[center][h3][url=https://youtu.be/WmeOmCyG7PY?list=RDn5p9_p633xM]Criminal[/url][/h3][/center]


The pain itself was blinding. Either that, or the semi-inexperienced Calabanite had his eyes closed. It was the latter, and upon that realization, Xepherial's eyes snapped open. He was in agony. He had lost an excessive amount of blood, his armor was shot through the middle, his flesh was burned, and shrapnel had rended his internal organs. Yet his transhuman body simply refused to die. His three lungs drew a painful breath. Constant consciousness tortured him, demanding that he move, pinning him far from the merciful release of death, and he was forced to go on no matter how much he tried to give in to despair. His two hearts thundered in powerful compensation, his blood thickened and solidified in his wounds, and his mind focused to a razor's edge. "No." His body denied him like the voice of an unseen god, and his right hand tightened on the bolter still clutched in his grip. He was made for this. He was built to survive long into this hell on the verge of death, to serve, to slay, and to continue far beyond the capacity of any mortal human body, but no space marine was ever meant to die of old age. Xepherial knew by now that he wasn't going to be leaving this spacehulk alive. 

The firefight was still going on around him as Xepherial began to struggle against his own weight. None of the combatants had yet come to finish him off and were presently ignoring him. For that brief moment, seeing as how he wasn't able to die, he gathered his wits and took stock of his position. His left leg refused to respond, and he was severely weakened by his wounds. Chainswords revved, guns blazed, and the deck pounded with the footfalls of some massive ogrin beast. He heard the women scream as they died, a shrill sound that pierced the cacophanous din. A protective instinct surged within him at the sound and he propped himself up on an elbow and raised his bolter fervently to their defense. He knew what side of the war he was on now, and he would spend his last breaths in defense of the Imperium, for all the mercy it would bring him after death. He never fired however, for a large slab of metal suddenly dropped in front of the Sisters and decapitated one of them brutally. Xepherial had no idea where it had fallen from, nor could he have stopped it.

Then Xepherial was inexplicably lifted from the ground. He could do little about it other than to realize it was the ork he had shot before who had him, dropped him, then had him once again, carrying his dense bulk aloft toward a sealed door with jaw-dropping strength. 

“Everyone inside!”

The unnamed Emperor's Child still lived, fireing indescriminantly at xeno and human alike. In his eyes, the warrior appeared to be reliving a memory. Xepherial would have tried to stop him, to awaken him and discern between ally and foe, but it was all he could do to keep hold of his own weapon as he was hauled inside by the ork. He grunted in pain as he was unceremoniously dropped again on the other side of the door. The ork witch who had carried him also dropped down, seemingly drained from the effort. Xepherial puzzled as to why the greenskin enemy had done such a thing, and at clear cost to himself. Certainly it couldn't have been an altruistic act, or could it? It was difficult to be certain of anything in this catastrophic future. 

An Ogryn entered, as did someone who looked like an unarmored Astartes, but there was no livery of any kind on him. He was badly wounded as well, which was to be expected. Xeph struggled, finding a spot to slump against the strange black wall. The pain was still there, stabbing into the core of his body. "Brother..." He called, just loud enough to be heard. "Brother..." He repeated with some effort, not knowing if the cousin he had just met had heard him. Xepherial reached up slowly and took off his helm. The pressure seals released with a hiss revealing a youngful man's face, and he dropped the helm beside him. His head was bowed, and straight black hair hung over one of his eyes. His already light skin was ashen, something not normal for one of El'Johnson's geneseed, and he breathed with agonal effort. He looked extremely rough. "I'm... not going to make it off this ship, brother. I can't walk. You must leave me behind." Xepherial didn't want to imagine being eaten alive by Tyranid maggots or otherwise and hoped that the implications of what he was saying would be obvious to his fellow warrior... "It has taken me this long, but I understand now. I know what side of the war I belong on." Xepherial winced. "I am a traitor, brother, and I deserve death for what I have done." Xepherial inhaled sharply, preparing himself. "End me." 

A few last arrivals burst through the closing door at the last possible moment. The three of them bore red armor with markings that Xepherial had never seen before. One was missing an arm but was quickly attended to by their tall and imposing leader. Xepherial swallowed, granted a momentary peace by the distraction. They were of no legion he could ever recognize, and that didn't sit well with the dying Dark Angel. Quickly, the leader finished patching the arm and stood up to address them. His fendish words sealed it, and Xepherial no longer had any doubts. He knew his Emperor, beloved by all, now decayed upon the golden throne. To refer to him as a mere corpse, or even as a God, was heresy. 

Xepherial stared down Azazel with impotent fury. "And forever, will I serve, the Emperor of Mankind." He huffed in several breaths, then, with his failing strength, he lifted a shaky bolter at the Red Corsair.