Ad Finem

Any 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."