Warhammer : Machinist and The Exile

For eight relentless hours, Branek's platoon pushed deeper into the fortress, navigating the twisted maze of scorched bulkheads and blood-slicked corridors.

Every intersection, every blind turn reeked of death and sorcery.

The vox-channels crackled endlessly with situation reports from other Exile units platoons overrun, firefight with chaos forces, sections secured.

[Attention all unit: Battalion One reformed at marker Theta-21. Shield integrity of blackstone fortress now at 22.7%. Expect structural instability at any moment.] division wide vox enter their receivers.

Branek's HUD confirmed it with a pulsing red icon on the map overlay. The fortress itself was beginning to feel it. Each hour, the walls shuddered with distant impacts from orbital bombardments and prow-mounted batteries of the invading fleet.

The platoon's movement was deliberate, cautious.

Every bulkhead sealed behind them. Cover positions checked, sectors cleared by fire.

Khor had them moving in staggered overwatch formation, with soldie posted at every intersection, and Narek covering the rear with the missile tube slung on his back.

Even disciplined caution wasn't enough. A concealed charge, crudely rigged but effective, detonated in a side alcove.

"Contact! Contact right! Breach charge!"

The blast sheared Trooper Jora in half and took Hassan's left arm at the elbow. Blood sprayed across the decking, spattering void-black armor.

"Medic, front!" Khor barked.

The platoon combat medic moved in instantly, auto-suture kits hissing as the bleeding was clamped. Hassan gritted his teeth, face pale but conscious.

"Severed at joint. Hemorrhage contained. Stimulants administered," the medic voxed coldly.

Khor didn't need to issue the next order, one of the rear guard already slung Hassan over a shoulder. They didn't leave men behind. The dead would remain, their tags transmitted, but no living soldier was abandoned in this hell.

Khor himself takes over the job as a sharpshooter.

Narek, grim-faced watches with the missile launcher on his back and hardwired to his HUD systems.

They moved on. Time, to Branek, was measured in deaths.

In a ruined passageway ahead, makeshift barricades rose across the corridor — slabs of scavenged armor plate, reinforced cargo pods, lasgun turrets trained downrange.

A Chimera's turret swiveled toward them, main multilas rotates as a warning.

Their vox caster barking a warning as vox-channel permissions negotiated.

Branek raised a fist and transmitted their identification codes on an encrypted Exile battalion frequency.

[ID confirmed. Stand down, friendly.]

Weapons lowered. A platoon-sized holdout waved them through.

The chamber beyond was massive — a hangar-like space partially converted into a forward staging ground. Leman Russ battle tanks loomed, hulls smeared with ash and blood.

Chimeras in defensive rings, squads of void-armored infantry manning gun nests. Ammo crates. Mobile medicae tents. The scent of promethium and field rations thick in the air.

Branek wasted no time. He moved directly for the command group — vox-officers clustered around a hololith table where a pale blue tactical display flickered.

"Captain Vossen," Branek voxed sharply, saluting his company captain.

"Lieutenant Branek. Report." The captain nods.

"Branek Platoon, twenty-four effectives. Five KIA. One critical." Branek gestured to Hassan who is being taken to medic tent.

"Good. Major Halvra wants a consolidated status report." Vossen said as he leads the lieutenat. "Come."

They crossed the chamber to a steel dais where Major Halvra stood. Black hair loose around her shoulders, pale complexion streaked with ash and blood, eyes sharp.

The Machinist bred its geneclone soldiers for more than combat. poise, intimidation, and authority in both war and diplomacy.

Halvra's beauty was striking as men would turns head.

Amongst the Exiles however, it meant a little beyond their standard.

"Lieutenant Branek," she addressed, voice steady. "Your status."

Branek rattled off the numbers, mission markers, ammunition reports, and casualties. Halvra absorbed it all without expression, then turned to the battalion holomap — a vast photorealistic rendering of the fortress sector.

Units tracked in real time, indicators showing enemy concentrations, structural damage zones, and ongoing fire-missions.

At her gesture, field kitchens dispensed nutrient packs and rationed stim injectors.

Medics moved through the ranks, dressing wounds, topping off bio-monitor relays. Mobile latrines and vox-stations were set along a perimeter ring.

Branek crouched beside a burnt-out servitor hulk, swallowing ration paste, eyes still on his HUD.

It wasn't rest. Not in this place.

.....

Branek jolted upright, heart hammering in his chest.

Darkness. A suffocating, endless void.

His HUD was dead. No vox signals, no auspex. No weapon in reach.

He was alone.

No — not alone.

Figures emerged from the gloom. Five shapes, armored, helms removed. Familiar faces.

Marnen. Hadrak. Riev. Tolsen. Jora.

Standing before him.

Branek's hand shot to his belt for a weapon he didn't have. Reflex. Muscle memory. His eyes narrowed.

'Daemon trickery. No other explanation.'

"You're dead," Branek growled, voice a low rasp. "You died back in the chamber. I saw it."

Hadrak took a step forward, palm raised. "Sir, we mean no harm—"

"Lies." Branek bared his teeth, every nerve alight. "I've heard daemons wear the faces of the dead. I'll burn you from the void myself."

Jora's voice came soft, steady. "Sir… listen. Please."

Branek braced in a fighting stance, feet shifting, eyes scanning the darkness for a weapon, an opening, anything. "Speak, abomination. I'll hear your venom before I gut you."

Hadrak gave a slow nod. "When we fell, our souls were claimed by the warp. The daemons came, as they always do. But we were… pulled from them. Saved."

Branek's stare didn't waver. "By what?"

"Not what. Who," Narek stepped forward, his face weary but resolute. "Two beings. Giants. One cloaked in light, his face noble wings upon his back. The other, headless, wreathed in fire, wrath incarnate. His hand is made of metal."

A cold dread coiled in Branek's gut. The descriptions matched the ancient dossier images. Sanguinius. Ferrus Manus.

"Go on," Branek ordered, his voice like iron.

"The angel — Sanguinius — offered us sanctuary. A haven in the warp. A fortress of calm and order, cut from the madness. The other, Ferrus, marches in fury, striking at chaos where it festers," Narek continued. "He left to fight. Sanguinius welcomed us in."

Branek didn't lower his guard. "And why should I believe this isn't some daemon masquerade?"

"Because it's real," Jora spoke, voice low. "We saw others, sir. Agya from First Battalion. Sophia from our own. Shinobi operatives. Even fallen Imperial Guard. All gathered under their banner, free from torment."

Branek's gaze narrowed, the war between disbelief and duty raging in his skull.

"And this angel spoke of mankind?" he demanded.

"He did," Narek confirmed. "He knows of the Machinist from his vision. Of our kind. Said it mattered not to him if we are people of the imperium or not, so long as mankind rises against the dark."

Silence hung in the void.

At last, Branek straightened slightly. His voice dropped to a cold murmur.

"Then why come to me?"

Hadrak met his gaze. "Because there will be a moment, sir. Soon. A breach in this fortress. Chaos will surge and you'll stand at the threshold. We were sent to warn you. Hold fast. Don't falter. Reinforcements will come."

Branek's fists clenched.

"I'll decide if this is a lie or omen when that moment comes," he growled. "But you speak of Primarchs."

A soft glow flared in the darkness. A figure stepped from it a tall, beautiful, radiant. White wings folded against his back, face as sorrowful as it was kind. The aura of command was unmistakable.

Sanguinius.

"Lieutenant Branek," the primarch's voice was like a calm storm, powerful yet gentle. "Your men speak true."

Branek stiffened, staring. Every instinct screamed at him that this was impossible. And yet… in the warp, impossibility was a petty thing.

"Say your piece, ghost," Branek said looking up at the towering figure.

Sanguinius inclined his head. "When Horus betrayed us, and my father faced him, the Immaterium itself raged. The Ruinous Powers sought to claim the souls of my brothers and I. Even as I fell, my father by sheer psychic might and sacrifice tore us from their grasp."

"I thought your souls were lost."

Sanguinius smiled faintly. "For a time, we were scattered. Ferrus's rage forged him into a vengeance incarnate within the warp, a destroyer of daemonic enclaves. I carved sanctuaries where order clung to life. Small, fragile bastions."

His gaze met Branek's.

"The galaxy still has defenders, Lieutenant. Not all of us wear the Aquila, but all fight for mankind's survival."

"And why appear now?" Branek demanded.

"Because a breach is coming. You and your men will stand where the line is thinnest. Chaos will surge. Hold fast. Know that you are not alone. My brother and I have not forgotten the sons of men."

Silence stretched.

At last, Sanguinius spoke again, softer.

"Your Machinist Exiles have preserved knowledge others squandered. That alone gives you worth. Know this — when the final reckoning comes. Only survival matters."

Branek swallowed hard.

"I'll believe your words when I see blood on the deck, and I live to see it."

Sanguinius gave a last, mournful nod.

"Then fight well, Lieutenant."

And with that, the primach and the five men vanished into light.