Night Lord in Equestria part 8 (fight scene)

>The suspensors in your wrist, elbow and shoulder absorb the recoil seamlessly, allowing you to pan and aim the cannon with deadly accuracy. The muzzle flash is like a star blooming in the room, illuminating the daemon’s advance like a spotlight.
> Doombolts leap from the daemon’s empty hand, some detonating against the ground harmlessly, pockmarking the polished marble. Some detonate against your armor’s powerfield, but some get through. Pure destructive energy eats at the ancient armor, but you remain unhurt.
>The daemon is not so fortunate. Hundreds of fist sized rounds, each capable of tearing apart light vehicles chew through the twisted armor of the former apothecary. Molten fire mixed with black blood runs in sluices through the cracks in its armor.
>Its advance continues through the horrendous fire, blade raised over its head to cleave you in twain.
>He telegraphs his intents to you. How generous.
>You raise your powerfist to bat the blade away, but it was just a ruse.
>The daemon kicks you in the chest, the impact ringing through the chamber like a bell.
>You slam into the wall behind you, dust and shards of stone cloud your vision before you turn your preysight on.
>Your armor is holding, but your chestplate has buckled under the kick.
>A massive red heat-blur charges you, ready to ram its white-hot blade through you and pin you to the wall.
>You push yourself out of your crater, turning away from the blade as fast as your terminator armor would allow.
>You don’t turn quite fast enough.
>The blade nicks your side, eating its way through quintuple-bonded ceramite and the adamantium underlay like they were not even there. You grunt in pain as the blade takes part of your side with it.
>You turn back and hammer your power fist down into the sword, which shatters into nothingness under your less than gentle caress.
>”BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!” The voices do not whisper in your head anymore. They pound against your consciousness, demanding entry into your psyche.
>The daemon grabs you in his taloned grip and headbutts you, shattering the horn on your helmet as well as one of your eye lenses before hurling you at the sealed door.
>You thunder against the massive double doors, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
>You can’t see out of your left eye and your helmet is dented. Blood obscures your vision, as does the pounding in your head.
>Warning runes flicker in your red-tinted helm, warning you about the wound to your side, while your targeter locks on to the daemon prince’s arm. In a swirling maelstrom of un-light, its sword forms anew.
>You force yourself up, your body’s enhanced regeneration struggling to cope with the deep gash in your side.
>The wounds you inflicted on the beast have healed, but its armor is still torn and rent. You need to put this thing down before it kills you.
>Bracing yourself, you open fire again, a solid stream of mass reactive slugs spanning the gap between the both of you. The bullets tear at the beast’s face, but it brings up its arm to block the deadly fusillade.
>”Just… DIE!” You hiss through broken lips.
>”YES! KILL!” The voices roar through your mind.
>You’re tempted to let them in, just this once…
>No. The apothecary is nothing but a puppet to the dark gods now. You are a Night Lord. You are a slave to no one.
>The warp-thing eats up the distance between the both of you in a few short heart beats.
>”DEATH TO THE SERVANTS OF HORUS!”
>The blade comes around, aiming to relieve you of your head once and for all.
>You catch the blade in your powerfist, praying the energy field will resist the blades hateful power.
>It does, but not completely.
>It slices through the weak joint material and you feel it sink into the tissue of your hand, burning like fire.
>You hold on, though. You grip the blade, fighting against the monster’s unholy strength.
>The cannon spins up again, angled up the former apothecary’s twisted face.
>You pull the trigger.
>Grinding gears and a flashing misfire rune in your helm is the only response. The assault cannon jammed.
>That was the moment you realized you were probably going to die.
>Your grip slackens on the blade as your focus fades for a moment.
>Sensing your faltering strength, the sword was wrenched out of your hand.
>And rammed through your stomach armor.
>And out the back.
>And into the door behind you.
>It feels like someone has poured fire into your veins.
>All previous definitions of pain pale in this sickening sundering of your flesh.
>Combat stims and painkillers flood your system, trying to keep you stable and conscious through such catastrophic damage.
>”SUCH IS THE FATE OF ALL TRAITORS TO THE GOD EMPEROR.”
>You laugh at this. A wet chuckle through blood-pinked lips. “You’ll be joining me in hell, daemon…”
>The door to the armory opens inward and you fall back, the sword pulling out of your wound with a final caress of pain and scrape of metal on metal
>A crimson figure, clad in the terminator armor of his chapter strides through the door, his unhelmeted visage betraying nothing but blind fury. Thunder hammer and storm shield crackle with barely contained power in his fists.
>”BACK TO THE INFINATE HELLS WITH YOU! FOR SANGUINIUS! FOR THE EMPEROR!”
>You can hear the thunder hammer go about its vicious work as you lie on the floor.
>Your vision grays around the edges, out of the one eye that isn’t encrusted in scabs.
>You’re not dead yet. And if you’re not dead, you can fight.
>A weak, blood-spattered wheezing cough squeezes out from your ruined lungs as you try make out the muffled concerns Fluttershy and Twilight are voicing about you.
>”Oh Celestia…” Twilight whispers at seeing your rent, bleeding form.
>”It’s gonna be fine Chosen, you’re gonna be fine…” Fluttershy barely gets out, standing over you. Are those tears in her eyes?
>You must be hallucinating. No one should be crying at your death.
>You faintly remember hearing that hallucinations are common when you’re on death’s door.
>”Fire… the weapon… end… the daemon prince…” Your own voice sounds distant, like a half heard echo in a canyon.
>Struggling to rise, you feel a great heaviness come over your limbs. You don’t feel the slightest amount of pain, just a dull ache in your gut and side.
>Servos squeal and protest, fighting to help you on your feet.
>The two fighters pummel each other, the daemon’s back to you.
>You can’t lift your left arm, assault cannon feeling like it weighs as much as a tank. You release it, sliding your gauntleted arm sluggishly from the bracing sleeve.
>It thuds to the ground with a metallic clank.
>Just getting up left you out of breath.
>Scout is doing a number on the prince, but he’s on the defensive, bleeding from a few deep gashes in his armor.
>The daemon lashes out again, pushing the terminator back, away from where you’re standing.
>Taking a step and nearly fall over, but the armor’s systems catch you and you stumble forward.
>A prickling sensation spreads over your body, through the haze of painkillers and combat drugs. Strange. The chemicals should not be wearing off so soon…
>The daemon hacks at Scout’s storm shield, energy detonations flowing over both fighters’ arms with each strike.
>You can cripple the daemon. A punch to the legs with your power fist would stun it enough that Scout could crush the beast’s head into powder with his tank-cracking thunder hammer.
>With a limping run possessing a desperate speed all its own, you drive towards the fighting with the last of your strength.
>The prickling in your gut grows fiercer. Shards of rock and debris float on their own.
>You raise your energized gauntlet for the strike…
>Rainbow waves of the purest psychic energy envelop you, the daemon and the scout.
>Your visions blurs and you white out.

>You do not feel the prickling in your gut anymore, nor the heaviness in your limbs.
>If anything, you feel lighter, stronger and better then you have ever felt in your long gene-enhanced life.
>Vision returns, fading from white to the murder-red of your eye lenses.
>The scarred marble underneath your fingers suffers yet more abuse as you push yourself up straight.
>No pain or numbness greet your senses. No squeal of tortured armor heralds your movements. No warning runes telegraph armor damage or catastrophic wounds.
>The voices in your head have been silenced as well.
>You catch sight of white and blue power armor in front of you.
>THE APOTHECARY IS BACK TO NORMAL
>You clench your power fist in surprise, eliciting a crackle from arcing lightning.
>He’s screaming at the ceiling. “No! God-Emperor, your faithful servant needs you! The xenos have stripped me of your blessing! Give me the strength to end them once more!”
>Scout speaks to his former battle brother, barefaced and brazen. ”You were deceived brother. Your blessing was of chaos, and you served a powerful daemon named Discord.   The ponies changed you ba-“
>Faster than any of you could have reacted, the Apothecary drew the bolt pistol at his side and shot the Blood Angel right between the eyes.
>For a split second, the boy looks at the Ultramarine in shock, not believing what is happening.
>Then his head tore apart under the mass-reactive shell. Gore and shards of bone ooze from the stump of the boy’s neck, painting his armor an altogether different shade of crimson.
>The headless armor crumples to the ground, unmoving.
>”Enough of your lies, traitor,” the apothecary snarls with undisguised contempt.
>”Why did you kill him?!” Twilight calls, stunned
>”You bastard!” Rarity screams.
>”Now Ahm gonna hurt ya something fierce!” Applejack swears.
>You… you… MEANIE!” Pinkie manages to yell through quivering lips.
>Fluttershy doesn’t say anything. She just stares in open-mouthed horror, tears streaming down her face.
>Blinky squawks angry noise from his speaker.
>”You’re gonna die now!” Rainbow growls, muscles tensing for a charge.
>”NO!” You bellow at the loyalist, rage and anger uncurling in your stomach.
>He turns to you, trying to bring you down with his bolt pistol.
>You’re wearing terminator armor, though. He may as well be throwing rocks at you.
>You charge, power fist clenched, ready to end this murderer.
>A rainbow blur smacks against the apothecary’s unhelmeted skull, stunning the marine.
>Applejack has surged forward as well and kicks hard against the loyalist’s chestplate, sending him toppling backwards.
>He raises his bolt pistol to your head as you swing your powerfist at him.
>The oversized gauntlet punches through the fired round, the bolt pistol and the arm and left side of the chest of the marine as if nothing were there.
>The Ultramarine lies on the floor now, blood pouring from the massive wound. He will die within moments from the blood loss alone.
>You have no intention of letting him go so peacefully.
>”For… the Emperor…” He murmurs.
>”Call for your corpse-god. He will not answer.”
>The fingers of your power fist close around the neck of the aged Astartes on the ground as you plant a boot firmly in his chest.
>”I would skin you alive, loyalist, but I do not have the luxury of time.”
>The apothecary gurgles in your grip, unable to speak his defiance.
>”Die, now, knowing you will walk through hell with your dead Emperor.”
>With a sickening tearing sound you rip the apothecary’s head from his shoulders. You look over his twitching features one last time before you crush the severed head to paste.
>”THAT is for the boy, loyalist bastard.”
>You guess you really did like the boy after all. He could have been a fine ally if he had lived.
>Perhaps even a friend. You chuckle at that.
>A Blood Angel and a Night Lord, friends.
>This very world breeds absurdities. But who knows? Maybe it would have been possible.
>You can’t dwell on this loss though.
>You have a daemon to kill.