[1-3] The Nose

[Okor]

Okor gnashed his fangs as he thought, turgid grey matter slowly coming to life as he pondered their next actions.

The cravens had abandoned the crash site, stalking off into the forest and leaving their hopes of survival behind. Any aid would be watching for a downed aircraft, not a motley assembly of survivors hiding beneath the canopy. In all likelihood, the other survivors had marched off to their demise, to be slowly picked off by disease and predators, all while wandering idly in circles.

There needed to be order.

He turned his attention to the vermillion-plated machine, the subtle hum of systems audible beneath their armoured hide. The arcane mechanisms contained within their optics stared at him, the atomic power buried within them burning into his own oculus. The coruscating crimson corona concealed beneath the hyper-advanced technology had already proven itself useful to the rescue efforts, shearing through sheets of steel like a power blade through mortal flesh.

”Vision, was… it?” The response came quickly, the carefully measured cadence of the false-man’s voice addressing the Champion’s query. “This is correct, Mister Paleblood.” He could not help but cringe at the perfect pitch. The holy spirits of the machine that inhabited his wargear were one thing, but autonomous intelligence capable of killing without man guiding the way? Without a trigger to unleash the synthetic’s power upon the foe, he would have to make use of more indirect means.

”When Syntech comes, they’ll be searching for a crash site, not… a rabble, scrounging through the forests. We’ll need to prepare for more than an overnight inconvenience. Vision, I need you to cut apart the wreckage into salvageable materials.”

He rotated his diseased bulk, his eye burning as he gazed at the dark-haired man accompanying them, pistons visible beneath the numerous cuts and scrapes incurred during the disaster. How many of these false-men were there?” ”Wright, you will aid Vision. It’s designed for... Finesse, not strength. Execute its commands, and carry the steel to where it needs to be.”

There was but one other, who did not count themselves amongst their accursed number, a red-headed young child yet untainted by the pure potential corrupting the other’s veins, or, as seems to be case with the others, hydraulics. ”And what of you, young one? Will you tell me some tragic tale of… a gross abuse of science? How your body failed, and your mind was born anew in chrome? How your dreams are suffused with steam-driven sheep?”

“I’m a Phoenix. And might I ask what kind of deranged Oni devised you? You smell like something crawled inside of you, died, was reanimated using the foulest-smelling dark magic possible, died again, rotted for five months, and then exploded.”

Silence fell over the clearing, all eyes falling upon the monolithic marine as he processed the child’s impudence.

A gurgling racket issued forth from a gangrenous gullet, malformed muscles manipulating themselves to offer up a desperate imitation of mirth.

”Of course you… are. I fear our more mortal companions may not… acquiesce to commands from a machine. Your objective will be to direct them. Get a perimeter established, erect some form of habitation if you can get that done before nightfall.”

The fire-born Fiara crossed her arms, looking the towering titan over as she pondered her options.

“And just what will you be doing while we slave, oh fearless leader?” She spoke, insubordination dripping from her words.

His horned head twisted, warped spine cracking as it struggled to complete the movement. ”We are on unfamiliar ground, with no means of… exit, without support, and with wounded. More than half of our number has fled into the woods to prance… about, and one of our group has already been claimed by predators, disease, or mere… misnavigation.

And in the midst of it all, it seems as if I am the only one who has bothered to bring a real weapon.”

He racked his rusted bolter for emphasis, placing the ancient armament upon his pus-stained pauldron. The verdigris was as thick as it had been for the previous millennia, seemingly eternally entrapped within the endless cycle of entropy.

”I’ll be standing guard. Should we come under assault, I shall endeavour to alert you before they fall upon me. Get the secondaries behind the perimeter, see if you can turn some of this shrapnel into… spears. Don’t be shy about leaving a prime behind. You’re the ones whose lives mean anything.”

With that, Nurgle’s Chosen turned, the ‘man’ cursed to die, to live, and to die for eternity, stalked off to patrol the clearing, his solitary eye seeking out any assailant to unburden his wrath upon.

Abandoned by most of the immortal fools who dared to number themselves among his peers, none could deny that there was any shortage of hatred waiting to be tapped.