Black Feather Down: A Void Vulture Story

Deep below the surface, in a land that is beneath the underdark, a land that can only be known as the grave, there is no sun, there is no light.

The choking tunnels that spiderweb beneath the hives were deprived of the pleasure of sunlight on the best of days, but they had become strangled with fog and silence. This malevolent mist was full of foul and caustic chemicals, the byproduct of vast industries left unmaintained to spill, as a cruel mockery of nature, into the deepest recess of the artificial mountain. Between the darkness, the smothering fog, and the bitter cold, no human thing could tread here.

And no human thing did.

Soft bursts of flame dispelled the blinding clouds, which would clamp back in almost immediately, as seven great, armored figures strode into the dark tunnel, their presence only signaled by the heavy footfalls of metal boots on metal floor.

Sergeant Atreides Kull could only see a few meters in front of him, the green of his internal visor struggling against the thick fog. The auspex in his armor was powerful, and normally a lack of light was a little matter to him, but something about the fog itself, some matter of its composition, seemed to scatter his senses, leaving him strolling virtually blind. In such situations, he might compensate with his acute hearing, but the way the sound rang off and through the innumerable pipes only seemed to create auditory shadows in the vast dark.

“Check in.” Sergeant Atreides called out, looking to the left and the right. Normally such regular call outs were not standard procedure, but with the nature of their environment, it was prudent to be cautious.

“Brother Kaon, check.”

“Brother Oras, check.”

Atreides could make out the two Heavy Bolter armed marines to either side of him, resplendent in their black and white armor, the gold highlights still flickering even in the non-existent light. They were his brothers in arms, Void Vultures. Even among the Astartes, the Void Vultures were particularly committed to a sense of fraternity; he would be proud to die alongside these men, or to die for them.

“Brother Gerinos, check”

“Brother Xitan, Check.”

Beyond them to the flanks were the next too, invisible to Atreides, save for the soft flicker of their flamers. It was a particularly Vulture way of fighting, heavy bolters and flamers. Pounding fire, searing flames, Sergeant Atreides would swear by the combination, and it had saw him through a hundred encounters.

“Brother Jonah, check.”

“Brother Solas, check.”

The last two of the seven-man squad, less than they might usually run, but you worked with the marines you had. Jonah up front, Solas in back, bolters in hand, the vanguard and the rearguard. He himself was in the middle, commanding their movements. Sergeant Atreides held his bolt pistol out front, tracking non-existent targets, the powerfield on the blade of his halberd crackling sparks along the ground, held in a low stance.

“Eyes open. We have brothers in need.” The Astartes present knew their mission in and out, but it was a reminder not of their tactical goal, but of the importance of it. The Void Vultures had responded not to a distress call, but rather the lack of such response; a hive world such as Ullavan Primus would normally send out messages on a regular, continuous basis, so when that communication stopped, it was subject of some alarm.

The first time this happened, it had taken a transport vessel, reporting back a world devoid of life. As had the second…but by the third world that had gone silent, the Void Vultures had responded immediately, hoping to catch the source of this strange disappearance of human souls, this paradoxical emptying of worlds.

Marines would be deployed to major areas, while scouts would investigate corners and holes, looking for something, anything, that might suggest what had happened to those present.

So when scout squad Elantrus failed to report…it was a sign of something.

But Sergeant Atreides couldn’t feel more vulnerable. The fog choked all vision, and so while he advanced slowly, following the last known location of the scouts, he could glean nothing more than empty halls and choking fog.

But worse of all were the sounds.

Little things, scratches, creaks, moans…things he assumed were little more than the settling hive around him, but each tickle at the corner of his senses brought the bolt pistol pointing, waiting to make out some hidden assailant in the dark…but there was nothing there.

“Contact!” Brother Jonah called out, and all seven marines snapped to attention. There was a flurry of movement, as they charged forward, weapons barred converging on the point-marine’s position. Mist gave way to the sight of a marine kneeled down, staring at an object on the ground in front of him.

“Report, brother.” Sergeant Atreides instructed, panning the area for contacts, for what good it did; he could barely see anything at all, save the metal walls of this chthonic tunnel and the blackening fog filling it. Brother Jonah did not respond, at least not with words. He turned, lifting something up off the ground, as to show it to his sergeant.

“it seems we’ve found our missing scouts.”

Held in his hand was an arm, severed at the shoulder by something rough and violent. Held vise-tight in its grip was a combat knife, suggesting the owner was prepared for a fight. The shoulder pad remained attached, black with the symbols of the Void Vultures 10th company; one of their scouts after all it would seem. Atreides swore silently, gripping his weapons tighter; he had not had faith, to be honest, that they would find their brothers alive, and this seemed to only confirm that aching suspicion.

“Any other remains?”

“No sergeant. No blood, no signs of struggle…”

Atreides lowered down, examining the floor. From standing, he couldn’t make out where he was walking, and it’s now that he noticed the thick layer of dust that seemed to settle over everything; no doubt how Jonah had been tracking the scouts’ steps. A quick glance, and he could make out his own footfalls, passing into the darkness behind, and with it, the separate steps of the scouts they were tracking. Jonah was right; there was no sign of anything. The footfalls proceeded, in standard formation and then…stopped. Some repositioning, some shuffling…but no blood, no bodies…nothing but a single severed arm.

“How should we proceed, Sergeant?”

Atreides ran his fingers across the floor, drawing a line in the thick dust. The trail ended here. Reason said to end it here, fall back. Contact with command, and return with greater force; this was the realm of terminator veterans, not an understrength squad. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t give that order. To leave a brother to this hell, even if there was a possibility of saving them…it offended him, violated the very essence of what made him a Void Vulture. Even if it cost him his life…he would not stop, Death From the Skies, he would see it through.

“We continue onward.” Atreides stood up straight, tightening his grip on the power halberd. “We will not leave here without our brothers, one way or another.”

“…Sergeant Atreides.” Came a quiet voice over comms, one he knew immediately. Brother Oras was not one to speak up, a subtle, albeit deadly warrior. If he would chose to speak, it was for good reason.

“Yes, brother?”

“…where is Brother Solas?”

Panic briefly grasped Atreides, as he spun, marching to the back of his squad, weapon raised. He reached the point that Solas would have waited, weapon panning through the fog, but nothing.

“Brother Solas, check in.” He called into open comms, then waited. “Brother Solas, report!”

Nothing.

Gritting his teeth, Atreides waited, scanning the dark for anything, an answer, but there was none to give; one of his battle brothers was missing, and he had no idea how.

Atreides waited, a full minute, his fellow brothers’ weapons on guard as they scanned their environment, but nothing came, nothing happened, and Solas did not reappear. Soon, as the seconds passed, Atreides’ bolt pistol was shaking in rage as he scanned the invisible dark.

“We proceed.” He said at last. “And look for signs of our lost brothers.”

There was no protest; not a one of them would leave the other behind, even at the risk of their own life. The squad took a minute, scouring the area for any clues, any sign of the struggle that had occurred, but there was nothing, no indication at all at what could have happened. Nothing to it then; deeper into the dark they must go.

Atreides led now, taking point, guiding his squad into the dark. There was no path to follow, no footsteps to lead them; it was only a dark, endless tunnel. Further, and further, they descended into the abyss, the dank metal walls of the tunnels slowly closing in, a tightening vice of shadow and claustrophobia, the only sound the repeated metal footfalls and the angry growls of rebreathers. For a minute, Atreides wondered if the tightening passage was merely a trick of the mind, a fool on his sensors as he got deeper into the tunnels. But the more it went, the more proof he had; the world really was closing in on him and his squad, and each step they took, the farther they would be from help.

They were alone. Without support, without cover, without help. They were trapped in the silent dark.

The tunnel collapsed further, tightening as it went deeper into the world, and it became immediately apparent that this was not natural phenomenon; there were no side passages, no escape hatches or emergency outlets. Even soon, the ubiquitous piping that seemed to go everywhere and anywhere, like the veins of a great beast, soon converged into a single, cohesive line, as if everything, the very soul of the world itself, was coming together into a single point. If there was any solace to this strange architectural phenomenon, it was that it forced the squad to close ranks, pressing in tighter; no one else would be lost now, not without being noticed.

When the tunnel came to its terminus, a passageway from the tunnel behind, to an open space beyond, it was greeted with a strange mix of apprehension and joy. On one hand, freedom from this entrapping hallway was like a breath of fresh air. On the other, there was the truth that everything, the vanishings, the strange tunnels, converged on this point. A strange wave of foreboding passed over the gathered marines, and for a moment they paused. Every sense, instinct, told them to turn back, to run, to burn this place from orbit; evil was within, lethal and malevolent, and would not tolerate their presence.

But these were Astartes, and they shall know no fear.

The moment of pause passed, and the marines marched forward, heavy footfalls as they entered a vast, seemingly empty space. The range of their senses was choked again by the thick fog, but there were no walls now, and the sound seemed to pass on into infinity. The more they walked, the more things remained the same; emptiness, darkness…silence.

“Contact.” It was Sergeant Atreides who called it now, strange, black figures appearing at the edge of his senses. The squad closed ranks, weapons held high, pointed forward…but these figures did not move. Slowly, he advanced, step by step, his marines moving in perfect unison behind him, as the figures took shape. They were not beings, but things, great black obelisks that rose into the air. Each was three times the height of a marine, and Atreides felt a strange pain and pressure on his mind as he looked at them. Sigils were etched along the length, sigils that seemed that seemed to twist and squirm and change each time he looked away. The room was, as always, silent, but there was a pressure, a drumming background thrum, inaudible yet ever present.

“What are they?” Brother Koan asked as the squad approached, craning his head upwards to take in the strange, sorcerous structures.

“It does not matter.” Atreides responded, moving closer still. As the fog gave way, he could make out eight… no nine such obelisks, each suspended a foot or so above a small mound, elevated above the metal plain around them.

“They are of sorcerous nature, and we will not tolerate their existence. Brother Jonah.”

“Sir.”

“Gather krak and melta grenades from the squad, and plant them at the base of these structures; we will see them demolished.”

“I would imagine the Inquisition would want to collect these strange things.”

“The Inquisition will have to settle for the dust and rubble. Get to work.”

There was no further conversation. The Squad gathered around, weapons facing outward in a protective formation as Jonah went to work, collecting the explosives. Soon enough he was planting makeshift demolition charges at the base of each obelisk; enough force to level a building. If this did not fell such dark things, then there was nothing else they could do.

As the plan unfolded, Sergeant Atreides stared at the strange structures, following along from base to the top. There was something alluring about them, not fascinating or engaging but…curious. It triggered a drive within him, a need to know, a need to have questions answered. He stepped closer, rising up onto the small mound, raising his hand as if to touch the stone. There were secrets here, truths, held deep within. He could find, in these stones, the answers he had sought. They could teach him, what happened to his brothers, what happened to these worlds, the nature of the things that stalked them. He could solve it all, find the truths, get what he wanted.

If only he just touched the stone.

It was a whisper, a voice that spoke as if in the very back of his mind that broke him from the reverie, a voice of temptation that begged him to surrender to the temptation, and reach out, touching the stone. But the voice was a liar, and it had been too vigorous in its deception. Atreides clenched his fist tight, spinning to stare behind him, but there was nothing, no voice to speak to him. He could see his squad, positioned as he left them, guns out, prepared for anything.

But something was wrong.

Atreides couldn’t explain it, like an alarm, a panic, something had happened…something was coming.

There was a tug at his boot, and he looked down, staring at the mound that sat at the base of the obelisks. What he had thought to be earth piled up was nothing of the sort; writhing flesh twisted at his feet, undeniably the bodies of hundreds of once loyal citizens of the emperor, now melted together into a single, corrupted flesh mound, with eyes, hands, and mouths just visible through the dark. Tendrils had risen quietly from the mound, grasping tight at his feet, as if to slowly draw him into the mass. Atreides responded swiftly, filled with disgust; a singular strike from his halberd severed the tentacles, as that pressure on his mind exploded, like the cry of a pained beast, as panic swelled within the sergeant.

“BROTHER JONAH, REPORT.” He called into the comms and shouted into the air. He didn’t know why he called out, but he knew, somehow, that the attack had begun. Without waiting for a response that he somehow knew wasn’t coming, Atreides charged into the center of the massed Obelisks, fighting off the growing migraine on his mind, searching for his brother. He saw him soon enough, kneeled over in the act and motion of planting one of those charges, and for a moment Atreides felt a wash of relief. The portents were lies, deceptions.

“Brother Jonah, check your comms, they appear to be offline.” The Sergeant stepped forward, placing his hand on the shoulder plate of Jonah, as the body of the marine fell back, landing at his feet. Atreides had but a moment to examine the corpse, before the flesh tendrils rose up, beginning to drag it down into the mass; Jonah’s face was gone, a hole of blood and gore excavated where it had once been, so deep that he could see the back of the marine’s helmet through the front plate. It had been violent, and it had been instantaneous.

Sergeant Atreides didn’t have time to mourn the loss of a brother, the loss of a friend. It wasn’t just the pressure on his mind, that profound sense of foreboding…there was movement in the mists, subtle shapes and sounds; the sergeant’s senses were honed from decades of war across dozens of worlds and hundreds of battlefields, instincts refined in constant battle. He had come to trust these instincts even beyond that of his own equipment, and in that moment, every instinct he had fostered screamed to him of coming danger.

“Squad, close ranks!” He ordered, storming back as the four remaining marines fell upon him, weapons turned outward. His squad that was once ten was now five…and he hoped for the Emperor’s mercy that they may return alive with that many.

For a moment there was nothing, Atreides panning his bolter back and forth, alongside the Astartes that stood beside him, and for a moment, he wondered if it had been a ruse, another lie from the black obelisks…and then he saw it.

It appeared, at first, as a man, at least the shape of one, walking or perhaps floating out of the mists, moving towards him. The Vulture expected at any moment to see a beleaguered hive citizen stumbling forth, but it was not to be. Gradually that shape took form, and the brief visage of humanity melted away. Two arms, and two legs, were joined by three, four, then six and more, all moving in a menacingly hypnotic pattern, until at last the vast, strangely muscled body of a thick, mutated beast was visible. Somehow most disconcertingly, for all its great, floating corpus, was that it terminated in a single, discomfortingly human head, only made the creature more reviling, more offensive to the senses.

“CHAOS SPAWN!” No order need be given, as Brother Koan called out, bolters and flamers turning immediately to face the new threat. The beast made no sound, the only indication of its insane acceleration was the puff of mist that flushed away from it, charging forward with blinding speed in complete silence with the strength to tear a marine limb from limb.

But the Void Vultures were not found wanting.

Not a moment after the creature was identified, two heavy bolters opened up, sending forth a hail of destructive death. Atreides couldn’t help but feel a flush of pride as he watched the pair of heavy weapons tear and chew into the creature’s maligned flesh, watching its face twist in silence screams. No matter how accurate, bolter rounds would not have stopped the monster, but the heavier bolts had sufficient force to punch through mutated flesh and explode vast chunks of its body; any other squad would have died, but here, the Void Vultures thrived.

What twisted biology and sorcerous powers animating the creature allowed it to survive the assault, even as its body was sloughed apart from the staccato blows of heavy bolter rounds. It was, appropriately, the purging fire of the two remaining marines that would kill the beast. Paired gouts of flame, the nozzles narrowed for higher pressure and higher temperature, smashed into the beast as soon as it was in range. Had it had its protective outer skin it might have survived, but with so much of its flesh destroyed, the intense heat boiled and scoured the creature’s insides, until the fluids and blood boiled and the chaos spawn popped like an overstuffed tick, scattering chunks of mutated flesh around the room.

Atreides couldn’t help but notice, for a moment, that the intense concentration of heat and fire from the paired flamers, along with the unholy explosion of the chaos spawn, had for a moment, cleared the air around him, illuminating for a brief isntant the great room they resided. He could not make out the full size of it, as it must have extended thousands of meters in each direction; no roof, nor wall, even from the direction they had just came, which should have been no more than a hundred meters or so from their current position. It was if they stood in the center of a vast plain, descending into infinity in every direction.

More disturbing however, were the bodies, suspended in the air. Or at least, Atreides hoped they were bodies.

There were thousands of them, tens of thousands, visible off in every direction, floating in the air as drowned corpses do in water, some laid out flat, others up straight as if hanged by an invisible rope. They were all motionless, still, silent, dead. Hopefully dead.

The darkness collapsed back in as the violent action rescinded, the world returning to its narrow, oppressive scope. But there would be no respite, no chance to ponder or plan, as more shapes appeared, floating there as twisted bodies emerged before surging forth, charging at the five survivors. Two, then three, then four…there was no knowing how many, only that they must fight to survive.

Astartes know no fear, and even in the presence of such horrific monsters, they stood their ground and fought. With perfect unison, the heavy bolters met their targets together, tearing it away with repeated precision shots from the great weapons, while the flamers turned their nozzles wide, creating a halo of burning death to deter the multitude of attackers. But the creatures were swift and resilient, many passing through the wall of bolt and flame, moving with silent lethality.

And Atreides was there to meet them.

Shifting his Power Halberd into two hands, he caught the first creature with a swift over head chop, using the leverage of the long pole with the power of the axe head to slice the creature nearly in half, the mighty powerfield straining as it churned through corrupted flesh, leaving the creature to fall to the ground, writing in unlife, thankfully defeated. Atreides had no time to ponder the beast, moving immediately to intercept a second. The reach of his weapon was critical, giving him a chance to strike and cut before the grasping arms – hands covered in biting teeth and mouths – could reach him. A second one died, dragged to the ground, chopped to pieces. Then a third, its head hacked off, only for two more to grow, only to be hacked off along with, a process repeated until the ground was covered in severed heads and the body had no more flesh to give.

“We are not winning, sergeant!” Brother Koan called out, exertion in his voice. Atreides could see him out of the corner of his eye, heavy bolter blasting away, the barrel red hot. He had been injured, a chunk of his side and leg missing, but he fought on, blasting away into the darkness. He was not wrong; the bodies pilled up, destroyed with much effort, but more seemed to come forth, an endless tide of evil.

“Running low on ammunition!” Brother Oras called out after, and not without good reason; the backpack ammunition packs contained hundreds of rounds, but they had been firing constantly into the dark, a growing pile of corpses surrounding them, and they could not keep this pace up forever.

Atreides had to think. It was a miraculous feat of their gene-engineering that he could even do so, considering options and calculating strategies even as his halberd sang, slicing through spawn after spawn. Could they retreat? Unlikely. Even if space here cooperated as they hoped, it was still several hundred meters through enemies to the tunnel, and no guarantee they would not be pursued in further. Stand their ground? They could take many, many of these beasts with, but it was not their way to give lives so simply. It would seem they would die here…but if so, they would die doing something of purpose.

A scream and a flash of fire caught the sergeant’s attention, as he turned to watch Brother Gerinos be dragged to the ground, stabbing and fighting as his body was torn apart, moments before the promethium cans he carried detonated in a brilliant conflagration. For a moment, the chaos spawn reeled, reflected by the heat and light. Gerinos’ death bought them time, however brief, but it was time he would use.

“Brothers, to me!” Atreides cried, turning and sprinting back into the obelisks. “I need cover, for but a moment!”

There was only so much they could do that they weren’t already doing, but what they could do, they did with ferocious abandon. Heavy bolters flared and flamers roared, as Atreides looked to what remained of Brother Jonah’s work. The Vulture had been thorough, explosives set at the base of each obelisk save one, most already sinking in to the fleshy mass beneath with only one remaining untrapped.

“Brother Xitan!” He called out. “I have need of a fuel cannister!”

“Only one remains, Brother sergeant!” Came the reply. Atreides did not hesitate, tossing his halberd to the flamer marine, who tossed the last canister back. Xitan was a dutiful marine, but did not have his skill with blade; he would fight hard, but would not last long. Not that it mattered.

Wasting no time, he slammed the remaining explosives, along with the fresh cannister, at the base of the last obelisk. The pressure on his mind was overwhelming, his vision fogging as he slowly went blind in one eye. He could hear voices, starting as a scratching whisper and rising to a silent shout that only added to the intense migraine he was experiencing.

It would be over soon, one way or another.

His hand moved quickly to the detonator at his waist, raising it up, staring at it. If he pushed that button, it would be the end of him, and his squad, and for that he paused. But his conviction won through; if he and his men were to die, they would die destroying this horrific place, a noble end for him and his marines. He moved his thumb, and pressed the activation rune.

Or at least, he thought he did.

It took him a moment to realize that he had no arm, or least, he had had an arm, gouts of blood briefly dripping from the stump at his side before his astartes physiology clamped the bleeding shut. He turned to address the offender, watching in fury as one of those beasts drew his arm back, held at the end of an extending attachment, covered in teeth and talons, pulling it into a fanged mouth as it chomped and crunched a part of him.

He didn’t wait. With his free hand, he drew his combat knife and charged, slamming the weapon to the hilt in the beast’s head, then pulling it free and slicing off the appendage that held what remained of his arm. The monster howled, and a dozen such arms lashed out, far too many to dodge. All he could do was grunt in pain as each penetrated him, pushing through his body and devouring chunks of his flesh along his chest and leg. But for all its lethal fury, the attack had left his free arm unattended, as he reached out, grasping his own hand. As his life slipped away, he couldn’t help but grin in defiance.

“Die, chaos filth.” He didn’t say it, his mouth choked with blood, but he might as well had screamed it to the world. “For the Emperor.”

The button depressed, and the world exploded in fire and fury.