[center][h2]Beware Your Own[/h2][/center] The distorted cavern reverberated with the noise of roaring beasts, explosions, the crackle of fire, and the clang of metal against metal. Between the space marines, the intersubstantiating mechanicus, and the ork warlock, the alien menace was once again quickly reduced to pulp and twitching remains. But things could always get worse. With little time for respite, a feminine voice rang out like a bell from a dark corner in the back, behind more mutants yet unseen. It sounded older, but fierce, a stark contrast to the inhuman screeching and masculine tones Xepherial had grown accustomed to. One might even say it was beautiful. The women's bolters fired and the mutants fell before them as the Order of Our Martyred Lady advanced haughtily into the room. They shouted and gunned down the remaining enemy with admirable efficiency, quickly judging everyone that remained. In knee-jerk reaction, Xepherial instantly withdrew his bolter, aiming it straight up and away from the Sisters who had suddenly appeared behind his falling targets. Human. Human. Human.... Warnings flared on his interface. It was a pre-programmed safety protocol, he could not fire in the direction of vulnerable, human allies. "A-Allies?" Xepherial mentally stammered. He stood stunned for a moment. He had never seen allies like this, bald, warrior women, clearly with Imperial equipment and markings all over them. Confused as he was, he was pleased to see the ladies finally getting their time out in battle. Why it only took ten thousand years... He dared to feel a spark of hope and pride in that brief moment before things went terribly wrong. As a unit, the fanatical women suddenly all opened fire at the ancient Third legioner with unprecedented rage. Xeph was shocked. Target-locks came to life in front of Xepherial as his powerarmor's machine spirit tried to read his own spirit through the black carapace, but each box-shaped lock turned red as his armor's cogitator spammed, Human. Target-abort. Target-abort. Target-abort. Target-abort.... He couldn't bring himself to override the safety. These were women! Human women! He simply couldn't fire at them! Whole seconds ticked by while he was utterly useless and Vedius flew over a bulkhead to take cover. A hail of bullets followed the son of Fulgrim, many having made impact against his armor before he was clear. There was no telling if the purple guardian was significantly damaged, but Xepherial calculated it was unlikely. The real question was why in the Emperor's name did the Imperials immediately fire at him? Time slowed down as Xepherial watched Sororitas barrels re-direct in his direction, and suddenly, his memories came back and put it together. He made a devastating realization. His own kind taking aim at him... The sight of it triggered the resurgence of a horrifying memory, one that he had suppressed ever since his awakening on a foreign world eons later. But it was still there. He was on Caliban. The planet was being bombarded and invaded by the Terran-born Dark Angels. The Emperor had been critically injured by Horus, and news had it that many of the noble Astartes had forsaken their vows and turned traitor. Whole chapters and their primarchs had gone over to the chaotic forces, others were ripping themselves apart with civil war, and the First Legion was apparently no exception. Fear and chaos reigned, and all trust was broken. Xepherial had fired upon them, his own brethren, although he had to force himself to do so at first. Seeing them in their cracked and worn armor as they attacked their Calibanite brothers, their confidence and ferocity, was both an inspiration and a painful reminder of his own wasted decades in exile. It felt wrong, but he hated them, the ones that fought in the crusade. In truth, the Calibanite forces were nothing compared to these true, veteran Dark Angels, and the shameful fact was, Xepherial and his brothers were desperately fighting to survive. Luther said El'Johnson and his army were the ones who were traitors. THEY were the ones who had failed and deserved to die. Xepherial hadn't had the strength nor the time to properly question it then, but now, as he was once again under Imperial bolterfire, he knew. This is why the women had fired upon Vedius and why they now turned their weapons against him. Xepherial was on the wrong side of that same ten thousand year old war. The Emperor's Children had been among the traitors, and now he realized, so was he. "Beware your own." He recalled the prophecy, and it all made sense. Quickly, without so much thought as instinct, Xepherial raised his hands and tried to communicate. "Stop! Hold your fire." His voice sounded static and mechanical through the grill of his helm. The Sisters didn't even hesitate. He may as well have been a target-dummy for all the good it did him. Drawing in, he hunched and shielded himself behind his large pauldron as several explosive rounds slammed home in answer, knocking him several steps back. The alerts and warnings he had silenced since his long fall and impalement flared back to life, indicating structural damage. He had to take cover, now, but it was too late. A blast rocked against his right shoulder and twisted him back, wrenching on his torso. The following shot found deadly purchase in the open wound on his side, blasting shrapnel into his abdomen and burning the flesh against the inside of his armor. Blinding pain seized Xepherial and he was on his back in the blink of an eye. He was bleeding out. Smoke rose from his blasted plate. He was dying. The machinespirit of his armor flicked on a terminal distress signal, a small beacon that was intended to guide his brothers to his corpse after his death. Xepherial gasped in the clutches of agony. "...wrong side of the war." He rasped. "My brothers..." Oh how he wanted to find them, to return to them, to right all these sorrowful wrongs, but it didn't look like he would get the chance. Some sanity yet clung to him. Why the hell had he been shot? He wasn't hostile. Had it been so long that humans had lost all reason?? He laid against the unyielding, slanted floor, unable to feel his legs as his mind whirred. Regret stabbed at him more deeply than any of his injuries, but what was it going to matter?