanations of their former selves- all the childlike joy and eagerness in their hearts and eyes replaced by darkness, fear, and anguish that would repeat until the universe itself faded into night.

“Well- that’s enough of that. I suppose I shouldn’t be disappointed, you are just stupid, sniveling children after all.”
Afton reverberated a small span of magical energy that burst back everything around him, manifesting as a crackling blue wave, smashing and breaking away all the miscellaneous items the kids had acquired to attack him with as well. Plates, pans, hell even appliances and kitchenware.

“Congratulations on the innovation displayed here. You kids are surely determined, I’ll give you all that much. Ultimately though, you’re very boring active playthings. I enjoy myself most through your reactions. Such as THIS!”
Afton cackled wildly, leering his trademark blade into Gabriel’s throat. Rivulets of blood spurt subsequently as the child gagged on his own life-fluids and fell backwards onto the Pizzeria grounds. Susie went next, the Yellow Rabbit twirling clockwise and slicing right across her face. She wailed with shrill pain as Fritz, Cassidy, and Jeremy moved to physically restrain the Daemon Prince from finishing his target. A fruitless effort, one dispersed by yet another burst of magical energy as Afton then headed over and jabbed his blade through Susie’s mouth, the sharpened tip poking out the other end and glistening with bloody gore. After ripping out the murder weapon, he focused attentions onto Jeremy and Fritz, both of whom were losing heart after seeing their compatriots slain so brutally before them.

“What’s the matter children? Lose heart? Relax! I’ll carve it open FOR YOU!”

William violently rammed his blade subsequently into Jeremy’s fleshy stomach, staining the boy’s shirt a virulent, coursing, flowing liquid red. Fritz was next to fall, being dealt merely an unceremonious slash across the chest and stomach which cut open seams of his own insides into a warm, sludgy pile. Cassidy continued defiantly striking against her tormentor, the baleful child screaming and raging bloody murder against Afton. He always delighted in slaying her most, her disposition always evoked that of a rebellious princess of righteousness determined to bring the Demon-King to justice, only to fail each time.

“Always the angriest, weren’t you Cassidy? And where’s that anger gotten you? Only further down the rabbit-hole, quite literally in fact!”

Springtrap kicked down the furious little girl, moving forth and stomping the contents of her skull and face in several times, until his right heel felt not the toughened carapace of bone, but solely the mushy texture of broken, scampered cruor.

After completion of this dark deed the surrounding Pizzeria landscape dissolved into a ghostly white mesh of Chaotic Warp-Magicka, the children’s broken, slaughtered bodies dissipating with that transition- back to their insidious torture hovels where Daemons feasted hungrily and prosperously upon their souls. From one flavor of unspeakable torture into another.

William returned into his bedroom; a spacious, sizable quarter complete with luxurious silk rugs depicting the Primordial Empire’s sigil, immense mahogany shelves stocked tightly with books ranging from subjects of alchemical exploration and mechanical engineering to famous theses on politics, philosophy, and various academic fields- among thousands of other subjects available for his enjoyment anytime. His Yellow Rabbit costume automatically seeped away, exiting any momentary hassle of taking off the sizable silicon mascot suit. The perks of being Chaos’s Chosen extended beyond the realms of combat and conquest, making everyday life convenient for the lucky adherent of Darkness.

Now Will donned a simplistic yet regal purple bathrobe. He exuded a satisfying sigh to himself after such an exhilarating exercise. Afton consistently participated in grisly activities of leisure- an entire cordoned off section of Springtrap Maximus contained an artificial maze and nature preserve where kidnapped or sacrificed children and teens awaited their trials by fire as William hunted them purely for sport.

Never once did he transform into his true Daemonic form, always granting these assorted victims the illusory benefit of chance before crushing that hope outright, eclipsing their souls in omniscient terror before ending them. These indulgences were inspired by Count Zaroff, the villain in one of Afton’s favorite literary pieces, ‘The Most Dangerous Game’, revolving around a Cossack aristocrat hunting humans for the aims of amusement and pleasure. Fun as these outings were, William’s favored activity would forever remain relieving that glorious day of executing the Missing Children, showing those children the mightiest and most unending of sufferings, to forever entrap their souls and bodies into his wicked cairn of suffering.

Nonetheless, after such excitable thrills came the necessity of calming down. Unlike most servants of Chaos, Afton refrained from intaking too much of the Warp’s addictive powers and allures, wanting lucidity so when he did indeed suffice these enjoyments, they could be enjoyed with full awareness and feeling.

Before winding down, Afton opened a fully stocked minifridge embedded at his room’s corner, revealing a finely aged Chateau Cru Godard wine. An open and prolific partaker of wine’s multi-layered, articulated, flavorful brilliance, William personally founded his own vineyard company, combining warp-borne Slaaneshi pleasure-fruits with native-grown grapes and contracting numerous private farmers throughout France, America, Argentina, Italy, Spain, etcetera. Combine and Hell territories made special exceptions for Afton’s vineyards, wherever they were located within their vast enclaves, knowing they belonged to their chief ally and thusly not disturbing those sacred grounds- making these vineyards an attractive workplace for any nascent citizen. Afton, able to split his consciousness somewhat, managed to simultaneously attend and expand his wine business while also managing his mainline occupation of conquering and destroying.

Sitting upon his bed’s edge after pouring himself a glass, he grasped a sizable tome off his nightstand: H.G Wells’s ‘The War of the Worlds’ and silently began reading from where he last left off. The Martians within the book always intrigued and delighted Afton with their barbarity, brutality, and determination to overtake Earth after pilfering their homeworld’s resources clean. However, this unprecedented interstice of leisure interlaced into a life constantly defined by battle and bloodshed wasn’t fated to last. A humble knock rung upon the door.

“My Lord- your visitor has arrived. Ochi of Bestoon.”
Spoke Knight-Kazzanour of the Glitchtrap-Guard. Horatio and several others were currently out crushing another insurgency near the edges of Primordial space, leaving Fabian Kazzanour as Acting Grandmaster and Herald Apparent of Glitchtrap until his master’s return. During days olden, Fabian was an Armenian crimelord, the scion of an engorged faction of ethnic smugglers, terrorists, and drug dealers that were bringing rot throughout Glendale and the wider Southern California area. Through a series of dark circumstances and epic adventures he became among Glitchtrap’s most loyal and dedicated servants, being rewarded with his ascension into Chaos Knighthood as direct result of such wretched merit.

“Earlier than I expected. Allow him through.”

The fanciful, engraved door into Afton’s personal quarters creaked open; subsequently revealing a chittering, robotic organism that staggered inside after awkwardly bumping against the doorframe edges momentarily. An updated, standardized Holo-Droid often used for communication between beings anchored light-years apart. Given the cruciality of these final days in Sidious’s Grand Plan, arranging any manner of physical interlude was impossible; not mentioning the outright risk entailed with such an endeavor as undoubtedly the Jedi suspicion of their Chancellor reached its paranoid peak. So toiled Sidious was within these plots he weaved that Ochi was delegated the assignment of reporting back to Glitchtrap.

Privately, Afton also figured Sidious sent an invisible message of dominance and superiority by relegating him treat with such a lowly and unimportant figure- a slight that wouldn’t be forgotten.

Soon enough the Holo-Droid squeaked to life, the blue warbling emanation revealing a sickly, spindly looking humanoid with bleak black googles covering its eyes and some puckered mouth reminiscent of an individual who suckled too much on lemon. An unsightly, monstrous abomination- Ochi of Bestoon served secretly Palpatine’s designs for years since the Clone Wars’ inception, eliminating targets who neared close the conflict’s truth or otherwise removing troublesome obstacles within the Chancellor’s way, helping pave the road for his political machine to enrapture more control over the Republic.

Creatures such as Ochi were known to Afton. These beings lacked the strength, constitution, and intelligence required to become Dark Lords themselves- so instead of playing for that coveted throne, they instead made every effort to creep behind its power, sufficing themselves on scraps of darkness and small parcels of glory afforded to their rank so they’d be satisfied and walk off thinking they’d achieved some grandiose bargain. Ochi of Bestoon was merely a disposable, violence-loving thug who drowned self-doubt in alcohol and fed further into a ravenous cycle of narcissistic validation and delusion. This type of servant was dime a dozen, easily replaceable though superficially useful no matter which Galaxy they populated. Afton knew thousands, if not millions just like Ochi.

“Emperor Glitchtrap. My infinite respects. Lord Sidious’s plan is moving into its second stage. He’s wondering when your reinforcements will arrive.”

“They’re on their way. Travel between our Galaxies remains spotty, but rest assured my fleet navigators have informed me they’ll make the distance in time.”

“You’re sure they can handle the task? Jedi aren’t easy to kill from my experience and believe me; I’ve had plenty.”

Ochi’s abysmal attempt at joking humored only himself- though if he was troubled by this revelation, it didn’t show.

“Those monks are nothing compared to the armies I wield at my command. Should it ease you, my allies and I are personally heading to Coruscant. Your Master’s cementation of power is all but inevitable, and your Galaxy’s public perception of my Primordial Empire will become an impression of positivity after we rescue them from Jedi terrorism. However, I hope my considerations are being taken seriously by your Master. It’s imperative Count Dooku, General Grievous, and their Droid Armies survive the war.”

“Yes, yes… I’ve been informed Count Dooku has been taken prisoner at Coruscant for imminent war crime trials at the Galactic Senate’s pleasure.”

Afton flashed a gleeful smile, an expression borne of joyous victory only befallen once something’s gone completely his way. He managed to shift the entire universe’s timeline casually through his secretive meeting with Palpatine.

“I’ll admit though, My Master is less than pleased about the decision. It appears his original designs lacked room the good Count nor his Cyborg servant and Droid lackeys. The Separatists have wrought ruin and destruction onto the Outer Rim for years now. When the New Order rises, how exactly shall it validate their continual existence to those subjects languishing upon the fringe? There shall be countless insurgencies!”

“That’s already been accounted for, Ochi of Bestoon. If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare to make my leave. Keep me updated and give my regards to your Master for schemes well executed.”

“Now hold on-“

Kazzanour’s armored fingertip pressed shut the Holo-Droid, quieting Ochi’s subsequent protest.

-

Coruscant – Senate District

Finis Valorum’s Estate

Chaos still reigned across much of Coruscant. Even though Chancellor Sheev Palpatine was rescued by two Republic Heroes- Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi, alongside the dreaded Confederate mastermind Count Dooku himself interred by their efforts and taken hostage; General Grievous had managed an escape, most certainly fleeing to Separatist Space after recognizing this struggle was lost.

Furthermore, Grievous still left behind the largest Droid warfleet ever assembled hanging over Coruscant’s skyline. The Republic Homefleet could only now draw necessary reinforcements into their fray, which barely equalized their numerical strength against the Confederate dreadnoughts dotting the cosmic blood-fields. Fighters continued their dogged wars above, and while the volume and consistency of explosions and terror which’d previously pockmarked Coruscant dwindled over the day’s course, much work remained. Aside from these atrocities, Separatist supporters hidden across the breadth of Coruscant roused themselves in sudden rebellion, barreling towards local Clone outposts and trying to overwhelm security forces to cause complete societal breakdown. Now looters, thugs, and criminals of every clade and creed were creeping into even the cordoned off skyscrapers and gilded districts cultivated for Coruscant’s out-of-touch elites.

Finis Valorum watched somberly as everything imploded into utter madness. Safekept by the Senate Guard, an unquestioned order of skilled special forces dedicated completely to the Chancellory’s safety, the older figure stared wistfully into the bright blue above, watching as ships collided against one another, meshes of durasteel and turbolaser engaging in dances of combative supremacy while Vulture Droids and ARC Fighters tested each other’s mettle.

“Sir, it’s not advisable to stay out here. Please wait inside your quarters until the crisis’s averted.”
Alerted Guard-Captain Soule, approaching his superior. Over their decades of working together, Valorum and Soule developed a closeness beyond the boundaries of their respective occupations and socioeconomic positions, having become true friends. Valorum turned back, eyes once fiery with determination to wrest positive change within this Republic now tempered with destitute defeat.

“It’s all connected, you know. This madness, this craziness… every aspect of this horrible war’s been cultivated like some awful plant; its’ seeds about to blossom. I should’ve recognized it before. The signs were all there. Sifo-Dyas… his intentions are corrupted. That man who’s superseded me… Chancellor Palpatine…”

“W-what? What are you talking about sir? Come, we must take shelter in case droids or looter-“

“Captain Soule, I’m talking about this Republic’s immutable fate, and how we’ve all played into its hands. There’s nothing anyone can do now. Everyone’s caught in this web of lies. I should’ve stopped that man when I had the chance! I should’ve tried exposing him then and there. It’s… it’s all lying in ruin now. Very shortly, Captain, this Republic will change for the worse, and we’ll all suffer for it. You believe me, don’t you?”

Was this the ramblings of an ancient madman driven to anguish by his past mistakes? In all other cases, Soule would conclude so. But Valorum never waxed nor waned even during his twilight age. The man retained a sharpness underrated by Galactic high society given the humiliating tenure he suffered as Chancellor, thusly losing practically all credibility and connection. To suddenly become prey to bouts of schizophrenic ideation now was simply uncharacteristic and would’ve been foretold by the physicians that tended to Finis’s health monthly.

Suddenly, the sounds of distant warfare became naught but a quiet irrelevance as Soule stood before his friend, taking off his helmet and revealing an aged, greyed, though somewhat handsome and strong-cheeked face.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean… oh, how could I possibly explain!? All of it, Soule, all of it! This war, everything which transpired to incentivize it- it’s been the design of that man who now stands to benefit most immensely from everything! Chancellor Palpatine, he’s been deceiving everyone for years, a damned wolf- no, a LEVIATHAN cloaked as sheep. We must inform the Jedi!”

“Sir- whatever the case may be, without proof of your claim there’s no foundation to stand on!”

“I’m certain fellows within the Order share my suspicions. Just several months ago Grandmaster Yoda approached me regarding that inquiry about Sifo-Dyas. They were following a lead regarding the Clone Army. I divulged them all I could. I’m trusted with them. I’ve decided- Soule, your two best will escort me to the Jedi Temple posthaste. I want everyone else keeping my family safe!”

Soule seemed taken aback by this request.

“You’re not heading to the Senate to launch a formal inquiry?”

“Hah! The Senate during my day may have been ineffectual and domineering, I’ll admit- but it’s now a pit of vipers. Every other politician there’s been rendered but a marionette played on their Master’s string. No. Only the Jedi can be trusted with my accusation. What they choose to do with it is their business, but I trust them and only them to act!”

“I… are you sure about this sir?”

“More then anything. Please, Soule. Let me make up for my career of failures. Let me exit this life knowing I managed some good for the Galaxy; leaving it at least somewhat better then how I entered it.”

Soule pursed his lips, wanting to object and knowing the inherent risks with undertaking such an operation. If Valorum’s accusations of Palpatine orchestrating everything were true, he’d certainly have layers upon layers of contingencies to address any disruption, undoubtedly entailing the corruption of even the Republic’s highest institutions. Not solely the Senate, but their Guards too were likely proliferated with loyalists of this shadow-usurper. Palpatine would know if they attempted such a daring move, but the stakes were too high to merely ignore these cautions.

Soule couldn’t disagree that the Clone Wars seemed almost too convenient for the incumbent Chancellor, who accrued such unprecedented, centralized initiatives to his office that entire committees were formed simply to oversee all these new emergency powers he’d been granted. Could it really have been a ploy for dictatorship?

“… A-alright. I’ll let Commando Arstis know he’s in charge of protecting your family, then we’ll head out.”

“Thank you, Soule. By the Force, thank you.”

“We’re not Jedi, Chancellor. Our luck isn’t the Force, but rather faith in our own selves.”

As Soule turned around though, a Warp-Portal carved open within Valorum’s courtyard. An unholy tear in time and space that connected two distant cosmologies together with an unhappy destiny bound for both. Soule instantly detected foul play and tried to summon together the Guard to protect their former Chancellor.

Arriving through the Chaos-bound dimensional tear was Springtrap, clad fully within his shifting futuristic plate armor, followed by All For One, Muzan, and Zargothrax.

“Kill them all.”
William didn’t even need to utter that command. What followed was slaughter unspeakable as Muzan’s hand spotted a burst of sharpened tendrils that pierced through nearby Senate Commandoes, easily carving through their reinforced armor and clinching their soft meat-skins beneath. Their screams and gurgles were only seconds long as they collapsed onto the floor. Soule raised his DC-15 Blaster Rifle though couldn’t even level it against the enemy before Zargothrax cast an abhorrent sorcery against him.

A fluttering of miniature, wispy green particles of energy slammed against Valorum’s confidant. These eventually grew with size and manifested as tendrils of dark, eclectic power that began… changing Soule. Valorum watched with stunned horror as Soule became changed by these evil magicks, skin disintegrating in pinkish sloughs of sliding flesh that crackled off bone. The Senate Guard uniform became tainted with an auspice of disgusting, necrotic undeath. Soule made some baleful screeching as his face endured the worst change, until he became naught but a shambling revenant in service to Zargothrax’s monstrous willpower.

Another Senate Guard managed to physically secure Valorum during the chaos and they were rushing back inside his estate, which Springtrap viewed as a silly exercise in futility.

“Let’s attend to Dear Mister Valorum and his family, yes?”

William walked slowly and casually throughout the now gore-strewn courtyard as undead Soule was directed into battle against his former comrades and subordinates. The Daemon Prince channeled an entropic surge of power from within himself, channeled through the focal point of his sword angled against the entourage of Senate Commandoes that were firing ineffectual blaster-shots against him.

This energy manifested through his sword-tip, a network of spiky black tendrils that stabbed into five of the ten Commandoes that were waylaying rivulets of blue laser-fire against the gang of evil overlords. Soon enough, their bodies were malformed and contorted, their very souls warped and husked into empty continuations of their former selves, until these Senate Commandoes standing before Afton were but Glitchtrapped artifices, whittled by corruptive power into nothing but his permanently loyal revenants. Now humanoid black splotches with occasional purple interstice, the Glitchtrapped Senate-Commandoes fired on their own allies as Soule did, executing them relentlessly and whittling down their number until none loyal to Valorum were left standing.

“Allow me.”

AFO announced subsequently, using Flight Quirk to rush quickly through the glass into Valorum’s private estate. Before the Demon Lord was splayed the confused gathering of Valorum’s lineage awash with chaos. Mistresses, children, nephews, nieces, grandchildren, all attempting their own frenzied escapes side-by-side with their Senate Commando guards. The Japanese Supervillain could only sneer at such a pitiable sight of insects flitting about.

“I’ve never much cared for en masse killing. My philosophy’s always centered around ruling over a populace rather than exterminating them- I find that latter modem wasteful and heedless to building a sustainable empire. Though every now and again I let loose. Let’s see here… Springlike Limbs, Blackwhip, Muscular Hypertrophy, Shockwave Emittance… yes, perfect. Now I’ve transformed my left arm into a missile capable of extending damage throughout this sweltering crowd of gnats! I’ve been toying with this combination for some time now!”

AFO rushed downward, slamming deeply into the Earth with his engorged left arm stocked with spikes and sparking energetic inclinations, immediately mulching several nearby Senate Commandoes. Another three Senate Guard began firing vainly against the Demon Lord, though he merely raised his hand to absorb the pressurized Tibanna Gas bolts. Despite an initially successful defense, their fanatical determination to rescue the Valorum family from these unknown attackers was undoubtable, and their weapons began slowly piercing through the unholy mass of wrapped, protective musculature.

“How curious. It appears the advanced weaponries this Galaxy employs do wonders against organic matter. I doubt my Electronic Interference Quirk could affect technologies of your caliber. Perhaps the same rules which apply to Quirks apply towards the Force. In which case, all I need do is thieve it. Until then…”

AFO unleashed all the spikes embedded into his immense left arm, spearing at rates and quickness unfathomable to the naked eye, impaling three more Senate Commandoes- their crimson lifeblood spewing out like popped cans of juice. The Glitchtrapped Commandoes and Guard-Captain Soule arrived subsequently, quickly gunning down the alarmed remainder of their former ilk before securing Valorum’s family as hostages. One child nearly reached the estate elevator, though an undead Soule captured him just in time.

Muzan, Zargothrax, and Springtrap arrived afterward, Chancellor Valorum lugged along by Kibutsuji effortlessly with his neck scruff.

“Excellent work. We’ll use this office as our impromptu base of operations on Coruscant. When Sidious’s ready to strike, there won’t be any hesitation from our end.”

“What about Atriox, Coredrias, and Horde Prime?”
Calmly inquired Muzan, examining the former Chancellor with that same unsightly annoyance that one would interpret a rat sneaking into their kitchen.

“They’ll arrive with reinforcements on my signal.”

“Was there any specific reason we stormed this fellow’s household?”
AFO asked.

“No, we simply required a place somewhere around the Senate District for the impending coup d’etat. Though admittedly it seems Valorum here had some funny ideas, didn’t you old man?”
Taunted William sadistically, kneeling down, his rabbit-mask’s dark eyeholes meeting a horrified Finis’s eye-level. After having witnessed these foreign invaders decimate his security force and take his mewling, begging family hostage, the man could barely breathe.

“P-p-p-please- please, l-let my family go they’ve… they’ve NOTHING to do with any of this! NOTHING! M-most are only here because of the Siege a-and they had nowhere else to go- a-and I sheltered them-“

“Oh? So, you’re saying they won’t tell a soul about what’s really happening behind the scenes in this destitute Republic if we let them leave?”
Springtrap playfully asked.

“YES!! YES, I SWEAR IT! ON MY HONOR AS A CHANCELLOR, I SWEAR IT!”

Springtrap pretended to consider this doomed man’s pleas for but a moment, all while the Glitchtrapped Senate Commandoes awaited their master’s consecutive order.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering this insect’s request. If you don’t massacre these parasitical organisms, I will.”
Kibutsuji announced.

“Whatever your choice is I care not, just make it quickly.”
Zargothrax growled, just irritated to share space with such lowly creatures in the first place, his staff lingering upon a batch of children and their parents who were cowering and making begging pleas of their own, not that the Sorcerer of Dundee cared.

“Ahh, well. Apologies, Chancellor- but witnesses are simply too risky to tolerate. I do hope you’ll understand. Gentlemen?”
Springtrap chided villainously, to which Zargothrax immediately understand and set the undead Captain Soule onto Valorum’s family.

“NO!!! NOO!! SOULE DON’T! PLEASE, DON’T DO THIS! YOU BASTARDS! YOU MONSTERS-“ But Valorum’s whimpering was deafened shortly by the confused, horrified wails of his sons, daughters, and their children as the undead Captain Soule, now whittled by Zargothrax’s black magick of all independent reason or thought and now only a ravenous beastial hunger descended upon them, firstly seizing upon a middle-aged woman that appeared Valorum’s youngest daughter.

 She begged and struggled as was predictable for such a young foal her age, though Soule, now entirely figured upon ravenous hunger and evil temptation had ignored the moral principality that once guided his actions, now instead howled by this inclination of feasting devilry. Finis’s family seized at such wanton displays of violence, knowing they were next on the chopping block and paling at the imminent demise that approached.

As this grisly theater played, Muzan turned to Finis Valorum, having decided there and then the decrepit elder’s fate. Two fingers of Kibutsujis’ jabbed into the former Chancellor’s neck, causing ropey organic veins to pulsate throughout his body’s entirety. Mournful wailing became nonsensical gagging and gurgling, his throat caught within a cairn of gurgled, sputtered blood and fluid whilst his eyes rolled back into his skull. Seconds later, unholy growths began seaming across Finis Valorum’s body, howls of begging interstice on his family’s behalf malforming into groaning bleating, the death-cry of someone emulsified in sheer pain and agony. Eventually, these growths seared across face, chest, and legs; Finis practically exploded into clouds of seaming gore splattered everywhere akin to a popped balloon.

“A shame. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised though. An old fool like him couldn’t hope to withstand my blood transfusion technique.”
Kibutsuji coldly remarked. The screeching from another daughter of Valorum’s preened the estate, to which AFO replied by piercing her throat and mouth with cold metal spikes perched from his engorged arm, which then slowly returned to physical normalcy.

“The zombie would’ve eaten her anyway.”
Kibutsuji stated, confused by the sudden display of violence as the woman’s lifeless body flopped before her crying, terrified children as the Glitchtrapped Senate Commandoes held them still.

“Apologies- I simply can’t stand the mewling of weaklings. I’d prefer them eternally silenced.”

“Hmph. Try starting families with them.”

“I can’t fathom such a cruel fate.”

Springtrap approached a grandchild of the late Chancellor, casually grabbing the boy while Soule continued his flesh-mad feast. Angling his foot posthaste, he kicked the hapless miscreant across the estate with such ferocity and force that his body slapped into discordant plops of limbs, marrow, and bone.

“FORE!”

Zargothrax chuckled darkly at that barbaric display.

“Anything physicality can achieve; magic could easily outdo. Sorcery primarily.”

“How about a competition then? There’s plenty of kids here between the Valorum household, and we’ve a few days until Palpatine’s plan moves into its final design. We’ll knock these little bodies against the wall, whichever one lands first wins!”

“Bah, daring to challenge the Almighty Zargothrax to a contest is merely courting your own humiliation! Fine then. I suppose this measly entertainment shall pass the time sufficiently enough.”

“I suppose I could partake. There are some Quirk combinations regarding the jettisoning of a human body I’ve been aching to try out. Will you participate, Lord Kibutsuji?”
Respectfully inquired AFO.

“I’ll pass. Even making physical contact with these bacteriophages makes my stomach reel. If you’re only going to try this competition with the small ones, I’ll help the adults. I’ve more blood transfusion experiments to enact.”

“Suit yourself.”

And lo, the Dark Lords enjoyed a temporary reprieve from their day-jobs of commanding empires of wanton destruction and conquest, maiming and torturing the doomed Valorum family.

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Jedi Temple

High Council Chamber – Two Hours after Chancellor Palpatine’s Rescue and Count Dooku’s Arrest

“Our opinions on the matter may be disparate in solution, but we all agree the increasingly tight regulations of Chancellor Palpatine’s emergency powers are worrying for the Republic, yes?”
Inquired Master Ki-Adi Mundi through holographic interstice. Currently the Cerean was stationed alongside the Galactic Marines Clone Regiment on Mygeeto, among the longest-running battles of the Clone War and facing against an entrenched droid resistance that only recently began showing cracks after continuous repeat offensives broke the Separatist’ resolve. Facing the conical-brained Jedi were several of his fellows- the Council was half-stocked with Masters, everyone else busied performing their duties of war leadership as this brazen conflict entered its twilight stages, likely trying to secure Coruscant in the immediate chaotic aftermath of General Grievous’s daring blitzkrieg.

“Tightening restrictions on freedom of speech, allowing those dangerous nationalists to continue their demonstrations, even establishing Galaxy-wide curfews. Our station works as peacekeepers; safeguarding the Republic from enemies seeking it harm. Now, I fear that same enemy has manifested from within.”
Mace Windu, oft recognized as Grandmaster Yoda’s right-hand and commanding reverence from his fellow Jedi, Clone underlings, and the wider Galactic population spoke coldly about their situation. Having grown suspicious of Palpatine’s growing authoritative streak throughout the war, Mace gathered the Council’s most dogmatic proponents to discuss their prospective path forward. This meeting was kept clandestine to even the other Council Members and Yoda himself, displaying subtly just how far this ancient monkish order had fallen that such rivulets of mistrust were built even between each other.

“I’m worried about his hold over the Chosen One. Their conversations held at the Chancellor’s chambers… what exactly must they entail? Surely, he doesn’t spread poison into the boy’s ear about our conduct. Despite his worrying political moves, the Chancellor’s always been a strident friend of our Order.”
Argued Saesee Tiin, the horned Iktotchi Councilmember who occupied a permanent seat owed to his resilience and immaculate grasp over the Force.

“The Chancellor acts according to his own will. We cannot hope to discern any further beyond, and that’s what worries me. In the past, the incumbent Chancellors have always held a tight-knit closeness with the Order. Palpatine’s been superficially helpful for our cause, championing our rights and preventing legislation that would’ve choke-held us within the Senate, but he’s rarely ever consulted us on matters of advisory council, military strategy, or general governance.”
Windu retorted.

“It’s not required anywhere in the bylaws or constitution of the Republic that the Chancellor must seek our aid consistently.”
Plo Koon replied, trying to allow calmer, cooler heads to prevail. Unfortunately, Mace Windu’s influence had considerably risen over the war’s course and long since prior, and his viewpoint was intense loyalty to the outlined Jedi code of denying feeling and emotion, as those were avenues into darkness; ironically without realizing the impassioned perspectives he championed.

“Perhaps not, though circumstances have changed to make this an exceptional situation. Let me remind you all that only several months ago have we discovered that our very own Clone Army was commissioned by the Sith. Furthermore, Master Kenobi’s report from Geonosis indicated Dooku knows of another Sith Lord who secretly controls the Senate. Now we’re receiving reports that the Count won’t be interred and interrogated by our authority, but rather those of the Galactic Senate.”

“Master Windu, you’re not seriously implying-“
Spoke Master Oppo Rancisis, the Thisspiasian uttering with an almost shocked tone of voice.

“I am. The Dark Lord who’s been orchestrating so much chaos and havoc throughout the Galaxy lies under our very noses, planning and plotting away within a building just adjacent to our Temple. Palpatine’s the Sith that Dooku warned of.”

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the situated Council as everyone grasped the gravity of Windu’s statement. That perhaps, despite all their efforts and desperation to conclude this war with victory and justice in tow, they’d been playing unto their villain’s tune this entire time. Pits formed in their stomachs, unrest and uncertainty sensible by the Force. Windu continued examining everyone with eyes observant, seeking to galvanize their reactions and understand how they intended to proceed from this revelation.

“Have you any proof to shore your claim, Master Windu? Everything you’ve said so far could be dismissed as hearsay or paranoia inside any official court institution. Some may even interpret it as treason against the Republic.”
Shaak Ti muttered, almost accusingly, though her tone mostly exuded that of dread-curiosity, wanting to gauge Windu’s perspective regarding this matter rather than penalize him for it. These secret, traitorous thoughts weren’t Mace’s alone. Suffice to say, many Jedi within the upper echelons had become wary of Palpatine’s conduct, though most never suspected a level of sin this mountainous, rather viewing him an unassuming autocrat wannabe.

“My burden of proof remains circumstantial. Unfortunately our enemy’s been an intensely crafty one that’s clouded himself through the Dark Side. Every aspect of his plot’s been carefully hidden, every avenue, every involved person sworn to silence or otherwise quieted. I can’t abide it any longer. The Jedi must secure control over the Republic before it’s too late.”

“Master Windu- you’re talking about a coup d’etat.”
Replied Master Agen Kolar. Suddenly, the Council Chamber became tense and reserved. Even those attending via hologram felt the sudden darkening of mood, their hairs pricking on their skins. As if that same darkness which provided guidance for their Sith foes was slowly leaking into the chambers of this dogmatic order. Not a darkness of unrepentant, murderous sin, but still a darkness. That same wicked intuition which gripped the Order’s hearts during their ancient wars against colossal Sith Empires and Mandalorian enclaves, where they’d exterminated Korriban mercilessly to rout out their shadowy counterparts at last. When armies of Jedi marching down streets, keeping extremist order and daring their opponents to overcome their strength of will was their whim, where the tranquil attitudes of contemporary Grandmasters such as Yoda were foreign and sometimes even demeaned as heretical.

“We cannot seriously be considering such a course of action. I agree with the Republic’s protection and even share some of Master Windu’s suspicions of our recently-rescued Chancellor, but to storm the halls of power and declare ourselves the authority pre-eminent?”
Stass Allie added, holding similar reservations with everyone else to Windu’s proposed dogma. However, Mace remained unperturbed by their opposition, having expected such hesitation before even summoning this conclave.

“Hesitation now means our ultimate demise. Make no mistake, the Sith have already trampled every political and legal organization that could give them pause. Palpatine owns the courts, his minions carry his votes through the Senate, his allies closely whisper from across the Galactic aisle every notion and plan and undertaking carried by Republican and Separatist alike. We shall find evidence enough after an interrogation or thorough search of his office, yet requesting it through the publicly available channels will result in nothing. The law won’t allow us to buy the warrant because they’re in his pocket. The only ones who can save the Galaxy are the Jedi, fellow Councilmembers. And we must start by securing the transfer of Count Dooku and placing the Chancellor on lockdown.”

“Skywalker won’t like this. You’re right that he and Palpatine have become close, especially over the course of this war. Our best bet would be convincing Master Kenobi of this undertaking and having him speak to Anakin on our behest.”
Shaak Ti replied contemplatively.

“Master Kenobi’s currently pursuing General Grievous. His capture or elimination would signal the cessation of Separatist war-making capabilities. We cannot wean him off this mission, it’s too crucial.”
Ki-Adi stated.

“I don’t disagree. The issue of Skywalker will arise, without doubt. I’ll handle it personally.”

“You also mentioned locking down the Chancellor. Placing the Republic’s highest governing authority on house arrest will require the army’s support. Shall we recall our Clone battalions and inform the Admirals of this decision?”
Kit Fisto inquired thoughtfully.

“We cannot trust the Clones, nor the entrenched high command. But we have an army, I’ve made sure of that.”

“And how exactly have you achieved this?”
Asked Oppo Rancisis, now growing wary of the answer and knowing with displeased certainty that he wouldn’t approve. Instead of answering, Master Windu manipulated his Council-Chair’s hologram management system. A familiar figure’s warbling blue portrait manifested within the Council center, eliciting a series of anguished, irritable gasps.

“You CAN’T be serious!”
Agen Kolar roared in protest, as Stass Allie’s face wrenched into the very visage of anguish and fury. Windu detested having drawn such reactions from his colleagues, though he’d pay any price for the Order’s preservation.

“Trust me, I’m not cheery about this arrangement either. Necessity alone provokes my arrival before you all. Be grateful that I’ve offered my assistance.”

The eternally baleful, angered gaze of Darth Maul stared upon the Jedi Council, a snarl of blackened hatred judging them all negatively, though having a grander target in mind for his hungry quest for vengeance.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kyrat International Airport

Colonel Ike Sloan didn’t like being sidelined.

Yet that’s exactly what ended up happening. Given the heavy-handed role with assisting Yorinobu Arasaka’s failed coup d’etat against Saburo’s corporate empire via providing the Blood Dragon monstrosity which allegedly was slain by Umbrella private security legend Sergei Vladimir himself, Sloan’s activities finally stretched beyond tolerable measure for President Francis J. Underwood. Instead of consigning him to military court martial, which’d only guarantee the insurgency of Sloan’s personal army, the ‘Omega Force’, Underwood privately assigned the colonel a humiliating post upon an unremarkable, frigid excuse of a country on the world’s other side: Kyrat.

Those real culprits who’d orchestrated most Yorinobu’s military might behind closed doors; the suits sequestered throughout Militech and NFFA board-rooms across the homeland weren’t touched. Most were only mildly given reprimands and warnings, reshuffled by their immediate superiors or simply hid behind the mountains of bureaucratic mess they’d predestined should their efforts fall apart. Ike Sloan was ultimately their puppet, a marionette and easily blamable military figure given his prolific history of ultranationalist activities and jingoistic ideologies that he’d professed publicly quite often. Sloan seethed at the realization while in-transit to Kyrat aboard an escorted stealth-craft.

Sloan cared little about Yorinobu’s actual designs of freeing the world, if only by the slightest of margins, from the corporate tyranny which benefited so from the Primordial Empire’s corruption. Rather, Sloan believed Arasaka Corporation’s undoing would’ve ultimately benefited the United States, currently falling behind as Great Britain, Nazi Germany, Soviet Russia, Red China, the Combine-Terran Federation, and various other factions and nations continued building up their stockpiles of hardware and continually outpacing the Great American Empire with technological discoveries and revelations of their own.

In essence, the world, (those countries not under Hellish or Combine control anyway), had descended into a desperate clambering to become Afton’s favorite and thereby receive the tantalizing benefits that entailed, such as Chaotic boons and increased preferential treatment when deciding what country’s military would have the honor of crossing cosmic-lines and dimensional rifts to join Primordial invasions of other worlds and planetary systems. Ike Sloan dispensed his life around becoming the unquestioned number one, the apex predator reigning over all others; and to witness his nation falling behind within these categories was inconceivable. It wouldn’t be British, Kraut, or Ruskie boots that marched on foreign universes alongside the legendary Chaos Space Marines, but Americans, bringing freedom, democracy, and liberty to these unwashed barbarians languishing worlds away from Earth’s warm embrace.

“Hey, we’re almost here. You remember your instructions, right?”
A sapling voice peered Sloan from his fantasy of blowing apart aliens with his handcannon and planting the fifty-star studded flag on their cadavers. That was Douglas ‘Doug’ Stamper, Frank Underwood’s Chief of Staff. Sloan found Stamper’s entire persona disgusting, given the man was rumored as the President’s ‘hound’, sniffing out disloyal parties and penalizing them accordingly. A loyal sycophant without many traits to term his own.

 Worse still, he seemingly existed without much fear of Sloan’s physical imposition nor cybernetic alterations which furthered that impression of purest brutality he sought to exude onto others. For some glorified bureaucratic cretin to hold such dispassionate views of him… it privately drove Ike mad. He wanted to crush Stamper’s skull for simply committing the vile sin of daring to look at him.

“If those instructions are droning out your shitty ass voice little shrimp, then yeah, I understand my instructions fine.”

Doug made no effort to hide his annoyance, eyebrows furrowing as he looked at Sloan.

“You don’t seem to grasp the severity of this diplomatic mission. We need Pagan Min’s assistance if we’re gonna build a coalition of states in the region against Chinese influence. That means I need you on your best behavior. No intimidation, no coercion, you got that?”

Sloan ruefully stared down Stamper, trying once again to psyche the balding fellow out. When it seemed a failed effort, he merely relinquished and crossed his arms, looking out the stealth-craft’s window as it made passive landfall upon the mountainous airport. Outside, Kyrati Royal Army soldiers were marshaled, headed by their commanding officers and what appeared a slender, lithe woman of Asian descent, though Sloan couldn’t exactly discern from what. He was your archetypal American tough guy taken to its natural extreme endpoint, a vicious militarist conqueror who believed in physical superiority and the simplistic avenue of might makes right. Learning about different cultures, ethnicities, and especially contrasting ideas didn’t interest Ike whatsoever.

“Whatever. This is just an exile so I learn my lesson, right? Pah, those suits in Washington better clench tight for when I get back.”

“You’re under MY jurisdiction here Sloan. No acting out, and I won’t ask again. Got it?”

…

Sloan finally relented.

“You’re the boss here. So, where’s the other suit?”

“The Vice President, you mean? I’m sure he’ll join us momentarily. Why, intend on scaring the crap outta him?”

“Don’t tempt me, little shrimp. Spending time around you Washington bigwigs makes me nauseous enough, but that man reaches whole new levels of absurd. I can barely stand him.”

Before Stamper could reply, emerged from the doorway behind them was a snakish man of cowardly distinction, donning a suave two-piece suit and shadowed by an entourage of Secret Service agents and various staffers and officials of middling rank and importance. Underwood’s Vice President Charles Logan moved down, accosting Chief of Staff Stamper and Colonel Sloan with equal repugnance. Despite Stamper and Sloan’s mutual dislike and established rivalry, both men managed some meager bond over their joined distaste of Logan, who’d just as likely sell his own mother into slavery for career advancement.

“I hope you gentlemen are ready to bask in history’s gaze. This’ll be right there with Nixon’s China visit. Reagen’s Berlin Wall speech even. The annals of American foreign policy gape wide open for our entry. Let’s make it count.”
Logan spoke with such daring charisma and convincing mirth that one uninitiated with his true self could believe it. For anyone acquainted with Logan’s genuine personality beyond the shiny artifices and pleasing monuments of American politics though, they’d understand just how depraved and self-serving the man was, only kept around Underwood’s circle of trust owed to his immense connections and stocks of blackmail kept on countless leaders domestic and foreign- undoubtedly helpful during a deluge of crises over these past five years.

“Of course, Mister Vice President. I’ll handle the introductions if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest, Mister Stamper. This is your arena; I’m just entering it. Though I think by the end of this we’ll have a very pleased Kyrati government ready and willing to cooperate with us to stall the Sino advance throughout this region.”

Doug and Logan headed off, with Sloan taking a breather just to momentarily prepare himself before joining them and disembarking.

“Damn cushy-ass motherfuckers…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Antarctica

Alternate Kaiju-Earth

Abbadon mused that he’d hit the goldmine with this alternate, past iteration of Holy Terra. There wasn’t just ‘one’ Kaiju residing here as locals termed them, but rather a vast plethora of species that resided upon this rock and called it home, embellishing within their own unique ways into the local ecosystems and finding niches they could occupy. It would’ve been a historical find if their cruise revolved around marvelous discoveries of the natural world, though obviously, their auspice involved the dark business of warfare.

The Despoiler’s coterie of sycophants, savants, lieutenants, enforcers, and hierarchical command staff beset themselves on tasks of taming and placing to heel other various monstrosities that lingered about this world, chasing legends of gargantuan arachnids that hissed and pratted about to bat-esque creatures with elongated limbs resemblant of ethereal ghosts. These ambitions were well and good, and would certainly curry them litanies of favor with their Despoiler, a necessary element for their subtle rivalries and gambits against one another. Abbadon let the scoundrels and madmen play or otherwise massacre the planet and reap fully its resources as would a proper warband of Chaos. His prize was far grander.

Accompanied by his greatest, a detachment of several hundred Black Legionnaires including Terminators, Dreadnoughts, and even a singular Chaos Titan, the Despoiler headed north, wielding the Daemon-sword of Drach’nyen, Ender of Empires that whispered ceaseless dark thoughts into its wielder’s mind that Abbadon paid no attention toward, finding these temptations weak and menial, and being among the only ones who ever clasped its pommel to actually resist the control it promised. No- this warlord slew for himself, his own ambitions, not those borne from any weakened creature that managed itself captured and placed inside this glorified, edged steel prison.

Through muddled rumor and terrified whisper alone did Abbadon manage to find this hidden enclave. Countless species he invaded and conquered for this intelligence alone, massacred an entire outlying Kree colony; all in bloodhound pursuit of the cosmic destroyer capable of burning entire worlds- a three-headed apocalypse kept afloat on scaly wings of death, among its presence oceans boiled and rose to swallow landmasses and local wildlife were driven into suicidal mad frenzies, slaughtering each other and sapient life and dismantling civilizations with errant glee unlike their usual selves. Nature twisted within the presence of this alien lifeform, and Abbadon couldn’t hide his excitement. To possess such evil power for his own… exactly what he required to finally break the Imperium’s hold and place this mysterious ‘Glitchtrap’ to heel.

Arriving at this facility, Abbadon’s Lord Corruptor and Master-Undisputed of his Nurglite legions, Skyrak Slaughterborn. The disgusting heap of plated, diseased flesh jostled over and knelt before Abbadon obediently, speaking with a wretched voice indicating a thousand maggots ripping through his vocal cords.

“My Lord, we have successfully secured the facility from this ‘Monarch’ faction which our legions are encountering across the world. They are nothing against our armaments though, and our subsequent charges have been set. At your signal, the beast shall be freed from its ancient prison. Everything subsequently lies on your shoulders of responsibility.”

“Excellent news Skyrak. Keep me waiting no longer. Do it. I shall teach this beast the meaning of true power.”

Skyrak nodded and communicated through an established vox-channel, Abbadon privately wondering where exactly the earpiece was located upon this aberrant beast of an Astartes war-commander, or perhaps Nurgle’s brood utilized another form of long-distance communique with their comrades that he didn’t want to mentally envisage. Nevertheless, a series of instrumental cracks riddled throughout the dark, ice-strewn landscape. A black night overlooked this unholy liberation as the Melta-Bombs went off, burning ice into oblivion and forming craters that quickly solidified and hardened into black chip-esque substances, consuming the Monarch facility with it.

BOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!! BOOOOOMMMMM!!!!

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, a strange noise accosted them all. A sinister rattling that seeped about the entire landscape with its sadistic vengeance and alien inclinations. The small army of Chaos assembled here, complimented with battle-groups of Daemons, snarled and staggered as the entire area shook and they struggled to stabilize upon the frigid ground. Abbadon’s genetically altered eyes widened with pleasured surprise, having not experienced such anticipatory excitement in millennia. Before anyone knew it, an engorged hole swallowed the facility hole, with a roar accompanying such descent.

Out careened an unspeakable triumvirate of monstrous draconian heads. Ichi, Ni, and San. These personalities together constituted an ancient king of reptilian power and malevolent might. King Ghidorah, a dragon that overshadowed even this horde of Chaos in size and fearsome nature. Cracklings of gravitational lightning swirled around its poignant wings as its heads hissed and sprawled about with their devious intention, though seemingly able to sense the sheer power radiating off Abbadon, all three eventually waylaid focus upon him. They recognized him as the alpha of this insect pack that’d come to harass him.

The Despoiler smirked and raised his weapon, signaling unto his legions to prepare their standard volleys of fire, with even a few Chaos war-craft hovering above that would provide air support unto this campaign of taming the devilish beast. Soon, Ghidorah would recognize its master.

“Come then, monster. Show me your mettle. I see in your eyes that same primeval fire which guides all creation. I shall become the bulwark that breaks you, and you shall become my steed! ALL HANDS, FIRE-“

Just then, the ground once more shook. Even Ghidorah appeared confused, all three heads balking with misunderstanding. This wasn’t one of its attacks. The Black Legion and its accompanying Astartes from other Chaos warbands were equally befuddled, Abbadon hearing a miasma of confused commands and war-cries as icesheets collapsed and Space Marines helped each other from the bubbly waters below.

Another presence was here. One that wasn’t pleased whatsoever with this turn of events. Signaled by Ghidorah’s release nigh instantaneously, a psychic warning system that turned its attention here. A primeval force of order that safeguarded this world against external enemies. Abbadon hadn’t prepared for any intervention here, having heard no acquiescent rumors of whatever other apex predator was arriving.

Yet arrived it did. A massive Titan of damaged, weathered combat that’d seen battles eternal, millions of years old that wouldn’t allow Abbadon’s sickly ambitions nor Ghidorah’s wanton devilry to infect his world.

“By the Eye of Terror…”
Abbadon whispered, as Godzilla, the dorsal-plated Keeper of Earth, raised its head in opposition, having suddenly appeared before Ghidorah and his Black Legion Army, unleashing a wrathful roar of its own.

This contest had just become a battle of sheer survival. The Despoiler had miscalculated severely.

Chapter Text

Utapau – Tenth Level

Separatist Hideout

Days after Palpatine’s rescue, the Confederate war machine was seeing its mighty undoing at the vengeful Republic’s hand. Their gamble to kidnap Chancellor Palpatine failed, their warfleets routed as they attempted to escape and hold status within their Outer Rim holdouts; now even they were finding themselves under vengeful siege as Jedis and their Clone savants battered against them relentlessly. Local populations that were tyrannized by droid occupations had sensed tides changing and were emerging in outright insurgency, straining the already weakened supply lines and logistical capabilities of the CIS’s corporate masterminds even further. With Count Dooku’s arrest at Republic hands, kept fastened at their city-capital of Coruscant, the Separatists were governed now by their incompetent Council of bureaucrats, senators, and CEOs who professed more skill in finance, stockbroking, and trade than they did commanding a war effort.

Naturally, the CIS Council’s authority was quickly overridden by Cyborg-Butcher General Grievous, the sadistic genocidal conqueror who’d become the face of nightmarish terror for Republic hearts and minds everywhere. Grievous’ strategies were effective yet brutal, insisting upon scorched-earth policies to slow the enemy advance into their Outer Rim holdouts. Even with these additives though, everyone silently agreed it was a when, not if, Republic armies would bash down their doors and arrest them for war crimes, if not outright execute them. They had become rats, scuttering and scampering from planet to planet, vessel to vessel, the CIS Council consistently relocated to avoid Jedi reckoning as they grew increasingly fretful and skittish and forcibly handed over more of their powers and resources to Grievous, who appeared to singlehandedly be leading whatever remained of the Confederate theater at this point, all their other viable commanders, lieutenants, captains, and admirals dead or incarcerated.

Now, they were relinquished onto a lower level of Utapau, nervously awaiting whatever came next. Grievous stepped about like a lingering wolf hungry and aching for prey, snarling and smelling blood with a devious observance about him. Gunray, once his most vocal supporter, knowing that his reproachment of Grievous would remain forever shielded from reprisal by Dooku, remained readily quiet. Without a master to clamp tightly upon the leash, the Cyborg-Butcher could act as judge, jury, and executioner of his own private, shrinking, yet still dangerous and rambunctious Confederate military state. Droids whirred about, making their daily patrols and ensuring the sanctity of their Separatist hideout.

“What’s our next move then?”

Murmured Nute Gunray, the ostensible Trade Federation Viceroy fidgeting within his own seat, a snake discomforted by its own slithery, slimy skin. Grievous desired to simply crush the sickly financial fiend’s head in with his metallic claws, though quickly recognized the futility of such a baleful undertaking. He’d only expedite the already dramatic downfall of the Confederate war-cause. Instead of outright responding, a B1 battledroid doubling as his Communications Officer walked over to his General’s side.

“Sir, you are being hailed by Lord Sidious.”

“I’ll take it within my chambers.”

The CIS Council overhead this, shifting immediately into a cacophony of intrigued, inquisitive murmurs and minor discussions and diatribes amidst each other. Gunray, once again, held the superficial bravery to actually confront the General about this communique revelation.

“You’re receiving a call from Lord Sidious? Take it here, we’re entitled to know his plans for the war’s future! We need security and stability during this troubled time!”

“When you are privileged enough to become privy to Lord Sidious’s plans, you shall be allowed that privilege. Until then, you ought to remain silent Viceroy.”

“General, these droids you so proudly prance about with on your crazed genocidal adventures exist solely off MY generosity and dedication to the Separatist cause! Don’t you forget that!”

Grievous growled and pushed past the spindly B1, stomping towards a now regretful Nute whom slinked back within his chair at the sight of the oncoming Knightslayer, a towering six-foot monument to cold, brutal, efficient slaughter.

“Who says I’m proud of your trashcans, Viceroy? They’re weak failures. Easy to break. Like yourself.”

That said, Grievous entered his personalized impromptu war-chamber, kneeling before the Holo-Table as it shortly broadcast the grainy, holographic visage of the Clone Wars’ secret engineer and manager, the shadowy Darth Sidious.

“Lord Sidious… it is an honor to speak once more with you.”

“The Clone Wars is experiencing its twilight, General. Very soon, a new order will establish reign over the Galaxy. One ushered by a necessary centralization of power.”

“Yes, My Lord. What role shall Count Dooku play, considering his current… predicament?”

“Dooku’s imprisonment was exactly what I sought. He’s no longer fit to remain my apprentice, but I’ve prepared another use for him within the New Order, just the same with you. Your battlefield experience and Jedi-executing expertise will become potent assets within the years to come.”

“Name your wish and I shall see it through sire.”

“Patience, General. I’ve recently acquired some new… allies that shall assist me. My plans have somewhat altered in response to their arrival. The Grand Army of the Republic will soon arrive to either destroy you or drag you in chains for a trial.”

“That cannot be allowed to happen.”

A pregnant pause followed thereafter, one where Sidious calculated his various options and Grievous expectantly awaited a response. This monstrous maniac had become the chief enemy of Republic civilization, and the dreaded fear of even Separatist worlds dotting the Outer Rim. Of course, turning Grievous from a reputable Kaleesh warrior of honor into a blunt instrument of destruction was initiated by design, but Sidious now required a more precise means of power. However, eliminating Grievous would too be a waste. There wasn’t a guarantee the recruitment of Skywalker would proceed without a hitch. Furthermore, the arrival of these so-called ‘allies’ unto his banner had raised more concerns then alleviations for the Sith, forcing him to ponder possibilities of conflict against them once his nascent Empire solidified, perhaps even before.

Confronted by this new, dynamic reality, Sidious judged it best to retain Grievous’s talents as a war-campaigner. Why throw away a perfectly good toy when one can use it later, right?

“Of course. You and the Count shall become formidable aspects of my new Empire. How are the Separatist Council faring? I shall require their vast resources and militaries for my future pursuits.”

“Gunray leads those yapping dogs in an indignation of your genius, My Lord. Were it not for your express orders, they’d have been slain already.”

“And obey my orders you shall, General. You have served me well throughout this bloody conflict. Now, at its very end, I’ll see you rewarded for your trouble. The world of Kalee, long oppressed by the Republic’s patroned Huk species will become among the first planets liberated into the Empire’s glory. You shall spearhead this liberation.”

Grievous’s reptilian eyes, so encrusted and downtrodden with war and atrocity that he’d almost forgotten his homeland, widened now with an almost childlike anticipation, his encased organic heart beating with a fervor he’d not known for decades, a sense of eagerness that even Sidious across the Galaxy could feel in droves. Provide your minions incentive for loyalty, and rebellion becomes an afterthought. This was the perfect hook to secure the General’s allegiance coming into the Imperial era.

“You would have me march on Kalee?”

“And the Huk homeworld. They have become enough trouble to my endeavors. I would see them removed down to the last child. I trust you can handle this task?”

“With the most fervent of pleasures, My Lord.”

Sidious smirked. Creatures like Grievous were all too easy to control.

“Excellent. But before your joyous homeland reunion, allow me to elucidate you upon the next stages of my operation…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Republic Judiciary Central Detention Center

Mace Windu, perhaps beyond any other, represented perfectly how drastically the Jedi have fallen from their haughty, monkish principles over the course of this gargantuan Galactic conflict. An order of peaceable telekinetic wizards enforcing the articles of Republic safety and oversight were ill-equipped both psychologically and physically the challenges a genuine war against a cohesive, ever-shifting enemy would present. Jedi Knights turned into Generals, publicized figures of propagandized battle providing hope for some and terror and spite for others. The pressures of an entire Galaxy, now more than ever, lay with the Jedi.

However, this affordance of public trust went both ways. Just as society brought more forceful pressure onto the Order to complete this war swiftly and with minimal civilian and military casualties, the Jedi too were becoming warped by an oncoming mindset of entrenched traditionalist dogma. Already an issue since generations past, as Jedi operated as peacekeepers above the law, seizing Force-bound children and inducting them into their insular organization for a lifetime of dedicated civil and religious service, the mindset generated from such practices entrenched into a sinister, subtle self-superiority. It was subtle, not the ostentatious, grandiose cruelties and malicious deeds of their Sith counterparts, but rather a cloaked thing, hidden in justified principles and their stalwart belief within the Force governing the universe.

Windu had grown cold to the wailings of the general Galactic public. To the silver-tongued speeches of their supposed ally, Chancellor Palpatine. The Jedi, having always been harbingers and shepherds of the universe, should’ve been immune to internal criticisms and constant political backhandedness from the Senate. Instead, they were scrutinized more than ever, leaving many, especially amidst the Council to feel the machine which they served was itself decayed and frayed, in requirement of the same changes they were dictatorially enforcing upon the Order. Instead of the Jedi receiving limitations and critique, it should’ve been the Republic which their Order’s existence was dedicated untoward.

The robed Master stood upon a floating platform leering him across a litany of cells containing high-value military targets captured over the war’s course. A few cursed or leered with mean looks, but most were silent and uncaring, trapped in nihilistic bubbles of disgrace and defeat. Mace disregarded them all, heading to a forlorn, darkened cell at the complex’s very corner, purposefully shuttered away from light. A depressive square-shaped space with conjoined vents, a rudimentary bed, and toiletries as the only residential accommodations. Its occupant?

Count Dooku.

Meditating proudly at the cell’s center, the Count could easily sense the presence of a Jedi so powerful as Windu approaching. Breaking his Force-bound cycle, his eyes peered open, accompanied with a mirthless sigh.

“Master Windu. What a privilege. How long has it been since our last encounter face-to-face? Geonosis, yes?”

“We’re not friends, Dooku.”

“And what a shame that is. Individuals of our capability and renown should not spend our lives in constant distaste of one another, no? For one, I highly respect your skills as both a duelist and one attuned with the Force.”

“Enough games! You know why I’m here.”

“You couldn’t have made it more obvious. I sense within you a darkness that no Jedi should ever feel. I’d say this war’s stripped the Order of its integrity, but I recognize that it always lacked such quality to begin with. Your policies have made aiding the wider Galaxy impossible. No… you serve as bulldogs for the Senate now. Oh- more accurately I should say, you intend to conquer the very Senate itself. The final stage of the Jedi decay, and I’m to watch it firsthand. A privilege.”

“There’s no darkness here, Dooku. You lie just as easily as you breath.”

“Do I? I didn’t lie on Geonosis, speaking to Master Kenobi. There’s a Sith secretly controlling everything from behind the scenes. You ultimately acted on my information, didn’t you? That whole scandal with Sifo-Dyas…”

“It won’t matter. The Jedi are the arbiters of peace, justice, and security in this Galaxy. That’s our duty, our responsibility entrusted to us by the Galactic Republic’s founding Constitution. Our agreement with its legislative bodies and our authority to enforce its decisions derives from the very foundation of this institution.”

“Among the chief reasons the Separatists divided initially. I tire of speaking politics, Master Windu. I respect you, but I do not treat with you.”

“What’s Sidious’s plan?”

At that inquiry, Dooku let out a haughty, demeaning, derisive laugh.

“Do you take me for a fool to answer such a thing?”

“No. But it was worth a try. And I’m aware no mind-trick will succeed on you. But you can still serve your old Order in other ways. The Jedi will take a foremost role in Galactic security. By the week’s end, none will question our capabilities again.”

“… You’re talking about a coup d’etat.”

Mace didn’t respond. Verbally, anyway. The Force elucidated far more than any verbal exchange ever could. And the results of peering into his soul most intrigued Dooku. Surely, the Jedi’s irresponsibility and Republic’s constant deference to them as the enforcers of and social power had contributed immensely to this religious order’s politicization and internal rot, but to presume they were so far gone to seriously consider enacting a forcible seizure of power? Sidious and Dooku planned numerous contingencies for an engorged variety of scenarios, but one where the Jedi actually PROVED themselves the Intergalactic boogeyman… it was both tantalizing opportunity and terrifying insinuation. Indeed, Dooku remembered his discussion with Sidious aboard the Invisible Hand. It seemed the Jedi's downfall would become twofold, both within and without. 

An army of fanatical Force-wielders refusing to give up power, centralized here on Coruscant. If Sidious didn’t act, they’d shut down the Senator, perform internments of officials against their takeover, and enact sweeping reforms that would blunt Order Sixty-Six’s intended effect as both physical removal of Jedi presence throughout the Galaxy and a symbolic initiation of the New Order. A confused populace would take the Jedi’s words as gospel, whether out of fear or loyalty, and the Clones would be forced not only to exterminate their former Generals, but also entire worlds loyal to Jedi rule. A swift, efficient, brutal transition to Imperial power becomes a nightmarish civil war with millions, if not billions of casualties.

“I’m talking about keeping the peace. Something you were once part of, before your fall.”

“And Yoda?”

“Master Yoda will be appraised of the situation… once he returns from his campaign.”

“I thought so. Conservative and backwards as he is, Yoda would never sign off upon an action so drastic. So foolish. Him being off-planet is the only possible way this maddening dream of yours could hope to enjoy some success. And whom among the Council are your co-conspirators? Plo Koon? Sassee Tiin? Oppo Rancisis, I’m sure.”

“… You’re right. Talking will get us nowhere. I was foolish indeed for thinking you could understand the importance of what we’re about to do.”

“So what are we doing here then?”

“We’ll be moving you to a more discreet location.”

“So I won’t be having a trial before the Senate after all.”

“Not until it’s secure.”

“Staffed by your cronies, you mean.”

“Enough. Guards! Prepare to move the prisoner!”

Dooku only offered a snide smirk. Whatever happened, it was sure to be interesting. And the Republic, no matter which side emerged victorious, would not survive the coming carnage.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kashyyyk

Long have the Wookiees been stalwart allies of the Galactic Republic, their number often bolstering the Republic’s unofficial military brigades before the Clone Army streamlined that chaotic state of affairs, and their world acting as a crucial trade and strategical nexus for passing vessels and battlecruisers. To secure the wider Mid Rim, one would need dominion over Kashyyyk and its crucial hyper-lanes, this was absolute fact.

It ’twas therefore no wonder the Separatist Army had invested such resource and bloodshed into forcing the world from its local hands and into those of their direct occupancy or that of the bloodthirsty Trandoshan mercenaries, historical enemies of the Wookiee whom long lusted after Kashyyyk as their idealized new homeworld and hunting ground. The Trandoshans were a cruel, crude people, viewing themselves and all other organic life as expendable creatures meant to perish within the glory of honorable hunts and deathly warfare.

Now, more than ever, it had become imperative to unseat the Wookiees. The Confederate war machine was breaking under pressure, and it required success immediately lest homefield support wane and propaganda dwindle. The capture of Count Dooku was loss enough, a publicized defeat of their charismatic demagogue had left the Separatist Senate hapless and abiding the directions of the mad General Grievous. Thankfully, the CIS would be receiving an unexpected bout of support today.

Super-Tactical Droid Kraken was overviewing a detailed holographic overview of the imminent warfront. Kachirho Beach would become the decisive theater of battle of which all others upon this tropical, paradisal world were decided. Located within a standard, box-shaped silver-colored generic Separatist military installation staffed primarily by B1 staff droids overviewing a menagerie of terminals, the tactician was charged to coordinate a successful offensive that would overrun the Republic’s entrenched clone forces and those of their allied Wookiee collaborators, commanded by their stone-faced Chief Tarfful.

 It was most fortunate, then, that the Separatists were suddenly aided by new benefactors. An empire from across the stars holding vested interests in seeing their faction’s fortunes shift for the brighter and better. They dubbed themselves the ‘Primordial Empire’, though more appeared a collective of organizations united under common directive rather than a singular, streamlined sociopolitical and militaristic entity. Their emergence was incalculable, from seemingly nowhere, and they’d quickly aligned themselves with the Confederates. Kraken wasn’t perturbed by such changes. His functionality was relegated to that of automaton efficiency, having a litany of battlefield tasks to accomplish on behalf of his organization. Any asset conducive to that goal would be welcomed.

“Are you certain your troops will be enough to break the Republic blockade?”
Inquired Kraken to an eloquently dressed individual of youthful, voracious disposition. Fanged teeth and a cruel smile indicated one who took pleasure within life’s more gory, sadistic delights. His alabaster skin complimented neatly the black, red, and grey-colored schemed outfit he wore, the finery of such clothing pointing towards one with access to vast stores of wealth.

Douma, among Muzan Kibutsuji’s strongest lieutenants and enforcers, and leader of an organized cultish religion dedicated to worship of his own divine self, stood casually before the automaton authority, arms crossed as he yawned with sublime half-attentiveness at Kraken’s inquiry.

“This place is so dull. Grey and generic. Have you people no sensibility of aesthetic!? Let’s get some incense and girls in here, liven the place up, eh!?”

Kraken didn’t appear amused, remaining the unmoving bulwark of warmaking machinery he eternally was. Recognizing that no such amusement could be garnered from an inhuman construct, Douma sighed and gave up on the endeavor.

“Yes, yes. We have demons, robots, hulking Space Marine monstrosities, every type of warrior you can possibly imagine and more. We’ll have no issue trampling those glorified furballs on the beach. I wonder if their hides make good rugs…”

“Good. The assault will proceed momentarily.”

“Superb. I’ll be handling affairs directly from the front to ensure all goes peachy perfect! How does that sound?”

“Roger Roger.”

Kraken entertained this discussion no more, leaving the command post’s tactical room to adhere towards other aspects of the invasion, leaving a mildly annoyed Doma to bemoan the dullness of his current circumstances. Just suddenly, a warbly miasma of electrical blue power coalesced before him. The intrigued Demon stepped back instinctively as the portal’s energies ceased their electrical crackling. A few nearby B1 staff droids manning their terminals peered their elongated, metallic necks over to observe the phenomena, though after concluding its benign nature unto their own tasks, resumed their own personal postulations. Facing Doma from beyond the portal’s arcane boundary, Springtrap, clad in full battle-armor, Muzan Kibutsuji, All For One, and Lord Zargothrax were visible. Knowing better than to dare his superiors from even such lightyears of distance, Doma bowed before them, a beguiled smile adorning his face.

“My Lords! What a happy privilege!”

“Save the pleasantries. Is everything ready for our invasion of Kashyyyk? The Republic must be sufficiently distracted with their remaining battlefronts as our coup de grace here on Coruscant manifests. A great deal of trust is being placed within your abilities here Doma.”
Springtrap muttered calmly, though with a tone that defined failure being equivalent to suicide.

“Yes, I’ve had such fun here coordinating with the Droid Army. They’re quite boring fellows as you can imagine unfortunately, no tastes for life’s finer indulgences, but we’ve nevertheless mapped out our plan of attack. Trust me Masters, the defenders of Kashyyyk fall this day. Oh, and what a joyous day it shall be for the Primordial Empire! I only regret being unable to directly attend the main event with you there.”

“Your duty holds equal importance to our own. Don’t lose sight of that.”

“Indeed. And don’t forget your place. If you fail, I shall take great enjoyment personally tearing you apart limb from screaming, maligned limb.”
Muzan interjected, not bothering to hide his obvious distaste for this arrogant, snakish lieutenant of his, of whom he’d long regretted affording the immortal boon of Demonhood. Doma shrugged innocently in response, though it seemed only to further Muzan’s irritation. Afton raised a hand, becalming the suavely dressed demonic progenitor.

“One more thing.”

Springtrap muttered an incantation of arcane, Tzeentchian power. Manifesting from thin air, adjacent to Doma was conjured a lithe, levitating, bluish horror of most eldritch, diabolical composition. A creature bearing a dozen warping faces, from eclectic joy to spiteful sneering, accompanied by a series of random maws armed with rows of serrated teeth and lapping forked tongues. This constantly swirling maelstrom of inscrutable change spurred Doma’s curiosity to utterly no end.

“Ohhh, am I getting a new friend!?”

“He will observe your progress and report back to us. A safety measure, so to speak.”

“I’ll do my best, Emperor Springtrap!”

Springtrap didn’t dignify him with a response, instead ending the call as the misanthropic cult leader shrugged and turned to fully visually appraise his new ‘friend’.

“So… thoughts on devouring children?”

-

Kashyyyk

Kachirho Beach

VWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM- KA-BBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!

A fiery, purple-tinted explosion rocked the hellish, sandy battlefield. Mounds of sparking, sputtering droid corpses were dotted alongside small hills of Clone and Wookiee cadavers caked in blood, viscera, and gore. The Forty-First Elite Corps, joined by elements from across the Republic’s now experienced and ruthless Clone Army were tasked with assisting Chieftain Tarfful’s defense of his homeland’s sovereignty.

Initially the struggle was a hopeful one. The droids’ Persuader-Class Enforcer tanks and STAP mobile assault platforms weren’t enough to break the defensive barriers and trench-lines of their enemies. It helped the average B1 droid’s combat viability extended to simply moving forward within a calculated, pre-determined geographical attack path and firing generically their weapon of current choice. The B2 droids fared slightly better though made little progress of their own, being simply harder targets to fell, though still too collapsed alongside their spindly counterparts. Yet from seemingly nowhere, tougher, stronger, more voracious, vile, and monstrous enemy units manifested- whether emergent from the waters within foreign, technological warmachines or up above from jetpacks- or perhaps popping into existence through surges of mystical energy which baffled every defender forced to endure them.

Vile Daemons, frog-shaped automaton war-bots, alien mercenaries from beyond the Galaxy, knights emanating dark auras clad in fearsome armor denying even a sliver-glimpse of human flesh wielding accursed blades possessed by malefactor spirits and beyond had descended upon the Republic’s positions here. Clone and Wookiee alike were becoming wholesale slaughtered, their previously regimental ranks tossed asunder as hungry Daemons hailing from the Warp carved through them with blades, obliterating them with mystical spells, or sometimes even hypnotizing several of their number to shoot upon their comrades with reckless abandon. When the defenders could focus-fire upon these Daemonic interlopers, they merely vanished into the unknowable ether, sure to sometime return.

Now Kachirho Beach’s lines of control were being pushed back drastically. HAV-A6 Juggernaut Tanks rolled down the beachhead firing away their payloads of proton torpedoes whilst their laser-turrets desperately unleashed blue-colored fury upon these new arrivals and the already attacking Droid armies, but the sudden strain of dealing with both hostile factions was simply overwhelming. Juggernaut Tanks swarmed by enemy war-vehicles pummeling them with their coordinated firepower, from fireballs to magical castings to other unknowable projectiles altogether which melted away their armors and cooked alive the unfortunate combat staff within!

Observant from a heightened platform this unholy menagerie of carnage, the distraught and contemplative Grandmaster of the Jedi Order, Yoda, clasped tightly his wooden cane as he attempted to psychically discern how such horrible atrocities were possible. To ascribe these monstrous new arrivals to Separatist manipulations was impossible- not even the diabolical Confederates could conjure creatures so villainous and brutal. Even with all his millennia of knowledge and understanding, such actions were beyond even him- though he could certainly hazard a guess. Somehow, an extradimensional evil dwarfing perhaps even the Dark Side leaked into the Galaxy, and now was aiding the Republic’s enemies.

“Sir- we’ll need to evacuate the command post.”
Commander Gree’s voice rescued Yoda from introspection. The green munchkin turned around, acknowledging Gree’s words. Also present was Chieftain Tarfful and his Honor-Guard, the best Wookiee fighters throughout all their disparate clans brought together under a cohesive, singular unit. This was a fearsome fighting force as any.

“… Troubled, I am. The battle’s course, not to our advantage is it proceeding. The Separatists… new allies they have. Evil, I fear, has come to our Galaxy. I sense a great danger both external and internal. Grave danger we all are in, afraid I am to say.”

“If we’re able to summon our reserves and hold the back-lines, there’s still a chance today can be salvaged. But no matter the case, this area’s no longer-“

Gree’s words were forever quieted- as a sharp crystalline icicle pierced through his chest, causing the Clone Commander to stagger and clasp at the wound, before his eyes rolled back into his skull and the genetic progeny of Jango Fett sagged haplessly onto the ground with an unceremonious thud. His colleagues turned back around with alarm and weapons raised, but Yoda already could sense their fates and moved to save them by Force-throwing them out from harm’s way- but it ‘twas too late. Another pair of icicles ran through their craniums, cracking past their Phase Two helmets as they collapsed just as Gree did.

Chieftain Tarfful roared, a mixture of fear and anguish alike, and his Honor-Guard steeled themselves for the upcoming struggle. What Yoda witnessed defied his imagination, even for among the Galaxy’s oldest residents. A pack of five hulking warriors, brandishing swords engrained with chainsaw-esque mechanical apparatuses and wielding handheld pistol-seeming weapons with their other hands. They’d clambered up the wooden steps leading towards Yoda’s observation platform, and with the surrounding air ambience being clogged by the Republic enduring a one-sided massacre with their gunships and fighters being blasted away by scores of enemy aircraft, none noticed the Jedi’s peril- though Master Luminara Unduli, leading evacuation efforts on the ground sensed something was amiss.

“Lookie here boys. Glorified rugs and a little xeno goblin to boot. Must be our lucky day. I’ve been thinking about getting a new carpet.”
Chortled the apparent leader of this armored unit of menacing killers. Yoda sensed nothing but the purest of hatred and malice from their ilk, a sensibility that shook him to his core. However, he gained himself and didn’t falter. These thugs were violent and strong indeed, but they were still just thugs relishing in slaughter and death. Yoda’s faced worse.

“Hmm, judge your worth upon the scale of your sin, you do? Terrible existence, that must be. Pity, I feel for you, and those like you, yes. To have experienced the universe yet not truly enjoyed its delights, to only take part in the worst aspects of yourself, to define your being off the misery you inflict upon others… no, no way to live, that is.”

The Black Legion squad leader snickered hatefully at such comments.

“I’ve heard such weakling sentiments before. I made those who uttered them scream until their vocal chords were ruptured. The high heavens did not answer their calls for salvation. Their inevitable begging for death. Neither will you enjoy any reprieve. Prepare for the end, foul creatures-“

Yoda gave the Chaos Astartes not even a moment longer to monologue, leaping into action with his green lightsaber ablaze as he squarely slid forward with an athletic jump, twirling past the stunned Wookiee and Space Marine grunts present alike, shifting mid-flight from a standard jump to a circular spinning motion and slicing down his weapon. A clean, sizzling beheading subsequently took place, as the Black Legionnaire’s carved off, cauterized head flopped off his body and into the chaotic miasma of Kashyyyk below, his headless corpse floundering over and following suit. His fellows, clearly perturbed and angrily shocked by this turn of events raised their Bolters, though suffered similar fates. Yoda sliced through their knee-joints and armor-chinks, sensing where these death-breeds were most weakest and striking hard and true there. Before they knew it, this small, unassuming creature had elegantly carved through their squadron, leaving them but scattered, sizzling pieces of corrupted Aquila power armor.

Upon concluding such a memorable display of power, the enigmatic, spiritual green alien sheathed his saber and returned it safely to his side. Yet he sensed suddenly another surge of dark energy. He quickly Force-Pushed Tarfful and his associates from harm’s way of another slurry of icicle shards that would’ve otherwise impaled their fleshy hides, eyeing the perpetrator of these frigid-based attacks at last.

Doma casually sauntered up the network of stairwells and miniature citadels and wooden spires which constituted the Wookiee tree-bound homeland, behind or at his side strewn the corpses of those rugged furballs which attempted to cease his advance. His bemused smile met Yoda’s unflinching gaze, as Tarfful made a single grunt of alarm for his old friend’s safety.

“Fear for me, you should not. Meet you at our secret hideout, I shall.”

Another series of opposing grunts and proclamations, but Yoda merely shook his ancient head in reply.

“Go. Please.”

Tarfful ultimately adhered to Yoda’s instructions, fleeing the immediate battlefield via descending another flight of stairs adjacent to his location alongside his Honorguard, leaving the Jedi’s Grandmaster to confront this Demon.

“Sorry if I was interrupting something. I’ve got my job, you’ve got yours. You understand, right old geezer? Man… I really love this place. So many weird things to encounter and maim… can you taste the excitement in the air?”

“Mmm, a troubled soul, you are. Like those who came before, yes. If slay you for the innocent’s safety I must, do such I shall. Sure, you are? Of this path you take?”

“Oi, oi… one of those damn philosophers again. You remind me of those annoying Demon Slayers. Listen here, geezer, and listen well. Only the evil, the cruel, and the insane get to enjoy lovely, fun lives. Their lack of self-imposed boundaries means they can achieve anything, garner anything, and generally make life a more profound enjoyment than it actually is. Comparatively, moralistic peons such as yourself can never fathom an existence beyond the rigid bore of ethical understandings. Your considerations for others will always prevent you from taking the steps necessary to truly advance your life, you see? There’s no gods nor Buddhas which can interlope with your destiny, no overarching universal karma that decides your physical nor spiritual fate. There is only this real world, and the cruelties it entails! Isn’t that just amazing!?”

Doma’s spiel didn’t upset Yoda, it was a regurgitation of a sinister justification he’d heard countless times over from the Galaxy’s worst, though never so openly stated. This proud murderer took most genuine happiness from his evils. There wasn’t any saving, even any talking to this individual. The most merciful option for Yoda here was executing the mongrel before he could harm anyone else, and he sensed he’d already harmed many peoples.

“Enough, I have heard. Quiet your soul, I must.”

“Hoh!? Try it then, old little munchkin geezer! I’m sure you’ll make for quality entertainment!”

Mincing words no longer, Doma twirled about his wind-fans, conjuring together a miniature storm of frigid ice that rapidly dropped the temperature of the immediate area. Yoda could sense the dark power emanating off this individual, their mastery over cold-based magic more than evident, though the Jedi Grandmaster appeared unaffected by the artificial chilliness. Upon completion of this miniature storm’s creation, Doma harnessed his abilities and launched an array of icicles capable of piercing through armor, bone, flesh, and sinew at Yoda, only for the latter to sense the assault beforehand and swiftly escape any fatal puncturing.

“Ohh? A fast one? How wonderful, you’ll be fun to play with!”

Doma launched another slew, this time manifesting lotus-shaped ice formations which burst open, revealing scores of smaller shards which pierced through Wookiee infrastructure and snapped through a few miscellaneous tree branches nearby. All the while, Yoda continuously dodged these rudimentary attacks, gleaming ice scoring past him as he contemplated and began LEAPING upon these projectiles, jumping from one to another midair and getting closer to Doma all the while. Growing a little worried, the cultish mastermind twirled about his wind-fans once more, forming together humanoid emanations of women who blew a deathly cloud of freeze directly at Yoda. If caught within this numbing blast, it’d surely be the Jedi’s end! Yet once again, Yoda calmly unveiled his lightsaber and sliced easily through the feminine constructs, leaving them to collapse into naught but useless sludge.

“Tch… you’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Ohohohoho, you really do remind me of those Demon Slayers, though I guess with more age and experience, you’ve the potential to become far more troublesome, hmm? I’ll just have to end your miserable existence right here!”

Doma leapt back before Yoda could descend upon him with a killing blow, fanning his wind-fans to such ridiculous levels that the ice clouds he’d prior conjured grew into enormous width and size, coating the entire tree and its according huts with its frigid embrace. Yoda disappeared into the white air, leaving the Demon to chuckle darkly at his apparent success.

“In the end, nothing more than another meaningless pawn. For a moment there you really had me-“

VWOOSH!!!

The ice clouds were fanned away, as Yoda outstretched a single arm and honed together his mastery over the Force. All of Doma’s work was undone in seconds, leaving the sinister Demon confused, and losing his approachable, affable, smug demeanor in exchange for confusion and apprehension.

“Impossible… how did you…”

“The Force, a gateway into many amazing things, it is. Surrounds us all, it does.”

“ENOUGH! You damn discount Buddhist monk! HEY, COME OVER HERE AND MURDER THIS GREMLIN ALREADY!”

Adhering his words, a nearby patrol of B1 droids piloting STAPs broke off from their current engagement and flew across the chaotic battlefield towards Yoda and Doma’s location, their platforms firing a litany of lasers directly at the Jedi, who responded by easily deflecting the projectiles, some back at their firers which caused brilliant mid-air explosions, the droids screaming as their platforms failed and careened down to the earth. Those still remaining continued their assault vector, though Yoda called upon the Force’s invisible might once more, derailing their pathways and causing them to crash haplessly into the megalithic trees above them both.

Doma understood now the gravity of his situation, but wouldn’t let it deter him. He just needed more distractions until he could call upon his Blood-Demon Art and bury this mongrel! Thankfully a unit of Banished mercenaries commanded by a Jiralhanae Mortar-Handler noticed the commotion and staggered forward upon the suspended wooden gangways, ignoring the fact Doma was already engaged with this seemingly defenseless weak prey and hungry to achieve their own glories. Better for Doma they didn’t understand the gravity of their imminent dangers.

Indeed, the Jiralhanae barked a brutish command, ordering his Unggoy and Jackal underlings to fire upon Yoda. They did so intently, though none of their blasts came close, they too were deflected and some redirected back into the Unggoy, causing him to falter over with spurts of greasy purple blood staining the ground. The Jackals hissed and approached with their plasma pistols abound, Yoda casually leapt about and either beheaded or stabbed them through the chest. The Mortar-Handler snorted and his Packmates charged forward, four apeish creatures all brandishing Grav-Hammers and eager for a fight. Yoda could sense them innately within the Force, their life-energies, their intentions, their personalities, hopes, dreams, ambitions, fears, and beyond.

They were doomed the moment they clambered upon this Wookiee platform. Instead of bothering with more lightsaber-bound theatrics, Yoda’s hand waved around calmly, sensing the waves and energy-flows of his enemies and touching them both physically and spiritually. Their souls, now grasped within his peaceable hands, were manipulated expertly. In mere moments, the Jiralhanae attackers lost heart and faith, their bodies sagging down onto the ground as they cast aside their weapons with impeccable thuds. The Mortar-Handler, now shocked beyond belief, roared violently and raised his Brute-Shot weapon, aiming to incinerate the ancient monk for his insolence.

BOOM! BOOM!

The Brute-Shots careened towards Yoda, yet all the Jedi responded with was a mere flick of his wrist, redirecting them back at their perpetrator. The Mortar-Handler only had time to yell with alarm before he exploded into a mountain of viscera and cruor splattered everywhere, a scene which deeply disturbed Yoda. He never enjoyed the taking of life, viewing it always a waste of potential and goodness that innately existed within every living being.

These distractions were suffice enough for Doma however. Yoda would now bear witness to his Blood-Demon Art, as crackled together from an ice-bound spell of hatred was a towering, icy Bodhisattva, perhaps a mockery of the religious hierarchy which the Demon co-opted for his own selfish accruement of praise and worship. The Jedi eyed this structure with bemusement as it twirled around, each movement further lowering the area’s immediate temperature and preventing organic Primordial soldiers such as human or Banished mercenaries from rushing in to assist their General given, they’d freeze instantly if they did, the residue cold enough to warn them from trying it.

“Try this on for size, you short peon!”

“Size matters not, hmm?”

Now fuming uncontrollably, Doma unleashed the Bodhisattva statue upon his hated enemy, which clambered forward and sought to grab Yoda with its hands and squeeze the life out of him. Its sheer size and scope alone placed undue pressure upon the already weakened support structures of the Wookiee settlement here, causing rickety noises to exude everywhere as some planks floundered and broke apart entirely. This was both danger… and opportunity.

Yoda leapt onto an intact tree nearby as the Bodhi statue’s rampage continued, distracted momentarily by a surviving pack of Wookiees whom valiantly sought to bring down the facsimile horror with their Bowcasters, though made negligible damage at best before becoming standing crystalline statures as Doma’s construct unhinged its mouth and released an encompassing ice breath with froze them in place. Other Wookiees and Clones that sought to assist Yoda were frozen merely by existing within the living statue’s vicinity, which gave Doma cause for a sadistic laughter at their expense.

“What a great leader you are, allowing your soldiers to die so pathetically. All that monkish bravery talk sure is floundering now, isn’t it?”

“Brave, they were. Sacrifices, they have made.”

Yoda retorted back, avoiding being crushed like an irritating bug as the Bodhi statue instead buried its fist into the bark of another mega-tree.

“Sacrifices? What’re you yapping about?”

“This!”

Yoda leapt atop another tree branch, moving forth for another flurry of saber-strikes, though instead of being directed at Doma or his construct, at the remaining few platform supports still holding together this sector of the Kashyyykian city. Too late did Muzan’s lieutenant recognize what was happening, eyes widening with shock and horror as the entire bridge was undone and dissolved literally underneath his feet. The Bodhisattva Ice-Statue outstretched an arm and clasped Doma safely within its grasp, using its other to grasp desperately onto a nearby tree.

Now it ‘twas more vulnerable than ever, Yoda slicing at its ice-construed leg joints and supports as the statue became more and more unstable, before moving onto the fingers safely tucked around the Demonic cult headmaster, wrenching them open with swift strokes imbued with the millennia of experience only a seasoned Jedi could muster onto the forefront. Instead of relegating himself to dying here, Doma whistled over another STAP-bound B1 battledroid, leaping onto the combat platform and kicking off its prior occupant. He didn’t exactly know how to manage the craft, so simply conjured tendrils of ice to literally freeze the controls and make it somewhat more maneuverable, enough to properly escape Yoda and return to friendly lines.

“We’ll have to continue this some other time, old geezer! Thank you for the delightful entertainments, but I’d prefer to punch below my weight class, if you don’t mind!”

Doma sinisterly laughed to hide his humiliation, as Yoda merely grimaced before leaping onto a set of tree-branches to flee. He couldn’t focus on a singular small-fry when all the Republic was at stake.

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Chancellor’s Office – Coruscant

“The Jedi are spread hopelessly thin throughout the Galaxy, all according to my design. There are not enough warriors left at the Temple to surmise even a pittance defense. Once the grand plan’s enactment comes, they shall fall like dominoes.”

Palpatine spoke calmly to Afton, whom walked side-by-side with the secretive Sith politician as they discussed matters of state and governance within the historical, monument-studded pathways of the Chancellor’s Office. Since taking power decades ago, Sheev made distinct efforts to replace the shoddy veils of modernistic art and vain, aggrandizing portraits of prior Chancellors with relics of ancient warriors and damned kings, of lost civilizations and scorned poets.

Tapestries depicting the ancient Jedi-Sith wars, which superficially Palpatine presented only a passing student’s interest in dotted the area, depicting the downfall of the original Sith Empires whether through their internal arrogance, finally buckling under military pressure from the Republic and their Jedi commanders, or perhaps combinations of both factors. The Sith Empires of olden times were never uniform, each containing a new interpretation and iteration of understanding Sith culture and ideation, and each drawing from the strengths and weaknesses such unique philosophies provided. William, considering himself equal parts historian, admired the incumbent Chancellor’s obsession with learning from the past and bettering the future from its foundation.

“And Skywalker? Has he become inducted into your ways yet? The accruement of a new, powerful Force-sensitive apprentice is necessary for the subsequent purges against what’ll remain of the Jedi after they’re brought down from their ivory tower.”

William fancied a gleaming, silver goblet of wine within his right hand, encrusted red jewels shimmering about from the coup as he enjoyed momentary draughts of the addictive alcohol. As per usual regarding these pertinent meetings, Afton wore resplendent golden robes, and maneuverable armors underneath should unwanted surprises spring up.

“He will turn. The fear of losing his precious Padme will narrow his path to my liking. I’ve spent years cultivating him as the perfect spearhead. My ultimate triumph, more than overthrowing a thousand-year old civilization, shall be shattering the willpower of the Force’s Chosen One. Mastering destiny itself will be greater a victory than any physical show of power could ever hope to muster.”

“I suspect the Jedi won’t simply allow this. They’ve grown suspicious of you over your tenure as Chancellor, like you said. They’re trying to keep eyes on the comings and goings of your Office. Bugging the abodes of your staff. My colleagues and I silenced the troublesome Chancellor Valorum and his entire brood, but it’s not enough. No… Chaos whispers, and I listen. They are conjuring a ploy against you.”

“They’re too late. The Republic’s sentiments have been slowly turning against them over the war’s course. I’ve seen too it.”

“We shouldn’t relegate their threat. Even now I suspect their desperation shall drive them to actions uncharacteristic of their peaceable mantras. Cornered animals are the most dangerous. Trust me, I’d know. My Primordial Empire forces have already began arriving sporadically throughout the Galaxy, primarily at Kashyyyk, where they’ll secure the enemy’s attentions.”

“And I trust they’ll assist with securing the New Order’s base of power? The Jedi are not the only worries we must consider. The Galactic Senate still holds pockets of resistance detrimental to my sweeping reforms, the average citizenry may be roused to inciting chaos within the confusion.”

“Order will be kept. On Coruscant and throughout the Galaxy. This I can assure you. Even the lowest of my soldiery are capable of quieting a raucous populace overnight. What’s the status of Count Dooku?”

“The Count’s been interred in the top Republic prison. His trial before the Senate will never take place, for the Senate will become truly a defanged thing by the time any legislative office remembers to prosecute him. Once the war’s over he shall return to Serenno to undergo a period of house arrest, at least for five years. Then… we shall see. I cannot allow him to grow in power enough to believe himself a suitable rival to me.”

“Dooku’s survival will yield more benefit than harm. His inclusion within the New Order will cultivate an era of Dark-Side Force Users present Galaxy-wide. Not to mention retention of the Droid Army and General Grievous will provide a much needed disposable cannon-fodder force during the initial cementation of your organization.”

“For a foreigner, you hold a great and intimate deal of knowledge about this Galaxy.”

“I have vision like you cannot fathom, Chancellor. There are avenues to power beyond even the Dark Side, if you’re willing to adhere to them.”

Palpatine grimaced, disliking the idea of any power that could overshadow even the Dark Side, though his attentions turned elsewhere, primarily to those of his Office’s entrance as the doors automatically churned open. Mas Amedda entered, bowing his head before Sheev and acknowledging with a slight nod Afton’s presence before saying his piece.

“General Skywalker has arrived, Chancellor. Shall I allow him through?”

“Of course.”

Amedda nodded obediently and left. Palpatine turned back to William, expression inquisitive and curious.

“Are you certain this will work?”

“The boy shall fall into your palms. You’ve laid the groundwork, I’m merely providing a hammer to that nail. That is, of course, if you accept my aid.”

“We shall see. Relegate yourself.”

Afton de-materialized into an eerie pall of black smoke as in entered Anakin Skywalker, the Republic’s greatest war-hero, the Jedi’s Chosen One prophetically inclined to restore balance unto the Force, the savior of a thousand worlds from Separatist occupation and beyond. An endless cacophony of titles lay upon Skywalker, yet only one truly encapsulated the truth of his tragic existence: an exploited boy who never grew up.

The robed warrior bowed respectfully before the Chancellor.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“My boy! Please, stand up. Don’t bother with such pleasantries. Are we not the best of friends?”

“Of course, apologies. Protocol habits.”

“I understand. More than understand, I know intimately the wariness of your current circumstances. The Jedi have been working you relentlessly during these Outer Rim Sieges, haven’t they?”

“Yes, quite so.”

“Well, it’s understandable from their perspective. You are by far the strongest of their Order. Your potential is unlimited, you know. The day we met on Naboo, I recognized you destined for great things. And great things you are indeed achieving, aren’t you boy?”

“… I’m not so sure. I lack purpose, Chancellor. And… and I’m afraid my life’s incomplete while I remain a Jedi. I wanted to ask you about what you mentioned at the Opera. Saving the ones you love. You said they couldn’t teach me how.”

Palpatine’s becalmed attitude scrounged into an anticipatory smile.

“No, my boy. They cannot. There is only one order of Force-learners who have mastered the art of cheating death. And the Jedi believed them decimated long ago.”

“You don’t mean-“

“But they were not, Anakin. The Jedi, growing fat and proud off their accomplishments and erasure of an ancient culture and society, rotted away here on Coruscant, governing from the center a Galaxy increasingly disinterested in their rule. All the while, their enemies created a new code of conduct. They would act in pairs, the apprentice garnering power enough to slay their master and carrying on their traditions and ideations. A thousand generations since Ruusan and Korriban’s great errors, these efforts at last bear their fruit.”

At once, Anakin understood everything. It all made perfect sense. Instinctively, he activated his lightsaber, the familiar vwoosh of its plasmic edge piercing through the eloquent office’s otherwise domineering silence.

“You’re the Sith Lord!”

“I am your friend, Anakin. I always have been.”

“I.. no! NO! You’re evil! It’s you behind the Clone Wars, behind all this death and destruction! How many lives have suffered because of you!?”

“And Padme’s life? Does she mean so little to you that you’ll throw her away over the Jedi’s propaganda? The same propaganda which enslaved you since boyhood to their whims and wishes, denying you a proper upbringing? No, my boy. What I do is for the Galaxy’s sake. For YOUR sake. Use my knowledge… I beg of you! Together, we can save her life. Save the lives of her unborn children!”

“Y-you know she’s-“

“The Force tells me everything, my boy. Congratulations, by the way.”

“I… no. I can’t. I have to tell Windu and the others.”

“Your choice is your own. Though I caution you the consequences of this path you’re taking. You shall never unlock your true potential, nor can you save her life if you choose this. Mm… you want to kill me, don’t you? I can feel it. Your hatred. Your anger. Your resentment, a maelstrom that exists within your heart. Use it, boy.”

Anakin faltered momentarily, before gathering himself and shutting off his saber, hustling for the exit. Though before he could, Afton made his move, exiting from the darkness and saying not a word. Skywalker became instantly guarded, reigniting his blade upon seeing this enigmatic figure emerge as Palpatine carefully observed the exchange take place.

“Who are you!? Were you listening the entire time!? Are you working with him? With the Sith Lord!? Do you understand what he’s done!? What he’s culpable in? Stand down, NOW!”

Nothing.

“In the name of the Galactic-“

Skywalker was cut off, as an ethereal presence seized over the room. Ghostly, indecipherable whispers peered into his ears as his eyes widened. Swinging about his blade fearlessly at whichever direction the voices leered from earned no success either, only causing the voices to split apart and become even more alarming and heinous and reptilian in nature, hissing and scowling and giggling at his predestined suffering.

“What- what’s going on!? Chancellor, are you behind this!? Stop it! I said STOP IT-“

At once, a wispy vision formed before him. That of Padme Amidala squealing in abject suffering, unable to survive the stressors of pregnancy, begging for Anakin’s help, before ultimately passing out and perishing. Unlike those disconnected images haunting his nightmares, these terrors were far more evocative, forcing Anakin to witness every pang of aching and every groan of horror his beloved wife underwent. A living nightmare, and the poor boy couldn’t hope to psychologically cope, dropping his lightsaber and grasping fretfully at his forehead.

“No… no… NOOOOO!!!!”

Palpatine looked on, his apprehension turning into a sadistic enjoyment at this young man being forced to reach his breaking point, his perturbed expression malforming into a giddy smile at the possibilities of Chaos.

-

Several Hours Later

The Senate Annex had gone dark. Under the auspice of an emergency convening, a gaggle of several dozen Senators were invited into the Republic’s nexus of political governance, only to discover no such session existed. Those brought here were key members of the ‘Loyalist Committee’, the informal branch of officials and representatives believing deeply within the Republic’s democratic principles and seeking to enforce them even as the war’s destructive course dragged on. Whilst Palpatine played a large part in its founding, Bail Organa now was its recognized manager and was crucial with its continued proliferation. Ironically enough, it now served as the largest bulwark of opposition against Palpatine’s nationalistic militarism of numerous sectors of Republican society.

Obviously, leftovers from an imminently doomed age couldn’t be allowed to persist. Only Mon Mothma and Bail Organa were unaccounted for, both citing solar storms as predicaments disallowing their arrival, though they’d show eventually. The rest else?

Upon being accosted and searched thoroughly by Palpatine’ Senate Guards, they were taken not towards the wider Senate antechamber where their voices would usually be broadcast Galaxy-wide about a variety of matters, though mainly about the Clone Wars’ impending conclusion, they were instead separated, being told from their greeters that ‘domestic Separatist activity’ leftover from Grievous’ daring strike had presented an unprecedented security threat and they would be locked down until further notice. Like sheep, they hollowly believed their supposed protectors’ words and were taken everywhere to their own offices to storage closets and servants quarters, all wholly absent of any lifeforms save themselves and the Senate Guards waiting calmly outside.

Then, wherever they were, out emerged Death-Knights of Crail, mindless, jabbering Nomu, or hungry, recently converted Demons taken from street urchins once residing within Coruscant’s bleak Underworld.

Whether they were Xeno or Human, their horrible screeches of pain and cries for help echoed throughout the Senate chambers, begging anyone to rescue them, appealing to the Senate Guards of the threat before realizing they were likely in on this conspiracy. Perhaps some, too late, recognized the gravity of what they were entailed within, how Palpatine who called them here was secretly behind the Republic’s internal decay. All that followed was their defilement and debasement, their humiliation and wholesale slaughter as they were ripped apart or stabbed or slowly dismembered and skinned alive, their organic hides carefully stripped off like paper-thin mill layers to reveal the squeamish, squeaky, hyper-sensitive flesh beneath which their tormentors played with like silly putty.

AFO, Zargothrax, Muzan, Glitchtrap, and Palpatine were enjoying a fine evening of wine and native Galactic cuisines atop this.

“Skywalker is all but mine now. And with your forces now pushing Jedi to their brink across the Galaxy, my hidden Order’s all that’ll be necessary to bring them low. Once more, the Sith will rule the Galaxy, and we shall have peace.”

“Here here.”
Afton replied, everyone else raising their glasses and clinking them together. This assemblage of Dark Lords were Springtrap’s inner circle. Whilst Atriox, Horde Prime, Coredrias, and Perturabo were valued allies and assets, their trustworthiness couldn’t yet be eschewed given their recency to the Primordial Empire’s ranks. Hell, even those gathered here weren’t entirely trustworthy, but they could be relied upon enough to pursue their own self-interests, and those happened to align with the Primordial Empire and Afton’s diabolical goals.

Palpatine too would fall into this category once his Empire was formed and properly admitted into the faction, though William had a sneaking suspicion he’d climb the ranks faster than any of his contemporaries. Speaking of the Primordial Empire’s other allies…

“The others are enroute, yes?”
AFO asked after enjoying another draught of Chandrilan wine.

“I’ve just been appraised by Coredrias that the secondary Primordial warfleet is nearly upon Coruscant. Horde Prime and Perturabo are present with them. They’ll personally make it for your big address, Chancellor.”

“Good. An image of strength and security is required to allay the nerves of those who would otherwise question this new Empire’s might.”

“I must say, your engineering of this conflict and its many intricacies over these past few decades is no small feat. Reminds me of how I conquered Dundee and wrested it from that pathetic McFife’s hands.”
Zargothrax added, taking another sip himself.

“Even a perfect lifeform like myself finds the humility to agree. Your accomplishments here are historical, Chancellor. You’ll surely be a worthy entry into our Primordial Empire.”
Muzan spoke suavely with that usual detachment of his.

“I thank you gentlemen for the niceties. The Primordial Empire presents an opportunity for this Galaxy to become ingratiated with the wider universe beyond. To acquire itself a seat of power and prestige, the leverage of which shall undoubtedly wreath my Empire in economic and militaristic glory unbound. I’m excited to personally visit the other territories it constitutes.”

“You flatter us Chancellor. I thank you for such kindness-“

William’s words were interrupted by a sudden ping upon the nearby HoloTable. The red tint and unique sound indicated a rather urgent call. Sighing, Sidious set aside his wine goblet and politely wiped his mouth clean of any stray foodstuff, making an apologetic motion to his fellows before accepting the call. Hailing him was Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard.

“Commander Fox? What is the meaning of this?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, your Excellency, but, well- Count Dooku’s been transferred.”

At this, everyone present instantaneously directed their attentions towards the conversation.

“I never authorized a prisoner transfer! Where is he currently!?”

“They wouldn’t say sir.”

“Who is they, Commander?”

“The Jedi… Master Windu arrived and relinquished control of Count Dooku without any prior consultation. We presumed it was your order, but he instructed us specifically not to inform anyone. Should we launch a search?”

“Yes, you fool! Immediately! Find where the Jedi moved Count Dooku, Commander, or it’ll be your head!”

“W-wait, but sir-“

Palpatine ended the call and moved to address his allies- before a thumping, thunderous marching noise was faintly heard, though fast approaching the steppes of the Republic Executive building structure. Swiftly, Afton, his associates, and Palpatine approached the viewing window which allotted an expansive view of all Coruscant and witnessed the utter worst-case scenario.

Ranks of Jedi, from Padawans to Knights to high-ranking Masters nobly stepped forth, though lacking the usual camaraderie or safety induced by their presences, but rather carrying themselves as conquerors and forcible peacekeepers. They marched in regimental lines down the main road, their units devoid of any Clones. Behind them stepped forth an unbelievable sight.

Black Sun, Pyke Syndicate, and generally criminals and mercenaries of all stripes, accompanied by red-painted Mandalorian Super-Commandoes with horned artifices evoking the semblance of Sidious’s former, discarded apprentice. An impossible alliance that’d now captivated the attentions and horrified imaginations of nearby citizenry, observing with utter fear as this slipshod army headed towards the Senate Building. People quickly made way, and Coruscant Guard attempting to inquire about and slow the advance were either shot dead immediately or calmly Force-tossed to the side.

An impossible, mad alliance had been forged. To save the Jedi, Master Windu claimed agreement with Darth Maul, and brought forth the Shadow Collective’s full force to bear against Chancellor Palpatine. The lack of Clones meant the Jedi had caught onto the deception that’d plagued them all these years. Was Order Sixty-Six’s effect blunted!?

No, not yet. Not if Sidious could act quickly enough. The timetables were now accelerated, and it was do-or-die. He turned to his impromptu associates, a dark expression upon his face.

“They have come to us. Are you ready?”

Afton chuckled as his friends prepared their powers, barbed flesh-tendrils slowly extending from Muzan’s hand as AFO prepped a series of explosion quirks signified by an orange glow radiating from his left palm, and Zargothrax’s staff warbled with an esoteric mythical power.

“We would relish the opportunity. Say the word.”

Palpatine nodded, before summoning Commander Cody upon the Holotable. By now, the Republic’s armies must’ve fully engaged Grievous on Utapau, but they would have a wrench thrown into their gears.

“Commander Cody. The time has come.”

…

“Execute Order Sixty-Six.”

Chapter Text

???

Count Dooku often engaged with bouts of introspection during times like these. It was similar to when those damnable Pirates led by Hondo Ohnaka attempted to ransom him during the initial months of this deadly, Galaxy-spanning conflict, and the Serenno-born nobleman reflected upon his monumental choices during that dark hour too. He’d reached the same conclusive calculus now as he’d done then- the Clone Wars were utterly necessary. The Jedi had truly fallen from grace, losing sight of those basic principles which saw their Order proliferate across the Galaxy initially.

From guardians of Force-sensitivity and cultivators of serenity and security across the stars they’d malformed into the willing lapdogs of committees and absentee corrupt senators. After the supposed final victories against the Sith menace, the Republic codified into an internally and externally rotting organization, with the countless trillions under its supposed jurisdiction becoming failed by its negligent attitudes towards crime, poverty, economic difficulties, record unemployment rates and suffering beyond because of their government’s inability to properly care for them. A sad state of affairs enforced by the army of saber-wielding monks who quashed any formative resistance against Republic rule before it could even generate new ideas and alternatives to this unworkable, unsustainable hierarchy.

Dooku couldn’t abide it. He’d been born into an incredibly wealthy pedigree, that is true. He’s never known the biting pangs of hunger nor the resentment-inducing stares of disconcerted passerby leering past your begging, tattered self. Yet such aristocratic originations granted the hereditary Count perspectives and access to resources his Jedi contemporaries were unaware of. He brought an elegance otherwise absent throughout the Order. An innate understanding of Galactic society they entirely lacked- and this understanding led him to conclude an unassailable fact- the path of negligence and uncaringness the Jedi possessed towards their non-Senatorial clients would eventually evolve into an uncontrollable elitism. Lo and behold, his predictions now rang true. Mace Windu commanded an army of extremists to seize the Senate Annex, detain or perhaps execute Chancellor Palpatine, and subsequently end the Clone Wars with a religious dictatorship, where worship of the Force and its chosen sensitives would become prioritized above all.

The Count wondered where exactly he was. Utilizing the Force to discern his exact location was impossible considering the stockaded Ysalamiri creatures kept housed across this dull facility. These entities were kept a closed secret only known to the highest echelons of Galactic residency for their ability to negate the Force through some unknown phenomena scientists still yet haven’t discerned. What’s for certain is this facility existed to house high-value Force-sensitive targets like himself- if those accursed slithering salamanders weren’t enough, the Serenno-borne native was entrapped within a cage of pure Cortosis alloy. Not like his captors allowed him to retain his lightsaber…

Minutes passed, eventually hours. The Count wouldn’t allow the passage of time to wear down his senses. At this old age he remained acutely, keenly aware of everything transpiring around him, all the intricacies of the world even without his gifted Force capabilities. He’d been trained to keep composure during stiffening, suffocating situations regarding this one. Even envisioning the worst-case scenario where Sidious and his newly minted allies fell and the Jedi succeeded, Dooku could imagine outs for himself to retire comfortably onto his homeworld via forging a deal of information exchange, helping the established Jedi regime uproot Palpatine’s allies in Republic politics and military.

Hopefully, that possibility will never need considering.

Another boring few minutes passed, involving naught but the meditative trance Dooku was ensnared in before the Cortosis doors cranked open. In walked five members of the Coruscanti Guard, the red painting upon their armor demarcating them as guardians of the Republic’s finest, albeit detested by their fellow Clone regiments for their bureaucratic, stifling, and often derisive nature towards their fellow Fett-progeny. The Count remained unmoved, awaiting whatever boring command or update they’d bark with becalmed silence, hoping this charade would conclude quickly as it’d began.

“Count Dooku sir. It’s time for your release.”

Oh. He wasn’t expecting that.

“Hmm? Curious. I am not to be brought before the Jedi and Senate in chains, ordered to beg for mercy before the Galaxy?”

“No sir. The Jedi are the true enemy. As we speak, they’re leading a coup attempt against the Chancellor. They’re an active threat to the safety, security, and sanctity of the Republic. We must mobilize all available assets immediately if we’re to curb their insurgency.”

Ah. It all clicked. Order Sixty-Six was triggered, and Palpatine must’ve remembered to rescue his pedigree-blessed apprentice from his predicament. The Count stood up as Commander Fox offered him his iconic curved lightsaber. Admiring the ornate craftsmanship and timeless design for but a moment, the suave Separatist warlord snagged the weapon and nodded with acknowledgement to his new allies.

“Take me to the Senate Building at once. We must move quickly!”

“Yes sir.”

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Coruscanti Senate Annex

To say all hell broke loose was an understatement. The seat of power which oversaw unfathomable trillions of souls was ablaze, entire corridors ruptured and exploded, corpses strewn everywhere and the familiar, acrid smell of wartime decay, the stench of iron-rich blood and sifting zooms of plasmic projectiles searing through the sky compounded an orchestra, a veritable symphony of death.

Jedi Knights, their assigned Padawans, Councilmembers, and their criminal collaborators were swarming about the center of Galactic governance like flies, easily slaughtering the corrupt Senatorial Guard staff loyal to Palpatine whom attempted a feeble opposition against their advance. Springtrap, AFO, Zargothrax, and Muzan battled together through a horde of lightsaber-wielding fanatics that dared their darkened resolve. Perhaps alone they’d find themselves possibly overwhelmed by the volume and veracity of these Force-sensitive warriors, yet cloistered together within a semi-symbiotic team of likeminded villainous warlords, they found all their weaknesses covered by each other’s strengths. Muzan’s array of barbed flesh-tendril whips were backed by scores of explosive power exuding from AFO’s hands, fanned by incantations of power which Zargothrax casted that altered the very weather patterns within the clustered, formerly eloquent and fanciful hall of which they did glorious battle within.

Zargothrax’s casts conjured momentary spurs of artificial wind which allowed AFO’s melded-together Flame-Quirks to unleash blankets of scalding fire against the enemy whilst also granting Muzan’s organic attachments more traction, this tactic having gored and crisped alive countless Jedi, Knights or otherwise, only their robes, sizzling armor, and scarred lightsabers as evidence left behind of their noble existences. The constant rotation of these moves prevented the more inexperienced, younger of their number to properly manifest the Force against them meaningfully, as they were countered by Zargothrax’s sorcerous power nor was their training complete enough to recognize this in time.

“Snarling little insects! They’re stronger than any I’ve encountered previously on this grand adventure of ours however, I must admit.”
Zargothrax remarked whilst twirling about his staff eclectic with dark powers, beginning to warp the fallen Jedi corpses into usable, controllable necrotic zombies under his executive control.

“It matters not, this entire operation reeks of desperation. They’re sending everything they have into one do-or-die attack against the Chancellor. They must’ve divided their forces accordingly; the largest detachment heading to detain or outright murder him. Once we’re done cleaning up throughout the building, we should definitely link back up with Sidious.”
Replied All For One, summoning a series of snakish-looking organisms to chew alive a quartet of Mandalorian Super-Commandoes who’d turned the hall corner and were charging the group of Multiversal antagonists. Their screams of horror were punctuated by satisfying crunches as these creatures hungrily chowed through their armor and bit into the satisfying, sweet meat beneath.

“After this mania I intend on returning to my Castle for study. These individuals and their control over this invisible ‘Force’ most intrigues me. I wonder what could be garnered from studying their cellular composition.”
Added Muzan, displaying that rarely shown side of scientific endeavor and discovery of his, usually reserved for discovering that formerly elusive secret to immortality, now utilized for extraneous pursuits beyond that achieved, narrow-minded goal.

“Speaking of mania, does anyone know where Springtrap ended up?”
Passively asked the Conqueror of Dundee.

“I thought he was right behind us…”
AFO curiously replied, retracting his projectiles and allowing those eldritch snake-monsters of his to wander freely about the Senate Annex to seek new prey until they were inevitably slain. The impromptu trio of villains mulled about for only a few seconds before the familiar cacophony of maniacal cackling paired with horrendous sounds of Daemonic screeching and abyssal terrors beyond the mortal veil subsumed the hallways behind them, accompanied by vivid hues of flashing purple light and shadows depicting Jedi and Shadow Collective bodies becoming mulched into meaty pieces.

Springtrap approached clad within his usual battlefield adornment of a shimmering golden Springbonnie suit with a flowing purple cape attached behind, mirthfully slaughtering all opponents that massed against him via his dark and various Chaotic magicks, not even needing yet to ascend into his true Daemonic form. His glowering, golden, armored hands sizzled with the runoff smoke of his esoteric power as he hummed innocently, callously stepping over gored corpses of his own or his colleagues’ making.

“I’ve always dreamed of murdering Jedi scum! I guess childish fantasies do come true if you put enough hard work into them, right?”

“Glad you’re having fun. Kor-Vriliath be damned, I think some brain matter’s leaked into my boots. Ugh, that’ll take hours to deep clean. So- where are your reinforcements? We could use them right about now.”

“Perturabo will show on time. We just need to fulfill our duties here and return to Sidious.”

“The squirming of these inferior lifeforms is irritating me.”
Kibutsuji complained, stomping on the twitching, gored mass of a Jedi to prevent him from moving.

Distantly around them the reverberations of battle between the frayed Senate Guard and these impromptu attackers were noticed by William, who momentarily perused his strategic options. With Order Sixty-Six in play, the Clone Army was flipped. All that needed finalizing now was Anakin’s conversion into darkness, helpfully expedited by the Dark Powers of Chaos whispering and proclaiming evil thoughts into the nubile young man’s scarred mind. However, it appeared Mace Windu had predicted, to an extent, the deceptive nature of Palpatine and sought to dismantle his hierarchy and planned wickedness immediately by slicing off the snake’s head. Without their Chancellor, the Clone Army would fall under command of the disparate Republic leadership, the chosen generals, admirals, and officials that’d constitute the imminent Emperor’s ruling military class. Without their unifying figure, these captains of war would turn on each other, allowing the Jedi to cling onto power and establish their own narrative to garner loyalty across the Galaxy. Essentially, things would become messy.

Sidious needed to survive the night. Thankfully, there existed no better group of individuals than those currently present to make that happen.

“What’s the status on the troops you all brought with you?”

“I cannot sense them any longer, whether Nomu, Demons, or my own Death-Knights of Crail. They must’ve automatically tried their hand against the Jedi once they marched into the building and paid the ultimate price.”
Zargothrax muttered contemplatively.

“My Primordial reinforcements cannot be fully relied upon, and the Shadow Collective will likely keep the Clones across wider Coruscant busy. Thankfully, the Dark Powers have afforded me countless favors and blessings for my service. Not least of which includes…”
Glitchtrap chuckled sinisterly whilst outstretching his left hand, thinking calmly about his desired result before manifesting it: this being a series of crackling, purple-tinted Warp-Portals effusing with Chaotic energies that slightly altered the environment, removing parts of the wall or creating miscellaneous tumor growths upon a few corpses, even a flesh-tendril or two spurning randomly from the ground and growing into aimless, alien plants growing mysterious crops upon their menacing branches and brambles. The refuse of Chaos Corruption.

Nevertheless, joining this assemblage of villains were now the familiar order of armor-clad knights who’d been termed across the Empire as Springtrap’s Chosen, the cultivated society of loyal warriors and commanders and leaders and tacticians sired by Afton’s princely ability to choose and raise up those of specific talent to deign his ranks. The Glitchtrap-Guard, led by one who could be considered Afton’s best friend, if the Dark Lord was at all capable of forging such bonds.

Horatio Gibbons.

“Finally out of standby. Meandering about the castle watching your animatronics mop up floors was bloody dreadful my Lord. We’ve been aching, blood boiling for a battle worthy of our time.”

“Your enthusiasm is ever a source of my joy, Horatio. I think you’ll find the coming struggle one most applicable to your skillsets. Are my troops ready?”

“I’ve had flogged whoever wasn’t, sire. Our strength is resolute. We are your swords and shields, Master.”

“Perfection.”

The other villains watched with levels of admiration and jealousy at the power and majesty of these evil knights as they poured through the portals, their armor making distinctive clanking noises, lockstepping onto the fine floors of the Senate Building as their helmets with various attachments, mainly horns, scraped upon the ceiling. Their visors and facial wear denied any ability to witness the being of flesh and blood underneath, exuding the impression of a malignant suit of destructive armor commandeered by some malicious spirit exacting vengeance upon the unfortunate living.

In total, twenty of the Glitchtrap-Guard arrived, though their faction’s number constituted far more, most were typically busied leading campaigns upon the Primordial Empire’s borders to expand their territories or quashing internal rebellion against the Chaos-King’s rulership. However, William always kept a helpful stockpile of Guards at Springtrap Maximus to become called upon anytime necessary for battle and bloodshed, their invaluable capabilities often proving the tipping point against a stalwart enemy.

“So, what’s the plan? Do we split up into teams, sneak around, find some underhanded away to strike at the Jedi?”
Inquired AFO, his battle-helmet carefully analyzing the Glitchtrap-Guard via an undetectable scan.

“Plan? It’s simple. We’ll march to his office and brutalize any insignificant fiend that comes in our way. Now let’s move, gentlemen. We’ve a Galaxy to conquer and an unborn Empire to save.”

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Chancellor’s Office

Frankly, Palpatine detested waiting.

He’d waited with bated breath for decades, corrupting the Republic from within and slowly altering public perception of their beloved Jedi guardians. Each moment spent under the auspice of a grandfatherly, approachable, trustworthy politician rather than the powerhungry maniac he truly was another moment sacrificed upon the altar of power. Spending time around these clueless monks and witless financiers and bankers and lawyers and deal-brokers and whomever else believed they alone were the suzerain of Galactic power, unaware they were speaking to someone so steeped in darkness and destitution, one who’d already mapped out their conversation beforehand and anchored the best possible result for himself. All these manipulations were enjoyable, undoubtedly, playing these lesser creatures along like a fiddle was nothing short of ecstatic for Palpatine, but he recognized the need to finally cease the façade and bring his dream into brutal reality.

Springtrap and his cavalcade of associates were dispatched from the office to clear out the Senate Building of hostiles, though Sidious suspected they’d nonetheless find their way to his abode. Whilst awaiting the inevitable he looked carefully upon a HoloTable displaying a particular design that’d survived this war’s chaos and confusion, a design for an indomitable battlestation capable of exterminating planets with a single, concentrated beam of energy. Such power would be unfathomably useful in controlling any given population, it would be the crux of Sidious’s new empire and the baseline of his wicked ideology of submission through fear. Alongside this curious schematic were holographic depictions of planets still engulfed in battle and their current statuses now that Order Sixty-Six was enacted. The Clone Troopers either tossed aside their arms or joined together with battledroid forces, hunting down the native forces they were fighting with and their former Jedi commanders. Palpatine relished the feeling, the Dark Side providing a succulent empowerment engulfing his very bones as the miasma of fear and horror befalling the Jedi across the Galaxy settled in. All these little bright flames of the Force extinguished nigh-instantaneously. Hundreds of those monkish fools dead within moments. The sheer depravity, the sheer extent of such a diabolical scheme excited Sidious to absolutely no end. Few loose ends remained.

But those that did needed addressing, and quickly so.

Yoda and Kenobi, possibly the two greatest hindrances to this Grand Plan left, were off campaigning on Kashyyyk and Utapau respectively, and would soon experience these betrayals for themselves. Yet if this mismatched insurgent force were to strike down Sidious, all this toiling would’ve been for naught. The final steps of Anakin’s conversion needed solidifying, even with all the Chaos-bound assistance, and that required time that Mace Windu didn’t intend to allot the sinister Sith Lord. Ideally, Kenobi and Yoda would die on those faraway worlds and not return to the Capital, but luck was never a relied upon tool of the Sith.

Whilst pondering these many vectors and avenues, the doors automatically opened to allow Mace Windu and his sycophants entry. Their expressions were cold, unflinching, and unreadable as their hands fluttered near their sabers. Joining Mace was Nautolan Jedi Master Kit Fisto, Iridonian Master Agen Kolar, and Iktochi Saesee Tiin. And finally, walking behind them all was the vengeful Zabrak from so long ago, coming back with a fiery and unbreakable vengeance against the mastermind who’d abandoned him.

Darth Maul.

From the office viewport were visible plumes of smoke originating from orange flames scored about Coruscant’s political and residential districts, as Coruscant Guard were fighting the overwhelming might of the Shadow Collective army.

“Master Windu. What a pleasant surprise. May I ask what the known criminal and terrorist Darth Maul is doing amongst your number? Or are Jedi associating with whomever they please now?”

Palpatine spoke with that same becalmed tone which’d hypnotized a Galaxy-full of individuals to his policies and procedures.

“They approached me on Mandalore, Master. I offered them the knowledge they sought so dearly… hmm, so much was exposed. You are laid bare before us, a rabid animal on its last legs. My troops are overwhelming your pathetic Clone soldiers. Soon, all the power you sought will belong to ME!”

Maul growled, much to the irritation and wariness of the Jedi adjacent to him. This alliance was clearly one forged of mutual benefit, and no real loyalties or friendships garnered on either side.

“Your game’s over, Chancellor. Maul here told us everything we needed to know. By order of the Galactic Senate and the Republic, you are under arrest.”
Windu continued.

“Ah, the Jedi presume now to represent the courts of procedure and power? I’m afraid you relinquished that right when you came here to arrest the legitimate, democratically elected sovereign of the Republic. You are commanding an illegitimate coup d’etat, Master Windu. Ultimately, you have become exactly like the Sith of old that you warned against. There is a poetic irony there, don’t you agree?”

“Enough of your games. The Senate will decide your fate.”

…

“I AM the Senate!”

“Not. Yet.”

“It’s treason, then.”

Wasting no more time, Palpatine brought his elegant, ornate lightsaber down into his right palm and clutched it tightly. Maul too late realized what was about to occur.

“GET BACK YOU FOOLS-“

An unholy screech of wretched Darkside energy emanated about the office as Palpatine leapt forth in a haunting, twirling motion, bearing down his weapon against the pack of would-be assassins. Immediately, Agen Kolar fell, being stabbed right through the abdomen before he could even wrest forth his lightsaber. Kit Fisto and Sassee Tiin leapt into action with their own weapons, clashing against Palpatine in a tit-for-tat struggle they simply couldn’t keep up with, they were fighting a practical demon! The Chancellor wasn’t the best lightsaber combatant, but his technique of constantly assuaging the enemy and giving them not even the slightest chance to breath and gather their thoughts and stabilize their footwork was impeccable, so much so Dooku adapted a version of this erratic combat style when training Grievous.

Nevertheless, Sassee Tiin died next, slashing forward and missing Palpatine, with the Sith Lord ducking and slashing horizontally against the Iktochi, cauterizing his stomach and causing a momentary howl of pain to exit the alien creature’s mouth before he sagged lifelessly onto the polished floor. Kit Fisto and Windu moved ahead whilst Maul activated his standard red lightsaber in one hand and the Mandalorian Darksaber in another, lurking close behind the duel like a shark awaiting the proper moment to strike its hapless oceanic prey.

Fisto’s footwork and defensive modems were admirable, furthermore was Windu as he tried to break Palpatine by overwhelming him with an equally furious hailstorm of lightsaber-strikes. The Sith Lord sidestepped a stroke that would’ve otherwise disemboweled him courtesy of Mace as he leapt upwards, above both Jedi and landing directly behind Fisto. Before the Nautolan could turn around and bring down the sinister orchestrator of these Clone Wars, a saber pierced through his heart, causing him to gasp momentarily with surprise as those black, bulbous eyes bulged open with stark realization of his own grisly demise. Palpatine Force-pushed aside Fisto’s corpse with a callous carelessness, not even bothering to remember that foul-smelling Jedi’s name and focusing instead on bringing death to these two longstanding enemies of his. Maul snarled and seized his opportunity, charging forward with full intentions of avenging Savage Opress while Windu recovered his stamina and prepared for more. Palpatine disallowed either, conjuring a mass of Force-power at his palms and bursting it forth, pushing both men out from his office and into the wider Suite.

“Pathetic. Even with your pet Zabrak, I’m afraid your chances of victory are being dashed before your very eyes, Master Windu. Do you feel any shame for leading your Order so brazenly to their own deaths? Or has even that sin begone your fanatical dogma?”
Chided Palpatine as he exited his Office to confront them. Mace remained ignorant these words, lacking the introspective ability to realize how much death his actions have caused tonight. His purple lightsaber shimmered brightly, the coloration distinct and beautiful. Maul too recovered, the Zabrak still bursting at the seams with uncontrollable rage.

“You cannot be allowed to survive this night. You are a threat to democracy. The Jedi must take command until the Republic can elect a new Chancellor.”

“Oh? You now declare yourself the arbiter of political change? The Jedi have indeed overstepped their boundaries now. But I can assure you, my new allies and I will ensure the Republic’s survival. It will evolve into a strong society that no longer requires the existence of your Order. A shame you shall never see it.”

“It shall never be, Palpatine.”

As they spoke, Maul stood up and reactivated his lightsabers.

“I will take great pleasure in seeing you die, my old Master.”

“Ahh, and you. Darth Maul, my unwanted leftover from Naboo. If you desired to stand at my side, you should’ve succeeded all those years ago. Instead, you have become a rival. Building a pittance empire of scum and villainy, believing it even mildly equal to what I have constructed over these years… no greater an insult could ever be conjured against my person. You forget the Rule of Two. Only one apprentice for only one master.”

“Your bloviating changes nothing, old man. I adhere to my OWN rules.”

“That much is clear.”

Palpatine let out a sadistic laugh at both his enemies’ sufferings. He was truly a devil in human form, relishing those lives he’d ruined and defiled. Windu and Maul both charged him, and their shared struggle resumed.

-

Springtrap rushed his blade through another Jedi Knight, fastening it through his throat before slinking it away momentarily, turning it clockwise and subsequently beheading the robed monk. As he soaked the weapon in blood and viscera, it continued acquiring a virile sentience of its own. Slowly but surely over the course of William’s murderous career, that dark artifice which’d first been used to eliminate the Missing Children had accrued a growing nexus of evil energy, layers of souls captured within its deathly embrace, the level of suffering and tormenting giving it an evil personality of its own. Now it hungered for these struggles and demanded constantly to be fed, a request that Afton would gladly fulfill.

The Glitchtrap-Guard were fighting closely alongside their King, albeit with some having tragically fallen within the line of duty, their colossal, hulking armored frames dotting the hallway as unmoving testaments to the Jedis’ willpower and ironclad will, even when confronting extradimensional horrors. Fifteen remained of the initial twenty, and they closely accompanied the other Dark Lords as Springtrap, Horatio, Oliver, and Manuel remained close together, forming an unbreakable bulwark that marched mercilessly forward.

“I dare say these ‘Jedi’ are the toughest opponents we’ve faced thus far.”
Remarked Horatio as what appeared a Jawa Jedi swinging about a green lightsaber leapt right at him. The Knight of Chaos sighed and anchored his spear emanating with malefic energies upwards and avoided the initial saber-slash, responding by thrusting forth his weapon which proceeded to impale the foul little creature before it could counter with a Force move, its forehead seared clean through with the edged spear-tip. It sputtered and glugged a score of liquid crimson before faltering and going limp, after which Horatio sighed with disgust and shook his spear so the furry animal would slickly slide off.

“I’m not surprised. I’ve seen the movies after all. How many have we lost?”
Asked Springtrap as they moved together into another hallway, slicing and dicing aside some ill-fated Mandalorian Super-Commandoes and Weequay mercenaries in festivals of gore and death.

“Five of the taskforce have fallen. Their souls now rest once again amidst the Warp. Should we pull back?”

“No. I must secure this Galaxy for the Primordial Empire, there’s absolutely no other option. The prospective resources and alliances I stand to gain from a victory here will equal a massive asset against the many enemies both internal and external we face.”
Afton replied as their battlegroup entered a momentary state of calm, the other villains not far behind and finishing up their battles. They drew closer towards the Chancellor’s Suite, and this specific hallway seemed relatively empty bar scattered corpses of Senate Guards and Shadow Collective goons, alongside smoking black blaster-marks and broken memorabilia and infrastructure lining the cracked walls.

“You could’ve launched our own invasion and secured this realm exclusively for ourselves, rather than backing this ‘Darth Sidious’.”
Horatio added, knowing he was among the few throughout the universe permitted to speak to William in such an inquisitive and questioning manner.

“That would cost us too much time and manpower. Even with Chaos’s blessing, conquering a world is one matter, but securing and ensuring its viability is another entirely. Governments, citizens, trade, economies, the dynamic relationships which define the political definition of a ‘nation-state’ cannot be upheld by Daemons and sorcery alone. Palpatine’s a crucial ally of ours. All of my councilmembers are, or else we’d simply barrel through everyone without mercy. Speaking of no mercy, are my Anima-Cyborgs ready?”

“They’ve been prepared on Perturabo’s flagship my Lord.”

“Good. I’d like to test them against the Jedi… if any remain by the time he arrives.”

“He’ll make it sire.”

Springtrap nodded and darted back, noticing the others. Zargothrax was engaged in a sorcerous contest against three other Jedi, including Oppo Rancisis, who deflected the Celestial Flame Keeper’s green bolts of electric magic with his own Force ability, then grabbing several dead bodies and broken shards of glass and various splinters of concrete and marble from the floor and walls that’d been disheveled by earlier fighting and chucked them at the McFife bloodline’s nemesis. Zargothrax scowled beneath his mask, his staff radiating a degree of fiery orange power that burst out, manifested as a collective of snapping draconic figures that exploded all the miscellaneous projectiles on contact. Oppo yelled and lithely slithered forward, swinging his saber against Zargothrax’s staff, which didn’t break apart on contact with the lightsaber given its innate mystical properties.

Meanwhile, All For One was using Air Cannon combined with imbued Warp powers to literally create Chaos-Winds, bursting out visible gusts of purple-tinted air which carried spores of corruption that genetically mutated any enemies that dared him. Four Jedi and around eighteen Mandalorian Super-Commandoes were pushing him and three Glitchtrap-Guards back into a wider walkway which directly led into the Grand Convocation Chamber, where much of the Galaxy’s fate was decided.

Lastly, Muzan was having the most trouble, his abilities and understanding of Chaos and its powers the least developed given his recency into the organization. He was Force-Pushed by an Ugnaught Jedi that moved to finish him off, though a Glitchtrap-Guard intervened and stabbed at the gremlin’s Achilles tendon with a shimmering Slaaneshi-crafted Warp-Blade, staggering before Muzan’s right arm transformed into a horrific maw of serrated teeth and clumped flesh that chomped off his head immediately, a flowing geyser of spilling blood following, staining the floor and slinking everywhere as the headless body collapsed into its own pool. Yet it seemed one enemy’s demise only introduced another ten, as more Jedi leapt forth with their elegant movesets and struck with their sabers, carving at Muzan’s body which he quickly regenerated, though it caused grave pain to the Demon King and he howled with an according pain, unleashing a front of tendrils that momentarily slapped his assailants back to grant him recovery.

Suffice to say, all his available colleagues were busied in conflicts of their own. Afton mulled over the advantages of heading back to assist them or allowing the reinforcements to bail them out. Ultimately, securing Sidious held strategic priority, but reneging his allies would pose issues he didn’t seem intent on confronting.

“Manuel, Oliver.”

Both stood at attention.

“Head back and help the others. Horatio and I will continue onto the Chancellor’s Suite.”

“Aye Lord.”

Both uttered in dark, low unison, their armor rustling as they rushed back to alleviate the other battlers, leaving only Emperor Glitchtrap and Grandmaster Horatio to finish the job.

“Just us again, eh? Like old times.”
Horatio said as they headed forth deeper into the futuristically scintillating Senate Annex.

“Like old times.”
Springtrap confirmed.

-
This duel was worthy of the historical archives, of that there wasn’t any doubt. If only there were witnesses to it.

Palpatine was forced onto the defensive, wielding both his sabers and holding off Windu and Maul simultaneously. He was a master duelist and fighter, but his strength lied within the subtle intrigues of the Force. Savage Opress was merely a brute, a misshapen hunk of metal mildly honed by Dooku, but nothing Sidious couldn’t handle. Against perhaps the Jedi Order’s strongest member bar Yoda and the Zabrak machine of hatred and rage he’d cultivated, Sidious was beginning to struggle. Though of course, the Dark Lord didn’t show it, instead taking a most succinct pleasure regarding the thrill of this duel as sabers clashed and clanged against one another in vibrant displays of light.

They’d battled across the Suite, their battle inadvertently destroying nearby furniture and decorum, cauterized by the consequences of their weaponry as they athletically leapt from place-to-place, Sidious engaging in acrobatic initiatives that bedazzled his foes, whilst Maul was moreso a constant stream of anguish and fury that never relented and Mace was the epitome of Jedi excellence, advancing strategically and covering Maul’s weakpoints whenever Sidious sought a killing blow against the Zabrak.

As they continued, the mastermind Sith was pushed into the meeting room where so many conspiracies were hatched, where countless souls were played like fiddles on his unknowable tune of damnation. It almost seemed the Sith would meet a sudden end before his plans saw true fruition. All those decades of effort and careful planning and organizing evaporated in an instant…

But it wasn’t yet meant to be. Bursting into the room accompanied by scores of flinging debris tossed haphazardly were two figures, one adorned with scintillating golden armor evoking that of a humanoid Golden Bunny type figure, and another a hulking warrior-knight clad in layers of cold armor. Afton had arrived, and not a moment too soon! Palpatine sinisterly chuckled with a renewed, zealous confidence at this turn of events, whilst Mace and Maul immediately sensed hostility from these newly arrived interlopers.

“Friends of yours?”
Mace inquired to Sidious callously.

“You are doomed, Master Jedi. There are powers beyond your fathomable comprehension which have aligned themselves with I! Today, you shall understand an unequivocable truth. There is only one overarching design to reign over the Galaxy, and all those foolish inhabitants that populate it. Mine.”

“SILENCE! Are you creatures here to join Darth Sidious in death?”

“We are certainly joining him, but I believe it’s you two and all your associates here tonight that’ll be dying. I hope you’ve made peace with your inner demons, before actual ones rip your souls to shreds in the hellish voids beyond.”

“Empty threats from an equally dullard fool. This changes nothing. Perish screaming alongside my old Master then. See what difference it makes, stranger.”

“I’ve always admired your gumption, Darth Maul. If only affairs proceeded slightly differently. You could’ve joined our glorious empire. Alas, I must end you here and now. Horatio?”

The Chaos-Knight didn’t even verbally confirm his next tasking, instead barreling towards Maul with agility and speed defying the hefty plating he wore. Maul remained unfazed by this new combatant, ruefully angling attention from Sidious to this unwanted new challenger, determined to finish the foe off quickly as possible so his murderous rampage would resume upon its intended target.

“You’re in the way of my VENGEANCE!”
Roared Maul, meeting with equal ferocity against the Chaos-Knight as their weapons clanged together, searing waves of energy scoring through the room in visible cosmic streams of white and red, sabers facing defiantly off against esoteric Chaos magicks.

Meanwhile, Mace now contested against two highly skilled opponents, the Vaapad-using Jedi sensing the fortunes of evil were drastically compounded whilst those of good were being starved out. Nevertheless, he refused to surrender, instead acrobatically jumping away from an oncoming strike courtesy of Springtrap and now facing both assailants simultaneously. William had to personally admit, he respected the Jedi’s sheer desperate fury against such overwhelming odds.

As Maul and Horatio struggled in the background, a monetary pause settled between the battle’s primary combatants. Springtrap and Palpatine stood adjacent, observing cautiously the Jedi Master and engineer of this would-be insurgency. Bated breath passed as neither side posed the initiative to make the first move. William pondered ascending fully into Daemonic form and crushing Windu that way, but side-effects with Sidious and Horatio in such close proximity needed consideration. Furthermore, Daemonic Princehood invited curious critters from across the Warp to ravenously descend upon the nexus-point of their attentions like moths to flame. To risk leakage of Chaos’s truer aspects onto Coruscant’s unaware residency wouldn’t do Sidious’s nascent Empire any favors.

And it wasn’t even necessary anyways.

The Coruscanti skyline, prior secured by the Republic Homefleet, crackled to horrible life. Unholy booms echoed throughout the stratosphere, punctuated by the manifesting of around five vessels of drab, grey hue. Once, these vessels carried the sigils and symbols of proud Imperial origination, their decks host to arrays of Astartes Marines determined to expand the God-Emperor’s realm and uplift humanity wherever and however they could. Now, such purpose was corrupted by fiendish deities and snickering Daemons, turning these ships into harbingers of utter horror and atrocious despair for any individual unfortunate enough to look upon them.

Everyone fighting across the Senate Annex sifted towards the windows and paused now to look upon these vessels of design and construct alien to anything the Galaxy understood. The Republic Defense Fleet, battered and exhausted from the Separatist invasion, couldn’t hope to mount a cohesive militaristic rebuking in time. However, these ships seemingly ignored the Venators, most definitely filled with all manner of confused and panicking staff right now, instead focused on deployment of troops planetside. The Galactic Capital became alight with apprehension and horror once again as these alien newcomers sent their legions directly onto the Senate Building and the surrounding structures and cities, already pockmarked by confusion and bloodshed.

“What… what is this!? What’s happening!?”
Cried Windu, now sensing the beginnings of an omnipresent darkness. Not a gash within the Force, but rather an unceasing, cancerous black mass threatening to spiritually overcome it. It was unlike anything Mace had sensed before, evident enough by his grunting of pain as he clasped at his stressed forehead.

William flashed a winning smile.

“Took them long enough.”

 Afton’s Heretic Armor Comm-Unit crackled to life subsequently, a familiar voice greeting him on the other side.

“Lord Glitchtrap, we’ve arrived. I’m beginning standard landing formations onto the world’s surface. My Iron Warriors will be joined by other Chaos Astartes and those of the Banished, the Newtopian’s Frobot armaments, and Horde Prime’s automated drone forces, by your specified request. Atriox himself will make landfall alongside a detachment of his best troops. I suspect the Core won’t be far behind.”

“No better news greets my ears today, Lord of Iron. Reminder to keep collateral damage to a minimum. Your Warriors have my blessing to discipline anyone within our ranks that forgets this request.”

“They’ll relish the opportunity. Oh- and sir, apologies for the wait. Our jump here was delayed by an unexpected abundance of Warpstorms throughout the Cordulu Sector.”

“You’ve joined the party just as it was getting good, Lord of Iron. Don’t apologize, just complete your task here. All the soldiers were instructed beforehand on codes of conduct and who exactly are their allies and enemies here, yes?”

“I made personal sure of it, sire.”

“Good man. I presume Horde Prime declined to personally join the festivities?”

“He indeed refused your request to join the fray in-person, yes.”

“Coward… the rush of battle isn’t something replicable by any amount of faraway ivory thrones. Though I suppose trying to explain that to him is equivalent to expressing feelings before a brick wall. You’ve done good work. Now let’s close this deal, shall we?”

“For the Primordial Empire!”

“Aye, for the Primordial Empire. And for ME!”

-

Coruscant Federal District

Chainbreaker met the soft skull of another Mandalorian Super-Commando trying Atriox’s patience. The man’s infernal jetpack left an irritating ringing noise behind in the Jiralhanae Warlord’s ears as he gruffly mumbled curses to himself, his hammer electrified and humming, hungry for further carnage. Around him, the familiar cacophony of war, no matter which universe or galaxy he inhabited, raged about. Explosions, screams, rattling gunfire and beyond.

It was beautiful. Here, Atriox felt at home. Not at some cushy space-station purposefully removed from the action, but here, amid blood and guts and corpses and acrid smoke leering from defiled, desolate buildings. The once prestigious and proud center of Coruscant, and by proxy Galactic, sociopolitical, corporate, and administrative affairs had become a hellish war-torn madhouse comprised of all types of abhorrent creatures and individuals. If anything else, the extended trip over generated enjoyable fraternization between Atriox and Perturabo’s rank-and-file. The Iron Warriors’ anti-xeno prejudices were mildly alleviated upon recognizing their alien contemporaries’ thirst for battle and glory, albeit tempered by their desire for a logical, efficient, and swift conclusion to any armed struggle. The Banished weren’t war-drunk fools after all, and Atriox made sure to implement a culture of pragmatic understanding to balance out the piratical excesses of his mercenary-horde.

Decimus, Atriox’s second-in-command, evaporated another battlegroup of insipid Pyke Syndicate soldiery blasting at his Exosuit. In mere moments the attackers were but smoking, ashen cinders of their former selves, their murderer plus a unit of Atriox’s Chosen Chieftains and Banished elites shored up.

“Even with everyone we’ve brought, plus the allegiance of those ‘Clones’ Emperor Glitchtrap mentioned, there’s still heavy enemy resistance between us and that building.”
Decimus levelled a furry finger at the mushroom-shaped Senate Annex.

“I don’t care. We’re bid to assist the Primordial Conclave, and we’ll see it done before anyone else. The Banished alone will know the inexorable glory and favor of Glitchtrap.”

“As you bid sire. Our forces have begun looting the subjugated territories planetside. Should I order them to cease?”

Atriox chuckled darkly as he began leading his elites down the stellar pathway, Chainbreaker hoisted over his shoulder.

“Inform them to keep their urges in check. However, a few missing pieces here and there should be of no concern to Glitchtrap nor his allies. Now enough talk. FOR THE BANISHED! CHARGE!”

-

“This Hardening Quirk I took from that Kirishima boy combined with my natural Chaotic toughness make me practically invulnerable. Yet could I survive extended direct contact against those lightsaber toys? It’s an interesting theory. I might even test it someday. Though right now…”
AFO monologued to none in particular as the Glitchtrap-Guard around him were getting worn down. Whilst the Shadow Collective forces had died, the Jedi persisted in their misguided quest to slay evil, continuing to harry AFO and the Glitchtrap-Guard assigned to his protection; as if he required any.

The Demon Lord stepped back, avoiding another saber-stroke as the Jedi managed to corner him. One of the Glitchtrap-Guard had fallen in battle, leaving only two of the stalwart, unshakeable, eerily silent Chaos-Knights left to battle alongside the Japanese supervillain. AFO had managed to eliminate three of his Jedi harassers through a deathly combination of Quirks and Chaotic might, but the remaining four wouldn’t be deterred. Their group was a mixture, some human, others esoterically alien, yet all needed to die here.

“How scary! The peace-loving Jedi are so determined to murder me and my friends here- doesn’t that wring up any ethical quandaries for you? Or has the Order become so lost in vanity that it believes itself above the edicts it enforces upon the rest of this Galaxy?”
AFO taunted, clearly bringing some visible distress to his attackers that contemplated his words and their place within Windu’s coup d’etat. However, they were convinced that without such drastic measures to secure power, their Order and general prosperity, peace, and freedom throughout the Galaxy would perish under the Sith’s rule. There’d be no verbal manipulations today, much to the Demon Lord’s chagrin as he prepared another impromptu Quirk combination to fight off the approaching enemies.

That was, of course, until a cavalcade of armored Jiralhanae crashed through the adjacent wall, positing their deadly Gravhammers as they roared and bashed down against the monkish foes. The sheer surprise and ferocity of this surprise blitzkrieg had taken the hyper-focused Jedi by unhappy surprise, and whilst they managed to slay a handful of ruthless Brutes, they were quickly overwhelmed and mulched into pasty gore splattered across the area, some rogue flesh spewing onto AFO’s suit. Also to his chagrin, as it so happened.

Atriox bravely stepped forth after the initial carnage, moving to address AFO before noticing the writhing body of an unfortunate survivor, gurgling and hissing as she attempted to grasp her hilted blade and enact a righteous final stand. Instead of allowing her this pitiable graceful exit, already made impossible by the unseemly gash that’d taken out half her body, the Banished founder levelled Chainbreaker and turned her head into an unrecognizable, chunky puddle with a grunt of warlike pleasure to embody the moment’s savagery.

“I see reinforcements have arrived. And not a moment too soon.”
The human supervillain stated, using a lesser version of Air Cannon to blow off the rogue gore that’d splayed onto his suit.

“Our forces are making landfall across the planet. The Iron Warriors and their cohorts are helming the responsibility of exterminating all resistance outside the building, assisted by the Newtopian and Horde militaries. It shouldn’t take too long, but the enemy’s dug-in annoyingly well. My Chosen are alleviating the others of their combat situations as we speak. Where’s Glitchtrap?”

“Upstairs, I think. He went to rescue the Chancellor. I believe we should join him.”

Atriox contemplated the situation, before nodding and hoisting up Chainbreaker.

“Aye. Let’s reconvene and move out-“

A vicious Force-Push sent Atriox, the Chosen, AFO, and the two Glitchtrap-Guard present flying back against the wall, with hisses of pain or continual silence to accentuate it. AFO and Atriox recovered first, watching as Jedi Councilmember Coleman Kcaj, accompanied by five other Jedi rushed into the room, lightsabers whirring with baleful life.

“Looks like we’ll be occupied here a little longer.”
The Brute Warmaster remarked irritably, as the battle ignited anew.

-

Anakin was never adept at following orders.

With his beloved’s life at stake, all else, the politics of this unseemly war, the Jedi’s desperation for relevance and their subtle games against the Chancellor, and the accompanied public pressures of being a Republic war-hero faded into the murky nothing. The experiences he’d accrued over this protracted struggle, from having Ahsoka as his apprentice only for the Order’s arrogance to drive her away, the constant horrors of watching those honorable men under his command perish in horrid ways at Separatist (or others’) hands drew a mental toll on the Chosen One. His solace, the only light within a life otherwise exploited for the glory and sanctity of others, was Padme Amidala. Now, the thought of losing her too, when all other things had been callously stripped from him, and told by even his mentor and friend Obi-Wan to merely standby and hope the best manifested was inconsolable with his own personal desires.

None, save the Chancellor, ever truly understood him. They grew close, pretended to fathom his struggles, and utilized that crucial knowledge to mentally undermine him. Over and over and over again. No more. Windu disallowed him from joining the strike-team meant to indict the Republic’s sovereign for corruption and dictatorial rulership, so Anakin would simply head into the Temple himself.

What the Jedi Knight didn’t expect after solidifying his resolve was the sheer desolation Coruscant found itself in.

Memories were evoked from Kenobi’s mentioning of the Old Sith Wars to Anakin. How the daring empire of ancient Darksiders managed to pierce through Republic defenses and lay an inglorious waste to their capital under the captaincy of Darth Malgus. Now once more did Coruscant face such apocalyptic crisis, though perhaps even worsened given the presence of barbaric alien murderers and armored, hulking monstrosities. Curiously so was the Clone Army seemingly assisting these invaders, mostly by keeping the peace and shutting down impromptu riots and any would-be looters, keeping everyone penned into their homes- and if those were destroyed, any infrastructure available to house large amounts of confused, terrified civilians.

Skywalker couldn’t focus on this madness. Not now. It was all too overwhelming to imagine the ramifications of. Surely the Chancellor would know about it anyway. All that populated his conflicted mind were vivid images of Padme dying during pregnancy. Of her unborn children tearing her womb asunder as she screeched and begged bloody murder, for relief that’d never come. Anakin knew the possibility to prevent such grisly death existed. He merely needed to master it. The Jedi would expel him if they’d come to know his private relations with the Nabooian Senator, leaving only one option left for prospective Midichlorian mentorship.

Anakin rushed past scores of Jedi and what appeared criminal elements and Mandalorian Deathwatch Commandoes battling against these newly-arrived forces and their former Clone soldiery. Bodies from both sides besmirched in all feasible positions, their bones shattered and frames broken upon the Senate Annex’s historical walls. Strangely, Anakin was certain he’d been spotted by the invaders several times over, yet none moved to confront him.

The Chosen One, having memorized the building’s layout even when dismantled and brutalized from within like this, was graced by a somehow still working elevator that led into the Chancellor’s Suite. What greeted him there was pure, unfiltered chaos.

A humanoid figure donning golden armor reminiscent of a demonic rabbit, joined by a warrior of immense physicality wearing equally dehumanizing garb that granted not even a glimpse of his face, assisted by Chancellor Palpatine, did glorious battle against Mace Windu and Darth Maul. From the rabbit-individual, Anakin sensed the same maliciousness which radiated off the same figure who bequeathed him those horrible visions of Padme’s demise. Was it possible they were one and the same?

Before any questions could be answered, Skywalker sensed a deathly familiar presence lurking behind. Shifting to life his trusty lightsaber, he turned around to confront it.

“Your reaction time is swift as ever, my boy.”

“Dooku!”
Anakin spat with furious disdain. How did the Count of Serenno, arguably his grandest and most pervasive nemesis throughout the Clone War, managed to escape custody? Now that Palpatine was outed as the Sith Lord however, the incalculable scheme began piecing together.

“It’s a pleasure to see you too. I see the festivities have begun without me. Unfortunate. Yet I’m glad I arrived in time to have this conversation with you, my boy.”

“Don’t address me like we’re friends! You’re a traitor and a murderer, just like Palpatine. You both conspired to destroy the Jedi!”

“Oh? You intend to join Master Windu and that Zabrak animal then? Raise your blade under the auspice of heroic righteousness and save the Galaxy? Yet we both know that’s not why you’re truly here, is it? No… you seek, understandably so, the power to save the one you love.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed, his muscles tensed and grip on his weapon tightened. The cacophony of sabers clashing and furniture splintering and other voluptuous sounds of battle dulled amidst their fateful diatribe.

“How… HOW DO YOU-“

“I told you, back on Naboo two years ago- the Sith control everything. We see everything. Do you believe I’m judging your choice, Skywalker? Why should I? What you seek is what any man in your position rightfully would. It’s the Jedi who impose such unnatural expectations, you see. Plucking you from your desert homeworld and cultivating the perfect slave, a lapdog capable of fulfilling their inane prophecy and methodically eliminating their enemies. I’d ask if you’ve ever questioned your role as their peon, but I already know you have. Many times.”

“You’re trying to deceive me!”

“Over this war’s course, I have indeed, many times over. Sometimes with success, other times with failure. But here and now? No. I am stating facts as they are. It’s time for a New Order to replace the antiquity which has rotted the Galaxy from within. And you must spearhead it. In exchange, the power to save Padme will be yours.”

“I don’t trust you! Not a word that comes out of your vile mouth. How many people have you killed, directly or otherwise!?”

“And your Republic’s a bastion of morality and hope? That’s what their propaganda says, but you, having been fighting their wars to keep their precious peace, know otherwise. Know the truth that Master Kenobi’s cloaked from you. A truth that Qui-Gon, were he alive today, would never withhold from you. There is something broken with the Jedi and their ordainments. They cannot save your wife, Anakin. Only we can. Make your choice.”

Everything, his entire life, felt built up to that singular, decisive moment. Anakin staggered, reliving countless memories positive and negative in the span of seconds. So many faces. So much suffering. For what? To remain a soulless artifice of the Council’s will, despite never truly having their respect?

No. The Chosen One wouldn’t remain a leashed lapdog. And he wouldn’t stand idly by as his wife perished either. Dooku wasn’t a hero by any measure, but Skywalker’s desperation had reached a crux, and he needed to act now, lest he could never again live with himself.

Wordlessly he turned around and entered the Suite with resolute intention. Dooku followed closely behind, though instead of eyeing Sidious, he instead focused with an uncharacteristic hatred and anger upon the repugnant visage of Darth Maul. Long had he lusted for vengeance against the former apprentice for murdering Qui-Gon, and he’d nearly had his chance. However, they’d only managed to execute the witch Mother Talzin. It was time to finish the job.

The combined combative skills of Maul and Windu were immense. Two of the best fighters throughout the stars. Pressed against such overwhelming odds and numerical disadvantages though, they were beginning to falter. Afton and Horatio traded between attacking either figure, forcing them to remain eternally on the defensive. Palpatine snuck around and traded blows primarily with Windu, though often enjoyed a kick or punch against the Zabrak before resuming his usual battle-routine. Once Anakin stepped forth, the focus punctuated heavily on him, with Palpatine shifting his attentions accordingly.

“Anakin! It’s as I said! The Jedi are taking over!”

“SKYWALKER! Kill Dooku and help me eliminate them! The oppression of the Sith will never return!”

“Talk about a bad family reunion…”
Muttered Afton with a slight chuckle.

While everyone seemed momentarily distracted by the still hesitant Anakin, Maul played his own card, subsequently pressing a button on his wrist-bound communicator.

“Saxon! Bring yourself and your squadron to my coordinates IMMEDIATELY!”

“Roger that sir!”

Without warning, the glass into the office shattered via laser-fire, as numerous Mandalorian Super-Commandoes uplifted by their jetpacks and led by Gar Saxon, Maul’s battle-commander and trusted first lieutenant entered the fray with reckless abandon. These warriors were fearless, facing any enemy with hearty constitution and willingness. Springtrap imagined the conquests he could sow with merely a platoon of them.

“SLAY THEM ALL!”

“With pleasure Lord Maul!”

As the Supercommandoes joined the fray and laid blaster-fire down against Dooku, Sidious, Horatio, and Springtrap, the latter couldn’t help but reconsider his plan to refrain from ascending into true Daemonic form. It would gravely assist, if not outright conclude this pitched struggle, yet doing such would endanger his allies, and include the other aforementioned risks of alerting the Warp to his cosmic presence. No. This battle would be won conventionally. Besides, even during situations like these, when the tide was seemingly turning, Springtrap had aces up his sleeve.

“Horatio, cover me. I’m calling in a favor!”

“Yes, Emperor Glitchtrap!”

By now the initial battle between Jedi and Sith had become chaotic and crowded. More Mandalorians flooded through the impromptu entryway made by their fellows, forcing Dooku onto the defensive as he unleashed a torrent of cascading Force Lightning, cooking several of them alive. Windu and Maul were able to reconvene their efforts, now focused heavily on eliminating Palpatine as Horatio twirled about his Chaotica-infused spear and continued stabbing and bisecting any warrior that tried him. Anakin, meanwhile, stood there silently. A misshapen block of stone, unmoving despite the destruction taking place around him.

Calling upon his conjuration magicks once more, Springtrap mumbled an esoteric word of power that sheared forth another Warp-Portal into the vicinity, an ignored phenomenon as the Chancellor’s Suite ran red with blood and guts. Gar Saxon and five of his colleagues jetpacked down before the intergalactic warlord and his portal, their weapons cocked and readied.

They’d never get their chance to fire them.

Rushing out from the portal with a haze of cybernetic, mechanical, murdering, death-bringing glory was none other than Araska’s prized toy. Their greatest security asset and the baseline of which all their military products were defined by. Wielding a variety of implemented weaponry defining his killer chassis, Adam Smasher quite literally LEAPT into battle, cackling with eagerness at the thought of enacting slaughter and mayhem. Saxon and his troop began firing, but to little avail as the shots only served to irritate the Arasaka warmachine, who responded by raising his MG machinegun and unleashing calculated bullet-fire, bisecting all but Saxon himself.

Refusing to surrender, Saxon jetpacked upward and tossed down two Thermal Detonators at Smasher, creating an explosion which shook the entire room… only for Smasher to emerge unfazed from the smoke. He responded by outstretching his bionic left arm forth, grabbing Saxon’s leg as his body hoisted midair, bringing down the proud Mando warrior with a single forcible movement, slamming him down as one would a ragdoll onto the ground, before casually ripping off the appendage. Gar screamed in abject horror and unrelenting pain, though his suffering wouldn’t last long as Smasher turned around the helmeted enemy, jettisoning his other hand into his back and smashing past Saxon’s armor, rummaging around that meaty cage of flesh, sinew, musculature, and beyond, eventually grasping around the feasible portion of his backbone.

“WELCOME TO THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE, MEAT!”

Smasher callously ripped out Gar’s spinal cord with a squelching pull, giving pause to even the most battle hardened of Maul’s savants that’d witnessed the atrocity.

“Having Arasaka Corporation owe me favors definitely panned out positively, didn’t it? Enjoy yourself Smasher, but remain aware of those you’re disallowed from harming.”

“Yes yes, whatever. I’m not interested in your politics. Just bring me squirming meat and I’ll be well-sated, haha!”

“Ahh, I’ll never tire of your antics.”

Another front of Super-Commandoes jetpacked forth, raising their guns as Springtrap, Smasher, and Horatio went back-to-back, surrounded on all sides.

“Well, gentlemen? Shall we dial up the party to eleven?”
Afton asked.

“LET’S CRACK SOME SKULLS! FOR THE DARK GODS!”
Cried Horatio, as the Super-Commandoes opened fire and this makeshift trio, in kind, charged forward with the bravery only the truly insane and sadistic could possess.

Meanwhile, Palpatine and Dooku fought against Maul and Windu, ignorant of everything else transpiring around them.

“Ahh, the second piece of tossed aside garbage comes to confront the first? You believe Darth Sidious is your salvation, fool? You’ll be cast down like I was. If not now, then someday, once your use to his ambitions has expired.”
Maul chided as Dooku and he circled around each other, the Count carefully eyeing for any breakage within the Zabrak’s defense and vice-versa.

“I bring my own salvation, Darth Maul. I fight you not for Darth Sidious nor any other soul save the one you took from me.”

“Oh? Qui-Gon Jinn? Ah, I remember now. That pathetic, gaping look of his as I impaled him on the straits of Naboo those decades ago. Such a sweet, nostalgic memory. Had I known it troubled you as much as it did Kenobi, I would’ve kept reminding you of it. Over and over, until your mind was driven mad by its recollection!”

Dooku didn’t fall into the trap of rambunctious rage at Maul’s words, only eyeing him with the same distaste an aristocratic hunter would a rampaging wild animal.

“A shame indeed you of all creatures slew him. An injustice I’ll correct today.”

“GRAAAGGGHHH!!!”

With none else to interrupt their struggle, Windu slowly began seizing the upper hand over Palpatine. Wily and unpredictable as the Sith Lord was, Mace’s mastery over the Vaapaad dueling style overwhelmed even Palpatine’s sensibilities. He couldn’t conjure the Force to destroy this Jedi ingrate- Mace simply wouldn’t allow that concentration to manifest. Anakin gravitated towards both men as Windu slipped his blade craftily and destroyed one of Palpatine’s sabers, with an electric buzz to mark the Kyber Crystal’s destruction, before using the Force to wrest away his other, finishing the combo with a kick forcing the Chancellor down.

“Give it up! You have lost!”  

“No… no… YOU WILL DIE!”

Palpatine screeched and unleashed a volley of Force Lightning directly at Windu, who managed to block the vicious attack right before it ended him. His saber held strong, redirecting the destructive electricity back at Palpatine, with devastating consequences. The fair skin of the grandfatherly politician was zapped away, melted and symbolically reflecting how his carefully constructed façade has finally dissolved.

“Anakin- help me! PLEASE! D-don’t let him kill me! I’m too weak to carry on, please… Anakin… I-I have the power to save the one you love!”
Cried Palpatine.

“Don’t listen to him!”

“He’s a TRAITOR!”

“HE IS THE TRAITOR!”

“I… I can’t hold it any longer…”

Palpatine finally conceded, his Lightning dissipating into nothingness. With everyone else distracted, none were able to redirect their efforts to save him. It all rested on Anakin’s shoulders.

“Wait! Stop! He must stand trial!”

Windu angled his lightsaber for the killing blow and shook his head defiantly.

“He has control over the Senate and the courts! He’s too dangerous to be kept alive!”

“No! It’s not the Jedi way! I NEED HIM!”

Windu didn’t acknowledge Anakin’s pleas, instead raising his saber, prepared to behead the snake who’d sown such suffering and destruction for so many.

“NOOOO!”
Anakin yelled, swishing his saber upward and carving off Windu’s right hand with a clean slice. Mace cried out in pitched pain, as Palpatine’s dire expression instantly transformed into one of hideous glee. Without hesitation, he raised his hands and fired a fateful whirlwind of Force Lightning, this time reaching its mark as it corroded over Mace’s body, sizzling the man alive!

“POWERRRRRRR!!! UNLIMITED POWWEERR!!!!”

With that, a final gust pushed out Mace’s lifeless corpse from the Suite into the brutal, wartorn haze of wider Coruscant.

Anakin fell to his knees, aghast at his actions whilst Palpatine recovered himself.

“What have I done…”

As everything settled for Anakin, fighting throughout the room quelled to quietness. Maul’s Commandoes lay dead and gored, the Zabrak himself cornered by Dooku. Upon realizing Mace had fallen, he uttered a last curse of defiance before rushing straight for Anakin. Skywalker turned around, and instead of fighting back or instinctively even moving to avoid the murderous alien, stood there entranced, as if accepting whatever grisly fate awaited, knowing deep down that perhaps he deserved such an inglorious end for his sin.

But fate wouldn’t allow it, as Springtrap fired a bolt of Chaotic mystical energy that exploded back Maul against the window. Shouting another curse accompanied by a wince of pain, he jumped out the window, using the Force to help guide his movements. Dooku watched with annoyance as his enemy escaped, though returned attention back to more pertinent matters.

“You have achieved your destiny. Rise, my new apprentice, rise. Henceforth, you shall be known as ‘Darth Vader’.”

In an instant, Anakin had thrown away the Jedi, and everything he once was. There wasn’t any turning back now.

“I submit myself to your teachings.”

“Good, goooodddd. Together, we will uncover the secret of preserving life. But beforehand, you must undertake your first formal duties as my apprentice. The old embers must be wiped away. Storm the Jedi Temple with an army at your back. Bring low their monuments. Slay them to the last, or it’ll be civil war without end. Every single Jedi, including your friend, Obi-Wan Kenobi, is now an enemy of the Republic. Do you understand, Lord Vader?”

“Yes, my Master.”

“I’ll order my troops to recognize Darth Vader as their field commander. They’ll take orders from him as if they were my own.”
Springtrap confirmed, to which Vader fretfully nodded, still unsure of who exactly he was, only knowing this mystery individual bore an importance to his new Master.

“What of the other Jedi spread across the Galaxy?”
Inquired the Chosen One.

“Their betrayal will be dealt with. Once more the Sith will rule the Galaxy! And we shall have… peace.”

Anakin nodded subserviently once more, before turning around and exiting the damaged Suite. By now, Afton’s reinforcements would be clearing out the governmental nexus, methodically terminating every last Jedi Windu brought along to instate the coup d’etat. Panting from battle’s exhaustion, Springtrap turned around and appraised Horatio and Smasher; scarred and equally tired, but still more than willing to engage in further bloodshed. Indeed, Coruscant still required pacification.

Dooku sheathed his blade, appraising the situation, approaching Sidious and Afton with a becalmed visage, his unusual bout of fury having died down into his normal tonnage of voice and expression.

“I’ll need to contact Viceroy Gunray and the other Separatist Councilmembers. The Confederacy of Independent Systems must be officially dissolved.”

“Keeping the Confederate leadership as figureheads whilst their corporations are integrated into the imminent Imperial hierarchy seems far simpler than annihilating them all outright.”
William proposed, as Horatio and Smasher went around casually executing any twitchy survivors of the prior ordeal, the Suite now resembling a photo taken from a warzone rather than the Republic’s coveted seat of power.

“Agreed. Should they pose issue, they shall be dealt with. For now, priority lies with removing the Jedi from this equation. Once it’s done, I’ll instruct Lord Vader to reach the Mustafar System and appraise the Separatist Council of their new roles. The Senate must also be addressed to declare the New Empire.”
Sidious remarked in kind.

“I’ll have my allies gathered for such an auspicious occasion. The image of strength and power you desire will be exuded. None across the Galaxy will question your authority after today, Emperor Palpatine.”

“Goooddd. You have done well, my friend. I must thank you for your efforts in seeing this vision through.”

“The Primordial Empire welcomes your nascent state with open arms. I believe together, we shall accomplish great things, beyond the workings of politics and militaries, the Dark Side and Chaos’s collaboration is a partnership that’ll yield great fruit.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

With that, Count Dooku bowed respectfully to both figures once more before making his eloquent exit.

-

Declaration of a New Order

From there, quite a few events took place, all crucial to the Republic’s usurpation into an unbreakable Empire. Lord Vader commanded a combined legion of Five-Oh-First Clones, Chaos Astartes, Banished mercenaries, and Newtopian automatons into the Jedi Temple, laying siege to its hallowed, history-soaked walls. What followed was an unprecedented massacre of a religious sanctuary that’d lasted millennia. Hallways caked in blood, some Jedi spared the incongruity of death only to face the humiliation of being kidnapped by Primordial troops for diabolical future experiments.

The Battle of the Senate Building ended in decisive Primordial victory. Oppo Rancisis, Coleman Kcaj, and countless other high-ranking Jedi and their allegiant Knights and Padawans were slain to their last, though only after slaying countless enemy forces, with Kcaj even managing to wound Atriox before getting impaled by AFO’s Spearlike Bones Quirk.

Meanwhile, Order Sixty-Six saw the Galaxy purged of Jedi not located at Coruscant. As Clones joined with Separatist Droids and these invaders from afar, the Jedi and their aligned friends and native species they’d sworn to protect simply couldn’t cope, being exterminated down to the last. Overnight, thousands were slain. On Coruscant itself, Palpatine had ordered the local Fleet Admirals to collaborate with the Iron Fleet of Perturabo, and together they coordinated an effort to purge any Jedi-loyal Starship staff, whilst simultaneously, Wilhuff Tarkin, another chief associate of Palpatine’s, alongside Count Dooku- led further political purges of Senators that would present issues going forward, sparing only patsies to Palpatine or high-profile politicians to dangerous to outright eliminate. Horatio, the other Glitchtrap-Guard present, and Adam Smasher assisted these efforts tremendously.

Martial law was declared over Coruscant and its neighboring systems, with the Clone Army sent in to root out dissenters and keep safe the levers of state power and authority. COMPNOR, Palpatine’s nationalist organization meant to stoke the flames of loyalty to his office and cultivate a generation of loyal youths to his cause dispatched propaganda in full swing, gathering much of the Galactic population into an anti-Jedi frenzy. Iconography of them were destroyed by hateful mobs, monuments and statues dismantled and broken, planetary governors and various supporters of the Order were blackballed, many forced to instantly resign or suffer the consequences of resisting popular rule. Most certainly, Khorne’s influence of inciting rage and reveling in its results played a subtle role in these shifts.

After purging the Temple of its Jedi presence, Lord Vader proceeded onward to Mustafar, where his fateful destiny awaited. He would never emerge from the lava-world whole, scarred permanently during an encounter against Obi-Wan Kenobi, his former friend turned hated adversary; though the Separatist Council was evacuated in time. Viceroy Gunary proceeded to officiate a surrender over the HoloNet to the Galactic Republic, stating the Jedi were the true enemies and beach was thankfully achieved, and shuttering trust fully with Palpatine. Whilst this angered, shocked, and dismayed many Separatist supporters throughout all Rims of the Galaxy, the cold boots of Clones and artificial thumping of droids quieted any opposition that might’ve emerged from this. Dooku’s endorsement of the announcement subsequently all but quashed any legitimate political uprising against this declaration. If not that, the total dissolution of the Separatist Senate did.

Horde Prime and Coredrias made landfall after the last of cohesive resistance was crushed, joining Afton’s entourage of Dark Lords and sinister tyrants as they accompanied Palpatine on two adjacent levitating platforms, Sheev’s platform constituting of himself, Mas Amedda, and Sly Moore. An impromptu session of the Galactic Senate was convened, and attendance was mandatory despite the shoddy current state of the Senate Building.

“The attempt on my life has left me scarred and deformed. But I can assure you… my resolve has never been stronger! The remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated, with their collaborators sharing the same fate. For too long, we have allowed our Galaxy to remain divided on their terms. On THEIR demands and whims, children were taken and indoctrinated into their shadowy conclave, and now we understand its purpose. The Jedi were ALWAYS against us! Yet now, a new power has come to safeguard our peoples and realms.”

Palpatine, now clad in traditional Sith robes to signify through symbolism his utter victory over the Jedi, motioned to Springtrap and the other Primordial headmasters.

“The Primordial Empire and its leader, Emperor Glitchtrap, arrived from another Galaxy and used their vast intelligence network to inform me of the Jedi threat. Unfortunately, many innocent lives were still caught in the maelstrom of their wicked conspiracy. Coruscant’s greatest districts lie in tatters and ruins, only saved by the Primordial Empire and our brave Clone Troopers’ best efforts. Rejoice, for we have prevailed! The Separatist Alliance has declared surrender as confirmed by Count Dooku and Viceroy Gunray, their polity dissolved and their remaining ringleaders bowed to our authority. All these successes have led me to an inalienable conclusion: to ensure the continued safety and stability… the Republic will be reorganized into the FIRST GALACTIC EMPIRE! For a safe and secure SOCIETY!”

And that is how democracy died. With thunderous applause, and the assistance of laughing gods, thirsting for bloodshed and destruction within a Realm unimaginable.

Afton couldn’t help but feel just a little bit giddy at the evil possibilities to come. What a grand thing they’ve achieved. Mayhaps in the future, conflicts will arise that’ll divide this union of conquerors and tyrants, but for now, in this very moment, they could relish in the formation of a potent new ally for their efforts. The Multiverse was one step closer to total tyrannical reign.

Glory to the Dark Gods. And glory to the new Empire.

Chapter Text

The Royal Palace, Kyrat

Ike Sloan really wanted to shoot something right about now.

Pagan Min’s bedazzling, opulent palace of patterned red and white coloration did little to sate the war-hungry American militaristic jingoist. Quite the contrary, it only served to further enrage the already irritable warlord. Politicians hissed out their honeyed remarks and false promises hidden behind their approachable veils of civility, a practice which disgusted the military-bred man to no feasible end. Business should be conducted through outright force and brutal coercion, not this constant mercantile haranguing of points and procedures.

Chief of Staff Doug Stamper and Vice President Charles Logan continued their nonsensical negotiations with Kyrat’s monarch and undisputed sovereign, former Hong Kong triad boss Pagan Min. Admittedly, Pagan’s life story was impressive, ascending from the black sheep of Hong Kong’s Underworld into the despot of a landlocked Nepalese-styled country, complete with a technologically and financially bolstered military thanks to assurances and favors granted by the Primordial Empire’s generous hand; owed to prior assistance Pagan granted the legendary Emperor Glitchtrap when he’d just began his reign of terror on Earth.

America hadn’t come to pay Min a warm house-call. The world had altered drastically within the five years since the Primordial Empire’s establishment and rapid intergalactic expansion and conquest. Alien immigrants from seized worlds, often intentionally girded here by government authorities to act as cheap, disposable labor, now populated numerous urban centers. Nations were either ruled over by corrupt, brutal governments hearkening back to their unfortunate pasts thanks to the Underworld’s gates seeped open as part of Chaos’s manipulations or directly overseen by Hell or another shadowy Multiversal organization the Primordial Empire cultivated good ties with, the Universal Union.

However, all these changes didn’t exactly mean the prior geopolitical struggles which denoted contemporary history simply evaporated. Quite the opposite, now these rivalries between polities had skyrocketed given everyone’s desperation for resources, guarantees of immunity from Daemonic predation, glory, and even seeing their specific nationstates enjoy new colonies built upon the frontier worlds of Primordial activity. Whichever intact country contributed most to Glitchtrap’s newest invasion would enjoy a self-sufficient settlement manned by a coterie of select citizens hailing from the host society, an opportunity too delectable to pass up for many whom viewed life on Earth unsustainable for their long term.

Yet as reconstruction efforts continued paying their physical, economic, and social tolls, numerous countries, from the restored National Socialist Germany to Neo-Roman Empire to Soviet Union were unable to fully dedicate portions of their standing military or able-bodied population to the increasingly grandiose and demanding quotas Glitchtrap ordered from his constituents.

Nearly six years after the initial apocalyptic events which’d ushered in the new world order finalized, and the Primordial Government viewed it wasteful to even posit the annual recruitment and conscription orders. Hell’s territories were more interested with raising humans merely for demonic sacrificial rituals or various heresies and blasphemies too egregious to describe, entire generations of man raised upon the altar of Davoth’s twisted ambitions and essentially raised as glorified cattle, and the Combine’s Earth colonies were reclusive and consistently shuttered to outside contact, their planetside presence just as enigmatic as their overarching empire itself. Neither could be counted on for assistance either.

Still, those countries still active and cohesive refused to fade away, determined to rebound their favor within Afton’s eyes. Rumors spread abound across waters foreign and domestic that Britannia had actually managed to dedicate a portion of their East India Company private army to Glitchtrap’s cosmic subjugations, reigniting that jealous inclination across the battered international community. Communication between countries had all but dwindled to its most primitive and basic forms, through phone calls between foreign dignitaries and emissarial pleasantries. The United Nations had ceased to exist, instead replaced by the Primordial Interior Ministry, dedicated to bureaucratic oversight of Earth’s happenings, and the official department where prospective assets to Springtrap’s plans would submit their pleas for acceptance within the next campaign.

It therefore stood to reason international power-games would only heighten after Chaos established dominion. Pagan Min wasn’t a friend of local Chinese interests, having stifled infrastructural attempts from the Communist Party to build inroads throughout the Nepalese region via leveraging his political and socioeconomic capital to convince neighboring states to refuse such imperialist generosities- and for good reason. Long has China sought to enact regime change positive to their wider regional interests within the unstable Kyrat, with open evidence of their backing of the now mostly dismantled Golden Path terrorist organization and various other fundamentalist factions and would-be usurpers sequestered within Min’s own military. These efforts were met purely with ruination, though each inched closer to success than the last. Standing alone against Beijing wasn’t possible anymore.

“I must say, speaking to a member of Glitchtrap’s original retinue is quite the privilege. If I understand correctly, you understood our glorious Emperor during his nascent rise to power? What a sight that must’ve been!”
Remarked Vice-President Logan with an appeasing smile. The dour-faced elder could only be described a humanoid snake slinked within a suit, having formerly represented California within America’s political arenas as a distinguished Senator responsible for a number of projects and upheavals before Chaos seized the world. Unfortunately, corruption scandals and whispers of infidelity blighted an otherwise stellar career in policymaking, though such records and trials of misdeed were conveniently lost from public record and memory after the Primordial Empire’s formation. Charles Logan then proceeded to ladder-climb the battered remains of America’s governmental circles, weaponizing a mixture of honeyed words, blackmail, and useful connections made during the onset of his career to achieve the lofty position of Vice President, right at Frank Underwood’s ruthless side.

“Well it was certainly intimidating, I could tell you that! Even then I figured Lord Afton’s eye beheld greater ambitions than running illicit gambling rings and privateering squadrons. Now look, he’s gallivanting about across the stars, leaving us mortals to ponder about this broken Earth. How sad.”

“Ahh, but Earth’s the crown jewel of the Primordial Empire. We’ve become the centerpiece of a Galactic civilization- something thought of only in science fiction and faraway dreams a decade ago.”
Logan added, to which Min nodded as he supped down a goblet of wine and motioned for an attendant to refill the ornate cup, engraved with cultural Kyrati religious designs into the craft’s shimmering gold.

“Right you are. And speaking of dreams, I’m quite interested with investing in the American one. Your President’s expressed desire to bolster my poppy economy with the U.S dollar, and I can’t say I’m opposed. Kyrat’s economy primarily lies in exporting textiles, poppy seeds, grain, that sort of boring thing. With the US dollar’s buying power at our back, we’ll be capable of great endeavors! Moving mountains and building fusion reactors type of greatness! Okay, well, perhaps not SO grandiose, but you understand, yes?”

Doug Stamper nodded suavely, interjecting into the conversation.

“That’s right Your Excellency. We recognize the ongoing foreign perils Kyrat’s enduring and want to aid through any means necessary. Currently, when countries have fallen like flies, it’s good to have allies abroad, even if they’re not exactly conventional ones.”

“Convention’s for suckers anyway Mister Stamper. Kyrat is built off toil foreign and domestic. Our national sovereignty’s been retained during an area of alien occupations and hungry empires such as yours. That alone is worth at least a cursory glance. Now, regarding how specifically we’d integrate the American dollar into our purchasing system…”

Minutes turned into hours of conversation, more and more revealing to Ike his purpose here as merely window dressing, a decorative piece of American military greatness to psychologically remind King Pagan Min and his fellow Kyrati dignitaries the importance of retaining loyalty to any signatory with America, lest him and soldiers like burst down the door and lay waste to this remote, landlocked country.

Night fell and everyone began seeping into their quarters, VP Logan and Stamper offering nightly well-wishes to Pagan before shuddering off through the opulent palisade to their assigned quarters, escorted by packs of observant Secret Service combing their every move and relaying such information through their interconnected communications network uplinked onto their attached earpieces. Rather than embracing sleep’s cold embrace, Charles and Stamper, joined by their cybernetic military overseer, gathered within a guest lobby to discuss their next move.

The area itself was breathtaking, as the palace’s elevated position allowed one to look upon stretches of enchanting landscape- cool waterfalls and foggy mountainsides and frigid trees fluttering peacefully amidst the Kyrati wind breeze. An icy cold already lingering over the land became evermore pronounced as night descended and birds chirped their quiet songs, guided silently by the ostentatious moon above. With Chaos’s corruption having seeped into all things, even the moon watching over Earth had become noticeably wretched and vile, with scores of gigantic flesh-tentacles protruding from noticeable, steaming gore-gashes emergent from the space-sphere’s side. Sloan couldn’t fathom a concept so weak as fear, so instead looked upon such abominations with mild disdain, before snapping attention back to Logan and Stamper’s diatribe.

“A deal’s all but guaranteed. Min wants to use American assets as his shield against an impending Chinese invasion or Chinese-funded rebellion from his own people. The Golden Path’s been mostly destroyed, but remnants still persist in small pockets across the country. If they were inclined enough, the Chinese could most definitely upgrade those menial numbers into an army capable of challenging the Kyrati Royal Guard.”
Stamper remarked, having seen through Min’s initial pleasantries and delectable foodstuffs to recognize the desperate situation the tyrant’s been forced into, and how the Americans would become pawns in the developing chessgame against Beijing.

“Oh, that’s obvious. Min’s using us as much as we’re using him. But it’s strategic to have an ally in the region, that’s undeniable. The Chinese Hegemony’s been making unprecedented ground recently. That trade agreement with Nazi Germany, their buddying up with Russia, my sources in London tell me even the British are considering a warming of ties with them.”

Stamper grimaced whilst clinking around mounds of ice within his chilled Scotch glass at the unfortunate news. England’s status as America’s traditional European ally already faltered after Washington’s seizure of Canada and violent uprooting of Briton authorities. Secretive organizations embedded into the annals of Capitol power had influenced such an outcome to initiate an era of Pax Americana, though such adventurism and boldness had sacrificed immense political capital. Both politicians stood upon opposite ends of an intricately designed wooden table depicting a wrathful lion’s visage upon its surface, a small platter of cured meats, noodle bowls, and bowls of seasoned lentil soup among other enjoyments. Secret Service members dotted every nook and cranny of this spacious abode, Sloan himself leaning against a cobblestone wall with the interest an ADHD-stricken child would in the weather channel.

“America cannot be diplomatically isolated. Especially not after that Arasaka business recently… the world smells weakness, Stamper. Now more than ever we ought to project power. Strength. Our image is just as important as the might behind it. Helping Kyrat ascend into a regional power is one of those ways. We’ll show the world America can decide the destinies of countries on mere whims, and they’d be wise not to try us.”

“Well there’s always the chance King Min turns on us the second a brighter opportunity’s afforded to him. That man doesn’t exactly exude trustworthiness.”
Stamper retorted to Logan’s bloviation.

“Oh, we’ll keep assurances around. Where do you think the Chinese learnt the tactic of regime changes? The Cold War was our military industrial complex playing around in new sandboxes, Doug. We’ve got at least twenty PMCs itching to test out new gear and weaponry, and we’re already embedded in three concurrent conflicts. Let Min become king of his own little kingdom, wielding around a stick bigger than he’s ever seen, so long as the stick never hits his masters.”

At that Sloan couldn’t contain his brash irritation any longer, chuckling sinisterly and instantly snapping both men’s attentions to him.

“If we’ve got such power, why bother with these games? We shouldn’t concede anything to this fool- threaten to burn everything he holds dear and be done with the damn thing.”

Logan sighed as Stamper seemingly ignored the statement and indulged further in Scotch.

“That’s a pretty sentiment, Colonel Sloan, but simply not realistic. We’re not playground bullies, we’re representatives of the greatest country on Earth. We act with more tact then you’re used to I’m sure, so I advise you let the grownups do the talking.”

That snide comment incensed Sloan into a rage of immediacy, stepping forward to personally wring out Charles’s slimy skull from that flabby skinsuit prison it stewed within, before three Secret Service strategically encircled about the soldier without him even realizing. Snarling viciously at Logan and silently promising vengeance for his presumptuous remarks, Sloan allowed the Secret Service to goad him back from any would-be scene of violence and destruction.

“… Now then, with that settled-“

Several reverberating quakes struck the fortress at once, Sloan instinctively entering survival mode.

“What- AGH! WHAT’S GOING ON!?”
Cried Stamper, a reverberation having sent him falling over and his Scotch glass haphazardly skittering onto the table, slaking countless snacks in alcoholic beverage as these assailments continued. Sloan, whose every organ and muscle and living inclination and faithful desire cried viciously and eagerly out for bloodshed and battle, found this sudden change in events more.

No, more than amusing. Joyous. Absolutely joyous. Finally, something of worth occurs in this miserable outing.

“We’re under attack, pretty boy, that’s what. RPG rounds were just fired at the damn castle!”

A follow-up series of gunfire and horrible screams unceremoniously quieted from downstairs confirmed those suspicions. Sloan couldn’t hope to wait, wreathing from his utilitarian side a plasmic pistol, his personalized customized A.J.M Nine, crackling with destructive energies and incinerating powers.

“Under attack… UNDER ATTACK!? We need to call the President right now, I-I-I- what is happening, I want a status update NOW! Oh God, I can’t believe this. I’m the Vice President of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! Do these fucking braindead morons know who they’re dealing with!?”
Charles sputtered out, fiending about with his coat pocket until he yielded a flip-phone and inputted Underwood’s cellular, only for deafening static to meet him audially in turn.

The enemy was jamming their communications. Logan’s heart sank, his pudgy face going pale subsequently.

“No… that can’t be… this phone’s encrypted. How did…”

The sounds of battle drew ever closer, as Stamper managed to retain his cool and calm, turning to Sloan with a more determined and calculating expression as Secret Service rushed to secure the room, proliferating upon every entrance and shouting a variety of codewords and commands to one another.

“Can you find out what’s going on?”

Sloan chortled at that inquiry.

“I can kill motherfuckers aplenty, if that’s what yer askin.”

“Good enough. Go buck wild, just capture one of those attackers alive and figure out what’s going on.”

Ike shrugged and toyed with his weapon a moment, as if contemplating whether to follow the command of this suited prick, before relenting, attracted by the idea of murdering people without being reprimanded for it. The war-hungry muscleman left the lobby room, dashing down a spiral staircase dotted by fixations of Kyrati culture, primarily memorabilia manifesting as overhanging statues and prestigious portraits and miniature golden idols of Pagan Min himself, though all these intrigues were ignored by the cultureless Sloan, only interested in the simplistic bloodiness of combat and death. Also slinged over the murderous general’s back was a Fazertron Assault Rifle, courtesy of Fazbear Entertainment’s weapons production branch. Yes indeed, David Yates had taken the company into magical new realms shortly after Afton’s departure, and breaking into the arms manufacturing department was one such expansion.

His AJM Handy, Sloan leapt eagerly into the main courtyard of the Royal Palace, where damnation awaited. Kyrati Royal Guards clad in Kevlar bodysuits and brandishing AK-47s, M16s, Benelli Shotguns and much more contested against an encroaching legion of unyielding invaders, donning dehumanizing army fatigues, their faces concealed behind helmets and goggles meant to shield their eyes from haphazard splays of shrapnel and rogue gunfire. These attackers outclassed the defenders gravely, having a superior knowledge of tactical dispersion despite the Royal Guard being native to this sector of land. If these dire circumstances weren’t enough, it appeared these assailants were accompanied by a force incalculably ferocious and terrifying.

Sweltering scores of semi-humanoid bioweapons, leonine carvings of grisly flesh and gore malformed into singular entities by wicked geneticists and amoral laboratories, evoking scenes of horror movie mania and psychological horror into their opponents stampeded alongside their more coordinated partners, some outstretching with thick, meaty tentacles which wrapped around unfortunate Kyratis, strangling the lucky ones and slowly ripping apart the unlucky. The worst off were hinged back to these awaiting monstrosities, their jaws creased open with salivating, predatory glee as they crunched down upon their enemies, slick pops and crunches following as their bodies were ground into digestible meat-sludges.

Suffice to say, things were bad. And Sloan loved every second.

“FUCKING AMAZING, HAHAHA! YOU BOYS REALLY BROUGHT OUT ALL THE STOPS FOR LITTLE OLD ME!? WHY THANK YOU KINDLY!”

Angling his AJM forward, he quickly sheared the head off an attacker with a single plasmic shot that eviscerated the man’s head into a volcanic eruption of sizzling gore and splattered brain as the steaming, headless cadaver collapsed onto the ground, twitching and writhing impotently at its unjust fate. Another two whom passed the ancient gate into the Royal Palace’s courtyard grounds swung their rifles around to confront Sloan, though were met with equally degrading destinies as consecutive plasma shots blasted through their throats. Even as they were collapsing and not fully perished yet, still grasping worthlessly at their seeping wounds, Sloan charged forward, his cybernetic enchantments and drug concoctions meant to dull the senses and skyrocket aggression allowed him to remain undaunted at these sickening bioweapons, not that he’d fear them even if bodily unaltered. One bioweapon, a former human now completely emulsified in mounds of spherical, greasy, yellowed tissue unleashed a wettened tentacle at Sloan. In response, Ike athletically dodged the attack, waylaying a series of plasma pistol fire onto the unholy being before taking shelter behind a half-destroyed statue of Pagan Min.

“Brought nightmare fuckers, have they!? Hahaha, that’s fine. I’m the real godamn nightmare. ME! Now for a way to conveniently kill that fucking thing…”
Sloan visually scanned the hectic area, also noticing several fires alight around the Kyrati capital below. This search brought success, Sloan identifying a Kyrati Flametrooper lying dead, clutched within his cold, gloved hands his instrument of choice. Ike flashed a giddy grin, dashing from cover just as tentacles enveloped whatever remained of the noble statue with destructive prowess.

The Colonel was quicker, able to outrun and outwit each spearheading of the tentacles as they failed to skewer him. Leaping across the formerly well-trimmed and well-kept grass and potted plants and garden expanses, Ike reached his destination and snatched up the flamethrower device from the fallen soldier and setting aside his pistol. When the bioweapon slewed another vassalage of tentacles at Sloan, he was beyond prepared, squeezing the trigger and releasing a coordinated burst of flame cascading upon the grimy infestation. Sudden were his work’s effects, the licks of flame catching onto the tentacled appendages and causing the aberrance to shriek with unbelievable pain as it lurched back. Sloan wasted no time, advancing and setting further fire onto the wretched beast until a score of flame ensconced the vile beast, crackling until it mercifully perished after letting out a final haunting death rattle.

Sloan then angled his flamethrower forth, the attackers and their bioweapon compatriots couldn’t prevent him from sizzling many of their fanatical number with God’s all-purifying tool of civilization and desolation. Many foes were engulfed by fire’s searing purity and crumpled instantly, others taking their sweet time dying as they tried fruitlessly to pat out their ailment of being crisped into oblivion. The bioweapons animalistically thrashed about and crashed into the stone walls surrounding the Palace compound, though spat out blood and perished nonetheless. Even with these automatic assistances, Sloan was breathing heavily, the natural adrenaline garnered from battle coursing through his veins more than any artificial enhancement ever could. His actions garnered the cheering respect of the nearby Royal Guard forces, some moving to pat him on the back and thanking him in their native language, an offshoot of Indian Hindi…

And that’s right when a reptilian claw streaked across Sloan’s metallic jaw. A sheen of sparks flew past as Ike had leapt back in the nick of time, though to an unfortunate sight. The remaining invaders and bioweapons had scoured around a pack of four snarling lizard humanoids, and Sloan recognized them- Umbrella Corporation’s devastating ‘Hunter’ models, particularly useful for terminating pockets of dug-in enemy resistance. Their skin was scaly and reinforced, their keratin claws capable of slashing through even dense alloys and metals, and their intents hyper-focused on slaughter. If they weren’t so damn troublesome, Sloan would’ve adored these creatures.

“What the fucking shit have we here, huh? You boys wanna play God? Come on then, let’s play God. I ain’t afraid of you lizard commie shitbags. Come at me. COME AT MEEEEEE!!!!”

As the monstrosities approached, Sloan attempted to waylay them with fire, but the rudimentary flamethrower he’d been liberally using had expired its use, releasing nothing but the pitiable sputtering of fetid gasoline. Callously tossing aside the expired tool and knowing his pistol would be a peashooter to these fiends, he unslung the Fazertron rifle and tucked it close whilst his right metallic forearm popped out a Cuban cigar, which he quickly lit by angling the weapon upwards and firing a precise plasmic heat-beam that sizzled alight the stogie, landing and fastening conveniently in his half-metal maw.

The Hunters careened forward, their claws abreast and ready for bisecting and vivisecting. Sloan could barely match their insidiously fast movements, avoiding certain death at countless terminuses and suffering flesh wounds at others, his cybernetic left eye glimmering a bright purple and attempting to calculate the best methodical approach against these villainous beasts. Spurts of blood were yielded and matted now Sloan’s shirt and combat pants, yet still he fought on, avoiding another slice from behind and turning around, coating the ferocious predator in enough plasma heat-beams to bring down a barnyard. The creature howled with indecent pain and misery as its body was pockmarked with these seething death-bolts and its body was pierced like Swiss Cheese, its natural defensive scales unable to withstand such concentrated fire. It faltered and fell atop a small hill of other enemy and aligned Kyrati corpses, though three more remained, all determined to slay Sloan uncaring of their brethren’s demise.

Yet Sloan’s efforts weren’t wholly in vain- as him slaying one of the Hunters surged morale among the embattled Palace Guards, who roared a battlecry between them and charged forth to protect and assist Ike and drive these unseemly invaders from their mountain. Another Hunter leapt forth and bisected five more Royal Guards with its claws before being pelted on all sides by voracious bullet-fire, unable to cope and collapsing subsequently. The next Hunter risked a frontal attack on Sloan as the Kyratis engaged in battle with the other attackers around them, its keratin claws smashing the Fazertron from Ike’s hands.

“YOU GODAMN SUNOFABITCH!”

Clenching his mouth so as not to lose his Cigar, Ike thrust his Bionic left arm into the abysmal entity’s mouth, angling for a swift punch. Yes, his first instinct upon losing his weapon was punching the devilish lizard monster in its fucking face. And it worked.

A splintering of teeth followed as the beast yelped and staggered back, but Sloan wasn’t done, waylaying more punches, though these were weaker given the enemy’s toughened, roughened scaly protection. Worse still, the other surviving Hunter had purposefully avoided the thick of combat and landed behind Sloan, and now both creatures were conspiring to make this roguish masculine military colonel their next meal. Ike stepped back and took another huff of his Cuban before spitting it out and raising his fists, breathing heavily and slaked in blood and viscera both his and his foes’.

“I ain’t fuckin’ done. Come on then, you want a piece of Colonel Ike Sloan!? Good! GOOD! GIVE IT A TRY YOU FUCKING MAGGOT PIECES OF SHIT!”

The Hunter in front accepted the challenge, though a rocket-propelled grenade streaked directly into it, exploding the bestial slaughterer on-contact into a parade of sloshing cruor. Its comrade was momentarily taken aback, and Ike seized the opportunity- stomping onto the ground and therefore leering the Fazertron midair, to which he grabbed the artifice of death and coated the beast in slews of plasmic fire, bringing down the unholy bioweapon at last. Around him the invaders were being routed, shouts and cheers once again emanating throughout the beleaguered defending force.