Brute Madman Xeno

Brute. Madman. Xeno.

Shurana has no expectations of dying anywhere besides this lonesome sphere, but she resents having stunted primitives for company.

Such is the Path of the Avenger -heed the war-scream of Khaine, gird thyself in the armor of the Aspect Warrior, sing the songs of death for yourself because today the scythe hungers, SHE hungers, and proudly do you bear the bite of the blade.

Down her torn armor dribbles life that had previously been rushing from her body -with it going heat and hope.

But her aim, braced as it is on the underside of the Madman's hulking dreadnought war-tomb, remains true.

She only needs one eye, one arm, one responsive finger, to twitch the trigger of her stolen inferno pistol and with that final defiance boil the Madman alive in a bath of molten metal -and this is fortunate.

There isn't much more of her left.

The Madman's clunking, clattering twin-bolter remains approximately oriented towards the Brute. His sarcophagus of hate is tilted precariously forward on it's legless torso; he lacks the limbs to do more then balance awkwardly. His weapon mounts grind and rattle as they strain to keep a straight bearing on the Brute.

In turn the Brute's pistol points squarely at her own head, buried as the rest of him is in a collapsed wall.

Elsewhere the million-spawn of the Great Devourer shriek and scuttle, oblivious and indifferent to the three lives ticking down within the writhing, twisting warren of their territories.

And the truth is her own time grows ever shorter.

They aren't _dying_ like she is.

That smothering pressure prompts her into action, and the Brute's aim tightens up as she reaches to unclip her battered helmet. The hum of his red armor has dimmed; he fights it's dying servos as much as his own fatigue.

Her helm clatters to the ground, and she can pull a bubbling, sour breath unaided.

Shurana grimaces; the air here is rancid with the Devourer's pheromones.

What a retched place to die.

"I will erase you, lapdog."

The Madman is at it again. From the last intact amplifier on his grey and yellow vault grates out his latest declaration of hatred.

"I will shred your geneseed and spit upon the lie that is your honor, cur. Upon the bedrock of Olympus I do _swear_ _it_."

The Brute's answering snort of derision has an almost gentile quality to it; he gestures as he speaks, the gilded barrel of his weapon bobbing slightly as though to illustrate his rebuke.

"I go to death without regrets, _traitor_. The Emperor awaits my soul; I understand your dark masters will find your failure at most a garnish to your eternal damnation."

"You accomplish _nothing_. Your death means _nothing_," grates back the Madamn.

"That my death means I remove one more heretic and a xeno whore from the Emperor's sight makes my service that much more rewarding and that service has been worthwhile indeed."

"A _whore_? A non-man, a stunted golem, addresses his better as a _whore_?"

For a moment Shurana wonders who spoke in such a shrill, outraged voice.

The grinding chug that preface's the Madman's reply is only barely discernable as humor.

"_It_ insults us both, lapdog. Thin-blood though you are, you are still the better creature."

"A life without worth grasps at my honor with a mind filled with lies. Tell me traitor, do you find purpose in the sin of your continued existence? I serve the Master of Mankind-"

"-you _serve_ your own bloated pride, Mon'Keigh."

The Madman's battered chassis bounces minutely with unintended mirth.

"There _brother_, you see? My honor is to draw breath despite your _corrupted_ lord's wishes. My life balances on the witch's approaching death, but so long as I continue I so will the Long War."

"I am of _Sanginous_, wretch! I am of the most valiant of HIS sons, -"

In his furious declamation the Brute's weapon bobs up towards the Madman, and Shurana fires.

The light of her mind is battered black.

*****

"...mon...keigh..."

She cannot see him, that much is apparent to Captain Timeon.

Her eyes were a particular kind of blue-green unknown to Baal and, scorched away as they were with most her face, remain a curiosity worth retaining.

He's been slowly composing a sketch of the Halo Stars between operations; quite where her that color will come into play remains to be seen, but he's as much artist as any Son of the Angel and nothing beautiful goes to waste.

Speaking of which.

"Xeno."

He's got one bolt pistol and 15 rounds, -his armor's effectively dead without it's powerplant.

His power sword looks broken, but hers -all distastefully mild curves and dubiously durable edges, flickers to life when he taps it's activation gem.

"ta-take ...take my...soul..ston-"

"No."

He's lost too much time between digging himself out and pulling free of his armor; the traitor's thunderous death will surely have awakened the Tyranids to the possible threat of any survivors.

One bolt might not matter, but it's the work of a second to slip the power sword through her heart and flick it up through her skull.

He feels a last pang at abandoning his lifeless armor before vaulting the traitor's blasted-out chassis and striding into further into the hive.

Tonight the queen dies, and after that?

Perhaps the creation of beauty in such an ugly galaxy; perhaps art.