Im Just The Messenger - Blog Posts

This story was written by the super talented and amazing @utterimmolation

"A Chance at Redemption."

The first thing Horus noticed was the quiet.

The Warp whispered, barked, *screamed* to him constantly these days. It was harder to hear himself anymore. The Gods told him secrets and truths, but his own thoughts became quieter and heavier. He was so much more nowadays, but there was a tiny gasp buried deep within that dared to murmur that he had only diminished.

He's gotten used to pushing that doubt away. The Gods assure him of the righteousness of his path, his legacy, his drive to see the False Emperor dashed from his ostentatious chair.

But here, on one of Etheria's twelve moons, standing across from his lone sister, his head is shockingly, disconcertingly ~~mercifully ~~, *quiet*.

The siblings study each other in silence for several moments. This is one of the least developed moons of the dozen, which is no doubt why Adora had chosen it. He briefly wonders if she had rigged it to blow or perhaps intends to repay him and his Sons in kind for Istvaan but dropping nuclear armaments from orbit but dismisses the idea. Adora can be surprisingly ruthless, but she would not dare risk damage to the moons and especially not Etheria and its people.

It is a character trait that makes her predictable but dangerous, much like Vulkan: their love of mortals makes them easy to maneuver, but strikes against them must be fast, hard and final, lest they rise again with greater and overwelming fury and unfortunately, that last part has proven remarkably difficult to overcome.

"You know why I am here," he finally breaks the silence.

Adora's mouth twists. "I do," she acknowledges.

"And?"

Adora takes a half step forward, her honor guard shadowing her every twitch, like children hiding behind their mother's skirts, unwilling to let her be parted from them. He hears Abaddon scoff quietly, his First Captain disgusted at the weakness he perceives.

Horus sees what it truly is. Love, beyond reason or doubt, beyond sense. The Sons of She-Ra love her, with such intensity that to lose her risks triggering a fury to rival that of Angron himself. Of course, perhaps that is not so surprising. The Slave of Nuceria hated so much only because he had once loved so fiercely and completely that its loss had stripped him of all humanity and rendered him little more than a beast.

"You come to me with a proposition. Let me give one instead: turn away from your Rebellion. Disavow the Chaos Gods. Disavow the Emperor. Disavow the butchers and sadists and monsters you've aligned yourself with. And stay here."

Horus blinks, surprised beside himself. An appeal to him hadn't been unexpected. An opportunity to be granted asylum had. "You would welcome me to Etheria?"

"You would have to pay penance. To even *begin* to pay for the crimes you've committed, the atrocities you've done... would take millenia. But you would be free and protected from both the Warp and the Emperor. I would stand with you. You could find redemption. Could help me build a universe of connectivity, communication...love. You could find peace." The Princess of Power slowly extended her hand. "You need only ask."

The voice that has been silenced and stifled for so long under the burning Gaze of Chaos is screaming at him now, louder than it's ever been. He is abruptly aware, for the first time in weeks, how grimy and heavy his armor feels, how hungry and thirsty and tired he feels. He...he cannot remember the last time he ate. Slept.

He looks past his sister, up at the distant glow of Etheria, and remembers the peace of the world. The smiles of children. The brotherhood of Space Marines, learning, training...living. He remembers being...happy.

He looks at his sister's hand, and his soul screams at him to take it.

He swings Worldbreaker instead.

It meets her golden shield in an explosion of rainbow Warp energy, and both Primarchs are pushed back several feet. Their respective sons stumble, and many fall.

Horus looks at her and sees only sadness and pity, and he feels a hate to rival that which he feels for his very Father.

Abaddon must give the order, as the Word Bearer ships and that of Etheria's fleet begin to fire at each other. Adora has her sword now and she's coming towards him but he ~~doesn't want to fight her~~ can't waste time now, not when the Emperor's gaze searches for him and Ultramar's fleets grow closer to reinforcing Terra.

He presses the teleporter on his belt and slams back into his quarters on the *Vengeful Spirit* only to fall to his knees as the protective aura of Etheria's territory disappears and the God's Gazes return to him with renewed focus and force. They see his doubts, his fears and they sooth him even as they shred at him for his impudence.

He does not know how long he kneels in his quarters, body, mind and soul wracked by agony. He only knows his fury is incandescent when a Son arrives to inform him the World Bearer fleet has been defeated and they are in-route to Mars. He dashes the Marine and two dozen serfs against the walls before the rages abates itself even slightly, and as he makes his way ti the bridge he promises himself this:

When the Emperor lies dead at his feet, he will return, with all of his forces, and lay waste to Etheria, until its seas run red, it's sky turns black and Adora's wife is nothing more than a new carpet before his bed.

--------

The Memory Circuit [IV]

Good Morning, Sunshine

Masterlist | Previous | Next

⎉: @chaotic-orphan @morning-star-whump Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: police brutality, physical assault, vomiting, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The door buzzes.

Hal jabs the button again, hard.

Nothing.

Then: “It’s four-fucking-thirty in the morning, Hal.”

Her voice crackles through the speaker like it’s pissed, too. He presses his forehead to the doorframe, eyes closed.

“Hey, Piggy.”

The lock clicks.

Jules stands in the doorway in a billowing shirt and one sock, hair a frizzy halo of sleep and pure, undiluted fury.

“You look like shit,” she settles venomously, stepping aside.

The flat smells like chamomile and burnt oil. There’s a threadbare orange blanket on the couch and a spider plant hanging in the corner, definitely named something like Milo. Hal sinks onto the couch, spine curling in on itself. Jules crosses her arms.

“Is this about Bok?”

Hal’s head jerks up.

She sighs, already turning for the kitchen. “I’m putting the kettle on. Start talking before it boils.”

¶¶¶¶

The kettle clicks. Hal’s in the kitchen, shoulders hunched as he pours water into sleek mugs. His hands shake.

Jules watches him from the table, unreadable.

“He’s gone,” Hal says, voice hoarse.

“I figured,” Jules replies. “The silence wasn’t exactly reassuring.”

Hal lets out a slow, ragged breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Lucky me,” she mutters.

Then: Knock knock knock.

Jules’ eyes snap to the door.

“Please tell me that’s not—”

“Open up, Jules,” comes Ricky’s voice, carrying that signature lilt of his.

She doesn’t move. Hal, already pale, goes corpse white.

Jules opens the door just enough to glare through. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

Ricky smiles coolly. “Just here to chat.”

“Go chat with a blender.”

She tries to shut the door. He plants a booted foot in the frame.

“We’ve got Joyeux,” he says. “You know what that means.”

Her jaw tightens. She steps aside, reluctantly. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Ricky walks in like it’s his flat, brushing droplets off his shoulders. Hal retreats to the sink, one hand braced on the counter like it’s the only thing holding him up.

Ricky’s eyes flick to Hal. “I assume you know Hal was keeping company with a nomadroid.”

He halts mid-pace, catching Jules’s look.

A beat.

“I’m assuming you didn’t know it was unregistered. Fully illegal. Possibly unstable.”

Hal makes a noise—half breath, half choke. Jules glares at him too.

“I know it’s complicated,” Ricky hums. “But Joyeux was dangerous. The raid was clean. We have footage. And Hawkins’ prints.”

“Shut up,” Jules says.

Ricky lifts an eyebrow.

She turns to Hal, voice quieter now. “You didn’t tell me everything.”

Hal can’t look at her.

“Did you love him?”

The air goes still.

Hal’s grip on the counter slips. He doubles over and vomits into the sink, body wracked and shaking.

Jules doesn’t flinch. Just grabs a dish towel, runs it under cold water, and presses it into his hands.

Ricky looks away; pulls out his datapad.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says lightly, and walks out.

The door shuts behind him.

Jules exhales—long, slow, furious.

Hal leans against the wall, towel clutched in his hands, face pale.

“You loved him,” she says again, not asking this time.

And Hal, eyes puffy, just nods.

¶¶¶¶

Earlier.

They blow the door in.

No warning, no pause. Just the shockwave and splinters, smoke curling into the hallway like fingers.

Bok’s head snaps up from the mattress on the floor. He doesn’t move fast enough.

They’re already inside.

Three soldiers. Black gear, black masks, silent. Their eyes glint faintly like glass behind the visors. A flick of motion, and the room is theirs.

Bok reaches for the blade on the counter. Cheap boxcutter. Pathetic. He grabs it anyway.

The first soldier closes in.

Bok swings.

Steel kisses flesh—a shallow cut across a gloved arm. The soldier barely reacts.

Bok bolts.

One grabs his shirt, misses. Another’s faster. A baton slams into Bok’s spine. His knees buckle. He drops, scrambles, still crawling, still fighting—

Another hit—his side caves in around it. Something cracks. He sucks in air.

He twists, knife in hand, jabs upward.

The blade rakes a thigh—deep. The man swears. Stumbles. Bok surges forward.

It doesn’t matter.

A boot catches his shoulder. Slams him sideways into the wall. His skull hits plaster, leaves a dent. He falls.

They’re on him.

He thrashes—kicks, claws, spits black.

Someone grabs his hair, yanks him up. His neck strains. He stabs back—nothing.

A baton hammers down.

His hand breaks. Knife drops. Gone.

They don’t stop.

Two hold him down. One crushes a knee with the baton—crack. Bok jerks, bites his own tongue. Ink floods his mouth.

“Still fighting?” one mutters. Disgusted.

Second knee. 

Crack. 

He goes limp, twitching. Ribs heave. Eyes wide. Still conscious.

One more hit to the jaw. His head snaps sideways. Something dislocates.

They drag him.

By the arms. His head falls back, eyes dull, breath fogging through slightly parted lips. His bare heels scrape against the floor. Sweat clings his hair to his forehead, dripping down his face. The rest of his body hangs limp, trailing behind them like a trainwreck.

“Secure,” one says.

Another checks a watch. “Thirty seconds over. Let’s move.”

They vanish into the hallway.

The door hangs from one hinge. The room still smells like smoke and metal and blood. 

And they’re gone.

Masterlist | Previous | Next