Ad Finemby ClockwyrkkeChaptersDead PassionDestination: HellContactDeathstrikeDead PassionThat particular morning a week prior was calculated to be a good one. Favourable weather conditions. Fairly low humidity. Merchant caravans and civilian vehicles had been diverted to use an alternate route as per his request a week earlier. The available resources to maintain his forces was far above his initial calculations. His sizeable and well equipped machine army was finally ready for war. Satisfied with how every last piece came together with clockwork precision, he deactivated the data slate he held in one of his many snaking tendrils and slipped it into his saddlebag. Only one more last detail to take care of, and usually that being the most painful one for him. And her. She was standing on a the suspended gangway high above the complex, forehooves draped over the protective rails. Her sharp eyes wandered between the myriad scenes of machinery and industry below her. She could never understand his zeal. No, zealous was too weak a word to describe him. More appropriately a near fanatical devotion to the causes and beliefs he chose to undertake. It had always seemed so absurd to her ears and mind, no matter how many times he had argued his points. Believing in the will of some "omnipresent" machine god that suffused all technology, it was just not something she would ever bring herself to doing. Or that every single alicorn princess in existence was actually a goddess in mortal form. She shook her head sadly, as small tears welled up at the corner of her azure eyes. Stealth was never really his forte. But wearing a heavy, noisy, and LARGE suit of power armour tended to make one practically inept at the twin arts of staying unseen and unheard. His plodding hoofsteps were easily recognisable by the Carolina blue pegasus mare on the gangway. It was not the sound, but the vibrations caused by each step that made him so distinguishable from his automata to her keen senses. He did not suspect anything out of the ordinary. "Sapphire dearest... I can assure you with a 84.7% certainty I will be back here by your side, relatively uninjured, in no more than approximately three weeks time." "Clocks..." "Not to worry, I took every aspect into consideration and factored in a fair amount of contingencies as well in the event of a miscalculation." "Clocks..." "I even took the time to create algorithms that would project far in advance the probability of any number of unforeseen circumstances. Although I must admit, the likelihood of any such occurrences happening would be 0.00-" "Clockwyrkke!" She screamed shrilly in response to him paying hardly a mote of attention to her at that moment. Given the chance, he would simply rattle on continuously. It's not the first time, either. Stunned at her sudden outburst, the cerise stallion ceased with his placative meanderings and instead waited for his wife to make her matter known. She took a few more precious seconds to think, to steady her nerves, to bucking calm down. But no matter how painless she tried to make herself believe the issue was, no matter how many times she had revised that line, ultimately it was an unpleasant one to both ponies either way it came out. "Clockwyrkke, I-I'm sorry. But... I... We..." "Go on." He encouraged with a gentle, caring voice. Taking one final breath to keep her emotions in check, she uttered the words she had hoped she would not regret till the end of her days. "I want a divorce." Destination: HellTo his credit he had taken the news without flinching, displaying hardly any reaction towards it at all. Not to say it was not unbearable. She was all set to go within the following hour, he did not want to discuss the matter further. She only took the belongings that truly were her's. She would accept none of his parting gifts, except for one last goodbye kiss on the forehead. Even her wedding ring was left behind on the drawer beside the bed they shared on some nights. Before leaving, she made one last stop at her former residence. "Evvey," she softly cooed her daughter's name as she cradled the small filly one final time. "Promise mommy you will take care of daddy for me?" The youngling chose only to nod in understanding. A force compromising of mostly machine ponies left the port-city of Atlantica that day. One thousand Skitarii warriors, eighty battle tanks, three hundred and sixty armoured pony carriers (APCs), ten self-propelled guns (SPGs). And one very troubled Tech-Priest. The site of the buried Standard Template Construct (STC) was located far beyond Equestria's borders in a remote desert, aptly dubbed the Bone Dunes. Rumours persist that the numerous buried tombs can be found hidden beneath its unforgiving and harsh wastes. Many adventurous or desperate ponies have perished here in the past, in search of long, lost treasure. It was not the heat of the desert nor the lack of water that killed most. It was the marauding bands of Chaos cultists that had taken sanctuary in a land that no sane being would ever care about. Clockwyrkke had no need to discover some ancient tomb filled with the dead - the arid Bone Dunes before him was already a mass grave in its own right. The journey to the site was uneventful, much to his relief. Although the sand got into everything. Leg joints, weapon mechanisms, ammunition boxes. Even his armour suffered at the doings of the desert. He was constantly plagued by ever-flashing runes in his helmet display. Again and again, the same message. Sand clogging the circulator fans. Even his normally meticulous manner of keeping his personal armoury in excellent condition still required him to strip down and service his protesting suit twice a day lest he experience an unfortunate and untimely malfunction. He was relentless. He had to secure the intact STC, no matter the costs. It wasn't merely because he was upholding his cult's doctrines and personal duties. The safety of the known world rested on his endeavour. To allow the cache of information to fall into the wrong hooves, claws, or hands would spell the doom for all, not just Equestria. The consequences to follow of such an event happening would be indefinitely apocalyptic. Fortifying the location was second nature to one such as himself. After all, he did learn under the best Secutors the Cult had within its privileged ranks. Even the extreme elements would not stop the untiring nature of his troops or his inventiveness and determination. Despite the many sand storms that crossed his way, he had managed to properly secure the surrounding six kilometres around the site. Foxholes were dug and reinforced. Bunkers and appropriate shelters constructed. A motor pool was set up along with several large hangars for the armoured elements of his force. Even the odd anti-air emplacement now and then. To simply call it a vault was an understatement. The structure holding the STC resembled that of a very small pyramid, complete with two lines of larger-than-life statues carved from sandstone made to resemble ponies from a bygone era on either side of the closed portal. Under conventional circumstances, melta charges would have been employed to destroy the obstruction. However, with the near constant sand storms the machine spirits of the devices were highly uncooperative, prompting Clockwyrkke to employ a breaching drill instead. The process was much longer, but also more controllable. Appearances were deceiving. A deep frown creased his brow as he glanced at his personal chronometer. Where are they? A day later, the reinforcements he was promised had arrived. Unfortunately, it was not in the way he had expected. According to the brevetted commander Lieutenant Crimson, the expedition force had been ambushed prior to them setting hoof into the Dunes. Most of the armoured elements were either destroyed by saboteurs or enemy anti-tank fire in the opening phases of the engagement. Thankfully their supply train which was lagging behind slightly, had managed to circumvent the fire-zone and thus had made it to rendezvous relatively unscathed a few hours after the reinforcements. "Captain Crimson, I presume?" Clockwyrkke inquired towards the brevet commander. Standing before him with as much dignity as he could muster despite his injured foreleg, was a young, proud, and handsome pegasus stallion. His red fur and brown mane made it seem that fighting ran in his blood. But one quality that made this particular individual stand out was his stark green eyes. What cunning does he hide behind those? "Sir, yes, sir! 2nd Equestrian Conservators, sir!" "You can drop the formalities. I hold no position of rank of any sort within the hierarchy. I'm simply a Tech-Priest doing my duty." "With all due respect, sir, I was ordered to differ to you in authority by my commanding officer before his passing." "As you wish," Clockwyrkke replied monotonously. At that moment, he wanted to wave a dismissive hoof at the the younger stallion but instead gestured for him to take a seat nearby. He could not help but observe the manner in which Crimson did so. Had he not been wearing his helmet, it was quite obvious that he found the pony's mannerism somewhat amusing. Noble blood for sure, this young fellow. What the hay is he even doing out here so damnably far from civilisation? "Report then soldier. Losses?" "78% KIA or MIA, sir. Almost all our tanks as well. I barely managed to save the two that you see with us." "Diarchs preserve us... That bad?" Instinctively, his armoured foreleg withdrew to his temple. This news was not the least bit good. "It was a cleverly laid-out ambush. We were attacked from within and without. I did what I could to salvage the surviving ponies. Most of the upper command staff died in the initial fighting." There was a sad look haunting the soldier's eyes. A look Clockwyrkke was all to familiar with and could easily understand the trauma that raced through the Crimson's mind. "You did what you could. Under the circumstances, fairly well seeing as there are still survivors. Go, get some rest and a hot meal. You will have your orders issued by morning, colonel." ContactAny Tech-Priest worth his bolts could tell from first inspection that the vault door was not compromised of merely sandstone. More so if its original builders had intended it to be the resting place of this particular STC. Ordinary sandstone slabs had been layered over an adamantium core. It had taken most of the night for the breaching drill to chew through the "bulkhead". Clockwyrkke was outside the whole time, supervising his cybernetic minions. By the time the first rays of sunlight began to illuminate the horizon, he was already waiting for the new colonel in the command centre. "You want my ponies to hold the eastern perimetre? Most of them can't hardly walk, let alone fire a gun!" Clockwyrkke ignored the outrage and proceeded to adjust the strategic display. He magnified the immediate surrounding area around the site and began highlighting the defensive positions his own warriors had taken up prior to the arrival of the living reinforcements. He made a few calculations while glowing blue runes began appearing on the hololith. These were the areas deemed the most productive for the injured soldiers by his logic engines. Clockwyrkke printed a small paper slip with the assigned coordinates which was then snatched from his gauntleted hoof by a bewildered Crimson. "Are you mad?! At least half of the survivors are in critical condition! We just arrived here yesterday, tired and hurt! They're not goddess-damned machines! And you are assigning everyone of them to picket duty already despite all that?!" For added emphasis, Crimson tapped his forehoof to his temple, a universally understood gesture in sigh language indicating insanity or mental instability. "You forget your place, colonel! Do you not remember what you told me approximately twenty seven hours ago? Your concerns will be taken into consideration but I am under no illusion whatsoever to follow them." Crimson glowered, his free hoof inching closer to the compact hoofgun hidden in his holster. "Save it for the cultists, soldier." Clockwyrkke said without even looking at the fuming stallion behind him, his concentration diverted more to his esoteric machinery. Deciding it better to listen - if only to respect the wishes of his deceased commander - Crimson stormed out of the structure, cursing under his breath. "Metal maniac..." "What secrets of the Omnissiah will I discover now?" Clockwyrkke mused aloud to nopony in particular while his shoulder lamp illuminated parts of the interior with its powerful beam. Talking to himself was a simple reassurance he had come to practice over the years. But currently, he was simply trying to dispel the small nagging thought that had crept its way into the back of his mind. The way he had snubbed Crimson earlier, his utter disregard for the individual lives of the living soldiers, his assumption that they could bear the elements in a similar fashion like his own Skitarii. What ever had happened to his equinity? His compassion? It was just not his character to be so uncaring. "Stuff it! There is no point in letting doubt or emotions cloud the mind. I should be focusing on the task at hoof not worrying over twenty seven fleshlings." The interior of the vault was very much in resemblance to that of the shrines he had accustomed himself with back in the days of him first being inducted within the Cult Mechanicus. Where one would expect marble or tiled flooring and grandeur in the fine arts, a Mechanicus shrine is almost entirely metallic and depicting industry and development; rarely anything else. The pillars, floor, podiums - just about everything was either entirely made of metal or plated in it. Cogwheel symbols were dominant throughout the interior. Damaged metal pipes and cabling jutted from the pillars and ceiling and led to Omnissiah alone knows where. Where once there would have been many hololiths in the cloisters, now but a scant few still remained active. Those that remained functioning were projected dimmed and sketchy images. Most had succumbed to entropy's grasp, their inner workings rusted and clogged or their power cells completely drained. All the glow-globes were smashed or burst, oddly enough. Clockwyrkke, chose to ignore these "artefacts" - temporarily - and immediately made a bee-line for the central dias. Our enemies may rest but rust never sleeps. Right in the middle sat a box-like object. It was three metres long and half as wide. Even with his armour on, it was still a good two inches taller than him. He could hardly contain his bubbling enthusiasm and made to run his hooves across its sleek, dust covered surface. A cautious part of himself managed to reasserted control and he just stopped himself from doing so. There has to be a trap somewhere. Nothing is ever this easy. Why did it have to be trenches? I'm sick of damned trenches. "Colonel, you may want to have a look at this." A pale yellow pegasi mare nervously said to her still angry commanding officer. Like her commander, she sported a few nicks on her body besides having her wings heavily bandaged. Crimson was broken out of his reverie and hobbled over, taking the pair of binoculars that was offered to him. The heat waves and swirling sand normally obscured vision beyond a hundred metres. But despite all the visual interference, he could just barely make out dark, moving shapes in distance. More creatures seemed to coalesce from the sands and they were heading in the general direction of the site. "Crap." DeathstrikeFourteen days. Under constant attack, light artillery bombardment, and suicide charges. **This* is where I truly belong*. His earlier intuition was indeed correct. It had taken nine rigorous days to locate and placate (more likely disarm) all of the numerous hidden traps and safe-guards within the shrine. Much to his chagrin, one of his more clumsier servitors had nearly dropped one of the still active vortex bombs he had just removed from under the STC's dias on day eight. And with the entrance now open, sand was constantly swept in by the desert wind, making the proper rites not only more tedious to perform, but even much more time and resource consuming as well. Of course, Clockwyrkke was not the only pony who was upset with the delays. "Report, colonel." "What is there to report? I'm losing ponies almost everyday. If not by the works of those verrückt cultists then instead by that damnable drug you've been giving them!" He then stomped his hoof in anger, throwing the Tech-Priest a venomous glare. "Colonel Crimson, I can assure you that drug is merely a pain suppressant. Not a combat stimulant which you assume it to be. I've spoken to some of your soldiers and even inspected a few of the more critically wounded myself. The least I can do is to make this whole skirmish a little more... physically tolerable for them." Crimson was a little stunned at this sudden show of empathy coming from the figure standing opposite him. He took off his peaked cap, wiped his brow, and whistled. "Jeez, since when did you go soft and start caring about us?" "My apologies for the insult I rendered upon yourself during our second meeting. It was highly... unnecessary. Life should not be dismissed and discarded so easily." "Ah... whatever. If you're sincerely helping my ponies, that's all I need to know." "Fair enough. Dismissed." It was on the fourteenth day when he had finally managed to remove the STC from the shrine. The bindings between the engine and the shrine had been strong, but age had made it an easier feat to separate them then what it would have been a few centuries ago. That was when the attacks began in earnest. A massive wave of bodies assaulted the site that afternoon. Earth ponies, pegasi, gryphons, and even minotaurs - all bearing the eight-pointed star of Chaos charged the gleaming plasteel line. The day prior, Clockwyrkke had instructed Crimson to reposition his remaining forces to the north-eastern perimetre. He had accurately predicted that the fighting there would be the least intense and could not help himself from grinning under his helmet. Whatever favours he could do for them, he would. Once he was completely sure the STC was secure and ready for transport, he then made his way to the front lines. A section of the perimetre had buckled under the torrent of crazed beings. The surviving Skitarii were trampled under the rush and unable to counter-attack effectively. Clockwyrkke without needing much thought, charged headlong into the fray. Quite soon, he was entirely splattered with gore. His glowing Omnissian blade made short work of the feeble attackers that had so wrongly chosen this time to assault. Even the heavy yet crude metal armour worn did nothing to protect their wearers against his wrath. With the servo-assisted motors in his armour, he was able to stand on his hind legs, gaining a height advantage similar to that of the minotaurs. Some smarter-than average cultists tried flanking him while he seemed too preoccupied in slaughtering their compatriots. However, they were unaware of his mechandrites possessing the ability to attack. Those who attacked him from the sides or rear had their heads or chests smashed by the two bulky machines in mere seconds of them entering the respective reaches. Clockwyrkke was eventually standing atop a mound of hewn body parts, a sadistic smile plastered under his helmet. It had been so long since he had taken part in such bloodshed. And the dead of his enemies far outnumbered the living. Those who turned to flee were callously gunned down by the autocannon mounted on his back. The heavy, solid ammunition blasted apart bodies and left small clumps of flesh and red mist in their wake. Those of the still functioning Skitarii joined their master in melee, mercilessly hacking and stabbing with opponents with their bayonets and chainswords. Clearly their numbers are far more superior in comparison to my own. Just as he beheaded another foolish cultist, a keening howl split the air and Clockwyrkke found himself sprawled in the sand with a new gash in the side of his armour. Blood spilled from the wound and his armour's auto-response system immediately began injecting pain suppressants and into his body. Looking skywards, he saw a lone gryphon, if it could still be considered as a member of that species even. The creature above him had a similar body, but it's head was nothing more than a mound of agonised faces. It's claws were shrouded in an inky-black aura and it had leathery wings instead of feathered ones. "DAEMON!" The creature made a swooping dive next, and Clockwyrkke retaliated by slicing off a wing a section of its wing. It screeched in anger but instead of attacking him, it simply turned tail and ran in the direction of the STC. It was not that far away yet by the time he had made it back to the command centre, he was already beaten. The daemon was nowhere to be found, but two other figures were nearby. One was a shrivelled unicorn with an elongated cranium. Its was completely without fur and the entire surface of its skin was covered in bleeding symbols that hurt the eyes when looked directly upon. The creature was blind, lacking its eyes and only dark pits remain where they should be. The other figure was clad in a similar yet larger armour to Clockwyrkke's own, only more baroque and twisted due to the corrupting influence of Chaos. Numerous mechatendrils snaked from its back and a cape of flayed hide was draped over the right shoulder. "You should have died that day!" Standing beside the metal block was none other than the being Clockwyrkke had reviled ever since he discovered he was not the only survivor after The Accident. The former Fabricator-General of the Cult Mechanicus had someone survived the catastrophe and in return for power and eternal life, had sold himself body and soul to the Ruinous Powers. "I had died that day. But was remade better than before." The traitor's voice was hollow and monotonous, something that was not entirely surprising to Clockwyrkke. "I will kill you myself!" He shouted before dashing at his former leader. In retaliation, the unicorn crony shot a bolt of blue lightning at the enraged Tech-Priest mid-leapt, hitting him square in the chest. The force of the blast sent him flying several metres backwards. His breastplate was a smoking piece of warped metal, the outer layer of ceramite a molten mess. But he was still alive, albeit injured thanks to the runes of warding inscribed on the inside of the armour. In one swift motion, he brought up his bolt pistol and fired a volley aimed at the unicorn-thing. The creature instinctively summoned an energy shield in front of itself. Most of the rocket-assisted projectiles slammed harmlessly against the field, but the rare few which penetrated were anointed with sanctified oil and etched with runes of power tore through the defence as if it was only simple paper. The thing suffered three supposedly fatal chest wounds without flinching and only died when one bolt detonated within its skull, sending its now headless body into its death spasms. The spray of blood, skull fragments, and grey matter decorated one side of the STC. Before Clockwyrkke could savour his triumph, he had to roll aside as the taloned hoof of the Fabricator-General smashed into the sand he was lying in mere moments ago. With a quickness only matched by a machine, the Fabricator leapt towards the Tech-Priest once more. Clockwyrkke stood resolutely against his foe, knowing that he was severely outmatched. But he would rather tear out the augmentics in his body himself than concede defeat. Gripping on the haft of his axe with stubborn resolve, he surged forward to meet the traitor in combat. They traded with one another, arcane technology against daemonic power. Despite the numerous blows he had landed, the Fabricator would not die. The wounds he had suffered closed in seconds, black ichor seeping from the rents closing the injuries. And it never seemed to tire. For all his augmentation, Clockwrkke was still mostly flesh and blood. And he was tiring. A milisecond of doubt was all that was needed. Seizing the initiative, the Fabricator beat aside Clockwyrkke's defences and tore the weapon from his hooves with his daemon strength before impaling the Tech-Priest through the abdomen on its talons. It then brought the struggling pony up, so they were face-to-face. "Your flesh is weak," it said before tossing the mortally wounded stallion aside like a used rag. Before consciousness faded from his being, Clockwyrkke used the last of what remained of his strength, struggling to fire a flare. A blue rocket sprang into the skies above, unnoticed by anypony except for a small convoy of stragglers making their way out of the desert. "Colonel! The signal!" Again, the same yellow pegasus mare who had managed to survive fourteen days in that hell-hole with her platoon mates was on watch. The twenty two survivors were spread aboard three vehicles, personally given to them by Clockwyrkke himself to aid in their return to Canterlot. He had ordered them to flee when moment the STC was brought up, despite Crimson's protests. "Gunner! Fire on these coordinates." "Yes, sir!" At a signal from Crimson, the Basilisk fired a six charge 132 mm shell at the command centre. The roof had been intentionally weakened in order to collapse on to the unsealed crate of an active thermo-plasmic bomb. The site was engulfed in explosion that rivalled the intensity of a small sun and the stragglers had to cover their eyes to avoid being blinded by the white glare. Taking off his hat, Crimson bowed his head and uttered a soft prayer to whatever gods were listening.
Dead PassionThat particular morning a week prior was calculated to be a good one. Favourable weather conditions. Fairly low humidity. Merchant caravans and civilian vehicles had been diverted to use an alternate route as per his request a week earlier. The available resources to maintain his forces was far above his initial calculations. His sizeable and well equipped machine army was finally ready for war. Satisfied with how every last piece came together with clockwork precision, he deactivated the data slate he held in one of his many snaking tendrils and slipped it into his saddlebag. Only one more last detail to take care of, and usually that being the most painful one for him. And her. She was standing on a the suspended gangway high above the complex, forehooves draped over the protective rails. Her sharp eyes wandered between the myriad scenes of machinery and industry below her. She could never understand his zeal. No, zealous was too weak a word to describe him. More appropriately a near fanatical devotion to the causes and beliefs he chose to undertake. It had always seemed so absurd to her ears and mind, no matter how many times he had argued his points. Believing in the will of some "omnipresent" machine god that suffused all technology, it was just not something she would ever bring herself to doing. Or that every single alicorn princess in existence was actually a goddess in mortal form. She shook her head sadly, as small tears welled up at the corner of her azure eyes. Stealth was never really his forte. But wearing a heavy, noisy, and LARGE suit of power armour tended to make one practically inept at the twin arts of staying unseen and unheard. His plodding hoofsteps were easily recognisable by the Carolina blue pegasus mare on the gangway. It was not the sound, but the vibrations caused by each step that made him so distinguishable from his automata to her keen senses. He did not suspect anything out of the ordinary. "Sapphire dearest... I can assure you with a 84.7% certainty I will be back here by your side, relatively uninjured, in no more than approximately three weeks time." "Clocks..." "Not to worry, I took every aspect into consideration and factored in a fair amount of contingencies as well in the event of a miscalculation." "Clocks..." "I even took the time to create algorithms that would project far in advance the probability of any number of unforeseen circumstances. Although I must admit, the likelihood of any such occurrences happening would be 0.00-" "Clockwyrkke!" She screamed shrilly in response to him paying hardly a mote of attention to her at that moment. Given the chance, he would simply rattle on continuously. It's not the first time, either. Stunned at her sudden outburst, the cerise stallion ceased with his placative meanderings and instead waited for his wife to make her matter known. She took a few more precious seconds to think, to steady her nerves, to bucking calm down. But no matter how painless she tried to make herself believe the issue was, no matter how many times she had revised that line, ultimately it was an unpleasant one to both ponies either way it came out. "Clockwyrkke, I-I'm sorry. But... I... We..." "Go on." He encouraged with a gentle, caring voice. Taking one final breath to keep her emotions in check, she uttered the words she had hoped she would not regret till the end of her days. "I want a divorce."
Destination: HellTo his credit he had taken the news without flinching, displaying hardly any reaction towards it at all. Not to say it was not unbearable. She was all set to go within the following hour, he did not want to discuss the matter further. She only took the belongings that truly were her's. She would accept none of his parting gifts, except for one last goodbye kiss on the forehead. Even her wedding ring was left behind on the drawer beside the bed they shared on some nights. Before leaving, she made one last stop at her former residence. "Evvey," she softly cooed her daughter's name as she cradled the small filly one final time. "Promise mommy you will take care of daddy for me?" The youngling chose only to nod in understanding. A force compromising of mostly machine ponies left the port-city of Atlantica that day. One thousand Skitarii warriors, eighty battle tanks, three hundred and sixty armoured pony carriers (APCs), ten self-propelled guns (SPGs). And one very troubled Tech-Priest. The site of the buried Standard Template Construct (STC) was located far beyond Equestria's borders in a remote desert, aptly dubbed the Bone Dunes. Rumours persist that the numerous buried tombs can be found hidden beneath its unforgiving and harsh wastes. Many adventurous or desperate ponies have perished here in the past, in search of long, lost treasure. It was not the heat of the desert nor the lack of water that killed most. It was the marauding bands of Chaos cultists that had taken sanctuary in a land that no sane being would ever care about. Clockwyrkke had no need to discover some ancient tomb filled with the dead - the arid Bone Dunes before him was already a mass grave in its own right. The journey to the site was uneventful, much to his relief. Although the sand got into everything. Leg joints, weapon mechanisms, ammunition boxes. Even his armour suffered at the doings of the desert. He was constantly plagued by ever-flashing runes in his helmet display. Again and again, the same message. Sand clogging the circulator fans. Even his normally meticulous manner of keeping his personal armoury in excellent condition still required him to strip down and service his protesting suit twice a day lest he experience an unfortunate and untimely malfunction. He was relentless. He had to secure the intact STC, no matter the costs. It wasn't merely because he was upholding his cult's doctrines and personal duties. The safety of the known world rested on his endeavour. To allow the cache of information to fall into the wrong hooves, claws, or hands would spell the doom for all, not just Equestria. The consequences to follow of such an event happening would be indefinitely apocalyptic. Fortifying the location was second nature to one such as himself. After all, he did learn under the best Secutors the Cult had within its privileged ranks. Even the extreme elements would not stop the untiring nature of his troops or his inventiveness and determination. Despite the many sand storms that crossed his way, he had managed to properly secure the surrounding six kilometres around the site. Foxholes were dug and reinforced. Bunkers and appropriate shelters constructed. A motor pool was set up along with several large hangars for the armoured elements of his force. Even the odd anti-air emplacement now and then. To simply call it a vault was an understatement. The structure holding the STC resembled that of a very small pyramid, complete with two lines of larger-than-life statues carved from sandstone made to resemble ponies from a bygone era on either side of the closed portal. Under conventional circumstances, melta charges would have been employed to destroy the obstruction. However, with the near constant sand storms the machine spirits of the devices were highly uncooperative, prompting Clockwyrkke to employ a breaching drill instead. The process was much longer, but also more controllable. Appearances were deceiving. A deep frown creased his brow as he glanced at his personal chronometer. Where are they? A day later, the reinforcements he was promised had arrived. Unfortunately, it was not in the way he had expected. According to the brevetted commander Lieutenant Crimson, the expedition force had been ambushed prior to them setting hoof into the Dunes. Most of the armoured elements were either destroyed by saboteurs or enemy anti-tank fire in the opening phases of the engagement. Thankfully their supply train which was lagging behind slightly, had managed to circumvent the fire-zone and thus had made it to rendezvous relatively unscathed a few hours after the reinforcements. "Captain Crimson, I presume?" Clockwyrkke inquired towards the brevet commander. Standing before him with as much dignity as he could muster despite his injured foreleg, was a young, proud, and handsome pegasus stallion. His red fur and brown mane made it seem that fighting ran in his blood. But one quality that made this particular individual stand out was his stark green eyes. What cunning does he hide behind those? "Sir, yes, sir! 2nd Equestrian Conservators, sir!" "You can drop the formalities. I hold no position of rank of any sort within the hierarchy. I'm simply a Tech-Priest doing my duty." "With all due respect, sir, I was ordered to differ to you in authority by my commanding officer before his passing." "As you wish," Clockwyrkke replied monotonously. At that moment, he wanted to wave a dismissive hoof at the the younger stallion but instead gestured for him to take a seat nearby. He could not help but observe the manner in which Crimson did so. Had he not been wearing his helmet, it was quite obvious that he found the pony's mannerism somewhat amusing. Noble blood for sure, this young fellow. What the hay is he even doing out here so damnably far from civilisation? "Report then soldier. Losses?" "78% KIA or MIA, sir. Almost all our tanks as well. I barely managed to save the two that you see with us." "Diarchs preserve us... That bad?" Instinctively, his armoured foreleg withdrew to his temple. This news was not the least bit good. "It was a cleverly laid-out ambush. We were attacked from within and without. I did what I could to salvage the surviving ponies. Most of the upper command staff died in the initial fighting." There was a sad look haunting the soldier's eyes. A look Clockwyrkke was all to familiar with and could easily understand the trauma that raced through the Crimson's mind. "You did what you could. Under the circumstances, fairly well seeing as there are still survivors. Go, get some rest and a hot meal. You will have your orders issued by morning, colonel."
ContactAny Tech-Priest worth his bolts could tell from first inspection that the vault door was not compromised of merely sandstone. More so if its original builders had intended it to be the resting place of this particular STC. Ordinary sandstone slabs had been layered over an adamantium core. It had taken most of the night for the breaching drill to chew through the "bulkhead". Clockwyrkke was outside the whole time, supervising his cybernetic minions. By the time the first rays of sunlight began to illuminate the horizon, he was already waiting for the new colonel in the command centre. "You want my ponies to hold the eastern perimetre? Most of them can't hardly walk, let alone fire a gun!" Clockwyrkke ignored the outrage and proceeded to adjust the strategic display. He magnified the immediate surrounding area around the site and began highlighting the defensive positions his own warriors had taken up prior to the arrival of the living reinforcements. He made a few calculations while glowing blue runes began appearing on the hololith. These were the areas deemed the most productive for the injured soldiers by his logic engines. Clockwyrkke printed a small paper slip with the assigned coordinates which was then snatched from his gauntleted hoof by a bewildered Crimson. "Are you mad?! At least half of the survivors are in critical condition! We just arrived here yesterday, tired and hurt! They're not goddess-damned machines! And you are assigning everyone of them to picket duty already despite all that?!" For added emphasis, Crimson tapped his forehoof to his temple, a universally understood gesture in sigh language indicating insanity or mental instability. "You forget your place, colonel! Do you not remember what you told me approximately twenty seven hours ago? Your concerns will be taken into consideration but I am under no illusion whatsoever to follow them." Crimson glowered, his free hoof inching closer to the compact hoofgun hidden in his holster. "Save it for the cultists, soldier." Clockwyrkke said without even looking at the fuming stallion behind him, his concentration diverted more to his esoteric machinery. Deciding it better to listen - if only to respect the wishes of his deceased commander - Crimson stormed out of the structure, cursing under his breath. "Metal maniac..." "What secrets of the Omnissiah will I discover now?" Clockwyrkke mused aloud to nopony in particular while his shoulder lamp illuminated parts of the interior with its powerful beam. Talking to himself was a simple reassurance he had come to practice over the years. But currently, he was simply trying to dispel the small nagging thought that had crept its way into the back of his mind. The way he had snubbed Crimson earlier, his utter disregard for the individual lives of the living soldiers, his assumption that they could bear the elements in a similar fashion like his own Skitarii. What ever had happened to his equinity? His compassion? It was just not his character to be so uncaring. "Stuff it! There is no point in letting doubt or emotions cloud the mind. I should be focusing on the task at hoof not worrying over twenty seven fleshlings." The interior of the vault was very much in resemblance to that of the shrines he had accustomed himself with back in the days of him first being inducted within the Cult Mechanicus. Where one would expect marble or tiled flooring and grandeur in the fine arts, a Mechanicus shrine is almost entirely metallic and depicting industry and development; rarely anything else. The pillars, floor, podiums - just about everything was either entirely made of metal or plated in it. Cogwheel symbols were dominant throughout the interior. Damaged metal pipes and cabling jutted from the pillars and ceiling and led to Omnissiah alone knows where. Where once there would have been many hololiths in the cloisters, now but a scant few still remained active. Those that remained functioning were projected dimmed and sketchy images. Most had succumbed to entropy's grasp, their inner workings rusted and clogged or their power cells completely drained. All the glow-globes were smashed or burst, oddly enough. Clockwyrkke, chose to ignore these "artefacts" - temporarily - and immediately made a bee-line for the central dias. Our enemies may rest but rust never sleeps. Right in the middle sat a box-like object. It was three metres long and half as wide. Even with his armour on, it was still a good two inches taller than him. He could hardly contain his bubbling enthusiasm and made to run his hooves across its sleek, dust covered surface. A cautious part of himself managed to reasserted control and he just stopped himself from doing so. There has to be a trap somewhere. Nothing is ever this easy. Why did it have to be trenches? I'm sick of damned trenches. "Colonel, you may want to have a look at this." A pale yellow pegasi mare nervously said to her still angry commanding officer. Like her commander, she sported a few nicks on her body besides having her wings heavily bandaged. Crimson was broken out of his reverie and hobbled over, taking the pair of binoculars that was offered to him. The heat waves and swirling sand normally obscured vision beyond a hundred metres. But despite all the visual interference, he could just barely make out dark, moving shapes in distance. More creatures seemed to coalesce from the sands and they were heading in the general direction of the site. "Crap."
DeathstrikeFourteen days. Under constant attack, light artillery bombardment, and suicide charges. **This* is where I truly belong*. His earlier intuition was indeed correct. It had taken nine rigorous days to locate and placate (more likely disarm) all of the numerous hidden traps and safe-guards within the shrine. Much to his chagrin, one of his more clumsier servitors had nearly dropped one of the still active vortex bombs he had just removed from under the STC's dias on day eight. And with the entrance now open, sand was constantly swept in by the desert wind, making the proper rites not only more tedious to perform, but even much more time and resource consuming as well. Of course, Clockwyrkke was not the only pony who was upset with the delays. "Report, colonel." "What is there to report? I'm losing ponies almost everyday. If not by the works of those verrückt cultists then instead by that damnable drug you've been giving them!" He then stomped his hoof in anger, throwing the Tech-Priest a venomous glare. "Colonel Crimson, I can assure you that drug is merely a pain suppressant. Not a combat stimulant which you assume it to be. I've spoken to some of your soldiers and even inspected a few of the more critically wounded myself. The least I can do is to make this whole skirmish a little more... physically tolerable for them." Crimson was a little stunned at this sudden show of empathy coming from the figure standing opposite him. He took off his peaked cap, wiped his brow, and whistled. "Jeez, since when did you go soft and start caring about us?" "My apologies for the insult I rendered upon yourself during our second meeting. It was highly... unnecessary. Life should not be dismissed and discarded so easily." "Ah... whatever. If you're sincerely helping my ponies, that's all I need to know." "Fair enough. Dismissed." It was on the fourteenth day when he had finally managed to remove the STC from the shrine. The bindings between the engine and the shrine had been strong, but age had made it an easier feat to separate them then what it would have been a few centuries ago. That was when the attacks began in earnest. A massive wave of bodies assaulted the site that afternoon. Earth ponies, pegasi, gryphons, and even minotaurs - all bearing the eight-pointed star of Chaos charged the gleaming plasteel line. The day prior, Clockwyrkke had instructed Crimson to reposition his remaining forces to the north-eastern perimetre. He had accurately predicted that the fighting there would be the least intense and could not help himself from grinning under his helmet. Whatever favours he could do for them, he would. Once he was completely sure the STC was secure and ready for transport, he then made his way to the front lines. A section of the perimetre had buckled under the torrent of crazed beings. The surviving Skitarii were trampled under the rush and unable to counter-attack effectively. Clockwyrkke without needing much thought, charged headlong into the fray. Quite soon, he was entirely splattered with gore. His glowing Omnissian blade made short work of the feeble attackers that had so wrongly chosen this time to assault. Even the heavy yet crude metal armour worn did nothing to protect their wearers against his wrath. With the servo-assisted motors in his armour, he was able to stand on his hind legs, gaining a height advantage similar to that of the minotaurs. Some smarter-than average cultists tried flanking him while he seemed too preoccupied in slaughtering their compatriots. However, they were unaware of his mechandrites possessing the ability to attack. Those who attacked him from the sides or rear had their heads or chests smashed by the two bulky machines in mere seconds of them entering the respective reaches. Clockwyrkke was eventually standing atop a mound of hewn body parts, a sadistic smile plastered under his helmet. It had been so long since he had taken part in such bloodshed. And the dead of his enemies far outnumbered the living. Those who turned to flee were callously gunned down by the autocannon mounted on his back. The heavy, solid ammunition blasted apart bodies and left small clumps of flesh and red mist in their wake. Those of the still functioning Skitarii joined their master in melee, mercilessly hacking and stabbing with opponents with their bayonets and chainswords. Clearly their numbers are far more superior in comparison to my own. Just as he beheaded another foolish cultist, a keening howl split the air and Clockwyrkke found himself sprawled in the sand with a new gash in the side of his armour. Blood spilled from the wound and his armour's auto-response system immediately began injecting pain suppressants and into his body. Looking skywards, he saw a lone gryphon, if it could still be considered as a member of that species even. The creature above him had a similar body, but it's head was nothing more than a mound of agonised faces. It's claws were shrouded in an inky-black aura and it had leathery wings instead of feathered ones. "DAEMON!" The creature made a swooping dive next, and Clockwyrkke retaliated by slicing off a wing a section of its wing. It screeched in anger but instead of attacking him, it simply turned tail and ran in the direction of the STC. It was not that far away yet by the time he had made it back to the command centre, he was already beaten. The daemon was nowhere to be found, but two other figures were nearby. One was a shrivelled unicorn with an elongated cranium. Its was completely without fur and the entire surface of its skin was covered in bleeding symbols that hurt the eyes when looked directly upon. The creature was blind, lacking its eyes and only dark pits remain where they should be. The other figure was clad in a similar yet larger armour to Clockwyrkke's own, only more baroque and twisted due to the corrupting influence of Chaos. Numerous mechatendrils snaked from its back and a cape of flayed hide was draped over the right shoulder. "You should have died that day!" Standing beside the metal block was none other than the being Clockwyrkke had reviled ever since he discovered he was not the only survivor after The Accident. The former Fabricator-General of the Cult Mechanicus had someone survived the catastrophe and in return for power and eternal life, had sold himself body and soul to the Ruinous Powers. "I had died that day. But was remade better than before." The traitor's voice was hollow and monotonous, something that was not entirely surprising to Clockwyrkke. "I will kill you myself!" He shouted before dashing at his former leader. In retaliation, the unicorn crony shot a bolt of blue lightning at the enraged Tech-Priest mid-leapt, hitting him square in the chest. The force of the blast sent him flying several metres backwards. His breastplate was a smoking piece of warped metal, the outer layer of ceramite a molten mess. But he was still alive, albeit injured thanks to the runes of warding inscribed on the inside of the armour. In one swift motion, he brought up his bolt pistol and fired a volley aimed at the unicorn-thing. The creature instinctively summoned an energy shield in front of itself. Most of the rocket-assisted projectiles slammed harmlessly against the field, but the rare few which penetrated were anointed with sanctified oil and etched with runes of power tore through the defence as if it was only simple paper. The thing suffered three supposedly fatal chest wounds without flinching and only died when one bolt detonated within its skull, sending its now headless body into its death spasms. The spray of blood, skull fragments, and grey matter decorated one side of the STC. Before Clockwyrkke could savour his triumph, he had to roll aside as the taloned hoof of the Fabricator-General smashed into the sand he was lying in mere moments ago. With a quickness only matched by a machine, the Fabricator leapt towards the Tech-Priest once more. Clockwyrkke stood resolutely against his foe, knowing that he was severely outmatched. But he would rather tear out the augmentics in his body himself than concede defeat. Gripping on the haft of his axe with stubborn resolve, he surged forward to meet the traitor in combat. They traded with one another, arcane technology against daemonic power. Despite the numerous blows he had landed, the Fabricator would not die. The wounds he had suffered closed in seconds, black ichor seeping from the rents closing the injuries. And it never seemed to tire. For all his augmentation, Clockwrkke was still mostly flesh and blood. And he was tiring. A milisecond of doubt was all that was needed. Seizing the initiative, the Fabricator beat aside Clockwyrkke's defences and tore the weapon from his hooves with his daemon strength before impaling the Tech-Priest through the abdomen on its talons. It then brought the struggling pony up, so they were face-to-face. "Your flesh is weak," it said before tossing the mortally wounded stallion aside like a used rag. Before consciousness faded from his being, Clockwyrkke used the last of what remained of his strength, struggling to fire a flare. A blue rocket sprang into the skies above, unnoticed by anypony except for a small convoy of stragglers making their way out of the desert. "Colonel! The signal!" Again, the same yellow pegasus mare who had managed to survive fourteen days in that hell-hole with her platoon mates was on watch. The twenty two survivors were spread aboard three vehicles, personally given to them by Clockwyrkke himself to aid in their return to Canterlot. He had ordered them to flee when moment the STC was brought up, despite Crimson's protests. "Gunner! Fire on these coordinates." "Yes, sir!" At a signal from Crimson, the Basilisk fired a six charge 132 mm shell at the command centre. The roof had been intentionally weakened in order to collapse on to the unsealed crate of an active thermo-plasmic bomb. The site was engulfed in explosion that rivalled the intensity of a small sun and the stragglers had to cover their eyes to avoid being blinded by the white glare. Taking off his hat, Crimson bowed his head and uttered a soft prayer to whatever gods were listening.
