With a loud thump that reverberated through the rest of the ship, the Thunderhawk landed in the docking bay of the unnamed ship. As the engines died with a descending whine, Alaric remained seated, his hands clasped in front of him as his elbows sat on the arm rests.
“This is where you get off Brother. May the Emperor protect you.” Rasped the tinny voice of the pilot from the voxspeaker at the cockpit. “And, you brother, may your travels be guided by the Emperor’s hand,” Alaric replied to the blank metal wall, making the sign of the Aquila even if he couldn’t see it. The pilot had seen the Apothecary safely to his destination, which was already to be commended. Unlocking the restrains around his armoured chest, Alaric stood up, his robes swishing as the heavy canvas once more gave in to gravity’s enhanced pull. Grabbing his helmet, Alaric clipped it onto his belt as he placed a fist against his chest and took a deep breath. Remain calm, he told himself, you are a Son of the Lion both within, and without. Act like it. Opening his eyes, he moved towards the rapidly opening door of the exit ramp.

Calmly walking down the ramp, unlike almost every other time he exited a Thunderhawk, Alaric took in his surroundings. Docked into pre-organised positions, several Thunderhawks lay idle, ready to do service in the Emperor’s name when required, but for now slept peacefully. The rest was what he would expect from the docking bay of a ship. Myriad barrels and containers were scattered around, some dripping with black promethium, while others were hooked up to pipe systems. The room smelled of toil, sweat, and fuel, as well as the ever present odour of recycled air within a spacecraft, and the ozone of heated metal. At the end of the dim, gunmetal coloured room was a single large blast door which proceeded to open with a gratuitous hiss of depressurization. Our from within its depths strode five Space Marines, their armour glistening black like a carapace, but marred by scratches and discolouration. Their left arms up to the should were coloured silver, with the familiar insignia of the Inquisition plastered on their plastrons. They moved in perfect formation for an attack, and all of them were armed, yet bore no hostile air. Nevertheless, the Apothecary tightened his Narthecium fist out of caution. 

As the marines closed with him, he could garner some more details about them. The Inquisitorial electoo that they had on them was subtly different from what Alaric had seen so far from his few dealings with the shadowy organization. Theirs carried a skull and crossbones across it, but like many inquisitors, it was superimposed onto the image of several devotional texts, all of which he recognized. The Litany of Fury, the Prayer of Deliverance, but most prominently was the catechism of the Xenos. Just the thought of that brought the Catechism to his mind…and his lips.

“Well said Brother,” said the lead marine as he stepped forward, raising his right arm in greeting, in turn flashing the symbol of his chapter, the Storm Wardens, “I see you know your devotional texts well.”
“Any servant of the Emperor would do well to learn his teachings,” Alaric replied, bowing his head in greeting as he pressed a fist to his chest before making the sign of the Aquila. Dropping his hood, he revealed his cherubic face which was devoid of emotion apart from a small smile, “from the humblest recruit to the highest Chapter Master.” Taking a step forward, he ceased as the second of the leading marines signalled for him to stop, both hand on his boltgun as if to emphasise his point. Moving aside, Alaric spotted the infamous, but rarely seen sigil of the Carcharodons. But that didn’t interest him as the marine in the center stepped forwards. From the insignia displayed on his shoulder, he was one of the Novamarines. Or used to be at least, Alaric mused. From the psychic hood around his head, though, he could already tell what type of person he was.

Confirming the Dark Angel’s suspicions that he was a psyker, and probably a powerful one at that, Librarian Archilochus continued with grim news, informing him of the first oath. Hitting him like a daemonhammer to the face, Alaric took a deep breath, before kneeling down onto the ground with one knee. “I swear on my faith in the Emperor, and the honour of myself, and even that of my Chapter, that should I ever break this oath, I will forfeit myself into thy keeping, and submit myself to your judgement,” he said, pressing a fist onto the floor, “I will not dishonour those who came before me, nor those who sent me. Nor will I dishonour myself. As my faith is my shield, so my word is my binding.” Nodding, as if in approval, the Storm Warden flashed a smile at him, but the Librarian simply carried on, as if he was simply an automated Servitor, repeating the same message over and over again. However, despite the slightly droning tone, Alaric listened intently as he stood back up. He growled quietly. They needed to check his purity and physical condition? They dared question it? However, he calmed himself down a mere split second later. It was only to be expected. The Deathwatch did not want those it found wanting to be within its ranks. They wanted to best of the best, in any sense and form. Alaric would do his best to fulfil their expectations. “I commend myself into your keeping,” Alaric said, bowing his head. 

“From here, Battle-Brothers Octavius and Gregor will escort you to the Apothecarum. There Apothecary Haeron will begin the next step in reforging you into a weapon of the Watch. We will not cross paths for some time. I pray we shall meet again, the next time as Brothers in the Watch!” 

“As do I, Brother-Librarian,” Alaric replied as Brother Octavius took the lead, the Dark Angel following behind him, with Brother Gregor moving to cover the rear. As the move past the blast door, Alaric took a final look back, but the three marines simply looked at him, impassive as statues. With a hiss of repressurising air, the dual blast doors closed once more, as if to indicate that there was no going back. Taking a deep breath and chanting the Litany of a Calm Mind, he moved on, following behind Brother Octavius.

The trio moved through twisting corridors of metal and winding passages, completely silent apart from the soft clink of Brother Gregor’s chains and the hiss squeak of one of their augmetics. At one point, Alaric tried to start a conversation with brother Octavius, but after a brief bout of speech, they fell silent once more, nothing important having transpired. Nevertheless, Alaric was interested in seeing what a Deathwatch Apothecarium was like. He had worked with many different chapters, and had access to many of their Apothecariums, and most of them, while based on a standard template, had different appearances. The Blood Angels covered their walls in their winged blood drop motif, with several Sarcophagi holding their injured, while the White scars decorated their walls with trophies stolen from hundreds of worlds, from skulls to pelts and swords.

As they arrived at their destination, the door opened up with a mechanical screech that set the Apothecary’s teeth on edge, but as soon as it opened, the familiar smell of blood and antiseptic that was everpresent in these sorts of places flowed out. Gregor and Octavius took up positions on either side of the door, as if standing watch. It was then that an ancient, slightly scratchy voice called out to him from within the confines of the room.

“Enter Brother! I’m not getting any younger and I’d prefer to die with a sword in my hand, not waiting around for some green-gilled Initiate to play will he/won’t he!” 

Steeling himself, Alaric walked inside, his robes swirling in the slight breeze of autorecyclers. The man standing to the side of the examination table was a grizzled old man, with the entire left side of his face being replaced by a mask of metal. His remaining eye showed signs of advanced cataracts, and the rest of the face was marred by radiation, punctuated by the pink-white of several scars. Probably shrapnel wounds. A larger, more severe scar bisected his face, but almost every marine carried scars of some sort with them, almost as badges of honour. Alaric himself had a large chainaxe wound on the left side of his hip when a Khornate Berserker managed to drive him off of him feet. As the man turned around to face him, Alaric spotted the comet symbol on his pauldron. The Marines Errant. When he saw the Narthecium locked onto Alaric’s arm, he snickered. “Well, looks like they’ve finally brought in another medboy,” he said as he approached, spitting the scalpel out onto a tray, “good thing too, they’ve been sending too many to me to patch up.” Alaric stood stock still as the man started to pace around him, before grabbing his Narthecium and lifting it to his face, surprising Alaric whose hand automatically moved to his bolter, but stopped when he thought better of it. ‘Bear with it,’ he told himself, ‘he is simply another battle brother checking the sanctity of my gear.’

“How long have you been an Apothecary, son?” the man asked,
“Approximately 60 standard Terran years, Brother Haeron,” Alaric said, recalling his name from the Librarian, “with 40 serving as a Battle Brother of the Dark Angels.” Apothercary Haeron’s milky eye flicked up as a small smile appeared on his face. He scoffed. “You’re still an infant then, boy,” he said as he dropped Alaric’s Narthecium hand, walking away to the examination table, “barely starting your journey.”
Grunting in indignity, Alaric started, his hands gripped into tight fists, but mastered himself as he realized that Haeron was right. He was still young compared to most of the marines, being a mere century old. “Even a young boy knows what to do when his brothers need help,” Alaric replied, “and I am confident in my ability to sustain my brother’s lives in the field.”
The older Apothecary scoffed again. “Maybe when you’re being covered by a few hundred bolters, boy, but how will you do when all your brothers are dead, and all you have is yourself, and a single wounded brother against a tide of flesh?” he asked as he wiped blood off of the drill of his Narthecium. Alaric gritted his teeth. This man was trying his patience. “I would do what any other loyal Servant of the Emperor would do,” he replied, taking a step forward, “I would stand with my brother and fight till the death!”
“WRONG!” Haeron replied, stepping back towards Alaric and slapping him across the face, “you would take his geneseed and run! Along with the gene seed of your brothers! You are still inexperienced boy. Do not let that fail you.”
Alaric breathed hard as he felt his cheek. The pain was temporary, but the shame was permanent. He had forgotten about his Apothecary training in a fit of rage as Haeron questioned his loyalties. Ashamed, Alaric bowed his head. “You are right…brother…” Alaric said through gritted teeth, “I apologise for questioning your wisdom.”
“Do not apologise to me,” Haeron said as he walked back to the examination table, opening up his Narthecium, “but think about your actions before you execute them. That is what we, Apothecaries, must do. We cannot always stand beside our brothers, Dark angel, sometimes we must flee…” There was a hint of sadness in Haeron’s tone, but he bore the stoic smile the way a father would to his son. “Now, let us begin the examination.”
Closing his eyes in shame as he begged the Emperor for forgiveness, Alaric saw the approaching servitors. “…I submit myself to your keeping,” he said as he allowed the servitors to start stripping his armour, but not before removing his robe himself. “A simple request, Brother,” Alaric said as he folded the heavy robe, “may I…keep this robe with me?”
Haeron looked at him before a small smile appeared on his face. “Leave it with me,” he said with a small chuckle, “I’ll make sure it gets to you. I know how you Dark Angels are with these robes.”
Handing the heavy canvas over to Haeron, Alaric climbed onto the examination table, feeling oddly naked without his armour.
“Fear not, Brother! You will see your precious armaments again! And just like you, they shall be the same…but different! Rehoned. Refined! REEplenished! RESPLENDANT!”
“I trust your judgement, brother,” Alaric replied.
Haeron nodded as he stood over Alaric. “Hypno-indoctrination is but the lesser part of preparation, however, and you will undertake constant training in the methods required to combat specific enemies. While much of this training is theoretical, of course, some is very real indeed! Now…enough chatter. Lay back and relax. This may sting a little...” 

With a small groan, Alaric awoke in his cot, his eyes bleary and his mind aching with the amount of information that had been pumped into it. The tight-fitting grey flightsuit stretched as Alaric sat up, holding his pounding head as he swung his legs over the side. He would have a long period in front of him where all he would feel was tired. From the information already ingrained in his brain, he knew that he would have to endure tests of both physical strength and endurance from Brothers Kyros and McGarrack, then submit himself to both data-uploads directly into his mind, and finally, more sessions with Haeron, who he had begun to see as a father figure to him, much like the divine Emperor. With a sigh, he sunk down to his knees on the floor and clasped his hands together. “Emperor please, give me the strength and endurance to pass these trials. Give me the fortitude to serve in your name,” he said quietly. His prays had been becoming less and less eloquent the longer he trained. Standing up, Alaric grabbed his heavy canvas robe and swung it over his shoulders. The instructors did not look kindly upon it, but they knew its importance to the Dark Angels, and so let it be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Throwing a heavy punch, Alaric followed through with an uppercut, both of which Kyros dodged, punishing Alaric’s reckless aggression with a gut driver that caused the Apothecary to stumble back, clutching his stomach. However, the Carcharodon did not stop there, showing no mercy. Following up with a knee to the jaw, Kyros drove Alaric back, seizing the advantage and gripping it firmly. Grasping Alaric’s blond hair, he threw him across the riveted metal floor, creating a hideous scraping sound. Both combatants were stripped down to the waist, and, despite this, Kyros still had a mask over his head, that hid everything but his pointed teeth and black eyes. His grayish-blue body was tattooed with the image of sharks and jaws, but at the same time was riddles with scars and wounds. Alaric’s meanwhile was relatively unmarred, but large bruises had appeared all over his body, along with small grazes from the metal rivets along the ground, which were already closing up thanks to his Larraman’s Organ. With a large effort of will, Alaric picked himself up into a kneeling position before rapidly turning around to the sound of pounding feet. Kyros was already moving in for the kill. With a heavy dive, he tried to pin Alaric below his weight, but the younger Dark Angel rolled away, letting the Carcharodon slam heavily into the bulkhead. Rolling to his feet, he looked towards Kyros, before feeling a welling sensation in his mouth. When Kyros turned around, the first thing he saw was a clear liquid splattering over his mask and into his eyes. With a roar of pain, he moved his hands towards his eyes in an attempt to wipe it off, but Alaric took example from the Watch Captain and seized the advantage. Running up, Alaric drove a fist into the side of the Captain’s mask before launching a knee into the marine’s groin. As he reeled back from the Dark Angel’s assault, Alaric grabbed the marine’s collar bone before driving a fist into Kyros’ stomach and tried to throw him over himself, but the veteran was not green enough to fall for that. As he soared overhead, the marine once more grabbed Alaric’s hair and dragged him along with him, landing on the Apothecary’s body like an obscene cushion. Feeling a rib crack under the weight of Kyros, Alaric gritted his teeth to avoid screaming in pain, but that was where Kyros stopped. Dragging him to his feet by the arms, Kyros nodded, as if in approval. “You know the capabilities of your body,” he said through the mask, a deep gravelly voice that sounded like two boulders being ground together, “even that of your Betcher’s Gland, but you still do not possess the experience you need as a member of the Deathwatch.” He was blunt if nothing else. “Then train me,” Alaric managed in between gasps for breaths, “Hone me…into a weapon worthy…of the Emperor!” Kyros chuckled. “As you wish.” Unceremoniously, he slammed his fist once more into Alaric’s face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kneeling in front of the entrance to the slaughter-dome, Alaric had his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes closed in prayer. His lips moved silently as he sought the Emperor for his protection and guidance. Dressed in the grey jumpsuit he had been given, with a well maintained combat knife on the floor in front of him, Alaric was preparing for his final test to become one of the Deathwatch. He had not been given much information about what was to happen, but what he did know was that he was to fight a xenos to the death. Only one of them would come out. Steadying the pounding of his two hearts, the Dark Angel opened his eyes and reached down for the combat knife. Though they may have stripped him of his Narthecium, he was still not without teeth. “May the Lion and the Emperor watch over me,” he muttered over his breath as he signaled for the guard to open the blast door.

Stepping over the threshold, Alaric could see the creature he was to face on the other side of a circular arena. Rusted barrels lay around the room in various positions, and there was the sound of constantly dripping water. The Xenos was tall and thin, with wiry muscles. Its long claws tugged at the chains binding its neck to the ground and it let out several inhuman screeches that set Alaric’s hairs on end as its beaked mouth opened over and over. With a mental command, he brought up the reserves of information that had been fed into his mind over the long training he had endured. This particular creature was called a Kroot, and was a member of a race subservient to the Tau Empire. They possessed strong, ropy muscles that could compete with that of an Astartes and, upon the death of the victim, had the distasteful habit of consuming their prey. Alaric narrowed his eyes. He would be damned if he would allow himself to become this creature’s next meal. 

Spinning the knife in his hand into a backhanded grip, Alaric stood into a ready position as the collar on the creature’s neck was released. Almost instantly, it bounded out with a crude knife in its hand, screaming bloody murder as its quills stood on end. Surprised by its agility, Alaric barely avoided a killing blow as he jinked to the side, the blade of the knife sliding across his right brow, causing a deep cut as it ground against his skull. Grunting in pain as he wiped the blood out of his eyes, Alaric recovered just in time to see its blade flash again. This time, he would not be fooled. Blocking the blade with his own, Alaric heard the clang of metal as they locked blades, but with a reaction speed that not even he knew he possessed, he sidestepped and brought his blade around in a vicious backhanded arc, slashing a large gash into the creature’s chest. Spurts of purple-red liquid squirted out as the Apothecary severed a vital artery, but the creature seemed not to notice as it hissed at him.

Once again it came at him, but as Alaric thought back to his bout with Kyros, something occurred to him. Consciously, the Apothecary forced the Betcher’s Glands in his mouth to activate, and he felt them enlarge in his mouth as he opened it. With a loud hiss, a stream of clear liquid rushed out in a tide, splattering all over the Kroot’s body. With a disgusting hissing sound, the potent toxins that Alaric had produced ate away at the creature’s flesh, exposing its innards. The creature itself started to succumb to the pain, reeling back as it tried to hold its own organs it. Seeing the creature in this pain, Alaric felt no compassion, only the urge to finish it. Walking up to it, Alaric flipped the knife back into a face up position and reeled his hand back, ready to deliver the finishing blow, but even as it came down, the Kroot’s body had suffered enough, and it gave up, collapsing to the ground as the acidic poison continued to eat away at its body. His blade met empty air as it scraped just above the falling corpse. Spitting the remaining poison out of his mouth onto the body of the Kroot, Alaric turned away, wiping more blood from his eye as the wound started to close up already thanks to the Larraman’s Organ. Once again, the Catechism of Xenos came to mind.

[Center]To be Unclean
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Impure
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Abhorred
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Reviled
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Hunted
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Purged
That is the fate of the Xenos
To be Cleansed
For that is the fate of all Xenos[/center]

Scoffing at the rapidly decomposing corpse of the Kroot behind him, Alaric moved towards the exit, relatively unscathed with his encounter.