[center][h1][u][b]The Jade Citadel of Hongol[/b][/u][/h1]
[u][b]Assault of the Meridian Gate[/b][/u][/center]
[hr]
Two minutes remained on the chronometer until the siege was to begin. The rumble of explosions and the staccato of gunfire was drifting over the positions of the waiting Imperials. Pillars of thick black smoke were rising from the abhuman ghetto courtesy of the Magh Meallan infiltrators, and vox intercepts were already signalling that the diversion was working. Several reserve formations of Pacificans, meant to reinforce breaches along the curtain wall or the Harmony and Meridian gates, were surging toward the ghetto to contain what they believed to be a full-scale incursion into the city from the North.

One minute remained on the operation chronometer. The artillery batteries, bloodied but unbroken, renewed their bombardment. All along the imperial lines, the flash of massive cannons and siege guns lit up the fading light of dusk anew. 

The shells impacted all along the curtain wall, great gouts of orange flame consuming sections of defenders and reducing emplacements to rubble in moments. Other explosions resounded behind the curtain wall, observation groups and signals intelligence having pinned muster points for reserve units and command posts. But the most intense fire was concentrated along the Meridian Gate. Relentless impacts tore rockrete and reinforced plating from its face as the shells found their marks.

“Command to Battle Group Pacificus, commence the assault. For the Emperor.” The battlegroup-wide command net crackled off as formations of tanks and armored transports rolled forward from their dugouts with their weapons silent.

The battlegroup command sent a ripple of activity throughout the entire legion. Where the black-bronze carapace of the Thirteenth hadn’t been there previously, thousands of scorpions now appeared. They shed their cameoline cloaks, emerged from earthen ground, and leapt out from the poisonous waters of the Pacific. Each was a blur of lightning that swiftly began their thousand-meter ascent with claw and sword. The bloom of artillery shells, the lance of lasfire, and the eruption of tank ordinance did not falter them. Like insects swarming a carcass, the assassin-dreamers died and rose as an endless tide of genewarriors.

It was the same for Captain Raamiz’s own squad of witch-minds and wyrd-wielders. He felt the draw of the aether as he used its power to scale the walls at a speed incomprehensible to the Pacificans. Ten Scorpions followed him closely, each a product of his own mentoring and refining with the Sirens of Terra. They were the first over the parapets and the first to begin the slaughter in brutal close-combat. Psionic power weaved around him like a gale of black sand as he crossed the threshold. He came face-to-face with one of many defenders. The poor mortal identified him with rapidly increasing terror.

“Wit-“ the Pacifican tried to speak, yet lacked the vocal cords for such an utterance. Their throat had been torn out by wyrd-wreathed claws. Their body slumped to the floor, wyrd coursing through their wounds and out their extremities.

Chaos erupted from that moment as the Scorpions spread out with a speed known only to them. The wyrd enhanced their movements, pushing their genetically-enhanced body beyond the standard capabilities. The defenders died as bioelectricity, wyrd-enhanced claws, and raw strength cleaved through their numbers. Raamiz relished in their dismay, actively observing their spirits breaking as they perished. He was thankful that this most noble of tasks had been given to him. A single choice had secured the usefulness of his wyrd-wielders in the Thirteenth.

The pandemonium of the parapet paled in comparison to the chaos of a full-scale invasion. He could hear the wail of klaxons, the blossoming of bombards, and the screeching of aircraft beyond the dying of a million men. It would’ve been bliss if it weren’t for the advantage given to them. A noticeable lack of defenders in their section of the wall confirmed his suspicions in this regard. The Magh Meallans had completed their task. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Many amongst the legion had grown a dislike for the abhuman islanders. A remedy for the future, he thought.

The last defender was hoisted up and torn in half by one of his brethren, Ismaal. The lower half of the man was tossed aside, yet the top remained in one of his claw-tipped gauntlets. The hooded Scorpion approached him and offered the defender, who screamed in agony. 

Intelligence had been severely limited in navigating the great walls of Hongol, even for the infiltrators of Magh Meallan and the Sigilite Order. That left the Astartes saboteurs with one alternative. The ten gathered around the torn man as Raamiz removed the upper half of his skull with a swipe of his gauntlet. Pieces of gray matter were delicately plucked and placed into their mouths.

The effect was immediate, enhanced further by their witch-minds. The whole of Hongol’s labyrinthine wall-matrix was revealed to them in that instant. They felt the entirety of the individual’s being, their life, and their aspirations. Everything that they had experienced was given freely to the Scorpions. Everything was unlocked, their way unbarred by a lack of knowledge.

Captain Raamiz breathed in deeply as the knowledge came to a close. He held himself as the best of their number in this regard. Absorbing information from the deceased and growing from it. For him, there was no lag between reality and unreality. They were one and the same. His brethren were similar to a minor degree. The wyrd-wielders shared a look of understanding before moving. Powered weapons were freed from sheaths and foci were born into claw-tipped gauntlets.

They moved in warp-infused synchronization for the Meridian Gate.

Around the witch-minds of the Thirteenth, pict-feeds watched the swift slaughter with machine disinterest. But the Pacifican command center staff were anything but disinterested.

Alerts went up across the units charged with the defense of the walls, priority messages filling the screens of headquarters staffers and platoon commanders with dire warnings of the witch-minds infiltration.

At the Meridian Gate, reserve units that had been secreted away in the safety of the deep foundations of the massive fortress gate were assembled. Hundreds of defenders began making their way to the upper levels on great lifts and stairways wide enough for ten men shoulder to shoulder. They were being sent to man ancillary hard points normally used to defend within the structure itself were a breach to occur. Pacifican troopers grumbled as they were directed to emplace their crew served weapons at the ends of long hallways and to man murder holes around deadly blind corners, for to these Pacificans the war was [i]outside[/i] the gates and never, not in all the years since the Meridian Gate had been erected in Narthan Dume’s name, had it ever made it inside these halls.

Raamiz glanced at the auspex pressed against his eye as he dashed through Hongol’s defenses. Vox chatter confirmed that the majority of his legion and cousin-legions were heavily engaged. He knew that the Meridian gate would fall before the Harmony gate, yet the Scorpion wondered how many of his brethren would die in that gamble. Every second counted. Every death was a loss slated against his own efforts. He would not allow this.

A corridor opened up ahead from the labyrinthine ferrocrete they navigated. The Pacifican sentinel that they had ingested, Soichiro, claimed that the entrance into the Meridian Gate complex lay before them. Their knowledge alerted them to what would’ve been surprising, if not for their abilities as transhumans. The witch-minds remained synchronized as the first of the defenders revealed themselves from a pair of murder holes. Close-range shrapnel from shotguns should’ve killed a normal man. They were no mortals. They were beyond that.

The Scorpion on the left clotted a defender’s blood in an instant, holding their power until the mortal exploded into a gore mess. The Astartes on the right wreathed the wyrd around his opponent, turning them inside out into a screaming mess of vitae. They pressed onward. Their corridor came to an end, expanding out into a kill-field with parapets faced out into the Pacifican wastes. Toxic-infused water, evaporated by a thousand and one weapons, wafted in the open air. Hundreds of soldiers were engaged in a brutal defense against myriad bronze-black giants. The witch-minds rushed past, allowing their brethren to complete their objective. An entrance into the Meridian Gate lay bare, its defenders torn asunder by ferocious invaders.

As the first witch-mind crossed into the Gate’s threshold at the mid-levels, their body exploded into a shower of gore. Lances of lascannons, shells from autocannons, and missiles from launchers obliterated their corporeal form alongside countless other munitions. The following Scorpions would not suffer such failure as the lead formed wyrd-barriers that caught stubberfire from above. Pacificans emerged from more murder holes, attempting to flank. They were cut down before they could engage, immolated by the Empyrean and soul-shattered by the Thirteenth.

Under the protection of their wyrd-barriers, Raamiz led the warriors in as an angry deity. Warp lightning wreathed his limbs, wyrd-energy danced within his muscles, and blood pumped faster than his enhanced body was naturally capable of. His power spear was thrown across the room, shockwaves of lightning arcing from behind it. Defenders perished as it passed, electrocuted into flesh-tinged corpses. The witch-mind followed after it in milliseconds, aided by the wyrd, and caught the spear midair. A weapons team had a mere moment before they disappeared into a pink mist of gore.

The Scorpions descended on the fleeing Pacificans of the mid-levels, cutting them down or forcing their skeletons out of their body. A witch-mind clattered to the floor onto his knees, grabbing at his head in searing agony. Before the Astartes could recover, the defenders descended upon him with unfiltered joy. Their last moments were filled with terror as the warlock warped the area around himself, culling the immediate vicinity like a blackhole. It ended the second it appeared, yet the Astartes was gone. The Thirteenth pressed onward, slaughtering the crew weapons with the power of the wyrd.

The mid-levels would never be cleared, yet Raamiz found a moment of serenity as the last ascender left for the upper-levels. He counted the life-links within his squad. Three had perished in total, leaving seven including himself. For the hundreds of mortals that had died, it was an impressive number. The Scorpion knew more remained above, yet he refused to walk into their ambush. One witch-mind was enough to learn from their hubris. A blink-command saw their squad rally.

“Egress the gate murder holes and begin scaling into separate ingresses. Remember, we are His scorpions. Act as such. Gloria Scorpii!” Raamiz growled as he dashed towards the closest hole. His auspex confirmed the remaining witch-minds had scattered and began their ascent anew. The battlefield awaited outside, growing fiercer and more grandiose as time passed. The shockwave of tower-mounted macrocannons were followed by the erroneous thundering of aerial ordinance. It would do little to affect their climb.

Or so he hoped. A fourth life signal broke. Another began to falter dangerously into crimson territory. The remaining climbed for several seconds, their limbs enhanced by the wyrd. Myriad munitions attempted to murder him. They would not be able to touch His scorpions with such slow ammunition. A murderhole to the upper levels arrived in his view, manned by a terrified Pacifican. A toothy grin spread across his lips as he descended, breaching the wall with wyrd-enhanced strength, siphoning it from his speed. The defender crumpled into a contorted mess. Others cried out on the same floor as the rest of the Scorpions arrived, descending into the unsuspecting sentinels with ease.

The Pacifican’s on this firing level broke in mere moments. At the head of the Thirteenth's assault, no mortal man stood defiant. The troopers fled for their lives, many cut down in only a handful of steps as they made for the already closing blast doors on the far side of the firing theater.

Several of the defenders managed to slip through the closing gap ahead of the Astartes, salvation reached as the transhuman warriors slaughtered those too slow or unable to move behind them. A pair of Pacifican troopers, the last within reach of salvation, were skewered through by silver tendrils that emerged from beyond the door. 

One of Narthan Dume’s war machines arrived in a spectacularly visceral display as the two Pacificans it had speared from head to toe were cast off its mechanical tentacles in a shower of vitae. 

The machine was silver from top to bottom, six rotating pairs of armored tentacles carrying it across the floor in swirling movements. Interlocking plates of armor comprised the entirety of the machine's spindly limbs, each movement heralded by tortured metal and clunking armor as it picked up speed toward the Scorpions. Its head, or what could be called such, was an upside-down teardrop shape with auspex lenses of seemingly random sizes protruding from it with no rhyme or reason to their position.

The tendril machine lashed out at the closest Astartes, a buzzing transonic blade at the very tip of the tentacle passing through the chestplate of the Scorpion with a high-pitched whine as it spun past. The machine whipped out with another tendril, sparks flying as its blade met a wyrd-enhanced parry.

+’Obscure yourselves and ascend!’+ Raamiz demanded over the vox-link, meeting the transonic blade with his spear. The powerfield wobbled violently as the metallic monstrosity’s armament threatened to break through the azure coating. A wyrd-infused push from his other gauntlet saw the machine pushed back briefly, widening the distance between the two combatants.

No sooner had the Scorpions split, the silvery machine was already upon him with the chilling logic of its namesake. Something within it had deemed him a higher threat than some of his brethren, yet it did little to shield them from its flaying tentacles. Another Astartes was sliced cleanly in half by a clunking, transonic limb as they attempted to meld into the darkness. Two remained to fight alongside him, while another two departed for the corners of the chamber. Four of its enormous appendages thrust out at him with devastating precision.
 
He sucked in air as a cold calmness overtook him. It was a sensation that he had experienced before in the dusken visions that blessed his brethren. An aura of oneness permeated through his limbs, wyrd coursing through his body as if it were blood pumping in his hearts. Raamiz parried the first strike, utilizing the momentum to dash into the second to pierce through one of the interlocking plates. His warp-infused fist met the third appendage, heavily knocking back the machine’s tentacle upwards. Biolightning wreathed his claw-tipped gauntlet thrust into the fourth, locking the machinery within and wreaking havoc within the automata.

His brethren watched it all occur within milliseconds of the command over their vox. Their actions took place a second later as Raamiz danced with the silvery machine, logics firing on all cylinders as chugging cogitators rapidly swapped priorities. The two Scorpions that disengaged sprinted to the ascender with wyrd-infused strength, while the remaining two joined the fight a second later. Both took a single appendage as their opponent while the automata was forced to dance between three separate entities. Power sword met transonic blade, while lightning arced off interlocking-plate.

The machine spun where it stood, oil and other unknown fluids flowing freely from a limp tentacle where Raamiz had found purchase with his gauntlet. It’s tentacles whipped around, following the spin as its internal cogitators and calculations began to correct the logic pathways and maths that had led it so deep into the enemy formation. The tentacles pulled in, parrying blows and allowing others to land with the cold logic of a machine sacrificing everything for survival. The tentacles tensed, and the machine leapt from its place between the three warriors of the Thirteenth with surprising dexterity.

The machine soared above the Witchminds, several tentacles finding purchase along the ceiling and walls as it rocketed itself to the now-moving ascender platform. It landed in a screeching crumple of metal on metal, crushing one of the Astartes as it did so. A moment later, the tentacles lashed out as the tear-drop machine attempted to right itself on the rising platform. The second Astartes danced deftly around the tentacles, the son of the Thirteenth meeting transonic blades with wyrd-enhanced steel in a test of speed and skill.

Raamiz cursed loudly as another Astartes was crushed by the tentacled machine, their vitals zeroing out across his augmented display. Three remained outside of himself. He rushed forward towards the ascender, eager to catch the prey that had escaped his clutches. Oneness quickly left his mindscape as reality set in. They could no longer suffer any more casualties.

+’Brothers! Hold the ascender!’+ He commanded as biolightning coursed down his greaves. The two remaining Astartes outside of the ascending cage halted, drawing the wyrd to their claw-tipped gauntlets. Metal began to crunch and bend as the ascender was forcefully halted from it’s ascension. The cage began to buckle and bend around the machine and the final witch-mind within.

As the cold logic of the abominable machine began to stir, the witch-mind before it suddenly dropped their weapon and clung to the metallic being. Warp-enhanced strength saw the gauntlets of the transhuman dig into the teardrop-machine’s body. Even as the transonic blades pierced their twin hearts, slashed their ceramite, and punctured their skull, the Astartes remained. 

Their death was quickly avenged as Raamiz launched into the silver machine like a maritime hunter of old. His body crackled and stormed with fulmination akin to a storm. His spear, wreathed in the lightning of the wyrd, pierced into the machine as if it were a creature of prey from Terra’s forgotten oceans. Thunderbolts erupted from the wound in the abomination’s metallic flesh, coursing across it’s silvered surface. The Scorpion remained atop it, pushing the spear further down into it with every ounce of genewrought strength he could muster.

“By the Malik, drown in dusk!” Raamiz screamed out, his eyes glowing with the power of the Empyrean. He felt his body burn with all the accumulated energy within him. It felt as if he would explode into a storm of electricity at any moment. His mind ached with uncontrollable strain as he vented everything he could into the machine. The cage continued to coil around them as his remaining two brethren maintained their telekinetic entanglement.

The machine crumpled under the blow from the Scorpion. The deadweight of it’s teardrop shaped body piercing the floor of the ascender as the last of its motive forces leached from its cogitator.

The room fell silent, the crescendo of battle outside the walls the only companion for the remaining Astartes as they regrouped in the wake of the thinking machine.

A new sound joined the staccato of gunfire and bass thumps of artillery shells and energy weapons, a whine of engines and screech of metal. Tortured gears above them began to recall the ascender to the gatehouse’s main level, the mechanism of the lift raising the platform ever higher against the will of the Scorpion within.

Raamiz panted as adrenaline fled his body. His wrist jerked the power spear out of the silvery machine, though the head of the weapon remained firmly lodged inside. He tossed the weapon aside, it’s purpose fulfilled and no longer useful to the Scorpion. Perhaps he would agonize more over the loss of his favored spear, but his entire body was currently wracked with the aftermath of intense psionic backlash. Every inch of his skin wanted to blister as if it were bathed in promethium or peel like it had been under direct sunlight for months without a break. The edges of his vision were etched with lilac strands that threatened to curl inwards. 

[i]This is my limit[/i], he thought to himself as his brethren pushed aside the Pacifican abomination to stand beside him. The remaining two Astartes of his squad appeared nearly as worn as he was, save for their weapons remaining in usable condition. He knew that they would not need them for much longer. One final obstacle remained.

“A scant amount remains above us,” one of his brothers, Khalid, said with serene certainty. He followed the direction that the Scorpion was staring at as the ascender began to rise. Raamiz dared not push the limit of his abilities any further lest he risk the wrath of the wyrd. He simply replied with a nod, calming himself through several deep breaths. His fingers flexed twice over as he prepared himself for another fight.

The ascender slowed to a halt, grinding the last inch of it’s remaining gears to deliver those within to their desired destination. It squealed loud enough to momentarily drown out the wail of death mere inches outside of it’s metal abode. An air of tranquility wrapped around the Astartes, who waited in utter silence as their bodies readied fresh cocktails of adrenaline into their forms. The portal before them - a heavyset pair of sliding doors - began to hiss with hydraulic pressure as they unlocked to their arrivals. Small klaxons warned the three to wait for the process to finish before a new chamber opened up before them.

“Perfect, did you kil-” a man in a Pan-Pacifican uniform began to ask before his skull disappeared into paste. The Astartes were already upon the Pacificans. Fifteen individuals tried to flee in every direction, each as terrified as the last. Khalid maneuvered to his left like a reaper to a grown field, dismembering and butchering the men and women without emotion. Sethal sprinted to his right, throwing one of the occupants into another with rightful anger. 

He memorized the chamber even before he started killing anything that moved within. A squat, rectangular room with armored plasglass overlooking the macroway leading out of Hongol. Consoles, terminals, cogitators, and more encircled the area around him. No turrets unfurled from the roof or floor, nor were there any autonomous machines to intercept them. It was as if they had never prepared for an unlikely attack within the Meridian Gate’s control room. For their complacency, the Pacificans now decorated their abode with their own entrails.

“Please! Spare me!” One of them cried out as Raamiz seized them by the throat. He was milliseconds from crushing the man’s throat, yet the Scorpion changed his mind. The Pacifican in his grip was young, devoid of exemplary rank or decoration on his pale blue and grey uniform. He wore neither carapace nor exoskeleton to protect his meager form. None of them did. Victory was so certain to them that they elected not to prepare for defeat. 

It angered him. His lips curled in a toothy grin that turned the man’s face ghostly pale. His claw-tipped fingers remained snug around the officer’s neck as he approached a particular console in the chamber. A variety of displays delicately hung over the device, each showing the status of the various gates that protected Hongol. Many runes decorated the surface of it, yet only the enormous lever in the middle drew his attention. The man squirmed in his grip as Raamiz reached down to the lever, softly placing his free hand on the handle.

“As you wish. I will spare you the details of what we will do to your people after you failed to defend your gate. I will spare you the future that awaits those within Hongol when the Emperor’s Legions claim them. I will spare you what will happen to your families as the Scorpions tear them to pieces.” Raamiz said as he began to pull the lever back towards him. Perhaps for a normal man it would’ve been difficult, yet for an Astartes it was a simple task. It slid into place with a loud thunk. The noise was nearly drowned out by the rest of his warriors massacring the remaining occupants in the Gate.

An unearthly sound like a thousand and one sheets of metal grinding on one another reverberated throughout the gatehouse. A cacophony of grinding gears, screaming cogitators, and shrieking chains bellowed out of the structure. Raamiz could feel the gates open thousands of feet below him, welcoming in hundreds of thousands of the Emperor’s finest warriors into Hongol. It was music to his ears, second only to the sobbing of the man still in his grip. He approached the plasglass looking down over the macroway, where the Astartes watched the fruit of their work ripen immediately.

Raamiz pressed the man against the plasglass as the Imperium rushed into the city. With his objective completed, the Scorpion took precious seconds to slowly squeeze the Pacifican’s throat until it spilled out over his claw-tipped gauntlets. He threw the corpse to the side after their life was finally drained. It dawned on him that the action gave him little satisfaction compared to completing his task. Then why did he do it? The thought was forgotten seconds later as the vox burst to life with the voice of his Legion Master.

+’Raamiz, status?’+ The harsh voice of the older Astartes requested. Raamiz could hear the raucous sound of warfare in the background, though the telltale noise of a rout was clear to him. He didn’t doubt that the Harmony Gate would soon fall to Zaid and his company. 

+’The Meridian Gate has fallen, Legion Master,’+ the Scorpion announced with reinvigorated joy in his tone. The actions of a second ago were behind him as far as he was concerned. All that remained was his next objective. Another chance to prove his abilities to the Emperor and [i]to the Malik[/i]. He shook his head in confusion, placing a gauntlet to his temple to steady it. Raamiz recognized combat exhaustion and wyrd overload as clear as the other Astartes, yet perhaps these words were springing up from the Visions. A response snapped him out of his thoughts.

+’Good. Regroup and plunge into the city. Assist our brethren and cousins. [b]Raptor Imperialis, Raamiz[/b],’+ The vox fell quiet as soon as the last words left the Legion Master’s lips.

+’[b]Gloria Scorpii, Zaid,[/b]’+ the Scorpion replied to an unresponsive vox as he turned away from the console.