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post #1 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-01-10, 08:33 PM Thread Starter
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Default Experiments

The Guard, Space marines, Emperors Children, Tyranids and Orks. Blood, and a great plot. What more could you ask for?

"Experiments"

Chapter 1

Thristal Marconas ran through the thick, wet forest. The branches were bowed from the weight of the water that collected upon the small blue leaves. Marconas; soaked and bloody, struggled as he climbed the hill. The branches cought on his Imperial Guard issued fatigues. They pulled at him as if with grasping hands.

Thin tree trunks the color of purple roses created a thick maze that forced Marconas to slow his pace. He ran in a panic, his senses on the edge of sanity. Memories flooded his mind as he ran, three-hundred-fifty-thousand Imperial Guardsmen torn to pieces, Leman Russ battle tanks, Imperial Chimeras, and Basilisks ripped open, the crews torn limb from limb, absorbed, their flesh consumed to fuel the forces of the Tyranid swarms.

He remembered the acid that was spat from bio-cannons that landed upon the flesh of his brothers. The acid melted their writhing bodies as if they were waste paper in water; their screams of torment could even be heard over the din of battle and death.

Spores floated in the air, spewed from the mouths of gargoyles. The jellyfish like, bluish green masses floated gently above the maelstrom of battle until they found living masses of soldiers whose attentions were directed elsewhere. There, above their heads the spores burst like frag grenades in twenty meter circles. But instead of shrapnel that was thrown, acid and venom fell like rain among the solders causing many of them to flail on the ground until Termagants and Hormagaunts, along with Genestealers and Lectors leapt, ran and crawled into their ranks and sawed through them with two meter long scythe-like claws.

Las-cannons, heavy bolters, melta-guns and flamethrowers along with nearly two-hundred-thousand las-guns fired into the advancing swarm. Beasts that defied description fell, burned and exploded by the thousands. Leman Russ battle tanks advanced into the teeming masses firing their powerful cannons and pintle-mounted storm bolters, their treads grinding through the swarms until body parts, acidic blood and bones filled the tread wells.

Mighty dozer-blades pushed the Tyranids back into each other until their bodies broke. But they were not invulnerable.

Massive hive tyrants stood over their slaves directing their hive-mind and relaying simple instructions from their mother, the Hive-Queen.

Genestealers ran on two legs with the speed of horses and cut through the rest of the swarm, covered the mighty Leman Russ battle tanks and ripped through their hulls with four powerful, three clawed hands. The crews didn’t stand a chance of retreat or survival.
Weaker men fell to their knees and begged the Emperor for help. The help they prayed for never came, only death in the form of the Red Terrors that stomped amongst them with cloven hooves, using their bodies as play things for sport. The soldier’s blood fed the plants around them and soaked into the ground as the Red Terrors ripped them into pieces and fed their corpses to the Lictors and Ravenors.

Chimeras and Basilisks fired their mighty cannons their bright lasers flashed like sun rays through clouds. Steam and vapor swirled around their discharge even as thousands more of the hive fell in burning clumps to the ground.

Huge Carnifex barged through the swarm, throwing the smaller creatures into the air and trampling others with their split, giant black hooves. They overran the Chimeras and Basilisk positions and laid siege to their thick hulls.

Pintle-mounted bolters sent huge explosive shells and massive volumes of firepower into their ranks but they kept coming. Some fell and were trampled by the rest or used as shields, held in the fierce grip of massive red pinchers to absorb the volleys of ordinance.

Once close enough to the powerful war machines, the towering Carnifex ripped open their thick green hulls and filled them with acidic venom. The flesh melted from the crews bones and formed a soup that was lapped up by the Lictors and Ravenors.

Guardsmen began to break ranks and flee into the trenches in hopes of greater protection but to their horror they could not find any. Las-guns fired into the air as gargoyles flew overhead in great swarms, unleashing the spores to do their work. But while those in the trenches fired into the sky or into the bodies of approaching Tyranids, the ground gave way below them from burrowing monstrosities.

Like moles in a garden, the Tyranid forces burrowed and burst from the walls of the trenches with meter long scythe-like claws that cut men’s bodies into peaces. Blood, bone and the organs of men painted the walls and ground in thick layers which dripped and ran through the trenches like a river.

Zoanthrope drifted in the air and unleashed blinding bolts of psychic lightning and electric discharges into the fleeing men. One hundred thousand of the Emperor’s finest died in hours but still they would not be completely broken.

The Commissars screamed the scriptures of courage and fired into the hordes of oncoming Red Terrors that ran on four, three meter long scythe-like claws. They also shot cowards in the back as they ran screaming from the beast’s deadly advance.

The Terrors lashed out with long scorpion-like tails that spat acid and venom into the faces of their prey. They slashed with frenzied passion through the bodies of the most brave who still held the line, while the Commissars stood above them preaching the undying word of the Emperor’s deliverance.

The Commissars were the pure examples of how the guardsmen were to live and wage war…but in their final minutes they became the prime example of how to bleed, scream and die while their bodies were eaten whole by the Red Terrors, Genestealers, Termagants and Hormagaunts.

Even as they continued to advance into the ranks of guardsmen, a priest stood with his scriptures unfolded in scroll, reading aloud the ‘Litany of Exorcism.’ The Tyranids would not be exorcized for they whey were not daemons but bio-engineered creatures of alien design.

A Leman Russ plowed past the priest; its exhaust billowing behind it clouding the priest and caused him to have a coughing fit. A Lictor ran into the cloud and grasped the man in its long, bone-white mantis-like pinchers and began to feed like a mantis with its prey even as the priest struggled to escape. Blood burst forth from the wounds that were being inflicted and intestines spilled out from his abdomen even as it was ripped open. The screams of the priest ended quickly when another Lictor ripped the head from his body and swallowed it whole.

The Leman Russ fired its cannon at a downwards angle. The shockwave of the shell’s exit from the cannon lit up the night and sent creatures flying through the air, their carapace outer shells smashed from the concussion wave.

The shell smashed through a thousand Tyranids and detonated in the body of a Hive-tyrant. The Hive-Tyrant’s death caused nearly twenty-thousand beasts to falter in confusion as the psychic connection from their wrangler was severed.
The Imperial Guardsmen noticed the weakness and began a rout from the east that came to a fierce standstill an hour later when the confused Tyranid swarms regained their psychic connection to the rest of the hive-mind.

Hundreds of Biovores spewed thousands of spores high above the exposed guardsmen. The spores drifted on the air, light and delicate looking, like jellyfish in the sea; they exploded in the guardsmen’s ranks causing thousands of men to scream and falter as acid, venom and bio-morphing seeds rained down upon them. Their skin melted and their bodies convulsed as the nerve agents from the venom soaked through their flesh.

The bio-morphing seeds sent roots into the guardsmen’s bodies. The men screamed as the seeds needle-like tentacles bored into their flesh, releasing toxins that liquefied their bodies from the inside out. The seeds drank from this protein soup and grew until they burst like overfed ticks.

The air was thick with clouds of smoke and steam from the battle, a purple-black haze that drifted upon the humid breeze. What was once a beautiful crop-land that formed the ‘Valley of Plenty,’ now bore the bodies of hundreds of thousands of Tyranids, guardsmen and wasted machinery that stretched nearly twenty kilometers from the east to the west.

The crop had been ready for harvest and the ground ready for the harvesters, but now the blood of beast and human alike soaked the land and would corrupt the valley for generation to come.

For two days the battle raged and still it seemed the numbers of the Tyranid forces continued to grow while the guardsmen continued to fall. This enemy could not be overcome. It was obvious to those who fought. The battle to kill off the Tyranid hosts and keep the planet from extinction would fail and all of those massed would surly die.

Reinforcements resupplied the ranks of guardsmen on the nightfall of day two. Ninety-thousand men were added to the lines, but those that had fought the longest were not encouraged. They knew the hell that they fought against could not be vanquished, no matter how many guardsmen packed the ranks.

Along with guardsmen; weapons and ammunition were sent with med-packs, burn-jells and other medical supplies. Food and fresh water and caffeine were meted out among the lines in order to satisfy the most basic of needs.

The Tyranid swarms continued to grow and their onslaught became even more furious, as if they were being pushed by their lust for blood and dominance.

Thristal Marconas watched the shuttles approach from the north; their landing lights were bright in the evening dimness. He could see the fire extending twelve meters long from the shuttle’s open bay doors in a cone of red as the air-cooled pintle-guns fired thousands of rounds in seconds into the swirling masses. Carapace outer bone shells came apart and were flung into the evening sky creating thousands of dark silhouettes that rose slowly and fell quickly into the teeming intruders.

He watched as the bodies of thousands of the hive fell and writhed in their death throws and he rejoiced as he watched the Tyranid swarms die in their thousands.

The shuttles landed with the roar of an ocean; thousands of waves crashing against a rocky shore. Dust and debris were thrown into the air which formed a thick fog of debris. The shuttles strobe-lights flashing through the fog threw shadows as loaders carried wounded men into the spacious hulls and carried supplies out as they made their way to the lines once more.

Marconas longed to get onto one of those shuttles. He longed to get away, to escape, to run and hide like a child into his father’s arms. He was tired and afraid. He was also numb and fatigued and soaked with the blood of a thousand other people and creatures that had died all around him. He just wanted to go home.

He had seen thousands die and he was surprised to find that he was not one of them. A cheer roused him from his longing and caused him to look to the east. A shuttle had landed nearly five minutes ago. He hadn’t paid it very much attention as he was ducking the floating swarms of spores and the psychic bolts from the Zoanthrope.

Huge figures shrouded in armor and over three meters tall bearing guns so large it would take three normal men to fire accurately, emerged from the smoke. They carried swords with chain blades that moaned with the longing for blood. There were fifty of them. They were Space Marines of the chapter of the Holy Retribution.

At first he was amazed and nearly overwhelmed by their mass. They were like living tanks and moved as a single body toward the front lines. Some carried flamers while others carried strange rocket launchers with auto-feeds that supplied small warheads. Some carried long chain swords and bolter-guns. Their movements were without fear or panic and they seemed to stride to the front as if the hellish enemy was just a small number of defenseless children.

At the fore of the company moved a massive giant that was covered in what looked like anti-aircraft guns, long air-cooled barrels that rotated and clanked as they received their ammunition. Thick smoke billowed from hidden exhaust pipes that emerged from its shoulders. From a speaker horn mounted on its left shoulder the scriptures of Courage and Faith in the Emperor’s Deliverance boomed above the cacophony of battle. It was a Dreadnought.

The night was setting in and the darkness kept Marconas from noticing their colors or the insignia that rested defiantly upon the large standard the giant in the lead carried. The fabric whipped and snapped in the strong, warm wind. Thristal Marconas turned his face away from them and looked back to the battlefield and was sure their presence would not be enough.

Marconas looked back to the shuttle and longed once more to climb on board and make his escape. He wasn’t a coward. He had fought well, but he didn’t want to die well. He wanted to live, to see his family, his sons and his beautiful wife. All thought was ripped from him suddenly as pain like he had never known wracked his body and he was thrown from his perch upon the sandbag protected gun tower.

He landed hard on his back and lost his air. His adrenalin was pumping so hard that he blacked out; temporarily blinded by the blackness he began to crawl. His hands groped through the trampled wheat and blood in search for his weapon.

He could feel the toxins invading his body and the beginnings of the acid’s reaction with the immediate area where the parasite had attached itself. His lungs were on fire as he struggled for a breath; for his wind again. At last he was able to scream as the parasite from a burst spore continued to push its roots into his flesh. He tried to reach it but it was in his upper middle back between his shoulder-blades.

Marconas rolled onto his back and ground himself into the dirt in an effort to remove the intruder, but it did no good and the roots continued to grow and he continued to scream.

An iron-clad hand picked him up and lifted him into the air by his leg. ‘Hold still!’ the voice boomed. He did his best; the terror of the giant holding him in the air nearly numbing him past the pain. The Space Marine grabbed the spore and crushed it in his gauntleted hand, pulled it free and threw it aside. The giant sat the man down gently, turned and shouted a command to the other Space Marines near him. As the giant walked down the hill into the swirling masses before him, Marconas said the only thing he could think of, the only thing that made any sense. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

CHAPTER 2

Garlimon Verlhuk, Captain of the Iron Fifty of the Chapter of the Holy Retribution ordered his unit into the maelstrom before them. The thought of death or defeat was as far from his mind as the sun was from the moon. He was bred for battle, bred to be the hand of terror against all that opposed the Emperors worlds.

The bolter in his hand recoiled as he fired its deadly rounds into the bodies of the advancing foe. Acid from the spores that burst overhead smoked upon his armor’s outer carapace but did not harm him. The sacred craftsmanship and care of the armor along with the holy oils that were hand rubbed deep into the pores of the thick, blackened plate would keep the acids from eating away the suits integrity for several hours.

Fire poured from the nozzles of the flamethrowers in streams that covered the Tyranid bodies. The combined firepower of the Space Marines light up the Valley of Plenty revealing the hosts that were falling at their feet.

In the darkness it seemed a river of fire spilled across the center of the battlefield. Marconas watched the valley alight in liquid orange for nearly a kilometer as the flames ruminated into the teeming insectoid forms.

The visor in Verlhuk’s helmet darkened as the flames shot forth. He rejoiced as he watched tens of thousands of burning beasts explode as their bodies were blown apart and burned. They twitched as their nervous systems continued to send information to their limbs. Some crawled on the ground in burning piles, but the Holy Retribution paid them no mind as they moved forward, stomping on the smoldering exoskeletons of the dead.

After the flames, came the release of the rockets into the faltering swarms. The Imperial Guard for nearly ten kilometers stood as one as the glow of the detonations lit up the darkness and threw thousands of the flesh eaters high into the air. For a brief moment the guard seemed to forget the danger they were in. It took the screams of the dieing and wounded to bring them back to the reality before them.

More explosions lit up the night and the men shouted their support and thanks to the Emperor for his deliverance. Marconas allowed himself to rejoice as well, for a moment. But he watched as millions more of the hive-creatures turned as one to face this new threat.

The mighty Dreadnought crashed through the advancing hordes, its armor more than able to repel the blades of the smaller creatures as it ground them underfoot. The air-cooled gun-barrels mounted to its body smoked and created eight cones of flame as thousands of high caliber explosive rounds erupted into the bodies of the Tyranid hosts. Thousands of screeching, buzzing predators came apart and exploded in sprays of bone, alien flesh and acidic blood.

Across the battlefield the Dreadnought’s voice could be heard as it laughed, as if for the first time in decades it was truly enjoying itself. The battle brothers began to sing the songs of the Emperor’s Judgment as they advanced. They quoted the scriptures of Deliverance and they shouted the Proclamations of Courage as they moved through the throngs of the slashing, spitting swarms. They moved as though they walked through a peaceful land, as though nothing could harm them; they were unafraid.

They fought on for nearly seven hours. For those seven hours the Imperial Guard witnessed the glories of the blessed Space Marines. They were inspired by the acts of the giants, the champions in their midst. They were moved to greater acts of heroism and courage. It seemed the tide had turned as the Tyranid forces withdrew from the front lines.

Marconas watched from a fortified gun-tower. His vantage point allowed him to see the battlefield from a different angle than most. The Space Marines fought in the midst of an ocean of death that rose like waves and crashed against the armor of the great giants.

The Tyranids slashed from all sides, raging like an unstoppable river in flood season. They converged upon the chapter of the Holy Retribution and slowly began to get past their weaponry. Thristal Marconas, watching from his vantage point, wept as his worst fears were proven real. He gasped as he saw the Space Marines begin to fall one by one as the tides rolled in.

Chapter 3

Chain-blades cut Genestealers, Termagants, Hormagaunts and Lictors in pieces. Gargoyles harried the Holy Retribution from above with the spores they spewed, the acid finally starting to take its toll, pitting and smoking in the gouges opened in their armor by the scything claws of the unforgiving hosts.

Most of the ammunition the Marines carried had been used up and their blades were becoming dull from the countless foes they had hacked apart. They were covered in alien blood, venom and acid. Countless bio-seeds and parasites perched upon their armor-plate, tentacles seeking for a weakness in which to infect their prey.

It seemed that millions upon millions of Tyranids lay dead, not just from the power of the Space Marines but also from the unwavering courage of the Imperial Guard, but still it seemed the numbers of the Tyranid swarms had not lessoned. Now Marconas could see the silhouetted forms of Carnifex, Brood Lords, Red Terrors and several Old One Eyes charge through the hosts of smaller beasts, tossing them out of their way as if they were so much useless waste.

They slammed into the Space Marines with a force that the giants had not faced in this battle.. The Hive Tyrants had directed the smaller creatures by the millions into the path of the Space Marines. They had used them as fodder, as a diversion. The killing had been easy for the Marines and now Garlimon Verlhuk realized the mistake he had made. ‘Fight on brothers. May your deaths be glorious!’ he hissed over the helmet to helmet vox-comm.

The crash of exoskeleton and armor was heard three kilometers away. Even over the din of firepower the Guard was laying down, even over the screams of the wounded and dieing the clash could be heard. Every man that bore witness to the battle wept as they realized their champions would not return.

Chapter 4

Silently the ‘Desecration Of The Emperors Dreams’ set in low orbit, hidden by a cloaking field and blind to the Imperial Guard’s sensors by the use of psyker slaves sewn into the very fabric of the ship. ‘The Desecration of the Emperors Dreams’ was a science class vessel, war capable, but just barely. For what it lacked in size, it more than made up with its sleek and thin, easily maneuverable precision.

Its purpose was not for war but for research, observation and experimentation. It had hovered over the battlefield for nearly three days, its occupants extremely pleased to the point of glutinous laughter as they watched the events unfold.

They had watched, a little surprised, as the Imperial Guard fought a losing battle. Those that watched had expected the Guard to die within the first thirty-six hours, but human resilience was one thing that could always be counted on to make things interesting.

From their placement above the battlefield they witnessed the foul puppets of the corps-god enter into the fray. They watched as they advanced into the Tyranid swarms unleashing their arsenal of the weaponry that could level city blocks. They were an unexpected test, an enigma. But Hagash, blessed Hagash had an idea.

‘Ronomonon, direct your pet to instruct her children. Have her guide them. This could be fun.’ Hagash chuckled as he watched the spark alight in Ronomonon’s coal-black eyes. Hagash began to laugh, almost uncontrollably as he watched the battle unfold from the observation telescopic view cameras image enhancers.

Ronomonon stood from his high backed, black, human skinned seat and strode over to the doors of the observation suite. His frame was massive and the armor he wore was gloriously engraved with the symbols of Chaos and the brilliance of Slaanesh, the foul, dark god of the Emperor’s Children. The armor was white and the engravements were inscribed in a liquefied blood-red that did not run but glistened with the former life of its now enslaved soul.

The Aquila, twisted in a desecrated pose, incased in blood and the writhing spirits of those who had opposed him, sat upon the breastplate of his power armor. He extended his gauntleted hand and keyed in the code to open the iron door that led into the experimentation hall. There before him, held by massive chains and a powerful suspension field was a beast so powerful and vile that none but a few had ever seen it and lived.

Ronomonon giggled as he watched the eyes of the great beast dilate in recognition and fear. With a mighty roar and hiss it struggled to turn its powerful body, but the bonds were too strong.

Ronomonon held his hand over a sensor array and pressed a small blood-red button. The beast stiffened under the electrical impulses and bowed its massive head, the neuro-transmitters surgically placed in its skull beginning to place the wishes of the Emperors Child into the brain of the Tyranid Queen.

The Queen of the hive bellowed a defiant roar then grew silent as it psychically screamed the command to its children upon the ground. Ronomonon turned from the beast and walked back into the observation sweet. He laughed when he entered the clean, cold room. It smelled of alcohol and blood.

Hagash had begun to laugh so hard he had fallen to the floor. His eyelids were bleeding from where the stitches had pulled through the skin. Purple-black blood mixed with tears of pure joy, flowed from his eyes as he convulsed upon the floor in uncontrolled barking laughter.

Ronomonon strode over to the view screen. The mightiest of the Tyranid’s forces had converged upon the Space Marines position. The blessed of the Emperor fought to the last but their efforts would be in vain. They were being pulled apart and hacked into pieces by the massive scythe-like claws and crab-like pinchers of the swarm.

The view was dark and grainy but the Chaos Space Marine Apothecaries enhanced eyesight allowed them to see the carnage. ‘Send Brother Rogamal down to gather the progenoid glands from the corpses.’ Hagash sputtered while he tried to regain his composure long enough to watch as another Space Marine was hacked apart. ‘If any of the puppets still survive, bring back what is left of the body so it can watch what we do with its precious gene-seed.’ Ronomonon bent backwards and laughed at the thought of that. ‘Truly Slaanesh will be pleased!’ he spat in riotous laughter.

After the defeat of the honored Space Marines the swarms returned. Thristal Marconas watched their insectoid bodies rise and fall like the waves of the sea as the strobing lights from the Imperial Guard ordinance lit up the battlefield once more.

Again, the tanks and gun-ships advanced into the teeming ranks. Las-cannons fired and sent piercing streams of light through the bodies of the oncoming hordes. Though the forces of the Imperial Guard fought on, it was clear that their resolve and spirit had been broken for along with the death of their heroes came the death of their last hope.

They would not receive any more reinforcements and ammunition was running low. It was humid and the heat and stench of blood, burning corpses and death from the battle was nearly unbearable. The Tyranids added to the stink with an indescribable odor that scorched the sinuses and caused the lungs to burn.

Finally, as the sun rose, early on the fourth morning, the General ordered the Guard to fall back regiment by regiment, into the forest covered hills nearly thirty kilometers to the north.

As the regiments fell back, the Imperial Guard lines became weaker and the Tyranid swarms became even more belligerent.

Chapter 5

Thristal Marconas remembered being aboard the battle-barge. Its name was the ‘Glorious Light.’ At that time he was excited about the drop onto the planet. This was his second deployment since he had joined the Bline Infantry.
They had fought against the Eldar on the planet Nuptol, in the Learmont system.

The battle there had been fierce and exhausting. He had lost his brother there, to an Eldar blade that had cut him in half. The war had lasted for nearly two years, before the Eldar finally relinquished their hold on the mighty forge world. Nearly a hundred thousand soldiers of Bline had fallen there.

He thought the Eldar were fierce, but compared to the Tyranid swarms that raged against them now, the Eldar were as lost children in a marketplace.

Marconas remembered taking his seat and strapping in, his harness tight upon his chest and a thin piece of rubber between his teeth to keep him from gnashing his teeth from the shuttles vibrations. He could see the expectant and excited faces of the others around him, the determination of his brothers, and could hear the shouted scriptures from the mouth of the commissar, as he struggled to exhort the soldiers above the roar of the shuttles growling engines.

He had smiled as the shuttle entered the atmosphere, the heat from the solar-shields warming the interior nearly to the point of cooking the human bodies inside. He had rejoiced as the shuttle landed and the ramp opened.

The sky had been bright and blue, cloudless and alive with the exhaust streams from incoming shuttles and fighter craft that circled in support. The enemy had not appeared in the valley yet. The crops were gold and stood nearly two meters high.

Two mountains stood, one to the east and one to the west, nearly seventy kilometers away from each other. They towered into the sky like mighty fortresses, colored blue and purple by the shade their cliffs provided from the afternoon heat.

Thirty kilometers to the north stood the forest covered hill country. It was majestic and beautiful, green and alive with the promise of rest and relaxation around campfires and stories of home. Thristal Marconas had given thanks to the Emperor for making such a glorious place. The name of this world was called Hasfore, “The planet of glorious beauty”.

‘The things you will be fighting are called Ty-ra-nids. They are nothing but big bugs that we will crush beneath our feet and piss on! If you want to be scared of something, men, than be scared of what your mom-mas will think when I tell them their one and only baby boy was eaten up by a little, weak and helpless insect!’ That is what the captain had said they were. ‘Just smash e’m under your feet like roaches!’ he laughed and told the unit not to worry and to continue filling sandbags.

The men sang and told jokes and boasted about their weaponry and what it could do to the bodies of the alien bugs. The Bline Infantry had only seen grainy pictures of the Tyranids. They had never seen one in person, let alone fought one. After the first five minutes from the start of the attack, they had wished they never did.

The first waves of Tyranid creatures came in from the south. They were smaller and used the soft ground of the crop fields to burrow under unnoticed. It was near dark, the sun was down and the moon had shown blood red in the night sky.

With the speed of bolter shells they struck. Thousands of them erupted from the ground; their dark purple and blood-red carapaces blending perfectly with the darkest shadows of the night.

In their thousands they erupted from the fertile soil and painted the fields in the blood of the Imperial Guard. With two meter long claws that were sharp as razors and hard as steel they severed limbs from screaming, panicked men, decapitated heads from bodies and ripped torsos completely in half. . .blood poured through the trenches faster than the ground could absorb it, creating a river that filled the snaking man-made ravine nearly ankle deep. Before the soldiers even knew they were under attack the swarms were among them and in all directions men screamed.

The Tyranids screamed a sonic pitch that burst the eardrums of those within earshot. Men writhed upon the ground, blood pouring from their eyes, ears and noses. Many forgot who they were and set on the ground like children cried for their mothers.

That is how it started, how Thristal Marconas remembered it from the back of a transport vehicle, covered in the blood and ichor and acids that ate away the clothes he was wearing and the outer layers of his exposed skin. His flesh stung and the bitter-sweet smell of it all caused him to vomit over the back rail. Surrounded by darkness and blood-covered, wounded men that were fleeing for their lives, Thristal Marconas prayed the Solitude of Repentance and Deliverance.
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Default Experiments part 2

Chapter 6

In the darkness, surrounded by the Tyranid pawns, Rogamal strode across the battlefield unharmed. His armor was black and covered in choice trophies; the finger of an Iron Fist, the skull of an Iron Hand, the foot of a Howling Griffon: the twisted, dried out tongue of an Ultramarine and upon his breastplate the breastbone of a Black Templar had been fastened.

Segmented mechanical arms extended from his back. They were tipped with drills, vices, chisels and syringes filled with fluids used for experimentation. Upon his shoulder-guard the insignia of the Emperors Children glowed with a deamonic light that blinded the eyes of unaltered men.

The Tyranids swarmed around him, some bearing the scars of blade or las-cannon fire, some bearing the recent results of flame and bolter fire. Some loped slowly beside him, talons twitching, mandibles clicking, while others flew overhead slowly circling waiting for the faltering of their prey. Rogamal could sense their longing to tear him apart; their animal lust for blood and the need to devour seething through their veins, but he was unafraid. It thrilled him to know he could do as he pleased among them, their desires held in check by the psychic connection of their captive Queen.

As he strode onwards, the blood of the dead collected upon the greaves of his armor as the exoskeletons of still twitching creatures brushed against him. He continued on his way until he came to where the bodies of the corps-god’s puppets lay; all fifty of them, hacked into pieces, armor torn asunder and flesh ripped from bones.

There were two that still had the spark of life in them. One was a helpless torso with a head. Rogamal kicked the body of the fallen and laughed before stepping over him to where the pieces of a dead Space Marine lay. His mechanical arms extended and cut the head of the dead Space Marine from the body. He then reached into the neck-stump, blood congealing around his gauntleted fingers and felt around until he found the progenoid gland. Unceremoniously he wrapped his fingers around it, tightened his grip and pulled it from the masticated flesh.

The still living Space Marine gasped in horror as he realized what was taking place. This was desecration of the worst kind, the sacred gene-hansments of the righteous in the hands of the unrighteous! Rogamal stood up, pulled the redactor from his pack and placed the gland inside.

He skipped like a happy, care-free child over to the next body and danced for a moment over the bludgeoned figure before he laughed, cut the head from the torso and pulled the precious gene-seed from its body. To each body he went. Forty-eight gene-seeds collected, trophies taken in honor of their master.

The Dreadnaught was the hardest to recover. Though fallen, it still lived. The armor, though damaged beyond repair had protected the body within…mostly. Through the broken eye lenses the ancient warrior registered the Emperors Child, ‘Traitor!’ He spat from the grill-amplifier of his ruined helm.

He wanted to fight but with the power unit destroyed, the servos in the mighty war-machine could not respond. Helplessly the dreadnaught awaited his fate. Rogamal activated his powered gauntlet and a swirling torrent of electricity danced around its pointed talons. With it he tormented the Dreadnaught, tearing through armor and separating the tender flesh from the bone inside. Finally, after what felt like an eternity to the dyeing hero, Rogamal tore the helm from the giants head.

Rogamal looked down into the eyes of the fallen warrior. ‘How can one be a traitor to someone else who betrayed him?’ he asked, his chaotic voice grating through his ancient throat. With that said, he knelt atop the wrecked torso of the helpless, tortured soul, took his blade and put it to the back of the neck of his fallen foe and began to saw back and forth very slowly. The Emperor’s Child began to laugh as his enemies screams echoed through the valley.

With the Space Marine still alive he cut around the spinal column and etched his way to just above the sternum, plunged the blade in deeply and cut away the precious gene-seed. That made forty-nine. ‘Just know, we will put it to good use.’ He said to the wreck of a man that lay at his feet.

It had taken more time than Rogamal had desired to spend, but the treasure he found had been well worth the wait. He walked back to the only Space Marine who still lived, unslung a chain and secured it to the broken armor. He pulled it tight and began to drag it back to the small transport. The Tyranids massed around them like embers from a raging fire as he walked and drug the body. Their blood-lust caused them to fight among themselves in desperation as their prey moved unharmed through their midst.

He secured the body to the outside of the transport and let it hang there. He laughed as the single-man transport lifted from the ground and traveled quickly back to the ‘Desecration of the Emperors Dreams’. Dangling from the end of the chain, Garlimon Verlhuk wept for his brothers. There was no honor for them; it had been stripped by the enemies’ hand.

Chapter 7

The front lines of the Imperial Guard fought hard to cover the retreat of the surviving regiments as they made their way to the hill country. Morning was upon them and the suns light shown through the billowing gray clouds, black smoke and the light fog that hovered low to the ground.

Through the night many of the Guard noted the lights that bloomed in the sky. The Imperial ships that had sat in high orbit above the planets surface had engaged or been engaged by the hive fleet.

Long green streams of power had lanced in one direction, crisscrossed by bright red lances shot in the darkness from the other direction. The battle had raged in the heavens for nearly eleven hours ending as the dawn awoke.

The death of a battle-barge could be seen as it fell in a blazing fireball through the atmosphere, trailed by a smoke stream that spread across the night sky blazing brightly for thousands of kilometers.

Now massive seed-pods fell to the surface of Hasfore by the score. Billions of creatures would flood this land within hours and the soldiers of the Imperial Guard, the Bline Infantry would be decimated under the weight of the Tyranid forces.

Nearly three hundred thousand Imperial Guardsmen had perished thus far. Most of the heavy tanks and weaponry had been destroyed, ripped open and pulled apart by the giants of the Tyranid hive. Wave after wave of the bone-white and purple, blood covered creatures stormed the last ranks of guardsmen as they fell back from the front lines. Torn to pieces within minutes, some tried to run and save their own lives.

They ran without thinking in any direction they could, they didn’t care, just as long as they had a chance of escape but they were met by burrowing creatures that sprung from the ground, their blade-like claws shredding their flesh into bloody pieces.

The battlefield was now a silent wasteland, covered with the mutilated corpses of millions of creatures and hundreds of thousands of Imperial Guardsmen. Worm-like waste eaters in their hundreds of thousands flooded the battlefield and began to consume the dead, the dieing and the wounded. Even the blood upon the ground had been consumed; the proteins used for the birthing of more of the insectoid beasts.

Chapter 8

The Emperors Children laughed as they watched the carnage below and the destruction of those faithful to the Corpse-god. They also laughed as they watched the Captain of the Iron Fifty of the Holy Retribution gasp like a fish for another breath.

He was in good hands, the Apothecaries at his side would not let him die. They had a whole host of plans for their special guest.

His eyelids had been sewn open and his wounds had been tended to. The stumps of his legs and arms had been sewn shut and the arteries repaired. Ronomonon assured Verlhuk that he would live a long and pleasant life as an honored guest aboard the science vessel.

Hagash set the fallen Space Marine into a chair that hovered above the floor by the power of anti-grav units. Verlhuk’s armor had been stripped away; he sat naked and unable to tend to himself while he was forced to watch as the Tyranids overran the last of the Imperial Guard units that had not fallen back from the front lines in time.

Ronomonon directed Garlimon Verlhuk’s chair to follow him as he walked to the power-door that led into the experimentation hall. ‘This is our pet.’ he boasted. He turned and looked eye to eye with Verlhuk. ‘The Emperor has left you just as he left us so long ago.’ He said, venom dripping from his words. ‘But you are not alone. We will be here for you in your time of need.’ He stood up and looked at the Tyranid Queen. “Do you like her?’ he asked.

Ronomonon looked down upon the tortured frame of Verlhuk and laughed as he held out Verlhuk’s tongue. ‘Guess you can’t answer. How rude of me to expect one.’ he said with a light chuckle. ‘I can see in your eyes that you would like to see more of your new home and I would be glad to acquaint you with it.’

Ronomonon walked to the end of the chamber, to a set of sealed double doors set in stone. They had ruinous symbols that glowed light green and seemed to warp like a rippling brook if the eye rested on them for too long.

Verlhuk was forced to follow as Ronomonon moved on. He looked up into the dead eyes of the Tyranid Queen. He saw wires and electrical impulse spikes attached to the skull of the creature its black-hole eyes fallowed them as they passed.

It was held in a status field that glowed light pink and shimmered with each breath of the foul beast. Ronomonon spoke a single word in his deamonic language and the doors before him opened with a hiss. Glow globes lit up and spread a dark light into the hall before them.

Garlimon Verlhuk tried not to vomit from what he was forced to look upon. He had been upon Chaos Space Marine ships before and fought them in their sacred chapels. His senses had roiled at the perversity and filth upon those vessels. The blood that he had trodden on had boiled as the souls trapped inside screamed and begged for release. Garlimon Verlhuk remembered those horrors and he had prayed to the Emperor of mankind that he would never have to see such a thing again.

There was no way that he could look away from what was now before him. The walls rippled with the souls trapped inside. The ceiling wept bitter tears of blood that fell on the floor and were swallowed by the mouths of thousands of warp creatures that spewed the blood tears forth again in a mist-like form that coated the very fabric of the air.

The screams of the tormented were as songs to the ears of the Emperor’s Children, but to Garlimon Verlhuk they were as the toll bells of hopelessness. The Emperor had indeed left him, he was alone, tormented and he wept, for there was nothing else he could do.

Ronomonon seemed to swell with pride and delight as he looked around the surgical suite. ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ he said. His voice was reverent and hushed as he spoke. He bowed his knee and spoke in his cursed tongue, a prayer, Verlhuk supposed.

After a moment, Ronomonon stood and walked through the room, the hover-chair following behind. ‘This is where the experiments take root; this is where we will place your brother’s gene-seeds into their new bodies.’ He began to laugh as he heard Verlhuk take in a deep breath. He turned and knelt on one knee and looked into Verlhuk’s eyes as a father would to his child. ‘I can tell you are pleased! I am so glad. I will do so much for you, Verlhuk. Soon you will see the product of our newest experiment. Oh! You will be so happy.’

Chapter 9

It was noon before the Imperial Guard regiments entered the forests and began to make their ascent. The Tyranids, for unknown reasons, had stopped their pursuit nearly three hours ago. It was a welcome break that many had used to rest or sleep.

Apothecaries continued their work upon the wounded in the space provided for them amongst the troop carriers. Rumor had it that the Imperial ships had been destroyed or overrun by the Tyranids and there was no way off this dreaded place. Thristal Marconas believed the rumors. He sat, head bowed, surrounded by men he had fought with for the last three days, but for the life of him, he could not bring to mind even one name.

They were strangers to each other and to this world. He tried to close his eyes and rest but every time he did, the images of the battles the last few days plagued his mind. Everyone had lost friends, brothers and leaders to the swarms and it had become simply a need for survival.

Nobody spoke. No one wanted to. Finally the vehicles stopped and the order came for them to disembark and begin digging trenches at the base of the hill, behind rocks, trees and anything else they could find for cover.

Thristal Marconas looked around the scenery before him…if not for the Tyranids; this world would be a place he could get lost in. There was a flowing brook and a fresh water waterfall that flowed freely and unmolested by the horrors around it. The trees were tall and strong and covered in purple flowery leaves that painted the air with perfume-like riches that masked the smell of sweat and terror.

The tired soldiers pulled shovels from their pouches and began to dig. The ground here was rocky and hard with roots and small flat rocks that caused the arms of the men to vibrate with every impact from the shovel.

Mortars were set up behind the trench-line and heavy las-cannons put into place every twenty meters along the trench rim. Thin purple trees with blue leaves stood witness over the preparations, shadowed by the larger ones nearby.

The soft, cool afternoon breeze rustling through the branches caused Marconas to remember his home world and the Forests of Choirs. When the wind blew through the leaves hard enough, they would rub together in such a way one would think they were singing.

He looked up and noticed the clouds that were beginning to close overhead. They blotted out the sun and plunged the world into expectant shade. The breeze began to stir into a wind and the air began to cool even more. The branches of the trees and shrubs began to rub together, but there were no songs.

This was not home and Thristal Marconas was sure he would never see it again.

Thunder boomed and lightning began to flash in the distance. It was truly the most beautiful thing Thristal Marconas had seen in years. The smells of death and warfare were replaced with the sweet perfume of rain.

As the small liquid drops began to fall, everyone stopped what they were doing long enough to take in the beauty and the sense of piece that soothed the soul. ‘I miss my wife.’ A big man said as he stood, face lifted to the sky. Marconas smiled at the thought that he wasn’t the only one homesick and scared.

After a moment, the shouts of the surviving Commissars and the growl of engines brought the men back from their memories and the work resumed. With each shovel load that he moved, he felt that he was digging his own grave. He watched as the remaining armored vehicles began to take up position, facing south.

The massive forms of Chimeras, Basilisks and Leman Russ battle tanks would be enough to strike fear into the hearts of most enemies, but he doubted the Tyranids even understood the concept of fear.

Five hours came and went. The Tyranids had not pursued. As darkness settled in, the rain only seemed to strengthen and the men waited tensely, nerves at their ends. Some cursed while others prayed, while others slept.

They faced south, expecting that that would be the direction their enemy would come from. Guards had been placed all along the top of the ridge line, at the top of the forested hills. They watched the thick forests all around them for any sign of movement or threat. They watched but in the darkness they were unaware of the creatures that stalked them from the north.

As well organized as any Space Marine Chapter, the Orks attacked. They were silent and deadly as they synchronized their attack. Huge creatures that bore the armor of Astartes rose up as one and killed the lookouts. They ran silently through the forests and descended into the ranks of the Imperial Guard without as much as a shout.

The sound of heavy bolt-guns and chainswords, axes and grenades along with the screams of the dieing echoed through the rain-soaked forests. The Imperial Guard, taken by surprise, began to turn as they heard the din.

The massive forms of the tanks began to turn as the threat began to manifest but they were too slow. One giant ork leapt upon the turret of a Basilisk and ripped open the hatch, dumped in a grenade and leapt away. The grenade exploded and smoke and flame erupted through the tanks orifices.

The Guard was taken totally by surprise. They had been expecting Tyranids from the south but were assailed by Orks from the north wearing the armor of Space Marines. There were thousands of them. They did not fight among themselves as were common to Orks but fought as if they had been fully trained, for their skills and movements were without flaw.

Their armor bore the insignias of White Scars, Raven Guard, Raptors, Iron Hands, Ultra Marines and many others. The Imperial Guardsmen fired their weapons into their ranks but could not bring them down. They were like living, breathing battle tanks, impervious to the small arms fire of humanity.

In the maelstrom of battle, Thristal Marconas began to run. He ran away from the battle as fast as his legs could take him. He heard the sounds of war behind him and wept as the screams of his brothers abruptly came to a halt. He was covered in blood, water and mud. He prayed he could escape but there really was no place to go. Gunfire and the sounds of thunder erupted from below. Marconas ran but did not look back, fear the only thing guiding him.

Chapter 10

Garlimon Verlhuk, fallen captain of the Iron Fifty of the Holy Retribution, watched in horror as Hagash pulled a gene-seed from the redactor and placed it on the table beside the prone form of an Ork. Its body was massive, dark green and strapped to the surgeons table. Hagash worked with purified surgeon’s tools while Ronomonon and Rogamal stood witness over the gene-seeds placement.

They laughed until they cried, the tears marking their cheeks in black. Hagash could barely do his work because he laughed so hard. Every time he looked into the face of their new guest, he would laugh so hard he would double over with cramps. Finally he gained control over himself and finished his placement of the desecrated gene-seed.

‘We take the orks and place neuro-transmitters into their small brains so we can control them.’ he explained to Verlhuk. ‘Then we place the altered armor of your fallen brothers, the puppets of the corpse-god you call Emperor, upon them and program them to fight as we do in battle. They are efficient and nearly unkillable in your brother’s armor.’ he said.
‘What greater honor could there be than for your brothers gene-seed and organs to be placed into the flesh of Orks?’

Their laughter began again when they saw the horror of what they had done cover the face of their newly arrived cousin. ‘Someday soon we shall return to Terra and kill the corpse-god with our beautiful experiments and we will do our best to make sure you get to experience our sweet reunion.’ Garlimon Verlhuk wept, for he knew that his torment would never end.

Thristal Marconas ran through the night. He collapsed under a fallen tree exhausted and broken. He waited to die, waited for the daemons of the night to come and take his life but they never came. He waited for three days, terrified, unable to move. On the fourth day, early in the morning hours he pulled himself from his hiding spot and began to make his way back to the camp.

Smoke still ascended into the now cloudless sky. None had survived. The destruction had been complete. The corpses of the Bline infantry were scattered all around, there was no sign of the enemy. After all that he had witnessed, all that he could do was sit in the midst of his brothers, stare into the bright blue sky and weep.

Years later he still wondered why the Emperor had seen fit to let him live when for every reason he should have died. Now he was old. And as he lay on his soft bed with his wife, he remembered running through the forest, covered in blood, mud and the rain.
[/SIZE]

Last edited by Adrian; 10-09-11 at 05:18 PM. Reason: formatting
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post #3 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-01-10, 10:51 PM
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I would love to read this mate...but it doesn't have much structure in its layout.

It just looks like one MASSIVE paragraph.

If you edited it so you have paragraphs seperated by spaces, like I have in this post, then you'll find many more people will read it, which will result in a lot more replies

Presentation goes a long way mate
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post #4 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-02-10, 12:19 AM
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I have no idea if you're trying to be avant-garde by writing in a structure that would be charitably described as a stream of consciousness or if you didn't bother to format but either way as it is right now it's virtually unreadable.

Format your work m8
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post #5 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-02-10, 12:21 AM
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It's not readable at the moment, you need to space your work better.
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post #6 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-02-10, 04:59 PM
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As said by others, formatting this - even with simple paragraphs, would make it much easier to read.

I pasted it into pages and threw a few hits of my return key around so it didn't hurt my eyes and gave it a read.

Your description of the Tyranid swarm was pretty excellent, actually. Switching from unit to unit gave a real sense of a massed horde, changing perspectives so quickly, never staying focused on one type. The perfect way to describe a full-on tyranid attack, in my opinion. Some of the actions were really well-written and described, too.

Some fell and were trampled by the rest or used as shields, held in the fierce grip of massive pinchers to absorb the volleys of ordinance.

Stood out in particular, if for no other reason than i've never imagined that, yet it's so plausible. A Carnifex flipping over a tank and using it to absorb incoming shells. Brilliant idea.

In terms of writing, i'd say your sentences are far too short. You could easily string them together with simple comma usage, or by using pronouns instead of naming "things" every time. For example,

Mighty dozer-blades pushed the Tyranids back into each other until their bodies broke, but they were not invulnerable. Hive tyrants, their powerful bodies standing above the rest of the swarm, directed the hive-mind and relayed simple instructions from the Hive-Queen to the Genestealer broods, who ran on two legs with the speed of horses and cut through the rest of the swarm. They covered the mighty Leman Russ battle tanks and ripped through their hulls with four powerful three clawed hands. The crews didn’t stand a chance of retreat or survival.

I don't pretend to be an expert at writing, but when I read through that with the changes I made in red, it makes the whole passage seem a lot more fluid, and at the same time, a lot more swarm like. By changing your grammar and sentence structure you can accentuate the effect of your description and give an even more concise impression of the "swarmy" nature of the Tyranids.

At the same time, by minimising your use of very short sentences, when you do
include them, it makes them stand out so much more.

"The crews didn't stand a chance of retreat or survival."

My last point of constructive criticism has to be that while the story was obviously focusing on Marconas as the central character, I found myself far more wrapped up in the description of the swarm and battles than on anything he was getting up to.

My advice to you would be work on your formatting and sentence structure. Your descriptive writing is already good.

My favourite line was this:

"The Commissars were the examples to the guardsmen and in their final minutes they became the prime example of how to bleed, scream and die."

Hope this may be of some help.

Last edited by Vast; 11-02-10 at 05:02 PM. Reason: I suck at using BB codes
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post #7 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-02-10, 09:20 PM
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Well done Vast, I tried to do exactly the same thing but it wouldn't let me paste for some reason.

Either way, I did enjoy it. I was a bit confused why it was a slaanesh marine though.
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post #8 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-05-10, 10:31 AM
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is that a different thread? normally you just add it into the same thread if its continuing a story, but either way I'll be sure to check it out.
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post #9 of 11 (permalink) Old 11-21-10, 08:19 AM
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threads merged. per user's request.

CP

The Founding Fields

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post #10 of 11 (permalink) Old 01-29-11, 10:07 PM
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Quite interesting! The problem I see is that it's somewhat of an overdose of factions. It makes sense to have two, even three, but you have four- the Orks, the Tyranids, Chaos and the Humans. Then you also have both Guard and Marines. It just seems overly complex for something under 10K words.

Other than that, thumbs up!
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