Threat Elimination Protocols: Active

[Okor]

A grin broke across the monstrous marine’s necrotic face, shattered black monoliths baring themselves, rising from the acidic sea of pus and disease contained within the leaking confines of his maw.

Enjoy.

His master knew him well. To think, that a Prime would turn against their fellows as the Smiling One’s machinations went unopposed, even going so far as to try to use the Institute as mere pawns in their own schemes. He would say it boiled his blood, but the chemicals and pathogens tainting his ichor had altered its reactions to stimuli in ways he did not care to contemplate. The mind-warping sigils faded from his vision, his communique from Nealaphh transcending the need for crude language. A glowing pinprick of light emblazoned itself upon his sight, marking the position of this ‘Smith’. It wasn’t far. The Nexus was a parasitical dimension, a cancerous tumour spanning the empty void, a firmament of force that upheld the stasis perpetuated by this realm. He began to lumber forward, the heft of the bolter over his shoulder as familiar as a lover’s gentle caress, an experience he had never felt, nor ever will feel. The rattle of his blade on his hip, the comforting weight of the pistol at his side. It was as peaceful and refreshing as birdsong, the broken shards of his soul reuniting as he reclaimed his wargear.

It wasn’t long before he encountered the growing strike team, the vague dots on the horizon coming within a distance his corroded optics could analyze. Auto-senses, long attuned to the brutal ballistics wielded by the Plague Marine, seemed to struggle with the idea that Okor did not intend to open fire, providing ammunition counts, predicted trajectories, dissonant whispers begging for blood and death. If he had not considered canines an acceptable food source, he would have likened it to a young puppy clenching its leash between its teeth, scratching at the door. He forced the primitive consciousness drenched in the blood of aeons down, focusing on the details of the assemblage.

The primary figure could only be this ‘Smith’. Everything about them was perfectly ordered. Their hair, their suit, their concealed eyes. It was a vision that embodied absolute perfection, every flaw and errant facet shaved off to create something that was distinctly inhuman. It made his skin crawl, not only because of the maggots writhing within his mummified flesh. Life was an inherently broken and ugly thing, and with every breath it took, it fought for its existence.

He had yet to see Smith’s chest rise. Nor Colonel’s, come to think of it. It was a matter he might seek to uncover in time...

Speak of the Daemon (provided you did so as part of a ritual sacrifice), and it shall appear. The emotionless mask of the Vice-Dean was present, the black stormcoat complementing Smith’s own dark attire, a black blotch on the purity of the Nexus. Judging by their current lack of attempted murder, they had sorted out the matter of the betrayal amongst themselves. All the better, he supposed.

A wheeled box. Its incessant yammering was audible even from this distance, akin to a serrated knife being slowly pressed into his ears. He could do little but pray it kept its vox closed. Failing that, a quick death for himself would suffice.

Another seemed somewhat familiar. Their name was on the hole-ridden tip of his tongue. Lyre? Seiner? It was an enigma that would be solved soon enough.

The final figure was in a prominent military uniform, medals and crimson tassels hanging from the ebon garb, a curved blade sheathed at their side, dark blue hair hanging from an angular head. Okor could never understand why long hair had ever gained popularity amongst warriors. Was it not merely another vulnerability, another hold your foe could get on you? Perhaps he never would understand.

It was another minute before he arrived at the conclave, his laboriously slow steps announcing his arrival like no fanfare ever could. Smith, practically a dwarf before his own titanic form, stood in front of him, immaculate arms folded over his chest as he looked upon the abomination, corruption seeping from every pore.

Okor extended a single, steel-clad hand, the pestilence suffusing it only minimally expressed upon the surface.

”Okor Paleblood. Dean of…” He rasped, drawing poisonous breath into redundant lungs in a desperate attempt to stave off asphyxiation. ”Security for the Institute. I heard you had an Oathbreaker that… needed to be shattered in turn.”